‘You’re a pet. You should have made this one do it.’ Vincent thrusts a thumb towards Todd before he drags himself to his feet. He grabs the black coffee and takes a tentative sip before turning to Todd again. ‘Take Oliver his tea up before it gets cold.’
Todd scrambles to his feet and reaches for the tea, but I move the tray out of the way. ‘I’ll do that. You have a break and enjoy your coffee.’ Todd shrugs and takes the remaining coffees, handing one to Harvey, who is still on the floor but now lounging, his legs spread out before him. ‘Where is Oliver?’
Vince takes another slurp of his coffee. ‘He’s making a start on the first-floor bathroom. Up the stairs, second door on your left.’
My footsteps echo loudly on the uncarpeted stairs, even as I take careful steps to avoid spilling the tea. I’d forgotten how cold it is in here and I shiver as I reach the top. I’m not surprised when I see the thick jumper the builder in the bathroom is wearing, the collar of a T-shirt visible at the neckline. I’d need a few more layers to stand working in the cold, and it’s clear why Vincent risked a scalded tongue by drinking his coffee so quickly, eager for some source of warmth.
The builder has his own radio up here – the small digital one I’d spotted earlier – and it’s currently blaring out The Bangles’ ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’. It’s so loud, he hasn’t heard my ascent up the stairs and has no idea I’m observing him from the doorway, watching as his bottom jiggles to the music. And it’s a lovely bottom; round but firm and full of rhythm, it seems. Setting the tea down carefully on the floor, I grab my phone and open the camera. Emma will never believe just how perfect a bottom this builder has, so I need photographic proof.
‘What are you doing?’
Stepping back with a yelp, I only just manage to avoid kicking the cup of tea over. ‘I, er, I was just …’ I look down at my phone and discreetly close the camera app. ‘I was just making a phone call.’ My thumb taps on the contacts app a split second before I turn the phone to show him the screen.
‘No.’ Oliver shakes his head as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘You weren’t. You were trying to take a photo of me.’
I don’t like his accusatory tone, even if the thing he’s accusing me of is absolutely spot on.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I too can adopt a shirty tone. Even if I’m in the wrong, and even if said shirty tone has been pilfered from Vanessa’s repertoire of snotty attitudes. ‘I can assure you I wasn’t taking a photo of anything, and especially not of you.’ I’m quite proud of my sneering use of the word ‘you’, and the way my lip curls in distaste.
‘Whatever.’ Oliver twists and reaches for the radio, shutting off the music. ‘Who are you, anyway? And does Vince know you’re up here snooping?’
Snooping, indeed! My mouth starts to gape before I snap it shut. Vanessa doesn’t gape. Ever.
‘Yes, Vincent does know I’m up here.’ Tilting my head to one side, I arch an eyebrow as high as I can manage. Admittedly, it isn’t very high as I haven’t had much practice in the art of snootiness. ‘And I wasn’t aware you could snoop in your own home.’
I expect Oliver to falter, to start falling over himself in his eagerness to please, like the others had in the pub earlier. Maybe he could wipe the palms of his hands down the thighs of his jeans while I stand by and enjoy his slack-jawed reaction to my statement. I’m usually the flustered one, so it would make a welcome change to be the cool, calm, collected one for once.
Except this dude doesn’t give me the satisfaction of wavering. There are no sweaty palms, no slow realisation that I am The Boss. He is the cool, calm collected one as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly and looks me up and down.
‘So you’re the infamous Vanessa Whitely then.’ He gives me another full-length once-over before giving a lazy shrug. ‘You’re not what I was expecting at all.’
‘And what were you expecting?’ Cruella De Vil, I should imagine, and I smile sweetly at him, watching him through lowered lashes, to show that I’m far from the hard-nosed picture he’s built up in his head.
‘I’d thought you’d be more rottweiler than chihuahua.’
I’m not sure whether this is a compliment or not, but by the sly smile creeping onto Oliver’s face, I assume it wasn’t intended to be flattering. Instead of the fierce, don’t-mess-with-me guard dog, he sees me as a tiny, quivering pooch who’s more likely to make a puddle on the carpet than defend its property. I should unleash the Vanessa Whitely effect and put him in his place, but I’ve never been very good at confrontation. I’m definitely more chihuahua, not that I’ll tell him that.
‘I take it you’re Oliver?’ I attempt an air of indifference, to try to claw back a bit of poise.
‘Oliver Rowe.’ He holds out a hand, and I’m worried mine will be trembling as I reach out to take it. I make the handshake as swift as possible to mask any of the anxiety I’m feeling over the exchange.
‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ I smile sweetly again, even though Oliver’s glowering at me. ‘And about earlier … shall we just forget that and start again?’
‘Forget that you were perving on me, you mean?’ Oliver folds his arms across his chest. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment in the workplace.’
‘I wasn’t perving on you. I was making a phone call.’ I waggle the phone at him, even though the screen is locked by now. ‘I wasn’t trying to take a photo of your bottom as you so arrogantly assumed.’
‘I never said anything about my bottom.’ A smug smile creeps onto Oliver’s face while I will the ground to open up beneath me. This is not going well at all. I need to get the upper hand back and quickly.
‘I actually meant we should forget about the fact that you accused me of snooping around my own home.’ There, take that, you smug git! ‘Now just get back to work.’ Giving him my best withering look, I march from the room, only to sneak back to pick up the cup of tea. If he wants a tea break, he can make his own bloody refreshments.
I should probably head back to the guesthouse to unpack but I find myself wandering from room to room, sipping Oliver’s tea as I take my time to have a good nosy at the first floor of this magnificent house. It felt a bit creepy earlier when I was alone in the bare bones of a giant, cold house, but knowing Oliver is just along the hall and with the sound of the radio drifting from the bathroom again, I feel more at ease. I’ve counted six bedrooms so far, three with en-suite bathrooms, and I know there are more on the second floor. I’m about to head up there for another mosey around when something catches my eye out of the huge arched window at the end of the hallway. The window looks out over the land at the back of the property and there is something moving out there. I’m not sure what it is, other than non-human and far too large to be a dog. I scurry closer to the window and gasp when I realise what I’m seeing.
‘Oh my God.’ My eyebrows have all but lifted off my face as I cover my gaping mouth with my hand. I can’t believe it. Surely it isn’t …
‘What’s the matter?’
I turn at the sound of Oliver’s voice. He’s standing in the bathroom doorway with a plaster-covered trowel and board in hand.
‘Is it just me, or is there a donkey in the garden?’ I point out of the window, where the beast is ambling across the long grass, tail swishing.
Oliver joins me at the window and I’m relieved when he nods. I’m not hallucinating then.
‘That’s just Franny. She must have found the gap in the fence I was fixing earlier. Don’t