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Two coffees please, Alisha, Edward Monkford says to his assistant, very politely. He gestures me and Simon toward the chairs on the other side of the table.
So tell me, he says when we’re all seated, looking straight at me and ignoring Simon, why you want to live at One Folgate Street.
No: not a schoolteacher. A headmaster, or the chairman of the board of governors. His stare is still friendly but a little bit fierce too. Which, of course, only makes him more attractive.
We’ve anticipated this question, or something like it, and I manage to get out the answer we’ve prepared, something about how much we’ll appreciate the opportunity and how we’ll try to do the house justice. Next to me, Simon glowers silently. When I’ve finished, Monkford nods politely. He looks a bit bored.
And I think it will change us, I hear myself say.
For the first time he looks interested. Change you? How?
We were burgled, I say slowly. Two men. Well, kids really. Teenagers. I can’t actually remember what happened, not the details. I’m suffering from some kind of post-traumatic shock.
He nods thoughtfully.
Encouraged, I go on: I don’t want to be the person who just stood there and let them get away with it. I want to be someone who makes decisions. Who fights back. And I think the house will help. I mean, we’re not the sort of people who would normally live that way. All those rules. But we’d like to give it a go.
Again the silence stretches on. Mentally I’m kicking myself. How can what happened to me possibly be relevant? How can the house make me a different person?
The ice-cool blonde brings the coffees. I jump up to take one and in my haste and nervousness I somehow manage to spill the cup, the whole cup, over the drawings.
Jesus, Emma, Simon hisses, jumping up too. Look what you’re doing.
I’m so sorry, I say miserably, as the brown river slowly engulfs the designs. God, I’m so sorry.
The assistant rushes out to get cloths. I can see this opportunity slipping away. That dramatic blank list of possessions, all those hopeful lies I put in the questionnaire—they’ll all count for nothing now. The last thing this man wants is a clumsy coffee-spilling oaf messing up his beautiful house.
To my surprise, Monkford only laughs. They were terrible drawings, he says. I should have ditched them weeks ago. You’ve saved me the bother.
The assistant returns with paper towels and rushes around dabbing and wiping. Alisha, you’re making it worse, Monkford says sharply. Let me.
He bundles up the drawings so the coffee’s contained on the inside, like a giant diaper. Dispose of that, he says, handing it to her.
Mate, I’m so sorry, Simon goes.
For the first time, Monkford looks directly at him.
Never apologize for someone you love, he says quietly. It makes you look like a prick.
Simon’s so stunned he says nothing. I can only gape, astonished. Nothing in Edward Monkford’s manner so far has suggested he would say anything so personal. And Simon has punched people for less—far less. But Monkford only turns back to me and says easily, Well, I’ll let you know. Thank you for coming, Emma.
There’s a brief pause before he adds, And you, Simon.
NOW: JANE
I wait in a reception area on the fourteenth floor of The Hive, watching two men argue in a glass-walled meeting room. One, I’m pretty sure, is Edward Monkford. He’s wearing the same clothes as in a photo I found on the Internet—black cashmere pullover and white open-necked shirt, his fairish curls framing a lean, ascetic face. He’s handsome: not eye-catchingly so, but he has an air of confidence and charm, with a nice lopsided smile. The other man is shouting at him, although the glass is so thick I can’t make out the words—it’s as quiet as a laboratory up here. The man gesticulates furiously, thrusting both hands under Monkford’s chin. Something about the gesture, and the man’s swarthiness, makes me think he could be Russian.
The woman standing to one side, occasionally adding an interjection of her own, could definitely be an oligarch’s wife. Much younger than her husband, dressed in gaudy Versace prints, her sleek hair dyed an expensive shade of blond. Her husband ignores her, but Monkford occasionally turns politely in her direction. When the man finally stops shouting, Monkford calmly says a few words and shakes his head. The man explodes again, even more angrily.
The immaculate brunette who checked me in comes over. “I’m afraid Edward’s still in a meeting. Can I get you anything? Some water?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I nod at the tableau in front of me. “That meeting, I take it?”
She follows my gaze. “They’re wasting their time. He won’t change it.”
“What are they arguing about?”
“The client commissioned a house when he was in a previous marriage. Now his new wife wants an Aga. To make it more cozy, she says.”
