whisked off to what I presume is his house in the country to begin work on his latest book.
Will be in touch. Jenny.
PS. The man himself is nothing like either of us pictured. He’s quite young and not bad-looking, but rather cold and unapproachable, so he might not be pleasant to work for.
She had just finished writing when, glancing out of the window, she saw a large black four-wheel drive with tinted windows draw up by the kerb. It seemed somewhat out of place in London, but no doubt it would have its uses in the country.
Picking up her case and shoulder bag, her coat over her arm, she brushed aside the niggling doubt that she was doing the right thing, and hurried out.
The air was still cold, but the sun was now shining brightly from a clear, duck-egg-blue sky, and reflecting in the car’s gleaming paintwork.
As she walked across the pavement Michael Denver opened the car door and jumped out, and she felt the same strange impact she’d felt on first seeing him.
‘Good timing,’ he congratulated her as he came round to take her case, before opening the car door.
By the time she had climbed in and fastened her seat belt he had stowed her case and was sliding behind the wheel once more.
While he skilfully threaded his way through the traffic, she stayed silent and tried to relax, but she was very conscious of him and could only manage, at the most, an appearance of tranquillity.
It wasn’t until they had reached the suburbs and were heading out of London that she broached the question that had been at the back of her mind. ‘By the way, Mr Denver—’
‘I’d prefer to be on first-name terms,’ he broke in coolly, ‘if that’s all right with you?’
She had expected him to retain the formality of surnames, at least for the time being, and, startled, she answered, ‘Oh, yes… Quite all right…’
‘Michael,’ he prompted.
It seemed somehow momentous to be using his given name, and it took a second or two to pluck up enough courage to say, ‘Michael.’
‘And you’re Jennifer?’
‘Yes. But I usually get called Jenny.’
‘Then Jenny it is. A nice old-fashioned name of Celtic origin,’ he added. ‘Now, you were about to ask me something?’
‘Oh, yes… I still don’t know where we’re going. I presume you have a house somewhere in the country?’
‘Yes, it’s called Slinterwood.’ His tone of voice holding an undercurrent of something she couldn’t quite pin down, he added with apparent casualness, ‘You know the Island of Mirren?’
‘Of course.’ Her voice held a little quiver of excitement. ‘It’s just down the coast from where my great-grandmother used to live.’
‘Have you ever visited it?’
‘I went once.’
‘How long ago?’
‘I was eighteen at the time. It was a short while before I moved to London.’
‘You went to see Mirren Castle?’
‘Yes. In those days it was open to the public at certain times.’
‘What did you think of it?’
‘I didn’t see a great deal,’ she admitted. ‘I’d gone on the spur of the moment, quite late one afternoon, and I’d chosen the wrong day, which meant I couldn’t go inside.
‘But what I did see of the place was absolutely wonderful and I’ve never forgotten it. I had hoped to go back one day and see more of it.’
‘And did you?’ he pressed.
She shook her head. ‘Things change, and by the time I had a chance it was too late. I heard that Mirren’s new owner had closed the castle to the public and made it clear that visitors to the island were no longer welcome.’
‘So you’ve never been back?’
‘No.’
‘Well, as you say, things change. But there’s nothing to stop them changing again.’
She was wondering about that rather cryptic remark when he pursued, ‘Did you ever find out who the new owner was?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But I believe the island stayed in the hands of the same family. It was just a different policy in force.’
‘A policy that caused you great disappointment?’
‘Well, yes… Though I can’t say I really blamed the new owner.’
In answer to her companion’s questioning glance, she admitted, ‘If it was mine, I wouldn’t want visitors tramping around making a noise and dropping litter.’
When he said nothing, feeling the need to justify that remark, she added, ‘I can’t help but feel that a lot of the island’s charm must lie in its isolation and the serenity that kind of isolation brings.’
Either her feelings echoed his own, or, he thought cynically, she was clever enough to realize that they were what his feelings would be, and to play up to him.
‘Then you’re not a gregarious creature?’ he asked.
‘No, not really.’
‘Yet you chose to live in London.’
‘I don’t dislike London. It’s an exciting, vibrant place to live, and of course it’s where a lot of the jobs are.
‘But after I’d left Kelsay I found I missed the sound of the sea and the dark night sky and the stars. With the glow from the street lamps it’s not easy to see the stars in central London—’ Suddenly realizing her tongue was running away with her, she broke off abruptly.
It wasn’t at all like her to talk so freely to a man who was not only a virtual stranger but her new employer, and she wished she had been more circumspect, more restrained.
When he made no effort to break the ensuing silence, fearing she had already got off on the wrong foot, she apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I was babbling. You can’t possibly be interested in my—’
‘Oh, but I am,’ he broke in smoothly. ‘And I found your “babbling”, as you call it, quite poetic.’
Unsure whether or not he was making fun of her, she let that go, and, trying to get back to the more mundane, pursued, ‘I presume from what you said just now that Slinterwood is somewhere near Mirren.’
‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’
‘Sorry?’
He repeated, ‘Slinterwood is on Mirren.’
