I RIFFLE THROUGH THE PILES and piles of paraphernalia sprawled all over my bedroom floor. I’m going to be late. “Kate!” I yell frantically. Where the hell are they? I run out onto the landing and throw myself over the banister. “Kate!”
I hear the familiar sound of a wooden spoon bashing the edges of a ceramic bowl as Kate appears at the bottom of the stairs, her red hair piled high in a mass of curls. She looks up at me with a tired expression. It’s an expression that I’ve become used to recently.
“Keys! Have you seen my car keys?” I puff at her.
“They’re on the table under the mirror where you left them last night.” She rolls her eyes, taking herself and her cake mixture back to her workshop.
I dart across the landing in a complete fluster and find my car keys under a pile of weekly glossies. “Hiding again,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my tan belt, heels, and laptop. I make my way downstairs from the flat above Kate’s workshop, finding her spooning cake mixture into various tins.
“You need to tidy your room, Ava. It’s a fucking mess,” she complains.
Yes, my personal organization skills are pretty shocking, especially since I’m an interior designer for Rococo Union and spend all day coordinating and organizing. I scoop my phone up from the chunky table and dunk my finger in Kate’s cake mixture. “I can’t be brilliant at everything.”
“Get out!” She bats my hand away with her spoon. “Why do you need your car, anyway?” she asks, leaning down to smooth the mixture over, her tongue resting on her bottom lip in concentration.
“I have a first consultation in the Surrey Hills—some country mansion.” I feed my belt through the belt loops of my navy pencil dress, slip my feet into my tan heels, and present myself to the wall mirror.
“I thought you stuck to the city,” she says from behind me.
I ruffle my long, dark hair for a few seconds, flicking it from one side to the other but give up, piling it up with a few grips instead. My dark brown eyes look tired and lack their usual sparkle—a result, no doubt, of burning the candle at both ends. I only moved in with Kate a month ago after splitting with Matt. We’re behaving like a couple of university students. My liver is screaming for a rest.
“I do. The country sector is Patrick’s domain. I don’t know how I got stuck with this.” I sweep the wand of my gloss across my lips, smack them together, and give Kate a kiss on the cheek. “It’s going to be painful, I know it. Luv ya!”
“Ditto. See you later,” Kate laughs, without lifting her face from her workstation.
Despite my lateness, I drive my little Mini with my usual care to my office on Bruton Street, and I’m reminded why I tube it every day when I spend ten minutes driving around looking for a parking space.
I burst into the office and glance at the clock. Eight-forty. Okay, I’m ten minutes late, not as bad as I thought. I pass Tom’s and Victoria’s empty desks on the way to my own, spying Patrick in his office as I land in my chair. Unpacking my laptop, I notice a package has been left for me.
“Morning, flower.” Patrick’s low boom greets me as he perches on the edge of my desk, followed by the customary creak under his weight. “What have you got there?”
“Morning. It’s the new fabric range from Miller’s. You Like?” I stroke some of the luxurious material.
“Wonderful,” he feigns interest. “Don’t let Irene clap her eyes on it. I’ve just liquidated most of my assets to fund the new soft furnishings at home.”
“Oh.” I give him a sympathetic face. “Where is everyone?”
“Victoria has the day off and Tom’s having a nightmare with Mr. and Mrs. Baines. It’s just you, me, and Sal today, flower.” He takes his comb out of his inside pocket and runs it through his silver mop.
“I’ve got a midday appointment at The Manor,” I remind him. He can’t have forgotten. “Are you sure I’m the person you want on this, Patrick?”
I’ve worked for Rococo Union for four years, and it was made clear that I was employed to expand the business into the modern sector. With luxury apartments flying up all over London, Patrick and Tom, with their specialty of traditional design, were missing out. When it took off and the workload got too much for me, he employed Victoria.
“They asked for you, flower.” He pushes himself to his feet and my desk creaks in protest again. Patrick ignores it, but I wince. He has to lose some weight or stop sitting on my desk. It won’t take the strain for much longer.
So, they asked for me? Why? My portfolio holds nothing that will reflect traditional design—nothing at all. I can’t help but think that this is a complete waste of my time. Patrick or Tom should be going.
“Oh, Lusso launch.” Patrick tucks his comb away. “The developer is really pushing the boat out with this party in the penthouse. You’ve done an amazing job, Ava.” Patrick’s eyebrows nod with his head.
I blush. “Thank you.” I’m dead proud of myself and my work at Lusso, my greatest achievement in my short career. Based on St. Katharine Docks and with prices ranging from three million for a basic apartment to ten million for the penthouse, we’re in the super rich realm. The design specification is as the name suggests: Italian luxury. I sourced all materials, furniture and art, from Italy, and enjoyed a week there organizing the shipping schedule. Next Friday is the launch party, but I know they’ve already sold the penthouse and six other apartments, so it’s more of a showing off party.
“I’ve cleared my diary so I can do the final checks once the cleaners are out.” I flick the pages of my diary to next Friday and scribble across the page again.
“Good girl. I’ve told Victoria to be there at five. It’s her first launch so you need to give her a heads up. I’ll be there at seven with Tom.”
“Sure.”
Patrick returns to his office and I open my e-mail, sifting through to delete or respond where necessary.
At eleven o’clock I pack up my laptop and poke my head around Patrick’s office door. He’s engrossed with something on his computer.
“I’m off now,” I say, but he just waves his hand in the air in acknowledgment. I walk through the office and see Sally fighting with the photocopier. “See you later, Sal.”
“’Bye, Ava,” she replies, but she’s too busy removing the paper jam to acknowledge me with her face. The girl’s a calamity.
I walk out into the sunshine and head for my car. Friday mid-morning traffic is a nightmare, but once I’m out of the city, the drive onward is pretty straightforward. The roof is down, and Adele is keeping me company. A little drive in the countryside is a lovely way to finish my work week.
I pull off the main road and onto a little lane, where I find myself in front of the biggest pair of gates that I’ve ever seen. A gold plaque on a pillar states, THE MANOR.
Bloody hell! I take my sunglasses off, looking past the gates and down the tree-lined gravel road that seems to go for miles, images of a stuffy, cigar-smoking Lord of The Manor springing to mind immediately. I get out of my car and walk up to the gates, looking for an intercom.
“It’s behind you.” I nearly jump out of my skin when the low rumble of a voice comes from nowhere, stabbing at the silent country air.
I look around. “Hello?”
“Over here.”
I turn and see the intercom farther down the lane. I drove straight past it. I run over, pressing the button to announce myself. “Ava O’Shea, Rococo Union.”
“I know.”
I look around and spot a camera installed on the gate. “Well are you going to let me in?” I ask, just as the shift of metal breaks the countryside peace around me. The gates start opening. “Give me a chance,” I mutter as I run back to my car. I jump in my Mini and creep forward as the gates swing open, all the time wondering how I’ll remove the glass of port and cigar that are, quite clearly, wedged up that miserable sod’s arse. I’m looking less forward to this appointment by the minute. Posh country folk and their posh country mansions are not in my area of expertise.
Once the gates are fully opened, I drive through, and after a mile or so I pull into a perfectly round courtyard. I take my sunglasses off and gape at the huge, looming house. It’s superb.
The black doors—adorned with highly polished gold trim– are flanked by four giant bay windows, with pillars of carved stone guarding them. Giant limestone blocks make up the structure of the mansion, with lush bay trees lining the face, and topping off the site is a fountain in the centre of the courtyard, spraying out jets of illuminated water. It’s all very imposing.
I cut the engine and fumble with the door release to get out of my car. Standing and holding on to the top of my car door, I look up at the magnificent building and immediately think that this has to be a mistake. The place is in amazing condition.
The lawns are greener than green, the house looks like it receives daily scrub downs, and even the gravel looks like it receives a daily hoover. If the exterior is anything to go by, then I can’t imagine the inside needing any work. I look up at the dozens of sash bay windows, seeing plush curtains hanging at them all. I’m tempted to call Patrick to check that I’ve got the right address, but it did say The Manor on the gates, and that miserable sod on the other end of the intercom is obviously expecting me.
While I’m pondering my next move, the doors open, revealing the biggest man I’ve ever seen. He saunters out to the top of the steps, and I physically flinch at the sight of him, stepping back slightly. He has on a black suit– specially made for sure because that’s no regular size—a black shirt and a black tie. His skin is the color of rich ebony, his shaved head looks like it’s been buffed to a shine, and wraparound sunglasses conceal his eyes. If I could build a mental image of who I would have expected to walk out of those doors, he, most definitely, would not be it. The man is a mountain, and everything about his presence screams bodyguard. I’m suddenly slightly concerned that I’ve turned up at some mafia control center, and I search my brain trying to remember if I transferred my panic alarm to my new handbag.
“Miss O’Shea?” he drawls.
I wilt under his massive presence, putting my hand up in a nervous wave gesture. “Hi,” I whisper.
“This way,” he rumbles deeply, giving a sharp nod of his head and turning to walk back into the mansion.
I consider cutting and running, but the daring and dangerous side of me is curious about what lies beyond those doors. Grabbing my bag, I shut my car door and climb the steps, crossing the threshold into a huge entrance hall. I gaze around the vast area, and I’m immediately impressed by the grand curved staircase that leads up to the first floor.
The décor is opulent, lush, and very intimidating. Deep blues, taupes with hints of gold, and original woodwork, along with the rich mahogany parquet floor, make the place striking and massively extravagant. It’s exactly how I would have expected it to be and nowhere near my design style. But then again, looking around, why any interior designer would be here is becoming more and more confusing. Patrick said they requested me personally, so I would be inclined to think that they want to modernize, but that would’ve been before I got a glimpse of the place. The décor suits the period building. It’s in perfect condition. Why the hell am I here?
Big Guy heads off to the right, leaving me to scuttle after him, my tan heels clicking on the parquet floor as he leads me toward the back of the mansion.
I hear the hum of conversation and glance to my right, noticing many people seated at various tables; eating, drinking, and chatting. Waiters are serving food and drinks, and the distinct voices of The Rat Pack are purring in the background. I frown, but then I understand. It’s a hotel—a posh country hotel.
This is all beginning to make sense to me. I want to say something to the mountain of a man leading me God only knows where, but he hasn’t looked back once to check that I’m following. Although the click of my heels must tell him I am. He doesn’t say much, and I suspect he wouldn’t answer me if I did speak.
We continue past two more closed doors before he leads me into a summer room—a massive, light, stunningly lavish space that’s sectioned off into individual seating areas with sofas, big arm chairs, and tables. Floor-to-ceiling bi-fold doors span the room, leading to a Yorkstone patio and a vast lawn area. It’s really quite awe-inspiring, and I inwardly gasp when I spot a glass building housing a swimming pool. It’s incredible, and I shudder to think how much the nightly rate is. It has to be five stars—probably more.
Once we’ve passed through the summer room, I’m led down a corridor until Big Guy stops outside a wood-paneled door. “Mr. Ward’s office,” he rumbles, knocking on the door, surprisingly gently given his mammoth size.
“The manager?” I ask.
“The owner,” he replies, opening the door and striding through. “Come in.”
I hesitate on the threshold, watching as the big guy strides into the room ahead of me. I eventually force my feet into action, moving into the room, while gazing around at the equally luxurious surroundings of Mr. Ward’s office.
Links to Buy This Man…