liked nothing better than certainty; that they hated taking risks, waiting on decisions. It would just take one quick turn of the thumbscrews.
‘And the market’s very volatile, don’t forget. It could take a plunge any moment. We only need an increase in the interest rate.’
‘So you think I should accept his offer?’
Tiona feigned hesitation.
‘Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to influence your decision. It’s entirely up to you.’ She lowered her tone confidentially. ‘Let’s just say if it was me…’
Outside in the main office, Christopher Drace heard the town clock strike six and put down his pen with a sigh that was part satisfaction, part frustration. He thought, at last, that the office was running smoothly. The last three months had been fraught. He’d lost count of how many houses they’d let slip through their fingers while they sorted things out, but that had been fine by him. Better not to handle a sale at all than handle it badly. Once he’d been satisfied they could do the job properly, he’d allowed Tiona out of the door to do valuations again, and now a satisfying rash of Drace’s boards were popping up around Ludlow.
But marring this triumph were three pressing problems that he couldn’t ignore. And he had to admit he didn’t have a clue what to do about any of them. Sorting out the agency had certainly been a challenge, but it was largely a question of assessing the damage, then limiting it. There were practical solutions that could be immediately implemented. His other conundrums were more ethereal, more complicated.
His biggest concern was Zoe. For a start, he knew he wasn’t spending enough time with her. He was working a six-day week, Saturdays being the busiestfor any estate agent, and occasionally he had to work Sundays too. He tried very hard to be home by seven o’clock each night, if only to have twenty minutes with Hugo and Sebastian, who were already in their pyjamas and slippers and liked to have their bedtime drinks with him, one on each of his knees, even though Hugo was really too big. By then, Zoe would be in the kitchen, three-quarters of the way down a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. ‘We couldn’t wait!’ she would chirrup cheerfully, as if Rosemary had somehow been instrumental in its opening and subsequent consumption. Christopher knew his mother had probably had an inch in the bottom of her glass, while Zoe, judging by her glazed expression and the roses in her cheeks, had golloped the lion’s share and would rush to open another bottle for, apparently, Christopher’s benefit.
She was obviously desperately unhappy, and Christopher felt helpless. If only there had been money to do up the house, she would have been occupied. She had a good eye. But she wasn’t one for making do. Christopher didn’t like to suggest gardening. Zoe couldn’t even keep a pot of Sainsbury’s flat-leaf parsley alive. The problem was she’d been in London too long. Noise and fumes and traffic jams and crowds were the stuff of life to her. The silence at Lydbrook House unnerved her – she kept the television on all day if only for the background chatter. The unrelenting darkness at night totally freaked her. Christopher adored its comforting velvety cloak, dark as Guinness. Zoe had to have the landing light on. She would stayawake for hours, longing for the familiar background noises of traffic, sirens, car alarms and revellers on their way home to lull her into the land of nod. Eventually, she would drop off, then sit bolt upright, heart racing, when the hoot of an owl ripping her from unconsciousness would mean another two hours of agonizing insomnia.
It was such a contrast to the Zoe of only six months ago; the Zoe with the rackety social life, who rushed from the gym (twenty minutes cardio; two hours cappuccino) to girlie lunches to crucial shopping trips involving the quest for the perfect pair of boots. Then there would be hordes of small boys back for tea – as
‘And the market’s very volatile, don’t forget. It could take a plunge any moment. We only need an increase in the interest rate.’
‘So you think I should accept his offer?’
Tiona feigned hesitation.
‘Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to influence your decision. It’s entirely up to you.’ She lowered her tone confidentially. ‘Let’s just say if it was me…’
Outside in the main office, Christopher Drace heard the town clock strike six and put down his pen with a sigh that was part satisfaction, part frustration. He thought, at last, that the office was running smoothly. The last three months had been fraught. He’d lost count of how many houses they’d let slip through their fingers while they sorted things out, but that had been fine by him. Better not to handle a sale at all than handle it badly. Once he’d been satisfied they could do the job properly, he’d allowed Tiona out of the door to do valuations again, and now a satisfying rash of Drace’s boards were popping up around Ludlow.
But marring this triumph were three pressing problems that he couldn’t ignore. And he had to admit he didn’t have a clue what to do about any of them. Sorting out the agency had certainly been a challenge, but it was largely a question of assessing the damage, then limiting it. There were practical solutions that could be immediately implemented. His other conundrums were more ethereal, more complicated.
His biggest concern was Zoe. For a start, he knew he wasn’t spending enough time with her. He was working a six-day week, Saturdays being the busiestfor any estate agent, and occasionally he had to work Sundays too. He tried very hard to be home by seven o’clock each night, if only to have twenty minutes with Hugo and Sebastian, who were already in their pyjamas and slippers and liked to have their bedtime drinks with him, one on each of his knees, even though Hugo was really too big. By then, Zoe would be in the kitchen, three-quarters of the way down a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. ‘We couldn’t wait!’ she would chirrup cheerfully, as if Rosemary had somehow been instrumental in its opening and subsequent consumption. Christopher knew his mother had probably had an inch in the bottom of her glass, while Zoe, judging by her glazed expression and the roses in her cheeks, had golloped the lion’s share and would rush to open another bottle for, apparently, Christopher’s benefit.
She was obviously desperately unhappy, and Christopher felt helpless. If only there had been money to do up the house, she would have been occupied. She had a good eye. But she wasn’t one for making do. Christopher didn’t like to suggest gardening. Zoe couldn’t even keep a pot of Sainsbury’s flat-leaf parsley alive. The problem was she’d been in London too long. Noise and fumes and traffic jams and crowds were the stuff of life to her. The silence at Lydbrook House unnerved her – she kept the television on all day if only for the background chatter. The unrelenting darkness at night totally freaked her. Christopher adored its comforting velvety cloak, dark as Guinness. Zoe had to have the landing light on. She would stayawake for hours, longing for the familiar background noises of traffic, sirens, car alarms and revellers on their way home to lull her into the land of nod. Eventually, she would drop off, then sit bolt upright, heart racing, when the hoot of an owl ripping her from unconsciousness would mean another two hours of agonizing insomnia.
It was such a contrast to the Zoe of only six months ago; the Zoe with the rackety social life, who rushed from the gym (twenty minutes cardio; two hours cappuccino) to girlie lunches to crucial shopping trips involving the quest for the perfect pair of boots. Then there would be hordes of small boys back for tea – as
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