Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
‘Yes, dear.’ She turns disapproving eyes on to me. ‘Maybe your handling skills aren’t so great, after all.’
I sag internally, aware I may have just cocked up my interview. ‘I’m sorry.’
An impish grin appears, surprising me, and her already rosy cheeks gain more colour, clashing with her violet curls. ‘We can work on your fumbling fingers, dear.’
‘We can?’
‘Certainly.’ She indicates the white gloves, so I quickly take them off and hand them over. She drops them on to the nearby table and is off again. ‘This way, dear.’
I’m in pursuit, but I’m far more cautious as I dip and weave through the maze of antiques. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To meet Mr H.’ She swipes a card before she pushes through a huge wooden door, the creaking echoing loudly around me. Mr H. The boss? Difficult Mr H. ‘Just down here, dear.’
Following Mrs Potts’s steps, we pass door after door, the corridor walls lined with paintings that blow my mind. I spot a Dalí, a Raphael, a Rembrandt. ‘Fuck,’ I whisper, eyes wide. And then a stone staircase curving to the right grabs my attention. My head turns as we pass, my gaze rooted on the point where the stairs disappear around the corner into darkness.
‘That’s out of bounds,’ Mrs Potts says, snapping my attention back to her. ‘Never venture that way.’
I want to ask why. There are so many things I want to ask, but she’s quickly pointing out more. ‘At the very end of this corridor is Mr H’s private suite.’
‘He lives here?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘And you?’
‘Oh, I have myself a nice bungalow up west. Lived there for fifty years. It’s too big for just me, mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell it after I lost my Ernie ten years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Very sweet of you, dear.’ We come to a halt outside some intricately carved double doors, and Mrs Potts yanks on a brass bell hanging to the right. I take in the detailed engravings on the wooden doors. The first thing I notice is two people, both naked. Then I spot a tree and an oversized engraving of an apple. ‘The Garden of Eden?’ I ask, stepping forwards to get a better look. It’s beautiful, so detailed and intricate.
‘Stunning, don’t you think?’
‘It really is.’ I reach up and run my fingertip over the face of Eve. I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘And purple heart too.’ It’s a notoriously difficult wood to carve, so the creator of this masterpiece must have been beyond talented and patient.
‘Come in,’ a gruff voice calls, and I snatch back my hand.
‘After you, dear.’ Mrs Potts pushes one of the doors open, and I look to her, nervous. ‘Go on.’
I’m reluctant, though I don’t know why, and when I slowly convince my heels to take me forward, past the doorway, my mouth drops open. ‘Bloody hell,’ I whisper, slapping my hand over my mouth the moment the words pass my lips.
‘Language, dear,’ Mrs Potts scolds, pushing my lower back to encourage me forwards. This place just keeps on giving and giving. Three of the four walls are made up of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all bursting at the seams with books, all old, judging by the smell. It’s too much, but my eyes take in more and more and more.
Two chesterfield couches reside proudly opposite each other with an old trunk positioned in the middle, and at the end of the room there are huge sash bay windows, dressed in luscious heavy gold drapes that pool to the floor.
And between them, a desk.
And what a desk. The king of desks. Solid. Sturdy. An absolutely beautifully engraved double pedestal piece. My bottom lip slips between my teeth as I consider how many people have sat at that desk. Or who has sat at that desk. It looks like a replica of the famous Theodore Roosevelt desk that was saved from the 1929 fire at the White House.
I’m so rapt by the beautiful piece – its story seeping from the well-oiled dark wood – that I miss the fact that there’s actually someone sitting at the desk.
Someone concealed behind a broadsheet.
‘Mr H,’ Mrs Potts sings, wandering over to the curtains and tweaking the tie-backs. ‘This is Eleanor Cole. You asked to meet her.’
The paper rustles, and I watch on a held breath as it’s folded slowly before my eyes, revealing the occupant of this amazing office.
I smile, taken aback. He’s wearing a bottle-green shirt with a brown tie to match his tweed jacket, and his head is topped with a thick silver mop, combed neatly to the side. He’s a looker now – at what, mid-eighties? – so he must have been a stunner in his day. He has one of those warm, friendly faces that make you feel like you’ve known them for years.