Up Close and Personal Page 2

  ‘Oh, and I had to give Ellie her marching orders.’

  ‘What! But she was one of our best chambermaids.’

  ‘I know she was, but I caught her late one night in the lounge. She was sitting on one of the guests’ laps.’

  ‘Silly girl, I’ve warned her enough times about inappropriate flirting,’ Juliet sighed. ‘But, all the same, there was no need to sack her. Surely, a written warning would’ve sufficed.’

  Nathan cleared his throat. ‘She was naked from the waist down.’

  Behind him, Dante stifled a laugh.

  ‘Ah,’ Juliet said. ‘In that case you did the right thing.’ She began flicking through the pages of a ledger. ‘What’s our occupancy?’ she asked.

  ‘Only two guests at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  Juliet looked at the general manager in horror. ‘You’re kidding.’

  Nathan raised an eyebrow. ‘Last week we didn’t have any.’

  Juliet sighed and slammed the ledger shut.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Fisher, the winter season’s always tough,’ Nathan added. ‘I’m sure things will pick up now the weather’s warmer.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Juliet said wearily. She stepped out from behind the desk. ‘We’ve had a very long journey. Would you be able to rustle up some tea and biscuits for us?’

  ‘Of course,’ Nathan said. ‘Why don’t you go through to the drawing room and take the weight off your feet?’

  ‘Good idea. Thank you, Nathan.’

  As the manager disappeared through a vaulted stone archway, Juliet walked over to Dante. ‘I’m sorry about all this. It wasn’t the sort of homecoming I’d imagined for you.’

  Dante smiled. ‘No problem. I’m just glad to be here.’

  Juliet pointed towards one of the corridors that led off the hall. ‘The drawing room’s the last door on the left. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I pop upstairs to freshen up? I won’t be long.’

  As she turned to go, Dante caught her arm and drew her towards him. It was the first moment they’d had any privacy since boarding the plane in Aspen. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Mrs Fisher?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A hug for your husband.’

  Grinning, Juliet stood on tiptoes and threw her arms round his neck. She was a petite woman – only five feet three, and very slender. Dante always felt as if he might crush her if he held her too tightly.

  ‘I can’t wait to show you the bedroom,’ Juliet murmured into his neck.

  Dante grinned. ‘There’s no time like the present,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Let’s have some tea first, shall we? It’s been three months since I’ve had a decent cup.’

  ‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with American tea,’ Dante replied.

  Juliet wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Are we having our first row, Mrs Fisher?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Juliet with mock indignation. ‘It’s a difference of opinion, that’s all.’ She patted Dante’s bottom playfully. ‘Now get that gorgeous arse of yours into the drawing room; I won’t be long.’ She twisted away from him and walked towards the stairs, turning to add over her shoulder: ‘And take that mutt with you.’

  Dante looked down at Jess, who was lying on the floor, head between her front paws. ‘Come on, girl,’ he said, patting his thigh. The pointer rose to her feet obligingly and together they set off down the corridor.

  When Dante pushed open the door of the drawing room, he found himself in a well-proportioned room, lavishly decorated in shades of green and purple. The furniture looked expensive and the walls were lined with more paintings – these ones in a softer Renaissance style. With Jess at his heels, he wandered around, pausing every now and then to admire some objet d’art – an antique globe, a tiny hand-painted Limoges, a lead crystal paperweight. On the mantelpiece was a porcelain heron with a struggling fish clamped in its beak. Dante picked it up and turned it over in his hand, marvelling at the detail.

  ‘I’d be careful with that if I were you.’

  Dante looked towards the door. Nathan was standing on the threshold with a tea tray in his hands.

  ‘It’s Minton,’ the manager continued. ‘It’s been in Mr Ingram’s family for the best part of a hundred and fifty years.’

  Feeling like a schoolboy caught shoplifting, Dante returned the ornament to the mantelpiece. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just looking.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologize.’ Nathan entered the room and set the tray down on an occasional table. Jess came trotting over to investigate, resting her chin on the edge of the tray. ‘No!’ Nathan said firmly, pushing the dog’s head roughly away with his knee. He offloaded two china cups and saucers, a fat brown teapot and a plate of shortbread fingers.

  ‘Are all these things family heirlooms?’ Dante asked, gesturing around the room.

  ‘Some of them are, but I believe most were bought at auction by Mr Ingram. He had an excellent eye for collectibles, as you can see.’ Nathan’s voice, which hitherto had been flat and expressionless, suddenly took on a new life. ‘Mr Ingram had expensive tastes, but then again he could afford to be extravagant; by all accounts, his shipping company was terribly successful. He was a generous man too. Every Christmas he’d host a carol concert at Ashwicke with all the money going to a local charity for children with terminal illnesses.’ Nathan sighed. ‘No wonder everyone in the town held him in such high regard.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dante, who felt compelled to offer some sort of comment, ‘he sounds like a great guy.’

  ‘Sadly, I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but I know lots of people around here miss him a lot.’

  Dante shifted from foot to foot, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked.

  Nathan smiled tightly. ‘Actually, I’m in the lodge. It’s just by the entrance gates. You might have seen it when you drove past.’

  Dante nodded, though he didn’t remember seeing the building in question – there had been so much else to take in.

  ‘It’s rather bijou, but perfectly adequate for one.’

  ‘Do all the staff live in?’

  ‘No, just me. Mrs Ingram likes me to be close by, even when I’m off duty.’ The manager moistened each corner of his mouth with his tongue. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Oh … okay,’ Dante said. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to be alone, away from Nathan’s penetrating stare. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you.’

  The manager bowed his head obsequiously. ‘Likewise – and if you need any more information – regarding Ashwicke itself, or the local amenities – then don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘Thanks. I might just take you up on that; I’m not used to all this opulence.’

  The manager blinked. His eyes were cold and hard, like chips of ice. ‘No, I shouldn’t think you are.’

  When Nathan had gone, Dante sank into one of the wingback armchairs beside the fireplace. Jess immediately got up from her hidey-hole under the console table and settled at his feet with a great yawn.

  ‘At least somebody around here likes me,’ Dante muttered, as he petted the dog.

  A few moments later he heard the sound of Juliet’s heels clicking down the corridor. When she appeared at the door, he saw that she’d tied her hair back in a high ponytail and swapped her T-shirt for a light cashmere sweater.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been too bored,’ she said, flopping onto the armchair’s twin with a great sigh.

  ‘Nope, I’ve been chatting with Nathan.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Leaning forward, Juliet picked up the teapot and began filling their cups.

  ‘He was telling me about Gus’s charity work,’ Dante went on.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t realize your late husband was such a pillar of the community.’

  Juliet made a little moue. ‘Everybody in Loxwood knew Gus; he was one of those larger than life characters.’


  Dante carried his tea to the window and looked out across the lawn. Dusk was falling and the sky had darkened to the colour of an old bruise. In the gloom he could just make out a wooden swing hanging from a large oak. Suddenly, the wind caught it, sending it rocking backwards and forwards as if propelled by an invisible hand. ‘I don’t think Nathan likes me,’ he said glumly.

  Juliet came to stand beside him, resting her head against his arm. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. He’s just a bit prim and proper, that’s all. He’ll soon loosen up once he gets to know you.’ She wrapped her arm round his waist. ‘I’ll take you on a guided tour later, if you like. There’s tons to show you.’

  ‘I bet there is; I can’t wait to see it,’ Dante said, trying to sound as if he meant it. He knew he should be excited about the prospect of exploring his new home, but instead all he felt was a sense of being hopelessly out of his depth.

  2

  It was lunchtime in Loxwood High Street and Chez Gaston was bustling with life. Sitting at one of the restaurant’s coveted window tables was journalist Yasmin O’Brien. The exotic product of an Irish father and a Malaysian mother, she was tall and olive-skinned, with glossy chestnut hair and startling green eyes. Since making her entrance, five minutes earlier, Yasmin had drawn plenty of admiring glances, but she was too engrossed in her mobile phone to notice them. She’d just received a text from her current lover, David, a fellow journalist, who lived in London. They’d met at a press conference in the city and, after some flirtatious small talk as they waited for the conference to begin, David had invited her to join him for dinner that evening. Dinner became a nightcap at Yasmin’s hotel and so on to bed. They’d been seeing each other for nearly two months now – though, given the distance between them, their dates were usually confined to weekends.

  In the beginning, things had been great. Just lately, however, David had grown clingy and now here was a text demanding to know why Yasmin wasn’t coming down that weekend. Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she punched out a brief reply, promising to call him that evening. She’d break the bad news to him then. Even for someone as single-minded as Yasmin, dumping a lover by text was a no-no.

  The text safely despatched, she leaned back in her chair and smoothed a hand over her Miu Miu pencil skirt. The designer suit had cost her the best part of a month’s wages, but it had been worth every penny. Whenever she wore it, she felt powerful, invincible even. Not that she wasn’t pretty self-assured already, but just occasionally she needed an extra boost of confidence, especially when it came to dealing with some of the Sunday Post’s curmudgeonly hacks, who resented her rapid rise through the ranks.

  Yasmin had wanted to be a journalist for as long as she could remember. After graduating with a first in media studies, she’d joined a local free sheet as an unpaid intern. Six months of making tea and photocopying followed before she landed a proper job as the editor’s PA. By her own admission she was a useless secretary, too busy looking over the reporters’ shoulders and bombarding the features editor with ideas to take dictation. Within a year, she was working as a junior reporter on the showbiz desk of a well-regarded evening paper. Equipped with a socialite’s charm and a racehorse’s stamina, Yasmin rose steadily through the ranks until, at the age of thirty-one, she defected to the Sunday Post, becoming the first female showbiz editor in the paper’s long and proud history – not to mention the youngest.

  Yasmin checked her watch; her friends were running late. Feeling bored, she pulled her compact out of her handbag and flipped it open, checking her teeth for lipstick marks. The face that stared back at her looked tense – which, given her current workload, was hardly surprising. Sighing, she snapped the compact shut. When she was stressed, there was only one remedy and, with the soon-to-be-dumped David miles away in London, she was going to have to seek a cure closer to home.

  Looking up, she saw Gaston himself standing at her table. ‘Good afternoon, Mademoiselle O’Brien. What a pleasure it is to see you – as always,’ he lisped. ‘And may I say how lovely you’re looking today?’

  ‘Thank you, Gaston,’ Yasmin replied, though she knew his compliment was meaningless, given that he took the same toadying tack with all his rich and/or well-connected female customers.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting for your friends? A glass of Chablis, perhaps?’

  ‘Just some sparkling water, thanks; I need to keep a clear head for work.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gaston threw a hand camply in the air. ‘And how is the world of show business?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the same as usual: fickle, fatuous, ferocious.’ She smiled. ‘And utterly fabulous, of course.’

  ‘I enjoyed your gossip column last weekend,’ Gaston said, raising his voice slightly so the nearby diners would realize he was talking to a local luminary. ‘How do you dig up all that dirt?’

  Yasmin tapped the side of her nose. ‘A good journalist never reveals her sources.’

  ‘I understand,’ the restaurateur said with a smile. ‘I’ll be right back with that drink.’

  ‘Wait,’ Yasmin said, touching his arm as he turned to go. ‘Your nephew from Grenoble … is he working today?’

  ‘Pascal? Yes, as a matter of fact he is.’

  ‘How’s he shaping up?’

  ‘So-so.’ Gaston lowered his voice. ‘I know he’s my sister’s boy, but, between you and me, he has a bit of an attitude problem. He wants to be a top chef, but, as I keep telling him, he’s got to start at the bottom. That’s why I’ve got him waiting tables.’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘He thinks it’s a waste of his talent, but he’ll thank me for it one day. He needs to work on improving his English too. Some of our customers find his accent a little thick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind giving him private lessons,’ Yasmin murmured.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke French, mademoiselle.’

  ‘I don’t. I had something else in mind.’ Yasmin cocked her head to one side. ‘Perhaps you could send Pascal out with my water. That way I’ll be able to discuss my proposition with him directly.’

  Gaston gave a small nod and disappeared.

  A few minutes later a stocky man wearing the restaurant’s regulation black suit approached Yasmin’s table. He was very young with flashy dark looks and black hair that curled over the collar of his jacket. While most of Chez Gaston’s waiters were deferential and understated, this one wore a distinct air of arrogance. He strutted rather than walked, shoulders pulled back as if to emphasize the broadness of his chest. After depositing an ice-filled glass onto the table, clumsily knocking Yasmin’s butter knife out of alignment in the process, he began to fill it with sparkling water. Then he straightened up and stood with his legs aggressively akimbo.

  ‘Gaston – ’ee said you wanted to see me,’ he said in heavily accented English.

  Yasmin’s eyes flickered from Pascal’s crotch to his face and back to his crotch again. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I spotted you last week; you served me a delicious duck pâté.’

  Pascal gave a little pout and a shake of his head. ‘Zee chef ’ere, ’ee is very good, but ’is pâté is not as good as my grandmère’s. She gave me zee recipe when I came to England. I make it all the time to remind me of ’ome. It is …’ Pascal kissed the tips of his fingers. ‘Out of zis world.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Yasmin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and looked the waiter in the eye. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I asked to see you.’

  Pascal nodded.

  ‘I was keen to find out how you were settling in,’ Yasmin continued. ‘I know Gaston has very high standards. Family or not, working for him must be pretty tough.’

  Pascal stuck out his bottom lip. ‘’Ee’s okay, but ’ee gets angry wiz me because my Engleesh is not so good.’

  This was the opening Yasmin had been waiting for. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m not a qualified language teacher or anything, but I’d be happy to spend some ti
me with you, talking English – just, you know, to bring you up to the required standard.’

  Pascal looked at her, confused. ‘You would do zat, for me – a stranger?’

  ‘Why yes,’ Yasmin replied. ‘I’m a journalist, so I work with words all day. I’d be delighted to help you.’

  The waiter rubbed his jaw, which was covered in decidedly non-regulation stubble. ‘Zat would be very kind, mademoiselle. But I would ’ave to do somezing for you in return.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’ Yasmin’s eyes flitted over Pascal’s crotch again. ‘I know.’ She paused and bit her bottom lip provocatively. ‘Perhaps you could cook me dinner.’

  A lazy smile spread across the waiter’s face as the penny dropped. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I zink I would like zat.’

  As Pascal made his way back to the waiter’s station, one of Yasmin’s business cards now nestling in his jacket pocket, he passed a curvaceous brunette wearing a baby sling. The woman paused for a moment, scanning the room, before making her way towards one of the window tables.

  Seeing her approach, Yasmin sprang to her feet.

  ‘Hi, Nicole,’ she said, kissing her friend on the cheek. She turned to the sleeping infant pinned to the other woman’s chest. ‘Hello, Tilly, darling,’ she whispered, bending her head so she could inhale the baby’s sweet scent.

  ‘She wasn’t such a darling last night when she was screaming her lungs out,’ Nicole said as she eased herself into a chair. ‘She’s got colic; I’ve been up half the night with her.’

  Yasmin winced. ‘Poor little thing. Can’t Connor prescribe something for that?’

  Connor Swift, Nicole’s husband of three years, was a GP and a well-known figure in Loxwood.

  ‘No, apparently there’s no treatment for it, so I guess I’ll just have to get used to the sleepless nights.’ She patted the area under her eyes. ‘Look, even my bags have got bags.’

  Yasmin smiled sympathetically. ‘You should have stayed at home and grabbed a couple of hours’ rest while the baby was asleep.’

  ‘What – and miss seeing Juliet for the first time in months? You’ve got to be kidding.’