by Sam West
Yes, Fenton had always wanted for nothing; he was the quintessential poor little rich boy – the kid who had everything apart from the one thing he truly needed – his parents’ affection. He smirked humourlessly at the self-pitying turn his thoughts were taking.
“Is something funny, Fenton?”
“No, Mother, I was just thinking.”
She gazed at him coolly – heaven forbid, he thought, that she might actually give a shit what, exactly, he had been thinking.
“Please don’t be long. We’ll be in the main drawing room.”
With those words she left his bedroom without a backward glance, leaving him standing there feeling like the lost little boy he always secretly felt like inside. Sure, he had that casual arrogance of the super-rich, that air of breezy, over-entitlement that would undoubtedly open many doors to him in life, but all he really wanted was a show of kindness from his mother, no matter how small. Just one kind word. A hug, maybe. Even a genuine smile would do. Was that really so much to ask?
Sighing deeply, he pushed aside the sudden bout of melancholy – it really wasn’t like him to dwell, to let his thoughts amble down the badly-done-to-child road. He knew perfectly well that he was lucky, that he had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, that he had a glittering career ahead of him in law, and, in the unlikely chance that he should screw that up given his enviable social connections, there was always Daddy Dearest’s money to fall back on.
But still. Sometimes, like right now, such melancholy gripped him. He wished he hadn’t bothered coming back, but his mother had been quite forceful on the matter. Something about a big party that she insisted he attend. Something, she said, that would be very important for his future.
He looked around ‘his’ childhood bedroom. It occurred to him that he had probably spent less time sleeping in this room than he’d ever had in the various institutions that made up his childhood. In the greater scheme of things, he spent such little time with his parents, he figured that the mere fact of being back here must be triggering his deep-rooted, usually deeply buried insecurities.
Thank God I’m only here for another week.
A sense of cold detachment seeped through him as he looked around himself. The room looked like every other room in the nine bedroomed mansion – all gleaming, dark-oak floorboards, high ceilings, chandeliers and painstakingly-restored, antique furniture.
There was no sense of him in this room. His childhood toys had long been ‘lost’, and all that remained was an antique, painted, wooden rocking-horse that his mother had never let him ride as a boy because it was too valuable.
He thought of Tabitha, quite probably sleeping in her cot down the hallway. He pitied her. At least he was now a young adult. He was out of it, unlike Tab, who had their entirety of her childhood spread out before her.
Fenton found his attention drawn to the window once more, but the girl, along with his father, was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
“Let me take that for you,” Wilbur Hiddleston said, reaching for the suitcase which was propped up next to her on the gravel forecourt.
For a moment, she was rendered paralysed by the wave of inadequacy that washed over her due to the fact her suitcase was so tiny and pitiful. She felt quite sure that, should Mrs Hiddleston venture anywhere, her many Louis Vuitton cases would be heavy and bulging at the seams, positively groaning with high fashion, designer attire. Her solitary, shabby little suitcase contained just a few changes of clothes until such time that she could return to her flat share in the centre of Broadgate and get the rest of her stuff. That was if she should complete her week’s trial without a hitch, of course.
Mr Hiddleston took the suitcase from her – she still couldn’t quite bring herself to think of him as Wilbur – and gestured over towards the porch with the faintest flick of his head.
“Shall we?”
“Sure.”
On trembling legs, she followed him inside.
*
Mrs Hiddleston greeted her in the large hallway, which did nothing to help with her feelings of inadequacy. She was beautiful. At first glance, she looked around her own age of twenty-five, partly perhaps because she was so short, and partly because she was so smooth-skinned and perky, but Lauren very much doubted that she was so young. It was hardly impossible – plenty of handsome, successful men paired up with much younger women, but Mrs Hiddleston carried herself with the self-assured grace of someone much older.
She wore a plain, knee-length navy dress that showcased her tight curves – the type of body that left Lauren sick with envy.
“Lauren Elliot, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Anoushka. Welcome to our home.”
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the woman’s offered hand. “I’m so happy to have been offered the job.”
Mrs Hiddleston, or Anoushka – she really had to get used to the idea of calling these people by their first names – swept an appraising eye over her body. The faintest sneer curled her upper lip, but just as quick it disappeared again…
END OF SAMPLE