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‘Now you look like a smartly dressed serial killer. Do you have any posh paper, or are we using what’s in the printer tray?’
He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a sheaf of paper, matching envelopes, and a padded box containing his fountain pen.
‘Smythson and Montblanc,’ she exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell, we are pulling out all the stops. Can I use it?’
‘The paper?’
‘The pen. I want to pretend I have a small penis and am signing a law on women’s reproductive rights. That or a weapons contract.’
He internally winced at the thought of Estelle wielding it like a malfunctioning biro, scoring the nib so deeply into the paper it could be turned over and used as braille.
‘Have you ever used a fountain pen before?’
‘Once, when Gram-Gram let me use hers.’
‘Did she let you use it a second time?’
She hesitated. ‘I never asked again.’
‘And that tells me everything I need to know.’
‘Oh, go on. Don’t you trust me?’
‘No.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Wow, that was pretty decisive.’
He gave a half shrug in return.
‘But what if your handwriting is horrible? I bet it’s all angular and angry.’
‘And you dot your I’s with hearts?’
She pulled a face. ‘Who do you think I am? Eveline? Willow? Look, these need to be written by whoever can do the better job.’
James uncapped his pen and passed it to her, along with a piece of paper. ‘Please don’t press too hard.’
‘You’re trusting me?’
‘I’m making a herculean effort to defy your expectations.’
Her eyes flicked from Chester on his lap to the dog bowls on the floor. ‘You already are,’ she muttered, then turned to the text on the laptop.
After she’d written a sentence, James let out the breath he was unconsciously holding. Estelle was being careful. Her handwriting, however, was loopy and chaotic. It started out passable, but as she continued, it bordered on illegible.
She put the pen down. ‘In my defence, I never write anything anymore, I just type. But I bet you can’t do any better.’
He took the pen from her, making sure their fingers didn’t make contact, and laid a fresh piece of paper on the desk. Part of moulding himself into the archetypal upper-class man had involved attention to his handwriting. First learning calligraphy, then adapting what he’d learnt to create his own style.
He started at the top with the addresses of Shoscombe Manor and the council offices in Bath. By the time he’d written the second postcode, Estelle was sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed.
He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Should I continue?’
‘Show off,’ she grumbled, then cradled her coffee mug and sipped from it.
There was no reason for Estelle to stay sitting behind his desk, but she seemed in no hurry to move, and he was never going to ask her to. The back of his neck prickled with awareness as she watched him write. It was like being in an exam, one on the subject of ‘impressing hot women’. James had always aced every academic test, but this was one he wasn’t sure he could even reach the pass mark on.
The only sounds in the room were the pen scratching the paper and the occasional snuffle from Chester. Joy was lying on the floor beside him, her head resting on his foot. He was meant to be at work, but the scene was bizarrely cosy. All they needed was a coal fire and for Estelle to be darning his socks, and they would look like a poster-couple for the nineteen-fifties. Almost.
