Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 916(@200wpm)___ 733(@250wpm)___ 611(@300wpm)
Oh no. He might be sorry, but that doesn’t extinguish the affect he has on me. And it doesn’t escape my thoughts that this is just a ploy to get me back on side so he can re-commence pursuing me.
‘Mr Ward, I’m really not the right person for this job,’ I swivel in my chair to check if Patrick’s in his office. He is. ‘Can I transfer you to Patrick?’ I push, mentally pleading for him to take the hint.
‘It’s Jesse. You make me feel old when you call me Mr Ward.’ he grumbles.
I slam my mouth shut when my lips part and that question nearly falls out. I’m still intrigued on that subject, but I’m not going to ask again.
‘Ava, if it makes you feel better, you can deal with John. What would be the next stage?’
Oh? Would it make me feel better? Big guy has intimidation in equal measure to Wards boldness. I’m not sure I would feel any more comfortable with his offer to replace himself with John. But the fact he’s prepared to do this, tells me he really does want me to do the designs and that, I suppose, is a compliment. The Manor will be a great addition to my portfolio.
‘I would need to measure the rooms and draw up some schemes.’ I spit the words out impulsively.
‘Perfect,’ He sounds relieved. ‘I can get John to take you around the rooms. He can hold your tape measure. Tomorrow?’
Tomorrow? He’s keen. As it happens, I can’t. I’ve got various appointments dotted across the day, and Wednesday’s out too. ‘I can’t do tomorrow or Wednesday, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh,’ he says quietly. ‘Do you do evenings?’
Oh, do I? Well, I don’t like doing evenings, but many clients work nine to five jobs and are unavailable during the working day. I prefer evenings to weekends. I never get dragged into weekend appointments.
‘I can do tomorrow evening.’ I blurt, turning the page in my diary to tomorrow. My last appointment is at five with Mrs Kent. ‘Seven-ish?’ I ask, already pencilling him in.
‘Perfect. I would say that I’ll look forward to it, but I can’t look forward to it because I won’t be seeing you.’ I can’t see him, but I know he’s probably grinning. I can hear it in his tone. He just can’t help himself. ‘I’ll let John know to expect you at seven.’
‘-ish,’ I add. I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get out of the city at that time of day.
‘-ish,’ he confirms. ‘Thank you, Ava.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Ward. Goodbye.’ I hang up and commence tapping my fingernail on my front tooth.
‘Ava?’ Patrick calls from his office.
‘Yes?’ I swing my chair to face him.
‘The Manor, they want you, flower.’ He shrugs, returning to his computer screen.
No, he wants me.
Chapter 4
I fly through Tuesdays appointments, leaving Mrs Kent’s lovely new town house at just past six.
Mrs Kent is the extremely high maintenance wife of Mr Kent – MD of Kent Yacht Builders – and this Kensington house is their third home in four years. I’ve re-designed the interior on all of them. No sooner are the works completed, Mrs Kent decides she can’t envisage growing old there – she’s seventy, if a day – so the house is on the market, sold and I’m starting from scratch on their new abode. I was slightly paranoid when they up sticks, selling the first home that I worked on only a month after works were completed, especially as it was my first contract when I started working for Patrick. But she was soon scheduling an appointment for me to view their new place, crooning down the phone, “Ava dear, it’s not you. It just didn’t feel like home.”
So, I’m now on the third Kent residence, the specification being the same as the last two houses, which is convenient because I don’t have to source any freestanding furniture. It also softens the blow on Mr Kent’s wallet.
I jump in my car, setting off for The Surrey Hills. I didn’t divulge to Kate the reason why I’m going to be home late. Telling her would only fuel her curiosity as to why I’m returning to The Manor. I would, of course, lie and feed her the same crap that I’ve fed myself – that the addition of The Manor’s works would benefit my portfolio. The magnet of lean loveliness has zero influence on my decision – none at all.
I stop at the intercom this time, but as I press to release my window, the gates start opening. I look up to the camera and figure John must be waiting. I did say seven-ish and its five past now. I drive through the gates, up the gravel road until I reach the courtyard. John’s waiting on the steps for me, filling the double doorway, sunglasses firmly in place.