A Summer Of Secrets. Alice Ross

Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Excerpt

       Endpages

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      ‘And that, I’m afraid, is it.’

      Across the wide, mahogany desk, Portia Pinkington-Smythe stared at Dillon Harwood, the balding, kindly faced man who, for the last five decades, had had the dubious pleasure of serving as the Pinkington-Smythes’ family solicitor. Yet, despite this well-forged connection, and an impressive IQ of one hundred and thirty, Portia still failed to compute the information he had just imparted.

      ‘You mean … my father died leaving a pitiful sum in the bank and a whole heap of debt?’ she eventually asked.

      Dillon nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Portia. I had no idea things were this bad. I wish your father had told me. If I’d known sooner, perhaps I could have helped somehow.’

      Portia gave a weak smile of gratitude. Her father’s recent death had been traumatic enough, but to now discover the shabby state of the family finances had proved another devastating blow.

      ‘But at least you have Buttersley Manor,’ Dillon continued, squeezing a large dollop of optimism into his tone. ‘And there are endless possibilities there.’

      Portia grimaced. ‘There are. But I doubt any of them would be viable in the building’s current state. It was bad enough before Dad went into the nursing home eighteen months ago and I haven’t seen it since.’

      ‘Perhaps you could take out a loan for the work.’

      She shook her head. ‘I doubt I’d be a good risk. It’ll take thousands to put the house right, and I’d need a guaranteed income to pay it back. And now that I don’t have a job …’

      She trailed off, tears scorching the backs of her eyes. All these dramatic changes to her circumstances over the past few weeks suddenly seemed too much to bear. Not only had she lost her remaining parent – the man upon whom she had doted – but she’d also walked away from her career as a successful war correspondent. And now, to top it all, she’d discovered the Pinkington-Smythe coffers were in a monumental mess.

      Portia had never been money-orientated. Indeed, she rarely gave the subject much consideration. Likely because she’d never had to. With a more than adequate salary, on the rare occasion a little extra had been required, her father had always eagerly obliged. Leading her – and everyone else – to assume the family finances enjoyed robust health; that they were hale and hearty. Following this afternoon’s conversation with Dillon, however, just how wrong that assumption had been had become glaringly obvious.

      ‘Of course you could always sell the manor,’ the solicitor suggested diffidently.

      Portia furrowed her brow. Sell the manor. The mere words made her already knotted stomach churn.

      ‘And if you do decide to go down that route, I can recommend reputable estate agents and the like.’

      Bile rose in Portia’s throat. She swallowed it down. She didn’t want to think about reputable estate agents and the like. She didn’t want to think about anything. The mental exertion required to deal with recent events had left her brain feeling like it had been pulverised by a herd of stampeding buffalo. Blinking back the still-threatening tears, an impromptu wave of exhaustion washed over her.

      ‘You okay?’ a concerned Dillon asked. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or something stronger?’

      Portia shook her head. The manoeuvre caused the wide green and white stripes on the wallpaper behind the desk to jump out at her, leaving her with the terrifying sensation of being surrounded by bars.

      ‘I, er, think I’d better go,’ she announced, thrusting to her feet.

      The solicitor’s expression remained dubious. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like me to call you a taxi? Or –?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ she lied, hurtling out of the office before the man had time to finish his sentence.

      ***

      ‘And you know, if ever you’re passing, you can always pop in and join me.’

      Rich Stevens congratulated himself on not rolling his eyes. If he’d had a penny for every time he’d heard that invitation over the six years he’d been in the hot-tub business, he’d have been rolling in lovely moolah by now. Not that he’d ever taken anyone up on it. And if he had been looking for a little extra-marital titillation, it certainly wouldn’t have been in the very rotund form of Mrs Blake-Jones, whose folds of flesh, sagging over the top of the luminous pink sarong tied around her waist, had put Rich right off his dinner. But he couldn’t allow the woman to see the slightest hint of his revulsion. That wouldn’t do at all. No – flirting with the customers, Rich had long since discovered, was all part and parcel of the hot-tub business. So, still battling the eye-rolling urge, he arranged his features into a well-practised surprised/grateful expression.

      ‘I might just take you up on that,’ he rejoined, causing Mrs Blake-Jones’s chubby cheeks to flush crimson under her streaks of greasy pink blusher.

      ‘My husband’s away at a conference next week,’ she tittered, her flush deepening as she ran a finger, tipped with glittery purple nail varnish, along the curve of her ample bosom, which strained against the confines of her turquoise bikini top.

      Rich’s heart sank. Usually the invitation was an open one. Much easier to brush off than specific timescales. Still, he was a professional. And thinking on his feet had always been one of his strong points.

      ‘Is he now? Well, in that case, we’ll have to see what we can arrange, won’t we?’ At the cheeky wink he added, Mrs Blake-Jones broke into a fit of maniacal giggling.

      ‘I’ll call you,’ she cooed, twizzling a brassy strand of hair around her podgy finger and shooting him what she evidently thought was a seductive look, but which put Rich in mind of the pink spacehopper his sister had lugged around with her when she was five.

      ‘You do that,’ he replied, in as fervent a tone as he could muster. The woman’s giggling reaching fever pitch, her porcine face now a worrying puce, Rich whipped up his laptop case and, resisting the urge to leg it as fast as he could to his car parked at the front of the enormous Georgian pile, opted for a steady trot instead. As he turned the corner and spotted the shiny black BMW X5, sporting this year’s registration, and every gadget known to Jeremy Clarkson – his pace increased to a jog. No sooner had he slid into the cream-leather interior than he pressed the central locking system, started up the motor and shot down the gravelled drive.

      At a safe distance from his admirer, Rich pulled into a lay-by, switched off the engine and leaned back in his seat.

      God. With his hammering heart and sweaty palms, he’d felt like a caged animal in there. Completely ridiculous, given he’d been in similar situations dozens of times before. Usually these little scenarios amused him. Today, though, it all seemed a bit … well … sad.

      The woman had been gagging for it. And Rich had led her on. Which couldn’t possibly be right. But what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t his fault if clients practically threw themselves at him.

      While not in the Poldark league of masculine supremacy, at thirty-nine Rich considered