Mike loved being an architect.  Ever since a school trip to Barcelona when, at the age of twelve, he’d fallen in love with Gaudi’s work, he’d wanted to do nothing else.  And he hadn’t.  During the many intervening years, right up until he’d skipped out of university in his gown and mortarboard, bearing the first of what would become many letters after his name, his focus had never once wavered. 

As soon as he’d jumped through all the requisite hoops and passed his final professional exam, he’d been lucky enough to secure a position at Hexagon Architecture – at the time, the most renowned architectural practice in the north-east.  Aware of the privilege of working for such a high-profile organisation, he’d maximised the opportunity – learning from the experts while cultivating his own unique flair.  Yet, despite Hexagon’s enviable reputation, Mike had itched to establish one of his own.  So, five years on, he’d taken an incredibly scary leap and set up on his own.  Merely recalling that bold – and potentially disastrous – move, still made him quake.  But, at the time, the youthful traits of confidence and invincibility had carried him through.  Traits which had long since deserted him, but which were all too evident in the new generation of designers. 

As in most areas of the modern world, things in the architectural sphere now cantered along at such a breakneck pace Mike couldn’t keep up.  In fact, being completely honest, he’d say he was beginning to lag behind; in serious danger of being lapped by the dynamic new kids on the block.  Competition seemed to be growing fiercer each year, in line with people’s exacting expectations.  Clients wanted sexy, exciting, cutting-edge designs that stirred their juices and left them panting for more.  And while Mike maintained his excellent reputation for more mainstream projects, his edges, when compared to those of the eager, sharp graduates that seemed to be popping up everywhere, appeared increasingly blunt.  Which made him wonder if, like other things that seemed to be withering the nearer he drew to fifty, he’d passed his career prime.

Now, however, wasn’t the time to dwell on negatives, he reminded himself, sucking in a lungful of sweet-scented air through the open window of his Land Rover as he negotiated the narrow Northumberland roads.  The summery smell reminded him of Claudia.  But as a vision of her leaning over the desk mopping up the spilt coffee earlier, popped into his head, he batted it out with all the aplomb of an international cricketer. 

Now was not the time to be thinking about Claudia either. 

Now was the time to don his professional hat, turn on the charm, and focus on the matter in hand. 

Because the matter in hand happened to be a very substantial - and extremely lucrative - commission.

One that could, were he lucky enough to secure it, save not only his business, but life as he and his family knew it. 

 

During his time at Hexagon, Mike had worked on many prestigious projects, his absolute favourite being Hatfield Manor: an enormous Georgian mansion on the verge of crumbling until an exclusive hotel chain had come to its rescue.  For all its semi-dilapidated state, the property had ignited his creative spark the moment he’d set eyes on it. 

Just like Highwater Hall now - another classic example of stunning, symmetrical, eighteenth century architecture, with a four-acre setting, ornamental lake, and entrance porch adorned with Doric columns and pediment roof.  The building had recently been purchased by Fred Hainsworth – a sixty-something, well-known local wheeler-dealer, who – so the rags-to-riches tale went - had left school at fifteen, cobbled together enough funds to purchase a clapped-out ice cream van, and somehow, through whatever possible (and allegedly not always legal) means, ended up a decade later with a chain of WhipIt ice cream parlours, a payday loan company, and a substantial share in a northern Premier League football club. 

Mike had met Fred once.  Although ‘met’ might be pushing it slightly. He’d been invited by a client to a corporate hospitality tent at Newcastle Racecourse on the city’s most popular racing day.  Also included in the guest list had been Fred and his third wife, Melandra, both  dripping in bling, slightly sozzled, and swearing like troopers. 

Not that he harboured any intention of revealing that prior sighting to his prospective clients. 

He didn’t intend doing anything that might harm his prospects.  Including embarrassing the pair.  Not that they probably would be embarrassed.  Fred and Melandra’s weathered hides (mahogany on the race day courtesy of a recent jaunt around the Med on their luxury yacht) were most likely thicker than those of several African mammals.  Still, credit where it was due.  The pair might well exceed all Mike’s other clients added together on the crassness scale, but no one could deny that Fred – via whatever means - had done well for himself.  Well enough to purchase Highwater Hall outright and – hopefully – dole out another small fortune on renovating it.  A fortune Mike would have no qualms about sharing, should the couple like his ideas. 

The long U-shaped drive gave way to a huge semi-circular sweep of gravel in front of the property – perfect for the horse-drawn carriages from days of yore.  As Mike didn’t have a horse-drawn carriage, he parked next to a shiny red Mercedes – a bit flash, but he’d expect nothing less - slid out of the Land Rover and, with shaking legs, crunched across the gravel to the formidable black front door. 

Reaching his destination, with his laptop case in one hand, he stretched the other towards the brass bell push, a tsunami of waves and nausea crashing over him as he psyched himself up to ring it. 

All at once though, his arm flopped back down to his side.  Who was he kidding?  He couldn’t handle a project like this.  Not now.  He hadn’t worked on anything this big for years.  His most recent commission had been Yew Tree House on Lovelace Lane.  A bread-and-butter job.  This one resided in a different league altogether.  One way above his capabilities.  Rather than making a fool of himself he should admit defeat now.  Scuttle off home and fess up all to Judith.  Reveal the depressing extent of their financial problems in all their gloomy glory.  Persuade her to sell The Laurels and relocate to something akin to their previous little semi.  Not the end of the world.  After all, it would – hopefully – just be the two of them soon, if Victoria ever moved out.  And he treasured many a fond memory of life in the semi.  Yes, that was the right thing to do, he concluded.  A project like Highwater deserved one of the new cutting-edge architects, not a blunt-bladed has-been like—

His musings froze as the enormous door suddenly swung open.  To reveal fifty-something Melandra Hainsworth – a little more rotund than Mike recalled, but the same shade of mahogany, and a young man in his early thirties, with spiky gelled hair, a short fashionable beard, and trendy black specs. 

Mike recognised him immediately as Jay Harrington - a cocky, arrogant so-and-so, who’d set up his own company last year.  And to whom Mike had already lost three meaty commissions. 

Spotting his fellow professional, Jay’s thin lips curved into a condescending smile.  ‘All right, Mike,’ he said, running an appraising eye over Mike’s navy pinstriped suit and pink spotted tie – the one Judith always claimed was her favourite. 

Next to his rival’s slim-fitting – and most likely designer - garb, Mike immediately felt wrong-footed in his M&S ensemble. 

‘Oh, you two know each other,’ cooed Melandra, tempering the strong Geordie accent Mike had heard her employ in her more inebriated state, with an impression of Camilla Parker Bowles. 

‘Um, sort of,’ he muttered. 

Jay laughed – a cackling, disingenuous sound that set Mike’s teeth on edge.  ‘So,’ the younger man sniffed, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Mike did some work for a friend of mine,’ piped up Melandra, voice more plumber than plummy.  ‘He’s the other architect who’ll be quoting for the job.’

Jay gave a contemptuous snort.  ‘I see.  Well, best of luck, mate.  Although,’ he added under his breath, as Melandra bent down to scoop up the French pug at her feet, ‘you’ll be wasting your time.’  He followed this statement with a dazzling smile at Melandra, and an impertinent wink at Mike, before swaggering across the gravel to the flashy red Mercedes.

Glued to the spot as he watched the upstart jump into the vehicle and rocket down the drive, a seismic shift occurred in Mike’s innards.  One that shunted aside all previous insecurities about this job, and flung open the floodgates for a tidal wave of assertiveness, resolve and positivity. 

He’d win this commission if it killed him. 

‘Sorry about that,’ wittered Melandra, the dog nestled in her flabby brown arms.  ‘I didn’t think he’d be here so long.  He does have some brilliant ideas though.’

‘Does he indeed?’  Mike pinned on his most disarming smile and reached out a hand to tickle the dog between its ears.  ‘That’s a coincidence, because I already have quite a few of my own.’

 

Driving away from Highwater Hall a few hours later, excitement fizzed in Mike’s gut.  The house – with its eight bedrooms and treasure trove of original features – would undoubtedly be described as ‘spectacular’ by any estate agent.  However, by combining the classicism of the eighteenth century with the sleekness of the twenty-first, it could incite many more superlatives. 

During the brief wobble he’d experienced on the step - before Jay and his trendy beard had appeared - Mike had feared that his pot of ideas resembled an empty bowl of Weetabix – only the dried-up dregs clinging to the sides, his creative flair having shrivelled up and morphed to dust.  However, the moment he’d entered the property, a bolt of inspiration had catapulted all those concerns from his head.  Leaving in their wake a fresh, new, polished self-assurance.  One he’d done his utmost to portray to Melandra, while still retaining an air of humility - a characteristic that would be as foreign to Jay as a week in Delhi.  Thankfully, his strategy seemed to have worked.  He and Melandra had rubbed along well.  And while her shrill voice and dodgy accent had begun to grate on him after twenty minutes, and he’d had to stifle several yawns when she’d launched into tales about ‘Our Nat’ – her sister, and ‘Our Damian’ – her nephew, he’d done his best to appear interested, which, although he said so himself, he thought he’d pulled off beautifully. 

All the more important given husband, Fred, was away in Marbella on business for the next four weeks, meaning all decisions regarding the project lay in Melandra’s wrinkled, brown hands.  And meaning he only had her to impress. 

Precisely why, not daring to pass up any opportunity to do just that, he’d found himself accepting a glass of wine from her in the garden – the size of several football pitches with a couple of tennis courts and a swimming pool – and smiling politely while she rabbited on about Our Nat’s botched liposuction operation. 

The topic of conversation would, under normal circumstances, have had Mike reaching for the wine bottle but, as he’d had the car, he’d stuck to just the one - drinking and driving not being an activity in which he normally partook.  Given the circumstances, however, and how much rested on this potential deal, he’d deemed it worth the risk.   

He’d do anything in his power to gain this commission – not only to secure his family’s future, but to wipe that irritatingly smug grin off Jay Harrington’s hirsute face. 

 

Arriving back at Lovelace Lane, Mike was in his most positive frame of mind for what seemed like eons.  Which might have had something to do with the wine he’d guzzled, or the fact that Claudia had left for the evening, meaning he wouldn’t have to suffer the usual surfeit of emotions that skittered through him whenever she was around. 

There was, though, along with Judith, another presence at the kitchen table.  One in the diminutive form of Gwen Lomax, deep in whispered conversation with his wife.  Heightening his suspicions once more about his ‘surprise’ birthday party, which, with all the other dramas of the day, he’d thankfully forgotten about. 

‘Good day, darling?’ enquired Judith, as he swung his laptop case and jacket onto one of the chairs.   

‘Yes.  Very good actually.’

‘Lovely.  Gwen’s just popped round to, er…’

‘Invite you to my next am-dram production,’ piped up Gwen.  ‘It’s a Nell Gwynn spoof.’

‘Riiiiight.’  Mike had been to a couple of Gwen’s am-dram productions.  One where she’d played a talking bee.  And another where her role as a teacher had been curtailed by a fit of giggles, resulting in her being hauled off, and an understudy being shoved on.  ‘Didn’t we have something else on that evening?’ he asked Judith.

‘I haven’t told you the date yet,’ pointed out Gwen. 

Mike grimaced.  ‘Oh.  Sorry.  Of course you haven’t.  What I meant was, if we did have a prior engagement, we’d shift it, wouldn’t we, darling?’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Judith, hair – definitely more tangerine following her appointment that afternoon - bobbing with over-enthusiastic enthusiasm.

Thankfully, their lack of sincerity seemed to sail right over Gwen’s blonde curls.  ‘The only problem is,’ she rattled on, ‘Nell Gwynn has slipped a disc, so we need a new one.  A Nell, not a disc.  But you’ll never guess…’

Mike really couldn’t.  Nor was he sure he wanted to. 

‘… I bumped into Claudia earlier and told her about our problem and she informed me that she did a bit of acting in school plays.  Needless to say, I’m going all guns blazing to interest her in ours.’

‘Ooh, she’d make a lovely Nell,’ gushed Judith.  ‘Wouldn’t she, Mike?’

At the impromptu image of cleavages and oranges that cannoned into his mind following that query, Mike plopped down onto the nearest chair before his knees gave way.