Chapter 14
Being a concierge meant having really strong arms, Nella was discovering. The party of twenty at Hay Hall had gone into Cheltenham for the day, having placed an order for six crates of Bollinger, which had been delivered and left stacked up in the office. With Nick still away in London, she’d loaded the crates into the boot of her car and driven over to the gravelled parking area behind the hall. It was only thirty or so yards from there to the French doors that led into the kitchen, but the cases were heavy and clanky and her muscles were soon trembling in protest.
On her third trip back to the car, she saw someone watching her.
‘Thanks for pointing me in the right direction earlier,’ he said, and she recognised him as the driver of the white Porsche who’d taken a wrong turning before.
‘No problem. You’re visiting someone at Pine Lodge?’ See? She could be discreet.
‘I’m just the chauffeur today. I’m leaving them to it. Now, would it be sexist of me to offer you a hand with those?’ He indicated the remaining crates in the open boot. ‘Say if you’d rather I didn’t.’
There was a twinkle in his eye as he said it. And his short-sleeved apricot-pink polo shirt revealed a fine pair of biceps.
‘I’d rather you did. That’d be great. Unless you drop them,’ said Nella as he approached the car. ‘Then it’ll just be extremely expensive.’
‘I can manage. I’m Simon, by the way.’
‘Nella.’ He lifted the crate out of the boot and she walked alongside him. ‘Thanks so much for this.’
Back and forth he went, until all six crates were lined up outside the French doors. Then he carried them into the kitchen so she could unbox the bottles and store them in the double-sized drinks fridges. Back outside and with the house locked up once more, Nella said, ‘Thank you. Again. My arms are most grateful.’
‘No problem. And where d’you go now?’
‘Back to the office, just down there.’ She pointed to the right.
‘I don’t suppose I could beg a glass of water, could I? Rather than butt in and disturb the conversation at Pine Lodge . . .’
‘Of course. It’s the least I can do. Come on, we’ll walk down there.’
In the office, she filled a glass from the water cooler and handed it to him. Simon drank it down in one go, then regarded her with a disarming smile. ‘Would it be sexist of me to tell you how great you look?’
Excuse me? Taken aback, Nella said, ‘Actually, I think I’ll have some water too.’
‘Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have said that. But you must know how attractive you are. Sometimes . . .’ He paused, studying her. ‘Well, you meet someone and it just feels as if there’s a real connection, and you just wish you could get to know them better.’
It was the weirdest thing; he was looking at her mouth with what almost seemed like longing. As if he wanted to kiss her. Was she imagining it? She couldn’t be sure. But . . . was he testing her? The thought burst into her brain that somehow Nick Callaghan was behind this, had arranged for it to happen. As a joke, though? Or to make sure she was as trustworthy as she’d claimed to be?
Would he actually do something like that? No, of course he wouldn’t. This guy was just a common-or-garden lech; some men simply couldn’t help themselves.
Nella looked long and hard at Simon-the-Porsche-driver and said evenly, ‘Right. I need to get on with my work.’
And he nodded at once, as if she’d imagined everything that had gone before. ‘Of course. Thanks for the drink. I’ll leave you to it.’ Flashing a smile, he raised a hand in farewell. ‘Good to meet you. Bye.’
He left, closing the office door behind him. She watched through the window as he made his way back along the path towards Pine Lodge.
Hmm. People could be strange.
Relieved when Nella answered the phone on the second ring the following day, Lizzie wailed, ‘Hi! I’m sorry, I’ve had a bit of an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’ Nella sounded concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am, but the kitchen’s in a state. It’s a complete mess.’
‘OK, no problem. I’m sending someone to you now. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I’m such a klutz.’ Belatedly Lizzie realised drops of blood were splashing onto the floor. ‘Oh bum, and I’ve cut myself too. If they could bring plasters, that’d be good.’
‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘Definitely don’t need a doctor.’
‘Well, sit down in case you feel faint. I’m in Cirencester or I’d rush over myself, but someone’ll be there in a few minutes.’
Seven minutes later, a girl in her late teens wearing one of the Mediterranean-blue polo shirts with the Starbourne estate logo on the breast pocket knocked politely on the French door before letting herself in. ‘Hi. I’m Maeve. Nella sent me to clean up. She wants to know if you’re really OK, because if you need stitches I can take you to—’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just an idiot.’ Lizzie was standing at the sink with the tap running, rinsing the blood away as it slid down her fingers.
‘Right, let’s have a look.’ Dumping her cleaning basket, Maeve came over and inspected the cut. ‘If you hold your arm in the air, it’ll help.’
Which it did, within seconds.
‘This is how stupid I am. I didn’t even think to do that.’
‘No worries. That’s why I’m here.’ Maeve swiftly washed and dried her own hands, then retrieved a first-aid kit from under the sink, applied a neat dressing and secured it expertly with tape.
‘You’re a professional,’ Lizzie joked.
‘I did first-aid training three years ago. You never know when it’ll come in handy. Now, no need for you to stay. I’ll get this cleaned up in no time.’
She could have said this unholy mess , but she hadn’t. She was taking the scene entirely in her capable stride.
‘I’d like to stay. I’m Lizzie, by the way.’
‘I know. We all know who you are. Everyone’s excited you’re here, but we have to pretend not to be.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
Confession time. Lizzie said wryly, ‘Shall I let you into a shameful secret? I’m forty-three and I did actually start trying to clear up this mess myself. Then I realised I had no idea how to do it.’
Maeve smiled and began pulling items out of her cleaning basket. ‘That’s OK. I’d be rubbish at acting.’
‘The thing is, there’ve always been other people to do everything for me. All these years I’ve just taken it for granted. But when you stop and think about it, that’s really embarrassing.’
‘I bet Mariah Carey isn’t embarrassed,’ said Maeve.
‘I need to learn some of this stuff. Can I stay and watch?’
‘Of course you can. How did it happen?’
Lizzie felt her face heat up. ‘I saw a chef on TV showing how to make an omelette, and it made me really fancy one. Cooking’s something else I’ve never done before.’ God, what did she sound like? But it was true; for the last thirty years, all the cleaning, tidying, cooking and clearing up had happened while she’d been either out of the house, working, sleeping or just . . . otherwise occupied. Like living in a hotel with every fleeting whim catered for. And it had left her as clueless and incompetent as a child.
She surveyed the scene of chaos Maeve was about to start tackling. ‘He said I needed oil and butter for the pan, but the oil was in a bottle and undoing the plastic seal meant I spilled a bit on the worktop. Then he told me to break the eggs into a bowl and beat them, which sounded really doable, but the bowl skidded on the oil and went flying . . . so there was broken glass and half-beaten eggs all over the floor. Then when I tried to reach the tea towel to clean them up, I accidentally knocked over the bottle of oil. And after that I had a go at picking up some of the glass, which must have been when I cut myself.’ She shrugged helplessly, like the failure she was. ‘So then I thought I’d better give in and call Nella. Before I ended up slipping on the oil, breaking both my legs and managing to set the house on fire because I’d forgotten to turn off the heat under the omelette pan.’
Maeve gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Actually, that’s not an omelette pan, it’s a wok for stir-fries. But I’m sure you could make an omelette in it,’ she added kindly. ‘If you wanted to.’
For the next fifteen minutes Lizzie paid close attention as Maeve picked out the larger shards of glass before gathering up as much of the mess as possible with bunched-up sheets of kitchen paper and disposing of them in a bin bag. Having cleared and thoroughly cleaned the marble worktop and the surface of the stove, she wiped the splashes of oil and slithery raw egg from the walls and cupboard fronts before setting to work on her hands and knees energetically scrubbing the floor.
‘Tell me about you,’ Lizzie said. She was interested. Maeve had short blond hair tucked behind her ears, thickly lashed grey eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose, but it was her air of unflappable capability that intrigued her most of all.
‘Nothing much to tell.’ Maeve leaned back on her heels and wiped a strand of hair away from her forehead with the side of her arm. ‘I’m not very interesting.’
‘Everyone’s interesting. How long have you been doing this sort of work?’
‘Ooh, a couple of years, off and on. Full-time since last summer.’
‘And will you carry on, do you think?’
‘Definitely. Well, part-time, at least.’ The scrubbing was hard work, turning her cheeks pink. ‘I’m off to uni in October, but it’s always handy to be able to pick up some extra cash.’
‘And where are you headed?’
‘Birmingham. Not too far. Reading physics.’
‘Oh wow. Clever girl. See?’ said Lizzie. ‘You’re already interesting. And an expert on all this stuff too.’ She indicated the scrubbing brush and the various-coloured microfibre cloths Maeve was using to systematically mop, then dry, then polish each section of floor. ‘I’m guessing your mum taught you how to do it, all the hints and tips.’
‘She did.’ Maeve rested back on her heels once more and smiled. ‘She taught me and my dad.’
‘Good for her. That’s what we like to hear!’ Lizzie’s own mother had been more concerned with keeping her focused on learning her lines and building her career.
‘Mum wanted to be sure we could manage without her.’ After a pause, Maeve went on. ‘Before she died.’