LITMIR.BIZ

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out of her cleavage.

      ‘Got to be better than falling on him,’ said Jane, staring at the screen. ‘Golly, it says here that he’s only thirty-five.’

      Lizzie peered at the image and winced. ‘Maybe that’s in dog years or maybe in a universe far, far away. You’d think he’d get something done about his teeth.’

      ‘Possibly get some? Whichever way you look at it, gummy is not a hot look, is it?’

      ‘How long are you going to spend checking the stock?’ asked Lizzie.

      ‘Long as it takes. It’s dirty work but someone’s got to do it. Why? Oh, look, he’s not bad.’

      ‘I’m hungry. I was going to suggest we rang for a takeaway.’ Lizzie picked up a menu from the desk. ‘Oh, have you had a chance to look through the email that Lucy was so worried about?’

      Jane nodded. ‘I’ve had a quick flick through the file before you got here, but I can’t see anything she would want, or worry about. Although there were several veiled threats regarding the amount of coloured copier paper we were using.’

      Lizzie shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, she is weird. Oh, he’s nice—there, the one in the middle without a squint.’

      ‘I’m supposed to be going through all this lot so I’m up to speed on the kind of things Jayne is involved in.’ Jane nodded towards a pile of box files and two ring binders on the sofa. ‘I’ve got those to plough through and then the websites. I’m just hoping that there isn’t going to be a test at the end.’

      ‘So what else have you looked at so far?’

      Jane grinned. ‘Younger men, older men. I haven’t got as far as the rugs and curtains, and dinners delivered in dry ice yet.’

      ‘And are you really going to move into her house then?’

      ‘Jayne’s? I’m not sure. It makes sense. All the business stuff is over there in her office, but it feels odd moving into a house full of someone else’s things. Like camping out. Mind you, you should see it—it’s like something off Grand Designs-low lighting, good furniture, acres of bare boards and wonderful rugs—the odd sculpture here, original painting there—lots of natural fibres. I don’t think I’d be able to relax in case I spilled something. Or one of the cats threw up on the Berber kelims. Although I have to say cruising around in a soft-top Mercedes has a certain appeal.’

      Lizzie considered the idea for a few minutes. ‘You get someone to clean, cook and all that stuff too?’

      Jane nodded. ‘Uh-huh. He’s small, oriental, sort of dangerous-looking in an underplayed kung fu way, and called Gary. Did you ever see that film with Peter Sellers—Inspector Clouseau?’

      ‘I think you should give it a try. I’m sharing a house at the moment and it’s driving me mad. The idea of someone else clearing up behind me and the animals I live with sounds like heaven. And I could always come and live here while you’re away if you wanted. Mind the fort for you.’

      Jane looked at her. ‘Really?’

      ‘Why not? Why risk Boris or Milo hocking up a fur ball on a priceless rug? It would be brilliant. I could feed the cats, water the plants. And I’d pay you rent.’ Lizzie was warming to the idea.

      ‘And you could always do a little window-shopping on Natural-Born_Romantics if you got bored.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘I don’t see why not. Feel free to take the tour—oh, and you could feed Gladstone.’

      Lizzie sniffed. ‘Oh God, do I have to? He was fishing something out of the skip when I got here.’

      ‘I know—such activities are part of his natural charm. Besides, if you don’t he just grazes through the leftovers in your dustbin, which is far worse, trust me.’

      Lizzie pulled a face. ‘That is just so gross. Which reminds me, did I mention Mrs Findlay is planning to get in touch? She said she was hoping that you’d still be coming back and letting Lucy shadow you for a few weeks.’

      ‘Don’t you mean stalk?’ said Jane, helping herself to a biscuit.

      Meanwhile, in her flat in Buckbourne Lucy Stroud was in the bath, in a face pack, shaving her legs, waiting for Steve Burney to pop by for his regular Wednesday evening visit. She’d got a big pot of Greek yoghurt, a punnet of raspberries and a pair of handcuffs on standby. She would have liked to talk to him about Jane Mills but decided she might wait until after the main event.

      In Creswell Close Jayne Mills, accompanied by Augustus, had been up in the loft looking for her old rucksack. She knew that she’d seen it somewhere; whenever she moved house it came with her like a touchstone. The night was as black as ink through the dormer windows, the stars like fishscales in a dark ocean. Jayne opened the floor-to-ceiling cupboards, eyes wandering along the rails of clothes, across the shelves, past winter coats, boxes of books, her record collection, lampshades and things stored and saved just in case. In one cupboard was a pile of cartons stuck down with brown tape and carefully labelled ‘Store/Sentimental’. Each label was topped with a big red stick-on heart.

      Jayne smiled and lifted the top one down. Inside the box was a photo album covered in battered fawn leatherette, labelled ‘1980-83’. Tucked inside the cover were all sorts of letters and cards and tickets and things she had completely forgotten about. Very carefully Jayne carried everything downstairs to the sitting room, poured herself a large gin and tonic, and settled down on the sofa. Augustus took his cue, curled up in the box lid, and went to sleep, purring softly.

      On the first page, sitting on a rucksack almost as big as she was, was a younger, leaner, far skinnier Jayne Mills wearing cut-off jeans, hiking boots, a long-sleeved paisley T-shirt and a toothy grin that stretched from one ear to the other. The caption, written in big bold rounded handwriting, read, ‘Finally—we’re off!!’

      Jayne felt a lump in her throat and turned the page. It was going to be a long night.

      Bright and early the following Monday morning Jane Mills pressed the call button on the security panel below an elegant brass plaque that read, ‘Waterside House. J. Mills Enterprises’.

      ‘Hi, it’s Jane Mills here,’ she said into the speaker. Looking up into the single unblinking eye of the CCTV camera Jane smiled brightly to hide a flicker of nerves. She had spent Wednesday, Thursday and Friday reading and taking notes from the websites and box files and Googling up on Jayne Mills’ business style and practice. Intuitive, perceptive, hands-on, and robust with a good management philosophy seemed to be the general consensus. Saturday and Sunday she had pined for Steve Burney, his cooking, his company and his bloody Labrador.

      Jane squared her shoulders. Intuitive, perceptive, hands-on—she could do that. Jane had decided on her suit today—it seemed right.

      There was a little whirr and then the heavy plate-glass door silently glided open. Jane stepped into the elegant flag-stoned foyer of the converted granary, with its view out over the canal. It was only a few minutes’ walk from Buckbourne town centre and full of original features, soft red brick and oak beams mellow with age. It was hard not to be impressed.

      Seconds later, Ray Jacobson, dressed in a white polo shirt, penny loafers and faded blue jeans, jogged down the steps to meet her, looking as if he was fresh out of the shower. ‘Hi, morning. Did you find us OK?’ he said. He looked younger out of his suit, and today was all smiles and warm handshakes. ‘Come on up, great to see you, coffee’s on.’

      ‘I can smell it. I’ve never noticed this place before.’

      ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Tucked out of the way but still really central.’ Ray, guided Jane inside. ‘One of Jayne’s bright ideas. She bought it as a shell a few years ago. The ground floor we rent out to a whole range of alternative practitioners. The first floor is mostly offices for Jayne’s business interests, and then I use the top-floor flat when I’m in town. Takes working from home to a whole new level.

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