The job floats into my mind again as I climb into bed and I hug myself tightly, sending up a prayer to whoever is up there that I get called for an interview. I turn the pillow over to the cool side, Mags’s voice sniping in my ear, ‘you’ll just be a glorified wife’, and as I drop off the edge into sleep, my last thought is that perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Chapter Three
I try not to gawp as I hop off my pushbike and wheel it up the path to the house, making out as though houses this huge, this imposing, are part of my world. There is a sweeping gravel drive, leading to the front of a huge, double-fronted house, with a double – maybe even triple – garage nestled to the side. I try to keep my eyes on the front door ahead of me, two stone lions flanking the porch, and take a deep breath.
Although the house is imposing, and clearly my potential employer is doing OK for himself, there are tiny signs of neglect. Weeds sprout up in the tubs that house straggly-looking topiary bushes on either side of the windows, there is a recycling box in front of the garage that looks as if it is about to overflow with empty bottles, and the window sills look as though they could do with a scrub. Despite what Mags says, I am actually very house-proud, having been brought up with a mother who couldn’t abide dirt. I’ve just given up in the flat, because Mags doesn’t have the same outlook. I could take a picture, I think, once it’s all clean and tidy. I’ll stick it next to the job advert in my book. I finger the outline of my phone in my pocket, resisting the urge to take a ‘before’ picture.
Smoothing my hair down, I make sure the waistband of my skirt hasn’t twisted round – after what happened with Harry, I lost nearly a stone that I haven’t put back on yet – before taking a deep breath and lifting the brass knocker, letting it fall with a loud bang. There is a long pause, where I think for a moment that perhaps there is no one home; that the guy, Rupert, has forgotten I’m coming, before the door is wrenched open.
‘Yes?’ The man in front of me is tall, over six feet, with floppy dark hair in a style that reminds me of old Hugh Grant movies. Even though it is Saturday morning, he is wearing jeans with a smart shirt, as if he is about to go to work. That is, if he’d actually tucked it in and he had shoes on his feet. My stomach gives a tiny flip.
‘Hi,’ I smile, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Emily Belrose. I’m here for an interview?’
‘Oh. Of course.’ He runs his hand through his hair before standing to one side and ushering me in. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m running a bit behind this morning. You can see why I need a housekeeper.’ His mouth tugs up into a small smile and I let out a laugh.
‘It happens to the best of us.’ I follow him along a light, airy hallway into the kitchen, and have to resist the urge to let my mouth hang open. It is huge. It’s also untidy, with mugs and dishes in the sink, a dying houseplant on top of the fridge and an overflowing bin.
‘Sorry about the mess.’ Rupert looks a bit sheepish, and I smother another smile.
‘Well, isn’t that what I’m here for?’ I discreetly run my eyes over the kitchen, over the thin layer of dust that sits on the counter top, the pile of post that has been shoved to one side.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Rupert is already rummaging in the cupboard above the kettle for mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ I say yes to both, and wait as he fills the kettle, water splashing over his shirt as he turns the tap on too high.
‘Can I get the milk?’ I ask, as he swipes ineffectually at the damp patches with a tea towel, but when I open the fridge, the shelf is bare. ‘Black is fine,’ I say with a smile, my nerves dissipating as I see that Rupert is possibly just as nervous as I am. ‘Here, shall I finish this off while you get dry?’ I reach for the now boiling kettle as Rupert scrubs at the fabric of his shirt.
‘So, Emily, I suppose I should actually interview you, not just let you make me tea.’ Rupert smiles as I pass him a mug. ‘Why did you apply for this job? You’re not really what I was expecting.’
‘Really?’ I turn to him. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘Well, someone more… Mrs Danvers, I suppose. Or Mrs Doubtfire.’
My heart skips in my chest. Not only is Rupert easy on the eye, but he reads too. I choose to ignore the reference to Mrs Doubtfire. ‘I’m definitely not Mrs Danvers. I suppose I’m just looking for something different. I’ve had a bit of… bad luck, I guess you could say, so I’m trying to turn things around.’ I wrap my cold fingers around the warm mug, staring at the dark tannin patches left on the china by the black tea, buying myself a few seconds. ‘This seemed like the perfect job for me, right now.’
‘You’re certainly making a good impression,’ Rupert says, with a quirk of his eyebrows.
