Page 9 of Never Gonna Happen

They went down the back stairs, stopping by the door to the first floor. ‘Mr Hunter’s office is the second room on the right,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t go in without knocking.’

Emily wondered what she’d done to deserve this frosty reception, or whether this was Anna on a good day. She mumbled a weak ‘thank you’ down the stairwell, but Anna was already gone.

‘So what do you make of the house?’ asked Mr Hunter. They stood by an enormous bay window that looked out over the back of the house. Emily could see a stone terrace that led down to an immaculate lawn, with a fenced meadow on one side and some kind of walled garden on the other. A black Labrador was asleep in a tartan dog bed in the corner of the room, snoring peacefully.

‘It’s incredible,’ said Emily. ‘Nothing like I expected. How long have your family lived here?’

‘Hmm, let’s see,’ replied Mr Hunter, drumming his fingers on his chin. ‘Just over four hundred years, I should think.’

Emily laughed, then realised he wasn’t joking. ‘I like the style of it, or the mix of styles, anyway.’ Her voice faded as she realised she had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Hunter, ‘it’s joyfully quirky. My ancestors were an eccentric bunch – it was extensively renovated in the Arts and Crafts period, and after that each custodian added a new feature that purposely bore no resemblance to the last. But now of course it’s protected by all manner of rules and regulations, so even if I wanted to honour the family tradition of whimsy and nonsense, I wouldn’t be allowed. Do you know much about architecture?’

‘Not this kind,’ said Emily. ‘The firm I worked for before specialised in sustainable offices and eco-homes.’

‘Ah, you’d need to talk to my son about that,’ said Charles. ‘Adam is the king of glass and steel and concrete. He doesn’t really appreciate history or heritage; he’d probably bulldoze this place and replace it with triple-glazed bungalows.’

Emily smiled politely and made no further comment, not sure she liked the sound of Adam Hunter. He may have helped Leon get a job, but he still sounded like a bit of a dick.

‘So, I’ve drafted you an offer letter,’ said Mr Hunter, gesturing for her to sit in the leather chair in front of his desk. ‘A three-month trial, what do they call it these days? Probation. Then a full contract if we can still stand each other.’

Emily’s fingers twitched, desperate to pick up the notebook and pen that she’d put on the desk earlier. Mr Hunter noticed and nodded, so she flipped it open and started jotting down notes in tight, efficient shorthand.

‘Your weekends will be your own,’ continued Mr Hunter, ‘and I’ll provide you with a car so you can stay here or go elsewhere as you please. As I mentioned, there’s a swimming pool and a tennis court, and we have excellent stables if you like to ride.’

Emily gave him her best ‘oh, how interesting’ face, wondering what kind of life Mr Hunter thought she led where tennis and horse riding were regular weekend pursuits.

‘I value openness and honesty, Emily,’ he continued. ‘May I call you Emily?’ She nodded, already a bit sad that she wouldn’t be Miss Wilkinson any longer. It had a Miss Moneypenny quality to it that had some old-school class. ‘This kind of role isn’t for everybody, I know. So if you hate it, just help me get through the horror of a family Christmas, then you can leave with no hard feelings.’

He reached over and handed her a folded sheet of paper, but Emily resisted the temptation to read it immediately, even though she was itching to get into the details. ‘Apologies for my spelling and grammar – you’ll see why I need an assistant.’

Emily laughed and tucked the paper into her notebook.

‘There’s some lunch in the kitchen for you, then feel free to take a look around the grounds, mull things over. Come back when you’re ready to chat, or if you have any questions. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds great, Mr Hunter. Thank you.’

Emily leaned on the fence overlooking the paddock by the stables, the offer letter in her hand. The salary was pretty much the same as she’d been earning at Thompson & Delaney, but that was in London. She’d had to pay rent and bills and food and travel. Here she wouldn’t have to pay for any of that, which meant the difference in her disposable income would be insane. She could save a fortune, maybe send a bit home to help out Mum and Dad.

On the downside, she was twenty-nine and would have little or no social life. No dating was fine, that was all part of the ‘focus on Emily’ master plan. But no nights out with friends, no cocktail bars or last-minute picnics, no gym round the corner. Her weekends would be either spent here with Anna’s resting bitch face, or a two-hundred-mile slog back to Chichester to see her family.

She watched as a large white horse ambled across the paddock to say hello. Emily didn’t know anything about horses, but this one seemed calm and friendly enough, even though she’d never appreciated how massive their faces were close up. The horse stopped a few feet away and they sized each other up for a minute, then Emily instinctively held her left hand open for the horse to snuffle. It moved closer to investigate, then chomped the offer letter out of her right hand and chewed happily.

‘HEY,’ shouted a voice. Emily turned to see a man running across the paddock, waving his arms. ‘Be careful!’

He stopped at the fence and breathed heavily. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to shout. She’s an absolute bitch and can bite, didn’t want you to lose a finger.’

‘She ate my job offer,’ said Emily, attempting to give the man a once-over without shamelessly checking him out. Tall, broad shoulders, floppy brown hair that fell into his eyes, a light stubble on his chin. Handsome, not much older than her. The accent was definitely a bit posh, but not the awful braying drawl of the City bankers and stockbrokers she’d avoided like the plague in London.

‘I hope you’re not taking that as an omen,’ said the man with a smile, wiping his hand on his jeans, then holding it out. ‘I’m Jamie.’

‘Emily. Nice to meet you, Jamie.’ The handshake was strong and firm, and she could feel the rough skin and callouses on his hands. She instinctively glanced at his hand for a wedding ring, then gave herself a mental slap. Irrelevant, Wilkinson. ‘Do you work here?’ she asked.

Jamie nodded. ‘I do some estate work, help look after the horses.’

‘Ah, OK.’ She looked back at the white horse, who had finished eating her letter and was now yanking clumps of grass out of the ground. ‘Does that mean you live on site?’ She tried to convince herself she was only asking to get a better picture of the estate set-up, whilst also noting that his shirt had two buttons missing and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, tanned arms.

‘Most of the time,’ said Jamie, clearly not keen to make eye contact. Emily couldn’t decide if he was being enigmatic or annoying, or just didn’t want her to know his business. Not a great start, either way.