Wickham Hall, Part 2 Read Online Free Page A

‘So what is it that you love?’
    â€˜Fashion.’ she said simply, lifting her curls off her neck and twisting them into a bun. ‘Vintage, retro, couture . . . I’d love to get into something a bit more edgy than the occasional wear we sell but it comes back to cash flow.’
    I nodded slowly. ‘You need to expand what you offer at Joop without lots of upfront investment.’
    â€˜Exactly. And preferably something that doesn’t involve me turning up posh boys’ trousers for the rest of my life.’
    We exchanged knowing looks, remembering Ben standing in his boxers in Joop’s fitting room.
    I drained my glass and pushed it across the table.
    â€˜I’ll get my thinking cap on, I promise,’ I said, reaching across to kiss her cheek. ‘But right now, I’ve got a date with 1984.’

Chapter 3
    The next morning I got to Wickham Hall a few minutes before nine. I paused outside our office, holding my breath to listen for sounds of Ben singing while he flung paint around the room. But all I heard was silence and when I pushed open our office door, neither Ben nor his easel were anywhere to be seen.
    The room was stuffy so after I’d dropped my pile of newspapers on Ben’s desk, I flung open the windows as far as they could go and looked across the grounds.
    And there he was.
    Beyond the tapestry of the box-edged parterres, at the very edge of the formal gardens, Ben stood at his easel painting, facing away from the hall, looking out towards the deer park.
    Without a second glance at my diary, or my to-do list, or the undoubtedly full inbox of emails, I made us both a cup of tea and fled the dim and overheated hall for the beauty of the gardens.
    I carried the mugs carefully through the gardens, inhaling the aromas of vanilla, musk, citrus and clove as I brushed past the plants that clung to every gate and archway.
    This was definitely my priority, I told myself, spotting Ben at the top of the worn stone steps; he would want to know straightaway that I’d found six years’ worth of July newspapers for him. Besides, I was curious to see what he was painting.
    He was dressed in flip-flops, T-shirt and shorts, with a paint-smeared rag hanging from his pocket, and appeared to be standing perfectly still, brush in one hand and palette of paints in the other. I cleared my throat softly as I approached, not wanting to make him jump. ‘Good morning, boss. I’ve brought you some tea.’
    Ben’s eyes turned to mine but it was as if he didn’t see me at first. Then he shook his head and smiled. ‘Blimey, what time is it?’
    â€˜Nineish.’ I handed him a mug and he smiled gratefully.
    â€˜Thanks,’ he said between slurps. ‘Ahh. Nectar. I was beginning to wither; I’ve been out here for hours.’
    â€˜You’re welcome.’ I stole a sideways glance at the canvas he was working on. ‘May I look?’
    Ben nodded and I stepped closer to the easel.
    â€˜Oh my word, Ben.’ I stared at the painting. ‘You’re actually really good!’
    He laughed and pretended to stagger backwards. ‘Finally, you appreciate my talents. Wonders will never cease, Holly Swift.’
    The painting was ninety per cent sky: pink at the bottom, streaked with fiery orange lifting to a pale silvery blue near the top. Smudges of treetops framed the base of the picture, with a sparkling flume of spray rising beyond them and evaporating in the sky. The colours were so vivid that I could almost feel the heat of the sun on my face.
    â€˜Consider me very impressed,’ I laughed, ‘that sky is amazing.’
    â€˜Do you know,’ he said, sliding a paintbrush in amongst his curls, ‘I could paint the sky every day for the rest of my life and never produce the same picture. And the dawn sky, like this one, is my favourite.’
    â€˜You were out here at dawn?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.