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‘So let’s see it, then,’ the old man says, hobbling towards me.
He reaches for my hand, and I remain still and quiet while he gazes down at the ring. I’m blushing, too. I can’t help it, and I look across to Mrs Potts to see her palm resting on her bosom, tears in her eyes. ‘It looks beautiful on you,’ old Mr H whispers wistfully.
I smile lightly. ‘I’m so happy you and Becker have sorted out your differences.’
‘Me too,’ he admits. ‘And if someone would have said to me two months ago that my wayward grandson would be asking my permission to put this ring on a lady’s finger, I think I would have keeled over.’ He reaches for my cheek and gives it an affectionate rub. ‘I’m glad that lady is you. I’m so proud of him, Eleanor, despite some of the stunts he’s pulled. Despite him misleading me. He’s a passionate, devoted man, and you’ve enhanced that.’
He needs to stop or I might cry.
‘That ring is precious,’ Mrs Potts pipes up. ‘It’s a symbol of how precious you are to Becker boy.’
I blink my eyes, stepping back when Mr H finally relinquishes his hold of me. ‘I’m a bit overwhelmed,’ I admit.
Both smile at me knowingly. ‘I found that emerald in Cambodia,’ Mr H says. ‘It was 1952. I set it in that band when I proposed to my Mags.’
‘Worth three million!’ Mrs Potts chimes, and I baulk at them, my hand naturally covering the precious gem. Just wrap my hand in cotton wool, why don’t you? Three million?
‘Good God,’ I breathe.
‘Welcome to the family, dear,’ Mrs Potts says, coming over and throwing her arms around me. Her big bosom pushes into me, her squeeze fierce and so meaningful.
‘I’m glad I’m here,’ I admit, cuddling her equally as hard. My God, how did I get so lucky?
‘Enough of that.’ Mr H pulls us apart on a laugh. ‘Eleanor has work to do.’
I straighten, avoiding their eyes so they can’t see the happy tears threatening to escape. ‘Do you know where Becker is?’ I ask, starting towards the Grand Hall, wiping at my eyes discreetly.
‘He’s not back yet.’
He’s not? But it’s nearly three. ‘Okay, I’ll get—’ I’m interrupted mid-sentence when my phone rings, and I look down to see Mum’s calling. It reminds me that I still need to book my train tickets for my visit home. God, I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her. ‘I’ll be getting on.’ I hold up my phone as I carry on my way. ‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Hi, sweetheart.’ She sounds as cheerful as she always does these days. I can’t help but smile, my happiness for her drowning out the sadness that it’s not my father who’s making her happy. ‘I’m making plans for when you come home.’
I hurry to Becker’s office as I listen to the intricate schedule of activities that she has planned. I’d love to tell her my news now, but I really want to do it face to face. See her reaction, because I just know she’s going to be beside herself with joy. ‘All sounds great, Mum,’ I say, smiling, loving how upbeat she sounds. ‘Listen, I have to go. I have a countess coming to see a Rembrandt. I need to prepare.’
‘A Rembrandt?’ she squeals, delighted. ‘Good Lord. What would your father make of this super career you’re carving out?’
I swallow down my laugh. He’d turn in his grave, that’s what he’d do.
‘I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I land in Becker’s office and shut the door behind me. ‘I really need to go.’
‘Okay, darling. I’ll call you next week.’
I hang up and spend a few moments marvelling and appreciating how bright she sounded. ‘Tickets,’ I say, quickly pulling up Google on my phone. I order a return ticket for the week after next and send it to the printer, rushing to the double pedestal masterpiece desk. The printer doesn’t kick in, but the screen on the printer is telling me to load a new ink cartridge. Fabulous. Ink. Where does he keep the ink? I drop into the chair and grab the brass pull of the left-hand top drawer and tug, but it doesn’t shift. It’s locked. ‘Damn,’ I mutter, trying the remaining three drawers in quick succession before moving to the other pedestal and working my way down the four drawers on that side. All locked. I growl under my breath, my eyes flitting around his office. It’ll have to wait. I need to get the showing room prepared. It’s nearly 3p.m. ‘Where are you, Hunt?’ I say to myself, getting up. My phone rings, and I glance down at the screen to see the estate agent calling. ‘Hello,’ I say as I make my way around Becker’s desk.
‘Miss Cole, Edwin Smith from Smith and Partners here.’
