‘The games room was original while we were there. Did you see the Orangery at the back of the main house? The views over the countryside are a-ma-zing. Who are the current owners?’ she asked.
‘The property tycoon, like I said. What’s his name, Martha? Andrews or—’
‘Argyll,’ I helped, trying to reduce the stack of mushrooms.
‘That’s him, Argyll. He’s been in some scrapes the last few years. I work with a chap who used to be with Scargill’s. They represent his company … that’s them, Argyll Inc. He keeps Scargill’s in a steady stream of work.’ Rob shook his head and carried on his assault on the food.
Why did that not surprise me? ‘Is Fergal Argyll the head of the company?’ I asked, reaching for more coffee.
‘That’s him. Fergal Argyll. He’s the big dog. Worked the whole empire up from scratch and then nearly lost the lot. Do you remember, Martha?’
‘He seems to be doing OK now,’ I said. ‘What does he do exactly?’ I asked, struggling to understand how a man like Fergal Argyll would have built anything but a dodgy reputation.
Rob finally took a breather between mouthfuls. ‘They’re a property company. I’m not sure, but I think he started out in construction. Small scale, extensions, that sort of thing, and then I think he got lucky and bought a bit of land while the prices were good. If I remember correctly, these days Argyll Inc. shoot for large scale property investment, developments, that sort of thing. But as with most of the construction industry, they’ve had their pain over the last few years. Didn’t he marry into the aristocracy for good measure, Martha?’
Martha lifted her nose from the paper, and gave Rob a considered look.
‘The hunky playboy!’ Martha yelped. ‘You mean this guy?’ she said, shuffling through her paper. Martha split the paper open revealing a small thumbnail of the young Argyll and the ice maiden.
‘Yeah, that’s his son,’ I said, examining the picture. He was a handsome man, but there was a melancholy about him, and melancholy knew its own reflection. On the page opposite, computer-generated images of starter homes, soon to be built on recently sold forest land, made my stomach flip over.
‘Hel-lo Ciaran Argyll. He’s utterly gorgeous, Hol, don’t you think? A womaniser, but gorgeous. I can’t believe that they live around here!’
Charlie had worked tirelessly to protect the forests from sale.
‘Keep your knickers on, my love. I think your hormones are playing up.’
Martha swatted Rob with her paper.
‘Rob? I can’t eat any more. Please may I be excused?’ I asked wryly.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘You’re washing up.’
‘Er, you’re washing up, Rob. You made the mess, you ate it, you’re cleaning it. Hol and I are going to talk colour swatches.’ Martha lifted a handful of binders onto the table in front of her. Inwardly, I groaned. ‘So I was thinking, and feel free to say no, but—’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,’ she countered.
‘I do … you’re going to say, Holly, it’s nearly October, and then it will be Christmas and before you know it, your lounge and hall and wherever will have been left whitewashed for nearly three years, and—’ The look on Martha’s face was enough to stop me mid-flow. Damn it, why can’t you just leave this alone?
Six months after the accident, she’d talked me into letting her finish the bedroom for me. She’d made a beautiful job of it, all soft greys and dusky blues against the deep stain of our antique furniture. She’d made my bedroom look as though it belonged to a boutique hotel. The problem was, Charlie had never been in that boutique hotel with me, and so I couldn’t picture him in it. It wasn’t our bedroom any more, it was just mine. I couldn’t tell Martha that was the reason for fobbing off her offers to decorate the rest of the house for me when she was so desperate to. It would have devastated her that I felt that way about the room she’d already finished for me.
‘Look, Martha. I’d love you to come help me, but I’m absolutely rushed off my feet in the shop and—’
‘Well that’s what I was going to say!’ A smile filling her eyes again. ‘Rob has some time off before the baby’s due, but I’ve already sorted everything out. I’ve decorated the nursery, put the crib together, packed my hospital bag, written my birth plan, A and B actually. I’ve even vetted both of the nurseries we’re thinking of using.’
‘You’re thinking of nurseries?’ I said. ‘Already? When will the baby start nursery?’
‘When they’re three.’
‘Months? Are you going back to work?’
‘No, years. Well, I want to be prepared, Hol.’
I knew it. I’d always known it. My sister was a domestic android. ‘So, Rob can come and do some DIY-ing for you.’ I looked at Rob, who looked about as enthused as I was.
Lie, lie, lie.
‘You know what, Marth, I would really love that. But I kinda have a more pressing problem, if you guys wouldn’t mind helping me out?’ I knew how to reel Martha in. I had a childhood’s worth of practice under my belt. ‘The shop’s due an inspection some time in the new year, and it could really do with some TLC.’ Rob’s face dropped, he thought we were a team. ‘Nothing drastic, just a few maintenance issues, maybe a little painting. It’s just too big a job on my own. If you could spend a few days in the shop, Rob, I’d appreciate it.’
Martha didn’t look convinced, but then Martha’s sole wish was to do what she could for me and I was at least offering her an inch in place of her mile.
‘Um, OK. But what about the house? I have some ideas I think you’ll like, Hol.’
The guilt twisted in my stomach.
‘Well let’s see them then! If Rob moves his ass quickly enough, we might get started on the back bedroom before junior arrives.’ I could keep Rob busy at the shop for as long as I needed to. All I had to do was keep Martha sweet until the baby was born, then she wouldn’t have the energy, or the inclination, to pimp my house any more. That was my grand plan.
Martha, instantly gripped with excitement that I was showing interest in her ideas, left the kitchen for yet more magazines. Rob fixed beady knowing eyes on me.
‘Don’t worry, big guy. You can eat cake all day and we’ll just splash a little paint on your face before we send you home.’
CHAPTER 5
Things were only going to get quieter until Christmas fever kicked in.
It was Monday, I was tired, and thanks to Dave’s eating habits, I was late.
Jesse, reliable wingman that he was, had opened up and made a start on the freshly baked cupcakes and cookies we offered alongside the bespoke services. It wasn’t big money but it was consistent, and when the brides thinned out the lowly cupcake paid Jesse’s wages and kept us going. We didn’t open to the public until ten each day, largely because few people wanted to munch on cupcakes much before noon but it also gave us a good three hours to get the fresh bakes out and on display, ready for the lunchtime rush.
There were only a handful of people milling around on the cobbled high street when I parked up and walked the hundred yards or so to Cake. I didn’t like to park directly outside unless I needed to load up, preferring for passers-by to see the fantastical cakes Jesse and I had on display in the two huge windows. This morning, someone had already parked there