‘Jonathan, please stop,’ chuckled Hilary.
‘You could have Ben-Hur doing chariot races up and down those lawns. Look at the Bentley and the Rolls.’ He gave a low whistle as they slowed to a halt at the front of the house. A uniformed houseman opened the door and led them across a massive circular entrance hall with a double staircase and the biggest glass chandelier hanging from the dome ceiling that either of them had ever seen. He opened the door to a very grand reception room. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ he said politely.
Hilary straightened her jacket, glad that she had put on a simple string of pearls to add a touch of class. Her grey suit was pressed; she was wearing heels and carrying a smart briefcase, so she felt she looked the part. Jonathan had on the light brown leather jacket that he’d bought in London, over a white Armani silk shirt and D&G jeans. An orange tie-dye scarf was looped around his neck, and his gelled hair gave him a faintly exotic air. He wouldn’t go too far wrong in Hollywood, as well as this pad, Hilary thought, amused by his description of Bramblewood Manor.
‘It’s like a film set, very Louis XIV. A touch of the Charles Le Bruns in the silverwork. This room alone has cost a small fortune,’ Jonathan whispered when the young man went to tell the Grants that they’d arrived. ‘I hate sitting on this kind of chair and sofa. I always think they’re going to collapse!’ He perched gingerly on a narrow gilt-edged sofa.
‘I hate walking on Aubusson carpets in heels.’ Hilary gazed down at the hand-woven pastel-green-and-ivory-pink rug under her feet. The clickity-clack of high heels and the firm thud of a man’s footsteps echoed across the hall and Jonathan stood up as a tall, elegant couple walked into the room. Gina Grant strode towards Jonathan, arm outstretched to shake hands.
‘Jonathan, so nice to finally meet after speaking to you on the phone. And you must be Mrs Hammond.’ She turned to Hilary and gave her a limp handshake. Gina Grant could have been any age from thirty-five to sixty. Her ash-blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, no lines troubled her face, her green eyes had that faintly pulled, tell-tale slant that hinted at cosmetic surgery. A golden, even tan and the jangle of gold at her wrist gave Gina an air of affluent sophistication that only money could buy.
‘Hello, I’m Shaun Grant.’ The tanned, grey-haired man introduced himself in a polite but uninterested voice. Shaun Grant, one of the country’s wealthiest businessmen, was clearly not one for small talk. ‘I’m going to leave you in my wife’s hands. All I’m saying is, for myself I don’t want pink anything, in any way, shape or form. Keep it masculine, and don’t damage the lawns when the builders come. Use the best of materials but don’t rip me off. Nice meeting you.’ He turned to Gina. ‘Vyacheslav Fyodorov and Makar Polzin and their wives are coming from Moscow next week. Tell Chef to practise his Russian cooking. I’ll see you tonight.’ He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before striding out to the entrance where a chauffeur-driven Merc was waiting for him.
‘So, Mrs Grant, are you considering having a His and Hers treatment room, then?’ Jonathan asked casually. ‘I thought from our conversation that you wanted a relaxing space.’
‘I do,’ she exclaimed, sinking gracefully onto the sofa he’d been sitting on. ‘I’m exhausted running around, entertaining morning, noon and night. Going to this gala event or gold classic or race meet. I have to run this house and cater for Shaun’s needs and entertain his business associates and clients. You’ve just heard him, the Russians are coming and I’ll have to make sure Antoine can cook some Russian food for them. I meet myself coming back, Jonathan, I don’t have a minute and I’m in the middle of the menopause! I need a relaxing space.’ Unexpectedly the sophisticated woman in front of them crumpled and burst into tears.
‘Aah you poor love!’ Jonathan said soothingly, sitting beside her and taking her hand in his. ‘Now it’s imperative, Gina, if I may call you Gina, that you have your own treatment room. As your interior designer I forbid you to install a His and Hers. Why would you want to listen to a stressed husband venting when you’re having a massage? I don’t think so. That would defeat the whole purpose entirely.’ He smiled at her. ‘Let’s design a most relaxing, serene, peaceful place just for you to run away to. As pink as you wish. And we can give the man of the house his own masculine space. What do you say?’
Gina gave him a watery smile. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she sniffed.
‘And it will be,’ he assured her. ‘Now let’s go and see where you want to have your spa installed. Near the pool, I think you said. Hilary and I can get to work immediately on the design, so you can have it as soon as possible. You clearly need a place of your own to escape from the world.’
‘Exactly!’ Gina said with heartfelt emotion. ‘Jonathan, you understand perfectly.’
‘We’ll install very soothing lighting that you can control with dimmer switches, little pools of illumination fading into shadow, very balming to the eyes and spirit.’ Hilary sat on the other side of her and slid a glossy brochure of their previous work over to her.
‘Oh, I like this.’ Gina wiped her eyes, pointing to a sunken bath surrounded by flickering candles and diffused opaque lighting.
‘And this is a floatation-therapy room we did in a spa hotel.’ Hilary turned a page and gave Jonathan the tiniest wink as their new client forgot her distress and turned her attention to the goodies
