by Annie Seaton
Greg laughed. ‘You’re on, mate. And ditto if I don’t.’
‘See, you’re already thinking about the next job.’
‘Yep, but right now I’ve gotta go to work. I’m not on office hours like you.’
‘Okay, thanks for the call. I’ll let the vendors’ solicitor know you’re happy to exchange. I’ve got another appointment before I can leave.’
Greg glanced at his watch; it was heading for five-thirty. ‘Overtime on a Friday, hey mate? I’m impressed.’
‘I’ll call you over the weekend. Kitty was talking barbeques this morning. Can I tempt you? I just took delivery of some good reds. Tomorrow night about six?’
‘Sounds like a plan. See ya.’
‘Whoa, hang on. Anyone you want to bring, feel free.’
‘Jeez, don’t you start. It’s enough that I have to put up with my mother.’ Greg injected lightness into his voice to soften his words.
‘Okay, I won’t nag. See you tomorrow.’
‘Look forward to it. Now, I’m going to go work.’ Greg disconnected the call and put the phone in the pocket of his work shirt. He opened the gate and looked up at the house that towered over him and a frown creased his brow.
Bloody hell.
There was a damn light on at the top of the house. As he watched a shadow passed across the window.
He shrugged. Maybe the light had been left on to make it look as though someone was there. But the memory of squatters and the difficulty of getting them offsite on one of his developments last year had him walking up the path and trying the front door.
Bloody squatters. He strode up the path and dug into his pocket for the house keys that the vendor’s solicitor had passed on to his solicitor. Once he’d agreed –to most—of their conditions, they’d been very accommodating in letting him have access to the house.
As he went to put the key in the lock, the door pushed open beneath his hand. The loud creak of the hinges echoed through the cavernous foyer and a whoosh of cold air sent a shiver down his back. Greg put the keys back into his pocket and frowned as he headed for the stairs. He sat on the bottom step and quietly removed his work boots. The last thing he wanted to do was warn them he was coming up. He’d been on every floor and in every room of the old mansion over the past couple of weeks, and there were heaps of cupboards and nooks and crannies that could hide a horde of house squatters. He knew what would happen; once they got into a vacant building it was hell’s own trouble to get them out. The last time he’d had squatters in one of his buildings at Cremorne, it had been a long and drawn-out process to move them on and had put the building of the new apartment block back by over six months. He put his boots to the side of the steps in the dark corridor leading to the back of the house and counted the steps as he started up the stairs. There was a creaky step on the left, halfway up the first flight, so he stayed on the right-hand side. Pausing on the middle landing Greg put his head to the side and listened, but all was quiet. Setting off again, he ran through the layout of the house in his head, working out which floor he’d seen the light on. It had been on the floor underneath the widow’s walk. He knew that the owners still had stuff on that floor—some old wardrobes and beds, and clothes draped over everything. As soon as contracts were exchanged he’d organise for them to remove the last of their possessions. The sooner he could get in here and start measuring up properly, without anything in the way and surveying the site, the faster he could get to work. Legally, they didn’t have to vacate the premises until settlement, but he was happy to pay some rent to get access.
Time was money.
And despite Johnno’s words that he didn’t have to prove himself, Greg needed this project to be successful. Not so he could take the holiday he and Johnno had talked about, but to put him in a position to cut ties with his family. Financially . . . and maybe more.
Life wasn’t all about making your first million. But when he did, he had some plans. Exciting plans that would mean a total lifestyle change.
As he walked past the first floor, he quietly switched a light on. The timber that skirted the floor along the edge of the polished floorboards held a mellow glow in the soft light. Above the archways that split the long hall into sections, the whorls in the timber created patterns of sunlight on the butter yellow walls. For a moment Greg regretted the work that was ahead. The original timber would be removed when the walls of the graceful old hallways were knocked out and widened into the common areas that would lead to the apartments on each floor. Modern square cut plaster mouldings would modernise the space and open it up to the light from the ocean. He looked up to the open space above the second floor. He’d asked Johnno to discuss the removal of the widow’s walk with the vendor’s solicitor today. You couldn’t really see it from the street and the removal of the small room and landing wouldn’t really impact on the look of the house. It would make room for a large skylight in the room that would stream light onto the stairwell. Greg had a feeling that he was going to lose that one, but this afternoon’s meeting would tell.
He’d agreed to keep the façade of the old house and that was the thing that had secured the deal for him. It was an exciting project and one that would make him a lot of money. Hopefully enough profit to keep his father off his back.
Greg frowned as soft whispering came from the door ahead; maybe they’d seen him come up the path. There was somebody there, and he’d be putting the skids under them quick smart. If he had trouble getting them out it would put a hold on his development, and even worse, delay his plans for the future.
Chapter Three
Ginny sat on the floor under the window in a sea of silk. Ruby red, emerald green, deep violet and all shades of the rainbow between. She could still hear Mrs Beynon, her primary school teacher teaching the class how to remember the colours of the rainbow.
‘Mr Roy G. Biv, children,’ she would say when there was a storm and the rainbow arched across the playground after the rain.
‘Red, orange, yellow, blue, indigo, violet,’ the children would chant, and Mrs Beynon would nod as she ushered them outside to look at the sky.
Ginny stared down as the smooth, cool fabric silk slipped through her fingers. Those early days with Gran and Poppy had been happy. She so wished she could have them back in her life. She jumped as a soft whisper seemed to surround her.
‘Wish. Wish. Wish.’
Straightening her back, she focused back on the task in hand. Yes, wishes were for dreamers, Gran would have said, but resolve filled Ginny.
Yes, yes, yes. The words filled her mind and she imagined they echoed in the warm air around her. That whiff of freesias lightened the air again, and she looked up in surprise. It must be the perfume embedded in the fabric.
As she sorted through the dresses that she’d found in a large chest beneath the window, Ginny stretched her legs out in front of her, and wriggled her toes. It had been easier to sit on the rug-covered floor and sort through the clothes than carry them over to the large old brass bed against the far wall, but she’d been sitting there for so long, she had pins and needles in her feet.
Excitement filled her, and she had to concentrate on slowing down. She’d had a quick look in the two wardrobes, and emptied out one of the three chests, and already there were enough clothes to stock her store for months.
And, oh my God, Sally had been right. What an Aladdin’s Cave of treasures this old house held.
The first wardrobe Ginny had opened had been disappointing and her spirits had sunk. A solid cupboard lined with narrow shelves held a variety of undergarments. Bombay bloomers in navy blue, white and beige, as well as few corsets. A delightful fragrance of lavender permeated the garments, and even though they wouldn’t sell in her shop, Ginny was sure they would be of interest to someone who was looking at the history of fashion.
Maybe the local TAFE would be interested again? She’d put them on to a few things over the past year since she’d started up her shop. These undergarments were old; she wa
s sure some of them had to be at least fifty years old. Not the type of thing her trendy customers would be looking for.
Or be prepared to pay for. That was the bottom line.
She’d opened the door of the second wardrobe expecting the same, and held her breath as she caught sight of the rows of dresses on crocheted padded coat hangers.
For a moment it was like being back in Gran’s bedroom, the smell, the colourful dresses and the hats that were on the shelf above the silk dresses. There were snoods, boaters, upturned sailors’ hats, pancake berets, and turbans knitted in silk—they would be worth a fortune.
She smiled; this time the memory was a happy one. Her skin tingled, and the room seemed to get warmer as she sat there. When she’d been a small girl, Gran had let her dress up in some of her older clothes and it was then that Ginny had learned to appreciate vintage fashion. She’d moved on from playing dress ups with her dolls and making Brent play with her—
Ginny cut that thought dead before it took hold.
‘It was after the war.’ Gran had smiled when Ginny had appeared in the kitchen wearing one of the hats, a veil of lace covering one ten-year-old eye. Ginny had squinted at her grandmother through the lace and listened to Gran’s stories as she’d wielded her massive rolling pin over the pastry she was rolling out. ‘Our hats had a purpose back then. A new hat was something to brighten a worried face, cheer a broken heart and there were a lot of those when the boys came back—or in many cases—didn’t come back from the war.’
Ginny had loved hats ever since Gran had let her play dress ups in those happy days. She put her hand to her head and touched the small hat that matched her tangerine patent leather shoes, and her small handbag; she loved dressing up when she came out to look at the old clothes. She shook her head and pulled her thoughts back to the present. Those days with her grandparents were long gone.
I’ll never go back there.
That was a closed chapter of her life and she didn’t want to think about it. Her recovery had been slow, and she had made a new life for herself. A life that she was happy with, a life where she didn’t need anybody. A life where nobody knew her. What was wrong with her this afternoon?
If I don’t get a move on, I’ll be here all night.
The next dress in the pile was buttercup yellow, and Ginny spread it out on the patterned rug beside her, shaking her head as she examined it, piece by piece. The fabric was in perfect condition, the covered buttons were intact, and there was no discoloration in the fabric. She’d turned the light on a while back when it got too dark to see. Her tummy grumbled, and she glanced down at her watch.
She wanted to stay and explore the rest of the rooms, but common sense kicked in; she couldn’t stay here much longer. Her car was parked a couple of streets away and it was dark already. Walking back down the deserted streets in the dark was not something that appealed.
‘Five more minutes,’ she whispered as she reached for the next dress on the pile on the floor beside her. Her soft words echoed around the room and the whisper of the silk seemed to amplify it. Goose bumps ran up her arms and the hair on the back of her neck rose as the temperature dropped again, and a chill breeze touched her skin before it fluttered through the dresses on the floor beside her. As Ginny looked up, she caught her breath and froze as the door handle began to turn slowly. She lowered the dress to her lap with shaking hands and waited.
GREG STOOD OUTSIDE the closed door. A sliver of light shone through the gap on one side of the door frame, and he paused with his hand on the door knob. There was more than one person in there; he could hear them whispering. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he’d been wise to come up here; maybe he should have just called the police and then he realised how stupid he would have sounded if he had.
‘Um, there’s a light on in a house I’m about to buy.’
He would have sounded like a fool, and the police had their hands full with more concerning issues than the possibility of house squatters.
He would be confident and use authority as he ordered them to leave the premises; that’s all that was needed. They didn’t have to know he wasn’t the owner.
Yet.
Greg took a breath, turned the knob and pushed the door open quickly and stepped into the room.
‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ he demanded in a loud voice as he quickly scanned the room, but it wasn’t until he looked over at the window that he saw the woman sitting on the floor in a rippling sea of colour. He blinked, and a shadow flitted across the wall beside him. He turned to stop whoever it was heading for the door.
‘Stop right there,’ he called out as he swung around, but he was too slow. Before he could stop the person, they had slammed the door shut behind them. The house shook, the windows rattled, and the loud bang reverberated around the room before it faded away to silence. He turned slowly, and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the woman sitting on the floor.
She shrank away from him, her dark eyes wide as she stared at him.
Greg cleared his throat and tried to stay focused. A very attractive woman—scrap that, a stunningly beautiful woman dressed to the nines—stared back at him, her dark eyes wide. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating or seeing a ghost. She looked like someone from another time.
He blinked a couple of times, and she was still there. Pointing at her he jutted his chin out. ‘Just want the hell do you think you’re doing? In my house. And how many of you are there?’
When she took in a sharp breath and paled, he regretted his tone.
‘Well?’ he said, his voice less harsh this time.
She finally spoke; her voice was quiet, but cultured, and Greg flinched when he heard the tremor in her words.
‘There’s only m—’ She shook her head and lifted her chin. ‘Um, there’s three of us. The owners are upstairs. And didn’t anyone teach you it is very rude to point?’’
‘I own this house, and you and whoever was here with you, and whoever is upstairs have no right to be here.’ He took a step forward trying to be firm, but his voice was more bemused as he looked at her. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
As he watched, she tipped her head to the side and put one hand to her mouth to cover the O-shape of her lips. Her back was straight, and her posture and movements were graceful. Greg dropped his gaze from the small square orange hat thing on her head, and back down to the pretty mouth painted in the same bright orange. Her lips were pursed now, and she frowned as she answered him.
‘You do not own this house.’ Her voice was much firmer now. ‘Sally and her sister—
they’re upstairs—they own it, and I think whoever you are, you’d better leave right now. How did you get in? The door was locked.’
Greg took a step towards her, but sympathy kicked in when she leaned away from him. Her eyes were huge, and the fingers held to her mouth were shaking; he realised she was terrified.
Of him.
He put his hands up in front of him to reassure her. ‘Please, calm down. There’s no need to be frightened.’
‘You don’t own the house,’ she repeated. ‘Why are you here? And what do you want?’ She lifted a small handbag the same bright orange colour as the hat and shoes and held it up. ‘You can take my purse, but there’s very little money in there.’ She put her head back and called out loudly. ‘Sally, come down here... quickly!’
Greg took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘Please don’t be frightened. I don’t want anything except for you and your friends to leave my house.’
‘It’s not your house.’
‘Technically not yet, but it almost is.’ He moved forward again, and this time she pushed aside the fabric that was on her lap and crabbed back along the floor away from him, using her hands to balance herself. ‘It will be.’
Her long dark brown hair lay in a twisted curl over one shoulder, underneath the quirky hat, and she reached up a hand and pushed it away from her face. Greg couldn’t stop staring at her.
‘Don’t come any closer.’ Her voice was a little steadier now, and she put her hand on the window sill and pulled herself to her feet—without taking her eyes off him. Greg couldn’t help his gaze raking down to her feet and up again as she stood there, her chin lifted and her eyes wary.
She was wearing a suit in a pale apricot, a quirky little jacket with a sideways neckline and a knee length skirt that hugged her hips. He could see the shine of flesh-coloured stockings on her slim legs. Shapely legs.
Her shoes were the same orange as everything else and she looked as though she had stepped from a fashion magazine. He began to think he had a made a mistake. This was no house squatter in front of him, but what the hell was she doing her surrounded by clothes that had obviously come from the wardrobes in the room?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and retrieved a business card before holding it out to her. The fear in her eyes had receded a little and the tilt of her head was haughty now.
‘This’ll prove to you that I’m not a burglar.’
She took his card and glanced down at it before bending and picking up the bag that she had left on the floor. It opened with a click, and she reached inside. A business card was held in his direction.
‘And this will prove to you I have every right to be here.’
Their fingers brushed as he took it and the woman pulled her hand back quickly as though she still didn’t trust him.
Greg looked down at the card and turned it over.
‘Ginny Silver of Shabby-Chic,’ he read aloud.
‘Greg Tindall of GT developments,’ she replied as she read his card.