Guillermo screamed back, dropping to his knees and cowering in abject terror. He was wearing a ridiculous pair of purple silk pyjamas. Above him, on the dressing table, Eva’s jewellery box was open, her rings and necklaces spread out messily across the lacquered wood. ‘Don’t kill me! Please! I … I … didn’t know you were home.’
Henry looked from Guillermo to the jewellery then back again.
‘So I see. You filthy little thief!’ He lifted the lamp higher. Guillermo cringed like a dog about to be beaten by its master. His mediocre career had always been hampered by the distraction of his cocaine habit, which he couldn’t fund on Graydon’s measly wages alone. But even Guillermo could see that this was unequivocally the death knell. Henry’s nakedness somehow made him seem even more menacing, like a savage warrior, his enormous, trunk-like dick swinging right at Guillermo’s eye level.
‘It’s not what it looks like!’ Guillermo stammered desperately.
‘Oh yes it bloody well is,’ roared Henry. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘Of course. I will.’ Scrambling to his feet, Guillermo backed away from Henry, edging himself around towards the door. ‘I can assure you this is all a misunderstanding, but I’ll … I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
‘Now!’ Henry bellowed. ‘Get out now, before I call the police to come and get you. Or worse.’ He narrowed his eyes meaningfully.
Darting past him like a pyjama-clad eel, Guillermo bolted down the hall towards the West Wing, sobbing hysterically.
Henry stood there for a moment in shock.
Did that really just happen? Had Graydon James’s gigolo boyfriend really just tried to pocket a handful of his fiancée’s diamonds?
Talk about brass fucking balls!
Still, every cloud had a silver lining. Or, in this case, two. The useless Guillermo would be gone for good. And the price of Hanborough’s restoration works were about to be cut in half.
First thing in the morning, Henry would call Graydon James and renegotiate.
Smiling, he went back to bed.
Flora Fitzwilliam stood on the lawn in Lisa Kent’s idyllic Siasconset garden and looked up at the house with real pride.
It was finished, at last. Painful as this job had been on many, many levels, Flora had to admit that the finished product was beautiful. The house itself was clad in traditional grey clapboard tiles. Thanks to Nantucket’s strict building codes, the materials were a given. But the fluid way that the building seemed to flow downhill at the rear, with each storey’s decks tumbling into the next, like a waterfall, or perfectly tiered paddy field, each one affording breathtaking views across the Atlantic Ocean – that was all Flora. As were the formal gardens: the flowerbeds overflowing with plump hydrangeas, delicate roses and glorious sprays of lavender that filled the whole plot with their heavy, intoxicating scent. The exquisitely constructed dry-stone walls, leading down to a private beach staircase, each riser carved lovingly from local limestone, all the way down to the soft white sand.
Inside, the house was just as beautiful, simple and pared down, despite Lisa’s initial insistence that she wanted something grand and opulent.
‘This is opulent,’ Flora had insisted, presenting an initially horrified Lisa with a headboard for the master suite made of driftwood. ‘What could be grander than the ocean? Than nature, right outside your window here, in all her glory. Your husband needed gold and marble to feel he lived in luxury. But his house was your prison, remember? This is your house, Lisa, your palace. A palace of light! Let it breathe. Let it sing.’
OK, so maybe she’d got a little carried away. But the point is, it worked. Lisa Kent had ended up with a stunning home, traditional yet unique, full of space and light. With its white wood and uncut stone, its subtle mix of textures, and of course ocean views from every room, the entire building was a testament to hope.
Lisa adored it. Draping her arm around Flora’s shoulders as if she were an old friend, she stood staring at the house with her, quite overcome with emotion.
‘You’ve changed my life,’ she told Flora, her eyes welling with tears. ‘Really. It’s perfect.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Flora. ‘But you changed your own life, Lisa. You broke free from your marriage. That took courage.’
‘I guess that’s true.’ Lisa brushed away a tear, conveniently forgetting that it was Steve who had left her, not the other way around, and that she’d been frogmarched back into single life like a condemned woman to the gallows, kicking and screaming.
‘This was your vision. Your dream. I just helped you realize it, that’s all.’
Flora could afford to be generous. The job had been a triumph in the end, despite her disappointment over Hanborough. It would be a great addition to her portfolio. And tomorrow she was leaving Nantucket for good and heading off to the Bahamas with Mason for a much-needed romantic holiday.
As always on a project, Flora had become subsumed, to the point where she knew she’d been neglecting her fiancé. It wasn’t just the endless flying back and forth to the island. Even when she was home in Manhattan she was only half there, only half connected to Mason. He was up for partnership at the bank this year, and Flora knew he needed her to be there more, turning up to functions, having lunches with the other partners’ wives.
‘Think of it as training for when we’re married,’ he’d told her, jokingly, although Flora couldn’t help but feel that deep down he meant it. And, of course, she did want to support him in his career. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to give up her own, a subject on which Mason had begun dropping heavier and heavier hints.
We can cross those bridges when we come to them, Flora thought. He probably only resents my work because it’s been so all-consuming lately.
Yes, this vacation would do them both the world of good.
She said goodbye to Lisa and was getting into her rented Jeep when her cell phone rang. It was Graydon. For once Flora was happy to hear from him. After all, she had nothing but good news to report from Nantucket; another very satisfied client and a triumphant conclusion to what had been a difficult project.
‘Hey, you!’ she answered brightly. ‘How’s Merry Olde England?’
‘I need you here,’ Graydon hissed. ‘Now. Immediately. How soon can you be on a plane?’
Flora had only ever heard him this agitated once before, when a powerful French fashion conglomerate had made a hostile bid for GJD. That had been a truly awful few weeks, but it had taught Flora a lot about her boss. Including when not to cross him.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I’ll tell you what’s happened,’ Graydon seethed. ‘That duplicitous, giftless cretin Guillermo only got caught rifling through the family silver at Hanborough.’
‘No!’ Flora gasped.
