Chapter Eighteen
Ruan exhaled as the builder’s van trundled off up the track from Seaspray.
It hadn’t been the best few days. First, he was convinced he’d blown his chances with Tammy, or at least made her super wary of him.
All he’d heard from her since their kiss in the cove was a message saying she had to work all weekend in the gallery and had a memorial tribute to do for a local fisherman.
She’d said speak soon at the end of the text but he wasn’t holding his breath.
He kept himself occupied by tackling more work on the gardens, convinced that the plants he’d chopped down had miraculously shot up again over the week. He also met up with two mates at Kane’s, batting away any questions about Tammy.
Now, he was reeling from the scale of work that needed to be done on the fabric of the house itself.
Even before his great-uncle had moved to the home, he’d let the building fall into disrepair, and once the place was empty, the elements had done the rest. Ruan was beginning to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew in selling his flat and trying to tackle a renovation.
He hung his waterproof on the hook inside the caravan and shut the door.
He was working from ‘home’ that morning, partly because he had a meeting with a long-standing client of the firm whose remote farm was situated near Land’s End. It made sense to travel straight from Seaspray.
He was also at the van because he’d scheduled two site appointments with builders.
The first, now disappearing up his drive, had left him with a cloud over his head to rival the stormy morning.
She’d worn gold wellies and a permanent scowl – and had taken one glance at the house before sucking in a breath and pronouncing, ‘It needs a lot of work.’
Tell me something I don’t know, Ruan had wanted to retort but had politely laughed.
‘What exactly do you want me to quote for?’ she asked while she clicked her tongue and huffed discouragingly. ‘The walls, the roof, clearing the site, new windows, remortaring the facade, new joists and RSJs internally, possible underpinning? Have you had a mining survey done yet?’
‘Mining survey? There are no old tin mines round here, are there?’
‘Maybe not in the immediate vicinity, but within five miles there are plenty. This is West Cornwall, you know.’ She smirked. ‘You won’t get a mortgage without a mining survey. Unless you don’t need a mortgage?’
‘Er. I hadn’t fully decided on finance until I got some quotes,’ Ruan replied, trying not to sound pompous.
The woman took a pen from behind her ear and poised it over a notebook. ‘So, do you want to walk me round the site and I’ll tell you what needs doing? Which is, like, everything and then some by the looks of it.’ She chortled at her own joke and Ruan forced his mouth to tilt upwards.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ he ground out.
The woman left after an hour, leaving Ruan’s head spinning with the amount of work that needed doing to restore Seaspray to any kind of habitable state.
Her ‘ballpark’ estimate, which he absolutely mustn’t take as a formal quote in any shape or form, was 30 per cent more than Ruan had been anticipating. And that was with using fairly standard materials, no fancy stuff. Even with the sale of his flat, he would probably need a mortgage.
Walter’s other investments had taken care of the inheritance tax on the estate so Ruan had nothing further to pay as long as he lived in the place.
The tax situation would be different if he did it up and sold it on, and he’d also have to find somewhere else to live.
Now he’d spent some time here, who would want to live without the sight and sounds of the sea if they had the chance to stay?
The rain drumming on the caravan roof was louder than ever. It was a wonder Ruan heard his mobile ring with the heavens unleashing such a torrent. The site would be a quagmire if it didn’t stop soon.
He picked it up and stifled a groan before managing a cheery, ‘Hector—’
‘Good morning, dear boy!’ his boss cut in.
‘How are you? Fine, I expect, if you’re WFH, as they say nowadays.
Bet you’re lounging in the sun outside that bloody caravan?
When are you going to buy a respectable house you can invite us all round to, rather than that wreck?
No, don’t answer that. I’ve got a job for you so get inside and start doing some real work. ’
‘Good morning to you too, Hector,’ said Ruan when he could get a word in.
‘Now, have I got something for you, my boy. Check your emails then call me back as soon as. I’ve been trying to get Polly Tremain’s business for three years.’
‘Polly Tremain?’ Ruan said, thinking that the name reminded him of a character from as sea shanty.
‘Yes. Polly Tremain. You must know her?’
‘Apologies but I’m not familiar …’
‘Then make yourself familiar sharpish,’ Hector said in the prickly tone that Ruan recognised as a danger sign.
‘I’ve emailed my notes about the family estate and what would be involved if – when – we win the business.
I’ve already had lunch with her twice and she’s not happy with her existing lawyers, but she’s a tricky fish to land. ’
‘OK.’
‘I want you to put forward a proposal for handling all her family business, from wills and property disposal to the general estate affairs. The family has several holiday cottages, a couple of farms as well as Tremain Manor, and a few hundred acres of farmland.’
‘Of course. I’ll read the brief and start drafting a proposal.’
‘You can google her too. You do know what Google is?’
‘I think so,’ Ruan said, refusing to be wound up by Hector.
‘Good. Should take you the best part of the day. You didn’t have anything else to do, did you?’
‘Yes, actually. I’d arranged to visit the Furnisses’ potato empire at Land’s End later this afternoon.’
‘Spuds can wait. This potential new client won’t. Make up some excuse with the Furnisses. I need this soon – certainly within a couple of days.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ruan said, fully intending to keep his appointment with the potato farmers and work late if he had to.
They weren’t Gaverne’s biggest client, but he respected how hard Mrs Furniss and her family worked to keep their business going through thick and thin.
She and her son had carved out time to see him about a key purchase of some extra land and he wasn’t going to let them down for anyone, even this Polly Tremain.
‘I know you will. That’s why I hired you. You’re a Boy Scout, you always do your best. What the hell was that?’
‘A clap of thunder? Isn’t it raining in Penzance? You’re only a few miles away.’
‘It may well be,’ Hector said. ‘I’m in Newquay where the sun is shining and everyone is wearing dreadful pairs of shorts. Speak tomorrow when we can look through your draft together. We need this business, and it will bring a lot of work your way. Just think of your bonus.’
‘Tomorr—!’ Ruan exclaimed but Hector was gone.
Ruan laid the mobile on the table and felt a drop of cold water plop down his neck. Great. Now the caravan roof was leaking. He’d have to fix that urgently, though not before he’d spoken to Builder Two, whose van had just pulled up alongside the caravan.
After grabbing a bucket to put under the leak and moving his laptop safely out of the way of the small but worrying drip, Ruan grabbed his waterproof coat again.
Ruan went to greet the muscular type climbing out of the silver Renault van, a phone clamped to his ear.
The sky was still gunmetal grey, but the man was in builders’ boots, shorts and a T-shirt, seemingly oblivious to the rain slicing down that had plastered his shoulder-length blond hair to his head. Ruan felt a bit of a wimp to have bothered with a waterproof coat.
‘Morning, mate,’ the builder said, grasping Ruan’s hand hard. ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Or it could be. I’m Sean Carrow.’
‘Hi. Thanks for coming out in this weather.’
‘Used to it, mate.’ He glanced at the house with a grin. ‘Can’t wait to work on this one if I get the chance.’
‘Thanks. Shall I show you round the site?’ Ruan said cheerfully.
Maybe if he could keep Sean on side, he might be more positive about the work that needed doing. Who knows, he might even give him a more palatable quote.
Half an hour later, Sean left.
Ruan’s wellies were thick with mud, so he left them at the door of the caravan and returned to his laptop, ready to prepare the proposal for the Tremain estate’s business.
Polly wasn’t a character in a sea shanty, though her actual CV was just as colourful.
Her real name and title was Lady Paulina Tremain.
Ruan had to look her up online and discovered that she was entitled to the courtesy title as the daughter of an earl.
Her late husband had been plain Mr Tremain, and after his death, Lady Paulina had continued to build up the estate.
In her youth, she’d been an international eventer who’d represented GB in the Olympics.
Ruan guessed she’d be savvy, tough and stand for no nonsense, so his proposal had to give a compelling case for Gaverne’s to win the legal business.
She’d also need confidence in Ruan, who’d be in charge of the estate’s day-to-day affairs.
As he started to make notes, another drip plopped on to his notebook.
The sooner he could get work started on the house, the better.
He might not have wanted to join the legal rat race as a partner in a city firm, but he did need to live and renovate Seaspray, which meant Hector’s hint of a bonus was very welcome. And after mulling over the figure both builders had hinted at for the work required on Seaspray, Ruan would need it.
He downloaded the Tremain file, realising rapidly that he’d have to work late and early in order to finish the proposal, and keep his appointment with the potato farmers.
Just as he was about to metaphorically bang his head on the desk, a message came up on his phone.
It was Tammy, asking him if he wanted to meet her tomorrow evening.
His day was finally looking up.