The Divine Checklist (The Greystone Brothers #3)

Chapter 1

Emma

“They’re on the phone again,” Louise, my executive assistant—the title she gave herself—tells me. “Shall I put them through?” she shouts through the office doors. My office is opposite hers, and I know she can see me sitting behind my desk, staring into space.

I stand and go around the desk, stopping in the doorway and leaning on the door jamb. “If they want to discuss the contracts about recruiting for their building companies, yes. If it’s Jude Greystone’s office about buying this building, definitely no.”

She nods, pressing the unmute button. “I’m afraid she’s out of the office at the moment.

” There’s a pause whilst Louise nods her head in acknowledgement of the conversation she’s having.

Now she’s eye rolling. “She’s at a lunch meeting.

Should be back later.” Another silence on our end, and then Louise lies her way through the conversation.

“Is it about the recruitment contract? We sent our proposal in. We were expecting a response.” She’s so officious.

Go, Lou. If they’re calling us, at least we can use the opportunity. We really need it.

“Ahh, the building.” She sounds patronising now.

“I’m afraid it’s not for sale. And Ms Lincoln has informed your office of this fact on quite a few occasions.

” She listens again. “Entirely up to you. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Her voice sounds cheery as she signs off.

But her face is a blueprint of frustration.

“Deaf, and not bothered. They’re going to ring back later,” she informs me with a shake of her head.

I sigh. “How many calls is that so far this week?” It’s only Tuesday.

“Five so far. At this rate, I’ll know all of his staff by first name no later than Thursday. I chalked down twenty last week. Obviously desperate.” She grins at that little observation. Because she absolutely loves sticking it to the man. And Jude Greystone definitely constitutes ‘the man.’

“Do you think he’ll call again? The man himself?” I muse out as I go to the coffee machine to pop in a pod.

She shrugs. “Probably. They do seem pretty desperate. The last few weeks have been hotline central. Who would have thought we’d garner so much attention from him?”

She spins her phone around for today's photo image of the day. He is the talk of the town. London town, anyway. A city god and colossus, owning more than half the office space in the city and beyond. CEO of The Bowman Group, a humongous conglomerate of property companies. Fingers in every pie that involves construction. Even an architectural arm, which is why we’d come onto his radar to begin with.

“Wow, where was that taken?” I can’t hide the awe in my voice.

He’s in a tux, all very Jameson Bonney—suave, sophisticated, and the fabric looks like it’s having the time of its life with his body.

I can almost hear the stitching begging for mercy.

Tall, at over six foot. Dark brown hair, dark brown eyes.

Tanned, obviously been somewhere hot and glamorous.

St Tropez, Cannes, he glows like a movie star.

He looks Spanish, or maybe Italian, but definitely not British.

“Some fancy dinner and awards ceremony. Usual fair for him. He gets more column inches than the royals.” Her head is engrossed in the photo. Can’t blame her. He does look good.

“Well, it’ll soon be Christmas. We might even get a few weeks off from phone calls. Maybe we’ll be lucky and his lines will go down.” I smile sarcastically.

“Just think if we could get some staff in there at his company.” Louise has a wistful look in her eye. I get it, that company is a construction utopia. It really would be a coup for us to support their recruitment campaigns. And we do have some stellar candidates.

“Lou, you can stop stalking him now.” I plonk down the coffee on her desk.

“You’re joking. I know more about him than I do my own mother.

And he’s actually far more interesting.” She grins happily as she spins yet another delicious photograph of him, in white tie now.

How many events does he go to? “Anything you want to know, ask me. I know what buildings he owns. The percentage of rentals he does. And as for their headquarters, I could give you a full spec run down.” She’s almost frothing at the mouth.

“You need a new hobby. Or a boyfriend,” I deadpan.

“I wouldn’t mind being on his arm.” She sighs, flipping yet another photograph with some sort of model on his arm. Does he actually do any work? “But don’t get me started on that monstrosity over there.” She jabs her thumb to his shiny new building, slap bang next to my little tiny old one.

“I’d still like the chance to get some of our candidates in there. They’d love it.” I’ve tried not to like it, but it is a beautiful building.

My recruitment business—Synergy Recruitment, Ltd—has called this little building headquarters for the past eight years.

Unlike the new construction next door, it’s far from modern and chic.

Built in 1810, a keystone with the date above it gives the game away.

It’s been many things over the years. Offices, a community hub, a storage building in the Second World War, as it sat on a street behind the river and provided easy access.

And we still use some of the benches left behind in the downstairs areas from when it was a Quaker meeting house.

My great grandad acquired it in the nineteen twenties.

Nobody really knows how—it’s the stuff of myth and legend.

But it was all legit. Honestly. Even though my dad likes to regale my boys with ludicrous stories, claiming our ancestors were some sort of connected East End villains. Dad certainly hailed from there.

But then, my dad also likes to tell my boys tales of when he fought against Rommel in the war as a desert rat.

They haven’t twigged yet that he was born in 1946.

A whole year after the Second World War ended.

He told me the same stories growing up, so forgive me if I take what he says with a pinch of salt.

But however it came to our family, this building has been a godsend. It was my safe haven when my life fell apart, enabling me to at least carry on working, building a business. Which at one point looked like it had been shrivelled to a husk by my now ex-husband.

A bit like me.

The building sheltered Louise and I, and my twenty staff, through that chaos, seeing us through to the other side.

Post apocalyptic divorce, I renovated the building to take over the top two floors.

Louise and myself are on the top floor, with an office each.

I added a meeting room with a table to seat twenty, but also a comfy area with settees if we want to be more informal.

Downstairs, the office is open plan and houses my twenty other staff members.

A great team, built up over the last eight years.

Everyone currently working for me has done so for at least five years.

My turnover of staff is very low. But we have good terms and conditions, and pay a decent basic salary as well as good bonuses.

The only time I had issues with staff was when my ex-husband and his best mate, who is also his business partner—still in the same business—decided he wanted a contract I had, or a staff member. Which he seemed to do periodically. Then my ex would show up and harass the team that worked for me.

Our divorce was not amicable. I had to put key codes and security on the building to stop him gaining entry.

Unfortunately, with three boys together, it didn’t stop him harassing me at home.

Any chance he got, he would stick the knife in for the benefit of his friend.

His priorities are not the mother of his children, but his best mate. Yep, we had one of those arrangements.

The building has also acted as a community space on the ground floor, and I’ve left that section of the building alone.

It has a wide open space and hosts everything from sports clubs to book clubs to those focused on general well-being.

Knit and natter. Boxercise. Zumba. Anyone who wants to rent time, we try to accommodate. All for the benefit of the area.

This grande dame of a structure, it stands out with its red brick, so different from the lighter London brick.

Its tall windows, much larger than average, allow an amazing amount of natural light in.

The round windows up in the eves give it a cosy feel.

But it’s dwarfed these days by the huge, high-rise buildings with all their shiny steel.

Buildings like Jude Greystone’s South Wharf Executive Tower.

“Do you think he really does want to knock us down?” Louise is standing now, staring out at The Bowman Group's new flagship building. “Surely it can’t be true that he wants to turn this building into a car park for his VVIPs.” She sighs, incomprehension written all over her face.

“Maybe we don’t fit his aesthetic.” I stand next to her, looking out.

The winter sunshine glints off the top of the building.

It’s as if it’s winking at us, flirting with us, showing us how great it is.

A bit like Jude Greystone himself, if the magazine articles are true.

“It’s like chalk and cheese. We’re small fry business, local community.

Bricks and mortar. He’s big international business, celebrity apartments.

Sleek, silver steel, shiny. We couldn’t get more opposite if we tried. ”