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“Isla Harding?”
Hearing my name, I turn and see a stunningly beautiful woman under an umbrella, leaning against a big black Range Rover parked behind me on the street.
“Yes?” Walking forward, I pull up the collar of my coat.
“Can we talk?”
“Now?”
She smiles. “Coffee shop on the corner?”
“What’s this about?”
“A job,” she says and snaps her brolly down, shakes it out, climbs back into the Range Rover and drives off.
Leaving me no choice but to climb into my own car, I start the engine of the little Micra and blast the heater, shivering in my damp coat.
Wondering if I should even bother with complying to the rather rude request, I dither. I’m hired by an agency, so someone coming up to me on the street is a bit weird, but I can’t say that I’m not intrigued. I’ve never seen this woman before, so I’m guessing she's a relative of someone who needs assistance.
Knowing I should go through the agency, I decide to meet her anyway. That way, I can tell her. She obviously doesn’t realise this is the way I work.
Setting off, I drive the short distance to the coffee shop and pull up in a tiny space that was miraculously waiting for me. The Range Rover is already here, parked a bit away from the coffee shop, so I draw in a deep breath and rush inside out of the increasingly bad rain.
“Here!” The woman raises her hand, as if I couldn’t pick her up out of a lineup. She is stunning. The exact opposite of me, she is dark-haired, blue-eyed and stick thin to my blonde, green-eyed, curvaceous self.
“Hello,” I murmur, sitting down. “Before you say anything else, I work for the Greenberg's agency. You really need to go through them if you require my services.”
“No, I know that, but this isn’t a regular offer, Isla. Is it okay if I call you Isla? Such a pretty name.”
“Who’s doing the calling?” I ask.
She smiles slowly. “Forgive me. Sophia Richardson.”
Richardson.
I can’t think of any Richardsons in the village, but maybe someone escaped me.
“Okay, Sophia. What is this about, then?”
“I want to hire you permanently onto my staff, so you would need to leave the agency. I will pay you directly.”
“To do what?” She is making me nervous. This is all a bit intense and weird.
Silently, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a brown A4 envelope. “Before I can tell you anything, you will need to sign this.”
“What is it?” Frowning, I take the envelope from her and pull out the document.
“It’s an NDA.”
“A what?”
“A non-disclosure agreement. It means anything I tell you, or that you see or overhear, or read remains confidential at all times, or you will face a trip to court and a fine of several million pounds.”
“What?” Gaping at her, assuming she is joking, I can see she is not. Her face is set into deadly serious mode, and my hands start to shake. “Several million pounds? I—I… that’s insane.”
“That is how serious this is.”
“I would never in a million years be able to pay that back anyway, so what’s the point?”
