* * *
She’d slept well that second night in Manchester. There had been no disturbances from Uncle Keith’s hacking cough in the next room, and no worrying for her life or about the half-dead drug addicts she had to share a space with, as had been the case the night before.
She’d fallen asleep with the curtains open. Although it had been too dark to enjoy the view, she’d taken great pleasure knowing it was there, and in the morning, she’d opened her eyes with that childlike, delicious sense of not quite knowing where she was and yet also sensing it was somewhere nice, and then seen the river thrashing around outside the apartment window.
She’d found it impossible to simply lie there staring at the ceiling. Instead she went out to the kitchenette, made a cup of tea and pulled a dining chair across to drink it in front of the French doors.
Despite the fact it was not yet eight o’clock, dog walkers meandered along across the bank, enjoying the early sunshine. She’d spotted a cyclist and two joggers and, to her delight, a fleet of racing rowers had skimmed past on the water.
She had sighed with a contentment she’d barely felt so far in her life. She wondered, could it actually be possible to live in a place like this, if her new start was successful?
She’d jumped slightly at a noise behind her as a sleep-addled Markus appeared in the hall doorway.
‘Morning,’ he’d said, his voice gravelly. ‘You’re addicted to that view.’
‘Morning.’ She’d grinned. ‘You’re right, I am. I could sit here all day.’
‘No chance of that, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘Brendan just texted to say he’ll be here at nine to take you to meet his wife.’
‘What?’ She’d jumped up then, spilling a few drops of tea onto the laminate floor. ‘I’d better get ready.’
She’d bent down and wiped up the drops with a tissue, a feeling of sick panic rising in her throat. It was both exciting and terrifying that she’d be meeting Brendan’s wife… Geraldine, he’d said her name was.
She’d been painfully aware that her future lay in Geraldine’s hands. What if she decided she didn’t like Holly? The job opportunity could dry up in a matter of minutes, and then where would she be?
‘You look like you’re about to burst into tears,’ Markus had said drily, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m making some toast. Want some?’
‘No thanks.’ She felt certain she’d choke if she ate anything on top of the nerves. ‘I just… I’m nervous about meeting his wife. I want her to like me.’
‘Chill, doll. Don’t you know you’re adorable?’
She’d grinned at his silly fake American accent and headed for the bathroom.
The shower had been good. She’d stood under the scalding needles of water, her face turned upwards with her eyes squeezed shut. The stinging pain had felt invigorating, as if she were purging herself of the doubt and dithering.
She’d wrapped a fluffy towel around herself and returned to the bedroom, cursing the meagre choice of outfits she had to choose from. Everything looked old and worn. There was nothing smart that would remotely impress anyone of Geraldine’s calibre.
She’d dried her hair – someone had thoughtfully placed a hair dryer on the dressing table – and pinned it back from her face. Then she applied a bit of make-up and felt gratified that she looked passable – mostly thanks to the glow the shower had afforded her.
She’d dressed in her less frayed pair of black jeans, paired with a neat blue wool sweater.
By 8.55 she was sitting waiting for Brendan’s arrival. Markus had seemed a little distant and had already gone back to bed with his tea and toast.
Chapter Forty-One
Holly
Brendan had led her out of the apartment block to a glittering black sports car that looked like it belonged in a Batman movie.
‘Wow, what make is this?’ she’d said, immediately regretting her na?vety.
‘It’s a Ferrari,’ he’d laughed, opening the passenger door. ‘Jump in.’
The car had growled like a disgruntled beast as it shot away from the kerb.
‘It’s about a twenty-minute drive to my place,’ Brendan had told her. ‘Relax and enjoy the ride.’
Holly had taken a deep breath and allowed herself to sink back into the plush cream leather seat. Watching as the streets of Salford passed her window in a blur, she’d felt like pinching herself more than once.
Brendan’s aftershave had smelled lovely: a mix of nutmeg and spice but not overpowering. He wore well-cut jeans and a plain black Hugo Boss T-shirt that tantalisingly hugged his firm, athletic physique.
She’d forced herself to focus on what was outside the car rather than in it, cringing when she realised that theoretically, Brendan was old enough to be her dad.
Easy conversation had punctuated periods of not talking. Chill-out tunes had played faintly in the background, and just when she’d thought she could no longer fight the urge to close her eyes, the car had slowed and taken a sharp turn to the right.
Brendan had held up some kind of remote in front of him, and the next minute, eight-foot-high fancy wrought-iron gates had swung open in front of the car.
Holly had bitten back a gasp. Brendan must already think her a hillbilly from the sticks, she was so embarrassingly over-impressed with everything.
The car had crawled through the gates and up a long gravelled driveway. Brendan drove around a fountain that formed a kind of roundabout at the top where the driveway widened out and parked outside the front door of the palatial white-pillared mansion.
The double-width front door had opened right away and a petite woman with wavy shoulder-length dark hair appeared. Brendan had jumped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Holly.
‘Welcome to our home,’ he’d said.
‘Hi, I’m Geraldine, Brendan’s wife.’ The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘Welcome to Medlock Hall. I’ve been dying to meet you.’ She was dressed in jeans and a plain white blouse. Fluffy pink slippers completed her casual outfit.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Holly.’
Holly realised she’d made the assumption that Brendan’s wife would be some impossibly glamorous model-like creature who was probably dripping in jewels and wearing inch-thick make-up.
She was certainly attractive, but seemed ordinary and not full of herself at all.
They’d waved Brendan off – apparently he had to get straight back to the office for an important meeting – and seconds later, the growling Ferrari was rumbling back down the driveway.
‘Come on.’ Geraldine had guided Holly through a spacious hallway framed by a sweeping glass staircase at either side. When Holly looked up, she saw an open landing, studded with closed doors leading, she assumed, to bedrooms. ‘Let’s have a drink and a chat.’
They’d walked across a striking parquet flooring, through double doors and into a stunning room that literally took Holly’s breath away.
Geraldine heard her tiny, inadvertent gasp and smiled, seeming pleased with her reaction.
The vast space was carpeted in a cream wool Berber rug. Two enormous black leather corner suites faced a wall of bi-folding glass doors that looked out onto an enormous decked area peppered with lavishly cushioned outdoor furniture, with what looked to be around an acre of landscaped gardens beyond.
‘Please sit down, Holly,’ Geraldine had said without looking once at the commanding view. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
Instead of heading off to the kitchen, she’d rung a small silver bell on a side table.
A plump Filipino lady had appeared as if by magic carrying a tray laden with coffee and biscuits. She’d offered Holly a reserved smile.
‘Thank you, Patricia,’ Geraldine had said briskly. ‘You can pop the tray just there, on the table.’
‘Anything else, madam?’ Patricia had said whilst staring at Holly.