Page 14 of Never Gonna Happen

She put her hands on her hips and forced her brain to engage. The sun was just rising in the east, so she now knew which way that was. But it had been dark when she left the house, so she had no idea which way she’d been running to start with. She thought about the day she’d come for her interview, walking through the garden and seeing the back of the house bathed in autumn sunlight at lunchtime, so that must face south. Which meant the driveway headed north, but the paths she’d taken had twisted and turned, so knowing which way was east was entirely useless. Her head felt muddled and she cursed herself for not bringing her phone.

Pull yourself together, she told herself, rationalising that the track must lead somewhere. So she turned left and jogged along it as fast as she could, hoping she’d come to a road junction or a farm or something that looked vaguely familiar. She was so busy silently berating herself for being so stupid that she didn’t notice the thing in front of her until it was huge and terrifying and about two feet from her face.

‘Jesus FUCK,’ she yelled, backing away into the crumbling wall at the edge of the track.

‘Emily?’ said a voice. She looked up in horror, realising that the huge and terrifying thing was actually the white horse she’d met in the field, which Jamie was now sitting on.

‘Oh shit, you scared me,’ she said, her heart thudding in her ears. The relief at meeting someone who could help her get home was countered with absolute mortification that it was Jamie. Literally anybody else on the planet would have been preferable. A group of angry nuns, farmers with pitchforks, the ghost of a Victorian child. Anyone but him.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, unable to meet his gaze. ‘I was out for a run but I got a bit lost. Am I going the right way?’

Jamie sat back in his saddle, clearly relieved she wasn’t hurt. ‘Yes, it’s not far. Keep going, turn left on the road at the end of the track. The gates are about half a mile up the lane on your right.’

Emily nodded, trying not to imagine what she must look like to Jamie. Red-faced, covered in mud, unwashed, bed hair stuffed into a ratty ponytail. A stupid townie who couldn’t even navigate the countryside. ‘Thanks,’ she said, edging past him and starting to sprint. She kept going and didn’t look back, blinking away tears of fury and relief and humiliation. She definitely should have stayed in bed.

Emily felt infinitely better after a shower and some breakfast, which was a mug of coffee and a slice of toast in the kitchen with Anna. Leon turned up but sat at the end of the dining table and said nothing, apparently not a morning person.

Anna didn’t say much either, other than to politely acknowledge Emily’s thanks for how nice her room looked, and to ask if Emily had everything she needed, the tone suggesting that nothing further was available so don’t bother asking. Once she’d finished eating, Emily headed back upstairs to clean her teeth and fetch her notebook. It felt strange not to wear a suit for work, but Mr Hunter had been insistent that smart casual was fine. So today she was wearing a new pair of dark jeans with her brown suede boots and a pale blue Nicola Farhi shirt. She scrutinised everything for price tickets and labels, keen to ensure nobody knew that the shirt had cost £28 in TK Maxx.

Mr Hunter’s office was just as she remembered it, apart from there now being two identical black Labradors squashed into the tartan dog bed by the window. He opened the door to a small side office that contained a desk, as well as access to a bathroom, a tiny kitchen and a windowless room with filing cabinets and a photocopier. ‘Andrea set this office up,’ he said, ‘so the way it’s organised might not suit you. Feel free to change anything you like.’

Emily glanced at the desk, which had a shiny new laptop on it. ‘I got you a new one, Andrea’s had seen better days,’ he said. ‘I’ve set it all up for you, it should be ready to go.’ Emily’s eyebrows must have betrayed her surprise, earning her a slightly caustic smile. ‘I made my money in software, Emily, I’m not a Luddite.’ She kicked herself for her overly expressive face, then filed a mental reminder to look up what a Luddite was later.

Mr Hunter gave her a tour of the filing system, showing her where all the estate records were kept along with paperwork for his various business and charity ventures. He had two sets of accountants and even more lawyers, all based in London. She scribbled shorthand notes as she started to piece together the various threads of revenue – a timber yard on the edge of the estate, tenancies for properties and farms, a wider property portfolio and various investments. The sums involved were mind-boggling; she’d never been this close to the money in any of her previous jobs, and the files felt heavy with responsibility.

Once the tour was over and Emily had established how Mr Hunter liked his coffee (black, strong, no sugar), she took her notepad and sat on the opposite side of his desk.

‘So,’ he said, ‘a lot for you to get your head around.’

Emily nodded, trying to look more confident than she felt. ‘I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ he said. ‘The good news is I’ve got estate meetings all week. I’ll be out every afternoon, so you can use the time to get your bearings. I’ve emailed my lawyers and accountants and told them to expect a call from you; they’ll help you get a clearer picture of my affairs and let you know what you can do to make their lives easier.’

Emily made more shorthand notes as Mr Hunter continued. ‘Go through the active files and my diary, make a list of any questions you have. Also find Andrea’s file for the estate Christmas party, we’ll need to talk about that tomorrow.’ She nodded and kept scribbling.

‘Let’s do a ten a.m. catch-up every day, after you’ve opened the post. Bring all your questions. Sam will give you some lunch in the kitchen at one; make sure you finish at five thirty whether I’m around to send you home or not.’

Emily nodded, remembering her first visit to Bowford Manor, when Anna had told her she’d have to make her own lunch. Apparently the kitchen rules weren’t quite so rigid after all.

‘Have you found the swimming pool yet?’ asked Mr Hunter.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘Ask Anna or Leon to show you; it’s covered and heated, so you can use it all year round. Do you play tennis?’

‘No,’ said Emily, ‘I like to run, though.’ She tried not to blush at the memory of her disastrous run that morning and hoped Jamie wouldn’t say anything. ‘And I’m a good swimmer.’ This was absolutely true; she had been a competitive swimmer at school and kept it up as much as she could through her twenties, usually in the sea at West Wittering or Bognor.

‘Well, help yourself to the pool,’ he said. ‘I can’t guarantee other members of my family won’t be in it, but it’s big enough for everyone.’

Emily nodded, wondering what she could say that might prompt Mr Hunter to talk more about his mysterious family, but her thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing on his desk. She raised her eyebrows enquiringly – should I get that? He nodded and sat back in his chair.

‘Charles Hunter’s office. How can I help?’ said Emily, quelling the jitters in her stomach. She’d answered a thousand phones in her time, this one was no different.

An angry male voice responded. ‘Put Charles on the phone, right now.’

Emily paused for a moment. ‘I’ll just see if Mr Hunter is here. Who shall I say is calling?’