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Was what Charlie said true? That she didn’t have to do everything herself anymore? Could she rely on him to protect her from not only the vagaries of the publishing world, but everything else as well? Could she at last learn to allow others to care for her instead of the other way round? Let Charlie care for her?
She glanced at her reflection in the age-speckled mirror next to the front door and smiled. Her smooth, groomed, corporate exterior had vanished, and so too had the stressed-out, snippy girl who had little time for smelling the roses, as her beloved dad repeatedly warned her to do. Now her go-to reaction was serenity and a willingness to grasp opportunities – no matter how fleeting – just like the one Charlie was offering.
What was the worst that could happen?
And failing that as an excuse, she had to admit that the delicious churning in her stomach had little to do with nerves about a meeting with a high-flying London publisher. She was excited at the prospect of seeing Charlie again, of locking her eyes on his chocolate brown gaze, of watching his elegant fingers brush back the ebony spirals from his face only for them to fall back into those liquorice lashes.
‘Okay, Charlie. Give me twenty minutes to get the bicycle out.’
It only took her ten minutes to reach Somersby Manor, a mental picture of Charlie waiting for her encouraging swift progress. She slung the bicycle onto the circular lawn, shot up the stone steps and through the magnificent entrance door, skidding to an abrupt halt in the highly polished parquetreception area. She blushed when she saw the pretty, dark-haired receptionist glance briefly at her attire, but ever the professional, the young woman managed not to grimace as she welcomed her dishevelled guest.
‘Hello. Welcome to Somersby Manor. You must be …?’
‘Rosie Hamilton,’ said Rosie, her breath escaping in deep gulp. ‘I have a meeting with Charlie Wright and a publisher friend of his in the library?’
‘A meeting with Charlie Wright? No… there must be some mistake, there’s no one… Oh, you mean Charles,’ the receptionist giggled, but seeing the blank look on Rosie’s perspiring face she took pity on her. ‘Yes, of course, I’ll show you to the library.’
Rosie followed in the young woman’s sweetly fragranced wake, as she clacked her way across the grand foyer and past the sweeping mahogany staircase, feeling like the scarecrow from Farmer Thompson’s field over on the adjacent hill. She self-consciously smoothed her sweating palms over her bushy hair and straightened the collar of her Barbour.
It made no difference; she still felt like she’d been dragged through the grounds behind a tractor. She just hoped the publisher was not one of those London luvvie types and would be skilled in delving beneath the crumpled exterior. However, she gained confidence in the knowledge that Charlie was no lover of sartorial elegance himself, so she ought not to worry about her appearance.
‘Here we are. Would you like me to take your erm, your jacket?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
When Rosie pushed open the oak-panelled door, the beauty of the library momentarily stole the breath from her lungs.It was a bibliographic treasure trove. Books of all shapes and sizes were crammed onto shelves lining three sides of the room. The fourth was made up of a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the vast expanse of lawn at the front of the property, complete with upholstered seats on which to while away the hours with your chosen literary indulgence.
An aroma of furniture wax, stale cigar smoke, and nostalgia tickled her senses.
She adored books. They provided a portal into another world and the library at Somersby Manor presented a cornucopia of brightly coloured gems just waiting to be explored, to be freed from their prison on the shelf and their contents brought to life in the reader’s mind’s eye. She itched to ripple her fingertips across the protruding spines like the keys on a piano. Each book was a nugget of hidden treasure, promising an insight into new, undiscovered worlds.
‘I see, like me, you appreciate this magnificent cathedral of literature, Miss Hamilton. Charles is a lucky boy. I’m Jasper Cosgrove, by the way, pleased to meet you.’ Jasper had risen from a well-used, leather wing-backed chair by the fireside, his hand outstretched to welcome Rosie.
‘It’s good to meet you too, Mr Cosgrove.’
‘Oh, call me Jasper. I’m not one to stand on ceremony – Charles will tell you that!’
Jasper was not what Rosie had imagined at all. With a shock of auburn hair, teased into artfully gelled spikes, a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a sharply cut charcoal-grey suit, he looked more like a smooth television executive than a guy from the rarefied echelons of the literary world. He indicated the three chairs surrounding a gleaming mahogany table next to the window, a tower of identical cookery booksperched in the middle with an impressive ink pen balanced on top.
‘Shall we take a seat whilst we wait for our host to arrive?’
‘Where is Charlie?’
‘He was called to the kitchen by his mother, I think. Anyway, can I just tell you that my team are singing the praises of your aunt’sBake Yourself Bettercookery manual? I totally adore the whole concept! It’s so fresh and up-to-the-minute. I believe it will appeal to a varied readership, not only cookery enthusiasts but self-help literature addicts too, and, of course, the illustrations are masterful. I predict great things, and if the book does half as well as Charles’ new release, well, we’ll be onto another winner.’
‘Erm, sorry? Hang on a minute, Jasper. I’m a little confused here.’
Confused? That was an understatement. Bewildered, perplexed, baffled. So many questions had flown into her brain when he’d uttered the last sentence that she didn’t know which one to ask first.
‘I know entering the publishing world can be a little daunting at first, Rosie, but I’m here to guide you. And so is Charles. He’s been through the process many times, so if you have any reservations I’m certain he will be able to answer them to your satisfaction. Mead House Publishing is world renowned for the publication of a plethora of very successful books in the culinary field.’
Jasper shoved his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and peered at Rosie, clearly under the impression that her bewilderment meant she didn’t believe him.
‘Here, look.’
Jasper reached out to grab one of the brand-new tomes from the pile on the table, flipped it over to the back cover, and slid it in front of a gob-smacked Rosie. He tapped his elegant fingertip on a sharply focused image of Charlie, smiling that devastating smile of his straight into the camera lens.
Wow, thought Rosie, he scrubs up well!
