Chapter 5

The next morning my phone alarm went off at seven, over an hour later than in my Frampton Gallery days, and I put on my favourite grey trouser suit with a white shirt. Did I even need to dress up in this place? Everyone had been wearing jeans and ATP fleeces when I came in for my interview, apart from my new boss, Rosalind, who wore a skirt suit. Being well dressed at work had always given me confidence, though, and as it was my first day I wanted to make a good impression. I slipped on a pair of kitten heels and grabbed my handbag, hoping the café would be open to pick up a coffee before work.

The night before, I'd been able to hear Jim moving about next door as he got ready for bed. His bedroom seemed to be next to mine and the wall was paper-thin. I'd fallen asleep quite quickly but was woken up by a fox screeching outside. After that, I lay there for a while, thoughts pushing through my mind, processing the past few months. Dad dying days before my thirtieth birthday lunch, the only time he made the effort to see me, had set wheels in motion. The cancer he'd beaten years earlier had returned, spreading to his lymph nodes, and he had only lasted a matter of weeks. When I went to say goodbye to him in hospital, he took my hand and apologised for playing such a small part in my life. Not only did I have to deal with losing him, but I was heartbroken that we'd never got to know each other as a father and daughter should.

In the car after his funeral I asked myself, what was I doing with my life? I was permanently exhausted by my high-powered job and a boyfriend who wouldn't give me answers whenever I brought up our future. It took my father dying for me to pluck up the courage to give him an ultimatum. Miles finally admitted he didn't want to have children with me. His teenage son, conceived on a one-night stand in his twenties, was enough and he wasn't prepared to give up any more of his money, time and affection.

Locking the door, I spotted a bottle of Rioja next to the step and an envelope addressed to me. Opening it, I pulled out a note from Jim.

C with an i,

Here are my keys.

And to make up for barging in, here's a bottle of Rioja, on me – or the ATP, anyway.

You missed a great night (next time).

J

I couldn't help smiling to myself. What a charmer. At least I'd have something decent to drink that evening.

I made my way to the Stables for breakfast. Walking through the rose garden in kitten heels wasn't easy as they kept catching in the gaps between the paving stones, but I was still determined to wear them. After ordering a cappuccino and a croissant, I settled at a table in the corner and lifted Mrs Field's Diary from my bag. I'd read a few chapters in bed the night before, realising I knew little about the home front during the Second World War. The diary was written as part of the Mass Observation. Audrey Field was not her real name; no one seemed to know who she really was, according to the introduction. Her words were compelling, and I found myself moved by what she and her friends and neighbours lived through. Being in Surrey, between London and the English Channel, Gatley had experienced some devastation as planes made their way back and forth, and the village had been descended upon by people evacuated from London because of the Blitz. I longed to find a mention of Gatley Hall, but hadn't found the house referred to yet. I had become completely engrossed, and didn't notice Jim pull out the chair opposite until he said, ‘Good morning, Claire,' in a chirpy voice as he sat down.

I needed a bit of time and at least one coffee before conversing with anyone in the morning, and he'd caught me before I was ready. Looking up, I saw he was dressed this time, a couple of buttons undone on his navy-blue ATP polo shirt and a matching hat bringing out the colour of his eyes. He removed the hat, which had a brim, and placed it on the table. My insides danced a little and I put it down to eating the croissant too quickly.

‘Hello, Jim,' I said.

‘What are you reading?' he asked, gently prising Mrs Field's Diary from my hands. He glanced at the front cover, then turned the book over and skimmed the blurb on the back. Raising his eyebrows, he handed it back to me.

‘Looks interesting, if that's your thing.'

‘It is, and you've lost my page now,' I said, in a mock huff, and he grinned as if delighted by my reaction. He reminded me of the boys at school who'd wind me up in the library during sixth-form study periods. ‘You work in this place but don't want to know about life here during the war?'

He shrugged. ‘Sure, a little. My grandfather fought at Dunkirk and came back in one piece, but I'm more invested in what's happening now in the countryside around us, about protecting the wildlife, and conservation, and how to stop fly-tipping on the South Downs Way.' He took a sip from his ATP reusable cup, navy blue with the logo in hot pink splashed across one side. ‘I'm happy to lead a simple life, whereas you, having worked at that stuck-up gallery in London, aren't cut out for it.'

He was probably right, but I wasn't going to let him know that.

‘Where on earth do you get that idea from?'

‘This isn't the place for a fancy suit, Claire. You need to relax a bit, adapt your wardrobe to fit in. I could take you shopping at Country Fit in Guildford with my discount card if you like?' He chuckled to himself as he buttered his toast.

Doing my best to keep a straight face, I said, ‘I'm not looking for a personal shopper, Jim. What's wrong with my suit exactly?'

‘Haven't you seen what the staff and volunteers are wearing?'

‘If I was dressed like you, my brain wouldn't work properly.'

‘My brain works perfectly well, thank you. You won't find a fleece warmer than the ATP one, and Gatley Hall has its own microclimate – you'll find it gets pretty cold round here in these winter months. And there's talk of snow before Easter. What you're wearing today isn't going to help much in that situation – it gets inches deep, and the temperature drops to well below zero. Do you even have a winter coat?'

He bit into his toast with a crunch.

‘Of course I do. How do you know so much about where I used to work, anyway?'

‘I knew about you before you even set foot in this place.'

For some reason, this gave me a warm feeling. But I did my best to hide it, suppressing a smile.

‘You did?' I said.

‘Rosalind showed me your CV, and I helped compile the shortlist.'

‘Why would a ranger be involved with my job application?'

‘As head ranger, actually, I'm part of the house management team, so involved with decisions impacting the future of Gatley Hall and its land.'

Great, so he had the power to get me sacked. Perhaps I ought to play the game with him a bit more, although the thought of being obliged to do this grated. At the Frampton Gallery I'd been part of the management team, and fairly senior too, but wasn't I here to get away from that? All the responsibility and worrying about other members of staff as well as myself had been exhausting at times.

‘Oh,' I said.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he said, ‘I read about the work you've done on those exhibitions, and that blog post you wrote about Van Gogh – you had me reading right to the end, and I'm not even into art. You're a good writer.'

His compliment was a boost, and I found myself wanting him to admire my work. Why should his opinion matter so much?

‘It was me who said you should be on the shortlist, despite being overqualified and the salary here being nowhere near what you were getting. No wonder you have all those fancy clothes.'

He threw me a look. Not only did he know what my salary was, but also how much I'd been making before. Wasn't he abusing his position a little?

‘I assumed you'd be full of yourself, especially as you are the daughter of Deborah and Dickie Bell, but it was about who could do a good job at the end of the day.' He scrunched up his napkin and dropped it onto his plate. ‘And you were the best candidate by far. You actually have me to thank as I made the deciding vote to bring you in. Some of the management team said you'd think the job was beneath you.' He lowered his voice. ‘So, you could say that you're here because of me.'

I didn't like people knowing who my parents were as they'd often assume I was spoilt and had a lot of money when the reality had been very different. My father had directed a hit film that had been nominated for an Oscar in the seventies – his only real success. Deborah had acted in it, but these days she mostly performed in pantomimes and appeared on C-list celebrity TV shows. Those first few weeks after his death had been particularly hard with Dad being in the public eye. His picture had been on the front of newspapers and his films had been shown on television along with chat show interviews going back to the 1970s. I'd watched it all with a box of tissues by my side. Jim had hit a nerve and I blinked back tears. This wasn't like me, but I was feeling especially vulnerable after recent events.

‘My, you have done your homework,' I said, struggling to mask the waver in my voice.

‘I am sorry about your dad, by the way,' he said, gently. Clearly he meant it, by the way he scratched his head and pressed his lips together. I did wish he hadn't brought up my recent loss though. It was still far too raw. He looked away. This was the first time I'd seen him appear to be uncomfortable.

Attempting to pull myself together, I inhaled. ‘And were you right in your assumption?'

‘About what?'

‘About me being full of myself.'

He shuffled in his chair. ‘You were a bit last night, but you seem to have mellowed this morning. Is it only safe to approach when you're drinking coffee?'

Now he was attempting to recover the situation.

‘You barge into my house half-naked and expect me to welcome you with open arms?'

‘Good point.' He took a phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. ‘You're not going to get me sacked for trespassing, are you?' Laughing, he leant to one side as I pretended to throw my book at him. ‘I'd better get going.' Putting on his hat, he stood up, and frowned as he picked up my disposable cardboard cup. Shaking his head before putting it down again, he said, ‘You are a bad girl.'

‘What have I done now?'

‘You need one of these,' he said, holding up his ATP cup as if he was in an advert. ‘They're complimentary for staff, I'll pick one up for you later.'

‘You've already given me a bottle of Rioja this morning.'

Putting his hands on the back of the chair and leaning towards me, he said, ‘Ah yes, but how many presents is too many?'

‘I can hardly wait,' I said.