Christmas at Claridge's Read online

  ‘I know I know, you think our coffee’s like dirty water. But I’m English, that’s how we like it.’ Clem shrugged. If they were going to live and work together, they may as well set some ground rules.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Tom? It’s me.’

  There was a pause – angry, defiant. ‘Hi.’

  ‘H-how’s it going?’ she asked, hoping it wouldn’t lead to a conversation about the weather. It was doubtless raining there, still sunny here, and she didn’t want to come across as boasting. She knew full well he’d have given his eye teeth to be summering in Portofino working on this commission. Instead, he’d been locked out, forced to watch from the sidelines as his disastrous sister flirted with the client and carried the entire weight, hopes and fortunes of his company on her slender shoulders.

  ‘Fine. Quiet.’

  She nodded, wishing he meant the flat without her, but knowing he was referring to the office and it’s not-ringing phones. She looked out to the horizon. It was in sharp focus now.

  ‘So, I’ve got good news for you and bad news for me,’ she said, envisaging him sitting there with his eyes closed, his rugby-muscled body braced for the next blow. ‘It turns out this project isn’t just about Alderton Hide finishes. It’s much, much bigger than that. Did you know? Did he tell you? He wants us to do everything – I mean, second fix onwards: paint colours, doorknobs, lights, taps.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Obviously, we can’t do it all in leather. I mean, it would look ridiculous to clothe the entire house in hides. But I’ll use it wherever I can, don’t worry about that. I won’t miss an opportunity. I just . . .’

  The resounding silence on the other end of the line was distracting.

  ‘Well, I just wanted you to know that I’ll obviously be billing him for far more than the agreed contract – it’ll be my time he’s paying for, too, not just our products. So . . . so that’s the good news, it’s all money back in the A. H. coffers. I mean, I know we’re not interior designers, but there’s a really good opportunity here to showcase our vision – I mean, your vision – from start to finish. Usually we only get to add the accents, but this . . . this is a unique chance to do it the other way around and base the entire scheme around us.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Great.’

  Great? That was all he had to say? She had come out here; she’d just told him she’d be invoicing for more than double, that this villa was in effect going to be an Alderton Hide show home, and all he had to say was ‘great’?

  They fell silent – her out of words, him refusing to try – and she felt a flash of anger spark inside her. What was it going to take? ‘Right, then. So, I’ll keep you posted.’

  She hung up, exasperated tears begrudgingly falling down her face. She’d wanted to ask his advice, get his help, lean on him for guidance. This was too big for her. If the house hadn’t been intimidating enough, the boat alone would have been – 30 metres long with a massive salon, four bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen. And that wasn’t even touching the staff quarters.

  Clem had wanted to cry at the sight of it. It was massive out of the water, with its deep-water keel clad in scaffolding, the hull still rusty red and rough as it waited for its state-of-the-art paintwork. Tarted up, that boat was going to cost millions, and she had proved she couldn’t even be trusted with a bike!

  Why was the Swimmer doing this to her? She was out here, all alone, with no support network to rely on, and realizing the full and final magnitude of the job had ramped up the pressure. It had been bad enough thinking she was simply out there for him to seduce and win. But this, too? She literally didn’t know where to begin.

  ‘Signorina?’

  She looked back and saw the housekeeper standing in the doorway.

  ‘Signor Fox is here.’

  Clem glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. The interior designer. Dammit. She’d been non-stop all day and now she was going to have to meet the person whose commission she’d stolen. This was going to be fun.

  ‘Thank you. Please show him in,’ Clem replied wearily, dipping her head and wiping the tears from her cheeks. She rose from the desk she’d thrown her bag under and walked over the faded blue and red carpet.

  ‘Hi.’ The Antipodean twang made her jerk her head up. A man, early to mid thirties, was standing there, smiling at her. His blond hair was long and shaggy, with a fringe that hung over his eyes so that all she could see were teeth and muscles. He was wearing, incongruously, a slim pair of dark red trousers rolled up at the ankles, a sailor-striped T-shirt and a pale blue sleeveless tank, and he had an iPad tucked under his arm.

  Her jaw dropped. Not what she was expecting. ‘Hi.’

  ‘You’re Miss Alderton?’

  ‘Clem, call me Clem,’ she replied, walking towards him and shaking his hand.

  ‘Chad Fox.’

  ‘You’re Australian,’ she said vacuously.

  ‘Fair dinkum.’ He grinned, laughing as her eyes widened further at the proof. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just kidding. That’s not actually part of my vernacular.’

  Her eyes widened further still. Vernacular? He looked like a surf bum.

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ she said, gathering her wits. ‘It’s just it’s been a long day and—’

  ‘I wasn’t what you were expecting? No worries. I get that a lot.’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ she asked.

  ‘I will.’ He grinned again, emphasizing ‘will’ as though they’d been arguing about it and gently puncturing her mother’s formality.

  They sat, knees angled towards the other, on the sad, barely gold velvet sofa. It creaked a little under their weight and Clem cracked a wry smile, too tired not to. Two weeks ago she’d been eating curry in her flat with Stella and Mercy as they made a secret collection; now she was sitting in a crumbling palazzo in Portofino with an Aussie surf dude who talked wallpaper?

  Signora Benuto set down the coffee – along with a small jug of steamed milk for Clem – and left them.

  ‘Nice trousers by the way.’

  Clem smoothed them self-consciously. ‘Thanks. One of the perks of working for a leather company,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m practically contracted to wear leather on a daily basis.’

  ‘Hot out here, though. At least it will be soon. The temperature ramps up quickly once May hits.’

  Clem nodded, wringing her hands nervously. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, I’m really excited about working with you,’ Chad said, watching her as he sipped his coffee. He took it black, like the locals. ‘I’ve admired Alderton Hide’s work for a long time. Adding you to my contacts and suppliers is going to be great for my book.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Clem said nervously, wondering whether he knew he wasn’t the principal designer here, and that she wasn’t simply a supplier. ‘Have you uh . . . I mean, what’ve you been told about this project?’

  Chad looked at her carefully. ‘It’s all right, I’m up to speed if that’s what you’re worried about. This is your gig. Your ideas, my contacts. It’s all cool. I’m here as backup, the facilitator who’ll get the right people implementing your vision.’

  Clem smiled at him gratefully, instantly reassured by his professional largesse. ‘Well, that’s the problem,’ she confided. ‘I don’t have one.’

  Chad frowned. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not a designer and I don’t pretend to be. I’ve only walked into this scenario today, and to be honest’ – her shoulders sagged – ‘it’s freaking me out.’

  Chad looked at her consideringly. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. You did only get here today; it’s bound to be a shock. But you’ve clearly got great style. You’re a very cool chick. No wonder Beaulieu’s given you a free hand.’

  Clem looked up at his words. She could tell from his tone that he was rapidly decoding the subtext to her commission, even if nothing had been explicitly said. ‘Do you know him well?’

  Chad shrugged. ‘Not on a personal level. He’s not often h
ere and I work all over Italy. But we’d obviously worked quite closely together on the initial spec.’

  ‘Initial . . .?’ Clem swallowed. ‘You mean you’d already done designs for this place?’

  Chad hesitated before nodding. ‘Yeah. We were a month off from starting when the call came that he was going in a “different direction”.’ He made quote marks with his fingers in the air, a bemused smile on his lips. Clem wished she could see his eyes more clearly. He must hate her. ‘Don’t worry. It happens. And he forfeited a hefty deposit, so that sugar-coated the pill.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Clem mumbled.

  ‘Not your fault. Very definitely not your fault,’ Chad replied, watching her closely. ‘Listen, we’ll do this together,’ he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘I can tell you’re going to be better at this than you think. You just need to trust your instincts. Whatever you want to do, I’ll make it happen for you. That’s my job.’ He winked at her. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘In the meantime, you should probably take the rest of the day off. You look exhausted and we don’t need to start today.’

  ‘I am pretty tired,’ she admitted. ‘I had no idea what I was walking into.’

  Chad shook his head and for a moment she could see his eyes – hazel brown and sympathetic – before his fringe resettled over them. ‘This probably isn’t the half of it. But don’t worry, you’ve got me on your side now. The Golden Fox will protect you.’

  She laughed, so grateful for his generosity and laid-back manner.

  They got up and she walked him to the door.

  ‘I’ll come back at ten tomorrow, OK? We can get started then,’ he said, kissing her easily on the cheek as if she’d known him for years.

  ‘OK, thanks. I really mean it.’

  He winked and started down the steps.

  ‘Oh, Chad!’ she called, remembering something, and he turned back to her. ‘What’s . . . what’s his name? Beaulieu’s I mean?’

  This time it was Chad who laughed. ‘Ah! He told me you’d ask me that.’ He walked back up the steps to her and took her hand again, squeezing it comfortingly. ‘And he told me it’s more than my job’s worth to tell you. I can’t get fired for you twice.’

  ‘Oh.’ Of course he couldn’t. Did that mean that all of them – Signora Benuto, Stefano, Alberto and God only knew who else – had been told to keep it from her, too? She tried to smile. He’d thought of everything. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It shouldn’t. But it obviously does.’ He tipped his head to the side, his eyes amused and sympathetic all at once. ‘Ciao, bella. E benvenuto a Italia.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The wind was against her, trying to blow her back and over as she pounded up the narrow path, but she wouldn’t stop. The urge to run was stronger here than she’d ever felt before. She had to purge, exhaust, distract herself to the point of collapse every evening. It was the only way she could sleep. To be so close to him here, and yet still so far, there had been nights when she’d thought she was going to go out of her mind.

  She knew that sooner or later she would have to leave the headland and go into the port. It had been six days now and she already knew where every twist and turn of these narrow, labyrinthine paths – which she’d first spied from her bridge – led to. She knew how to get to the different beaches, the castle, the park, the lighthouse, and she was running out of track. She was going to need more space soon, more mileage, but there were risks attached to that, risks she didn’t feel ready to take. This was a small place.

  She rounded the corner and felt the wind lift her hair, as it always did when she came to the sea’s edge. The white lighthouse stood staunchly at the furthermost tip and she allowed herself to slow to a walk, hands on hips as she tried to catch her breath before she collapsed on the bench outside the deserted café.

  She checked the sign again, even though she knew its message by heart: the café would reopen on Monday 3 May. Next week. She would need a new route by then. She needed to be alone on her runs. They were her only refuge, her sanctuary, the place she could go to inside herself after a day spent poring over swatches and illustrations with Chad.

  That was going well at least. He had broken the project down into bite-size chunks for her and they were making good progress on the library, the first room they had decided to tackle – their ‘starter’ room.

  In spite of her declarations that she couldn’t clad the entire house in leather, that was pretty much what she was doing in there: firstly, it guaranteed a hefty order in quickly to Alderton Hide, which meant they could get everyone working at capacity again. Secondly, it was a library, and a library more than any other room was all about leather: no one ever stocked paperbacks in these rooms. Somewhere – in Florence probably – an antiquarian bookseller had been tasked with sourcing a mile of books, and would be hunting high and low for precious first editions and grandly gilted leather-bound classics. Leather shelves therefore, in a soft mossy-green, made perfect sense, and they were currently tossing up ideas for words or quotes to be embossed in the front-facing fascias. That had been Clem’s idea, and she’d been pretty pleased with it. She smiled as she thought back to her idea of her favourite line of all time, a Winnie-the-Pooh quote, written when he’d eaten too much ‘hunny’ and got stuck in the door of Rabbit’s ‘howse’: ‘Well then, would you be so kind as to find a sustaining book such as would comfort a wedged bear in great tightness?’ She and Tom had always loved that line – their father’s deep, lento voice had been particularly well suited to the rhythms of A.A. Milne’s writing – and she and Chad had laughed like drains at the thought of printing it across the front of this grand leather-clad library. It had been the first of many bonding exercises between them.

  They were laying down a chestnut leather floor in there, too. The existing wooden strip floor, upon inspection, had been found to be too rotten to save, and Clem had come up with the idea of laying leather tiles on the floor in parquet-style bricks, rather than the more usual stitched squares, arranging them in a herringbone pattern. It was classic but with a twist, would be quieter, warmer, and layer up the luxurious subtle scent of leather in the room. Chad had loved it and seemed impressed by her outside-the-box thinking.

  He, in turn, had sourced some wall lights, and they were choosing between a naturalistic bronze oak-leaf design, or a modernist chrome tubular design looped with a sling of chunky mariner’s rope – she couldn’t quite decide yet on how contemporary or classic to take the scheme; Clem’s instinct was that a woman like Fleur would prefer the more classical design, but remembering the Swimmer’s modish tailoring, she knew contemporary was the way to go for him. Knowing nothing about the dynamics of their relationship, she wasn’t sure which one to follow.

  They had agreed, however, on a set of club chairs and sofas with discreet, shallow pin-button backs and softly curved arms that Clem thought should be upholstered in a lustrous silk tweed, and which Chad was currently sourcing.

  All in all, it had turned into a surprisingly productive week and she had spent her evenings, before her runs, formulating the shelving and floor dimensions and spec to send through to the office which, in turn, responded only with technical questions. No banter, no concern; just simmering, silent hostility that all their fates rested upon her.

  She watched the sun descend to its watery bed, changing the colour palette from blues and greens to pinks and reds, aware that she should start heading back. There was little dusk here, and though she was becoming well-acquainted with the paths, there was practically no lighting along them and she didn’t want to negotiate them in the dark. The walls of the private estates on either side were high and indistinguishable, with ivy growing along them, and her best landmarks were the bridges that occasionally straddled the paths, connecting one part of an inland garden to its coastal access. No vehicle was narrow enough to get down here and the clusters of steps mean
t scooters and bikes were useless, too. Anything that couldn’t be carried in a suitcase had to come on to the headland by sea access – all the properties had one. The one exception, that she had seen – quite unsurprisingly – was the lighthouse café, which had a specially adapted micro-van fitted with caterpillar tracks to transport ice creams, glasses and whatnot along the paths.

  Clem got up and eased herself into a jog. It was still warm, even at eight o’clock in the evening, and she’d need to have a cool shower to bring her temperature down before Signora Benuto brought her dinner through at nine.

  She had rapidly become accustomed to eating alone. She usually Skyped Stella or flicked through the swatch books and websites Chad left with her. For one thing, it stopped her worrying about when the Swimmer was going to arrive. This was obviously all part of his game – keeping her on tenterhooks for his arrival – but she couldn’t sustain that level of anxiety. Busy was best.

  She made her way back along a different path, moving easily, her breath coming evenly. She could talk, sing if she wanted; her body knew these rigours and rhythms too well. After twenty minutes she passed by the gate to the house with a ferocious-sounding dog, then under the bridge with the oval plaque in the middle, and she knew that meant she had to take the next right.

  The path rose in a hump before her and she pumped her arms harder in a burst of effort, sidestepping a broken drain and leaping athletically over a puddle that had formed from the neighbour’s overzealous sprinkler system. She took the right turn, where the path began to drop down again, and sped up, always preferring to finish her run on a sprint. She could, if she was feeling lazy, end the run just ahead and go through the house’s main entrance on the right, but she never did. The gate that led directly to ‘her’ part of the garden was just further down, after a turn on the left, and crossing under the bridge was like crossing a finish line. She preferred the extra privacy. She had no idea what, if at all, Signora Benuto was reporting back to her employer, but the fact that he still hadn’t liaised with her directly, even though he was in constant contact with Chad, Stefano and Signora Benuto, had the effect of keeping her on edge. The settings of their ‘relationship’ were so undefined.