CHAPTER THREE
It was 9:20a.m. when I headed towards the regal entrance to the Thornhill estate. Once again, my tummy was tight with nerves. But with time on my side I ambled along taking in the charming sights while drawing in the salty sea air.
Out of nowhere, a dog suddenly raced up and pounced upon me in a friendly manner. Not the typical canine of a billionaire, I thought. I would have expected a poodle or a designer breed. This wild fellow, a white-chested black cattle dog, resembled one I’d grown up with, making our meeting rather heart-warming.
“Rocket!” a tall man in a baseball cap and sunglasses called out, running to rescue me from the dog’s enthusiastic embrace. I patted the keen canine and spoke in a childish doggy voice. His brown affectionate eyes, helping me to relax, filled me with joy.
“I’m sorry about that,” the owner said, panting.
“Oh, he’s such a sweetie,” I said, rubbing Rocket’s back. The dog, in response jumped up and placed his paws on my thighs.
The man made a command and the obedient animal sat. “I’m so sorry.” He pointed at my skirt, which was now covered in paw prints.
Frowning, I bit my lip. Damn!
“I’ll get someone to wipe it for you,” he said in a deep drawl. Before I could respond, he had disappeared. I tried to brush the stain with my hand, but to no avail. Good start, a stained skirt.
Heavy-hearted, I walked up the stairs to the entrance. The door opened just as I touched the bell. Before me stood the security guard I’d met the day before. He pointed up the stairs. “First room on the left, ma’am.”
I nodded and gripped the smooth wooden bannister. The lacework staircase was so grand I pictured Scarlett O’Hara descending in her bouncy ball-gown. Taking careful steps, I ascended the staircase. Stern, judgmental stares from the portraits on the wall followed me. All historical figures, the original occupants I assumed.
I knew they couldn’t be related to Aidan Thornhill, however, because Tabi’s relentless googling revealed that he had been a ranger with the Special Forces in Afghanistan. Unless he was some kind of adrenaline junkie, I couldn’t imagine a billionaire from established wealth doing that. We also discovered he’d built his empire from playing the stock-market. There was nothing about his family.
Lost in the deep, rich colors of the still-life before me, trying to determine whether it was an original Brueghel, I didn’t notice Greta Thornhill waiting for me. When I turned and saw her within a few inches of my face, an embarrassing squawk left my lips.
Clasping a damp cloth, she remained expressionless. “I heard you had an accident courtesy of Rocket.” She stared down at my skirt.
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry about that. Not that it worries me or anything.”
Greta handed me the wet cloth.
“Thanks.” I took the cloth and proceeded to rub it into the stains. “I think it should be okay now.” I held onto the damp fabric unsure of what to do with it.
Taking it from my hand, Greta said, “Here, give that to me.”
As we continued down the long hallway laden with jaw-dropping artwork, Greta said, “We’ll first pay a visit to your new office. And then the cottage.”
I stopped walking. “Excuse me. Cottage?”
Greta frowned. “Didn’t the agency tell you? We expect you to live here during the weekdays.”
“No, they didn’t,” I said.
“Will that be a problem for you, Miss Moone?”
I shook my head. “Please call me Clarissa.” I imagined going to the beach after work, walks in the flourishing gardens, the sketches I could do. “I won’t need to commute daily. Can I leave on the weekends?”
Greta touched her graying French-roll. She reminded me of a school principal from the 1960’s. “You can come and go as you please. We prefer our staff to be housed here in case the need to work late arises. Your primary task will be to manage the gala nights and to attend them on a monthly basis. They take place on a Saturday evening.”
“That suits me fine,” I said, flashing my biggest and brightest smile.
As with every room I’d visited so far, my new office was astonishing. The pink silk damask wallpaper and contrasting crisp white cornices stole my breath away. “It’s simply stunning.” I sighed.
Greta’s lips twitched.
Unable to stay focused in one spot, my eyes moved from the antique mahogany desk to the paintings landing on a Kandinsky, at which point I exhaled audibly.
“Aidan’s an avid art collector,” said Greta, noticing my flushed surprise. “He was impressed by your education in art history.”
“Will I be advising him on acquisitions?” I asked, trying to remain cool while my mind popped a champagne cork at that thought.
“No. He doesn’t need advice. Aidan’s very particular when it comes to art.”
I nodded. “From what I’ve seen, he has excellent taste.”
“I’m sure your views will please him,” she said with a tight smile. Greta pointed to the desk. “You should have everything you require here. You’ll report solely to me.”
“Yes, Miss Thornhill.”
“Call me Greta, please,” she said. “I’m Aidan’s aunt.”
“I see,” I said, my eyes landing on the view of the sea outside the window.
“I’ll take you to the cottage now,” said Greta, directing me out of the room.
At the end of the hallway, towards the back of the house, we descended a set of stairs, taking us into a massive, industrial-sized kitchen decked in stainless steel. A large man, who I assumed was the chef, and a younger woman moved about the space. We then entered a dining area. From there, a door led us outside into a courtyard with table and chairs for dining alfresco.
As we moved along the cobbled path surrounded by terracotta pots filled with exotic flourishing plants, Greta pointed to a charming cottage with a porch.
Stepping through French doors, I was met by a cozy environment. No expense had been spared. I gushed, “This is such an inviting room.”
“We’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible,” said Greta.
After being given a tour of my new home, I wanted to ask what happened to the last personal assistant, but I didn’t wish to pry. Why would anybody want to leave this?
“Your predecessor got married,” said Greta, seemingly reading my mind. “You’re free to come and go as you please. You are required to sign a privacy clause, and visitors are not allowed in the main residence. There’s a separate entrance at the back of the estate.”
“That sounds more than reasonable. Apart from my father and my roommate, I’m unlikely to entertain,” I said.
“As you wish,” she said, directing me out of the cottage. “I’ve drawn up a contract which I’ll give to you in a moment. Please read it with care. You’ll see what’s expected of you. It’s vital you pay attention to clause seven.”
I followed Greta back into the dining area. She pointed to a chair. “I’ll bring the contract. Melanie will look after you for tea or coffee. Baked daily, our cakes and muffins are always on offer.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Greta.
Served with cream, the coffee was so delicious I had two cups. The aroma of the chocolate cake made my stomach rumble, I ended up polishing the plate.
Buzzing, not only from the sugar hit but from what had just taken place, I stared at the contract: “Hours 9:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Mon.–Fri. Breaks for coffee, morning and afternoon, and lunch. One Saturday a month, you are to attend the charity gala event held at the Thornhill Estate. You will sometimes be required to work late. After a probationary period of six months, provided you perform your tasks satisfactorily, this contract will be extended.”
Clause seven read, “Under no circumstances are photos of the estate or dealings therein to be divulged through social media or any other outlets, i.e., magazines, newspaper columns etcetera. Visitors are not allowed in the main house unless invited to do so.”
That seemed reasonable enough, I thought as Greta crept back into the room. “Is that all in order?” Watching me rummage in my bag, she passed me a pen. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.” I accepted the pen and held it over the document.
“Have you any questions?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, it’s easy to follow. Thank you.”
“Right, then. That’s it for today. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I replied with enthusiasm.
She clapped her hands together. “Good. The gala fundraiser is only two weeks away, and we have much to do.” Her eyes ran up and down my body. “You’ll be requiring six ball gowns. In this envelope is a credit card with a generous limit.” She placed it on the table. “If you prefer, a stylist can select your gowns. It’s up to you. Aidan stipulates we look our best. He’s very strict when it comes to his staff’s appearance. No casual clothes. You can charge your work clothes to the account.”
I was still getting my mind around the six ball gowns. Do I get to keep them?
“The clothes will be yours to keep,” said Greta, once again reading my mind.