CHAPTERSIXTEEN
The estate agent’s shop on Sunnybrook High Street issandwiched between the Swan Hotel on one side and a newsagent on the other. Andas I drive along there, from my flat in the nearby village of Buntingford, I’mfeeling quite breathless with excitement.
I’m twenty minutes early for my appointment with Lois, thewoman I spoke to on the phone about renting Rose Quartz Cottage, but my plan isto park the car and have a wander around the village before going to meet her.
It’s a beautiful July morning with blue skies and a light refreshingbreeze, and as I pass the car showroom on the way in to Sunnybrook, brightsunlight is glinting off the glass, almost as if it’s beckoning me to come inside.
On impulse, I shrug and drive in.
It’s a dealership that sells high-end vehicles, all second-handbut each one a work of art. And every time I drive past, my eye is drawn to agleaming red Porsche in the window. It’s been the stuff of dreams until now...
Parking up, I walk into the showroom with a spring in mystep.
It’s amazing how much self-assurance becoming wealthy cangive you. I’m experiencing new revelations on the subject every day, many ofthem positive of course, like having financial security and being able to liveout your dreams at last. But there are clearly a few niggles you have to tusslewith as well – like feeling guilty because you have all this money and yourfriends are having to budget, and also wondering who you can trust.
I breathe in the aroma of polished, expensive interiors as Iwander around the showroom, gazing at the cars and their ‘interesting’ price tags.
I’m not here today to buy. Obviously. I’m going to be organisingan eye-wateringly large bank transfer later in order to secure Rose QuartzCottage for a year. So in this car showroom this morning, I’m simply looking. Buyingsomething on impulse is just about acceptable if you’re talking about anexpensive handbag and a pair of Swarovski crystal-encrusted Christian Louboutins.(Guilty, m’lud.) But not when the object of your desire is a classic Porsche 911that – should you be tempted to buy it – would be unlikely to give you muchchange from one hundred thousand pounds.
I’m lingering by the Porsche, gazing longingly inside at thebeautiful interior and imagining driving it away, when I straighten up and findmyself stepping back into someone behind me.
‘Well, hi, there,’ says a familiar voice.
Doug?
Instantly, I’m covered in confusion. I feel terrible becauseI’ve been ignoring his texts (he gave up after about three, presumably gettingthe message) and I’ve still no idea whether him texting that he’d like to seeme again was from a genuine desire to get to know me or from a fascination withthe lottery win...
‘Buying a car?’ he asks.
I laugh. ‘No. Just looking today. Although it’s all verytempting.’
He nods. ‘You’re right there.’
‘Are you looking to buy?’ I ask him curiously.
He laughs. ‘Oh, no. A bit out of my price range. No, I...work here.’
‘Right.’ I look at him in surprise, mainly because he looksa little awkward telling me. ‘Nice job. Being around these cars all day.’
He nods, flicking a glance over at one of the customershubs, where another salesman is talking to a potential client.
‘Actually, I need to go. Sorry. Meeting with a client,’ hesays. ‘But Mark over there will be able to help you.’ He signals over to ‘Mark’that I’m a new customer, and the man nods and smiles at me, indicating thathe’ll be with me in a moment.
I look at Doug, thinking how lovely he is and how attractive.And also thinking that I definitely shouldn’t have ignored his texts.
‘It was nice to see you again,’ he says, with a flash of thoseperfectly white teeth.
‘Yes. You, too.’ I watch him striding over to the exit, andon impulse, I hurry after him. Catching him outside, I say breathlessly, ‘Um...sorry I didn’t reply when you texted. I’ve just been so busy.’
He nods his understanding. ‘Of course, of course. Noproblem.’
‘But I’d like to do some more walking,’ I say quickly. ‘Ifthat’s what you’d like?’
‘Walking?’ He frowns.
‘Yes. You know. We found we had so many things in commonwhen we met outside the pub – including, well... walking?’I’m starting to wish the ground would swallow me up. I sound slightly unhingedand a bit desperate, and the poor guy’s obviously completely forgotten aboutour banter of the other night.
‘I know. I remember.’ He grins, putting me at ease. ‘It’sjust I was thinking maybe going for a drink might be slightly more interestingthan – er – walking?’
