Unbound (6 page)

I enter hesitantly and look around. It looks bare and not as lively as the hallway, with its posters and books, but that’s hardly surprising. “Has the room been empty for a while?,” I ask.

“For just over a month,” Marcus replies. “Claire, who used to live here, moved back to Edinburgh. She worked for Huntington Ventures too, in the press department. It was a good job, actually, but she found something else. It was rather sudden. She had paid her rent for the month, and we just haven’t got around to looking for a new roommate.”

I’m shocked by the news. So the woman from the press department Annie was talking about earlier was not just a colleague but also a friend? Is that why Annie was so insistent when she warned me about Jonathan Huntington? What does she know about him that she’s not telling me?

“Is anything wrong?” Marcus asks. He looks concerned and I smile quickly, so as not to let on.

“No, no,” I reassure him and go back into the hallway.

Marcus points out three more doors, without opening them to show me the rooms behind them. “That’s my territory, Ian lives over there, and that’s the boss’s residence.” He says it affectionately. You can tell that the two of them get along well. “And here,” he opens the door next to my room “is the bathroom.”

It’s not particularly big and it’s in urgent need of renovation but it’s got everything you might need and it’s clean—a bathtub with separate taps, which looks pretty antiquated, a rather worn shower curtain, a toilet, and various cabinets. Some of the cabinets are open and contain an impressive collection of men’s and women’s toiletries. There are also several stacks of towels of every color, clearly thrown together from various people’s belongings. A colorful beach towel, still wet, is hanging over the edge of the bathtub to dry. There’s a large picture on the wall opposite the bathtub, showing the sea at sunset. “And now we reach the heart of our kingdom, the kitchen,” Marcus continues, walking on to the end of the hallway, which leads to a large bright room with a kitchenette. It’s not a designer kitchen—it doesn’t even have a proper countertop. It’s just a few old closets, an oven, which is clearly pretty old, a large stainless steel fridge, which looks very modern and doesn’t go with anything else, a wooden table with chairs, and a bench by the window.

Another young man is standing at the stove with Annie. The two of them have their arms round each other and he’s whispering something in her ear, which is making her laugh. The sight of them astonishes me. Annie didn’t tell me that she was with one of the boys from the apartment, but you can tell she is, just from the way they look at each other, all starry-eyed.

When they see us coming, they separate and the young man turns to me, smiling. I examine him closely, curious. He’s shorter than Marcus, with a wiry appearance. He has long blond hair tied into a ponytail. There are various piercings along his left ear and, where the T-shirt isn’t covering his skin, I can see tattoos on his arms and on part of his neck.

“Hello, I’m Ian,” he introduces himself, wiping his hand on a tea towel before holding it out to me. His handshake is firm. “Annie told me that you’re going to be a refugee here for the night.” He sounds like he has a Scottish accent, which I find funny. He seems to be a real character, in fact—unique.

“That smells delicious,” I say, pointing to the pots he’s stirring.

“It’s my speciality: curry à la Ian. Go ahead and sit down, it’s almost ready. Marcus, can you open the wine? The bottle’s over there.”

Marcus tackles his task of opening the bottle of red wine, which is on the sideboard. I side down next to Annie, who’s sitting on the bench at the kitchen table, leafing through a newspaper.

“Well, do you like your room?” she inquires.

I nod but I’m still worrying about the question I can’t seem to get out of my head. “Annie, why didn’t you tell me that the woman from the press department, the one you told me about this morning, was a friend of yours?”

Annie puts the paper away. “Because she wasn’t, that’s why. We lived here together, and she was nice, but I could never really understand her.”

“Because she fell in love with Jonathan Huntington?”

“Yes, that too.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-seven. Someone Ian knew. She came from Edinburgh and she’s gone back there now. She had such a great job here, a real career opportunity. And she gave it up because …” She breaks off.

“Because what?”

“Because she couldn’t get that man. Because he …oh, I don’t know. Listen, she didn’t tell anyone exactly what happened but I can tell you one thing: there’s something wrong with Jonathan Huntington. So, as I said before, for the last time, stop thinking about him!”

“I’m not. Not at all,” I hurriedly defend myself.

“So why don’t you just let it go then?”

She’s right. But somehow, I just can’t.

“Do you think it has something to do with his being an aristocrat?”

This makes Annie laugh. “Because all English aristocrats are a bit eccentric? Grace, you’ve seen too many films. That really has nothing to do with it. Besides, he’s not an aristocrat at all. He’ll be the next Earl of Lockwood when his father dies. But right now his father is still the Earl and resides at Lockwood Manor in all its glory. Lockwood is a stately home south of here, on the southern coast. Our boss will inherit all of that, together with a seat in the House of Lords, but he won’t actually become a member of the aristocracy till the old Earl departs this life. Viscount is just a courtesy title they give the oldest son, and Jonathan Huntington is actually still a commoner—an ordinary person, like you and me. For now, at least.”

“I had no idea.” I’m horrified to remember that I addressed him as sir at the airport. God, I made such a fool of myself.

Annie grins. “You might as well forget it again. Because if you addressed him as Lord Huntington–you could, if you wanted, it would be correct–he’d probably just give you a dirty look. He has a right to that title but that’s not important to him. And now I don’t want to talk about Jonathan Huntington anymore, OK? Our last roommate was already obsessed with him–don’t you start too.” She gives me a nudge and smiles. “Why don’t you enjoy Ian’s excellent food instead? He runs a tattoo parlour a little further down the street and has so much to do that he hardly ever has time to cook.”

We each take a glass of wine from Marcus and, shortly afterward, when Ian puts the steaming plates of fantastic-smelling curry on the table, I really do manage to stop thinking about Jonathan Huntington for a while. I’m enjoying the relaxed atmosphere in the kitchen. Ian is telling funny stories from his tattoo parlor and, of course, Marcus wants to know exactly where I’m from. I like finally not being the only non-English person there, and I’m enjoying his familiar accent. And the more times I tell the story of my landlord—the others can’t seem to hear it often enough and they find it funny every time—the more I am able to laugh about it myself.

At some point, I’m full, a little drunk, and so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open. I call Hope one more time because I promised her I would, and tell her about my bad luck and how happily it’s all turned out. Then I say good night to the others, who are still sitting in the kitchen, and go to bed. When I come out of the bathroom, I discover that Annie has already made my bed and I’m so grateful to her that she has become about my favorite person here. I have just enough strength to get my nightgown out of my suitcase, pull it over my head, and slip under the covers.

Although I imagine I would fall asleep right away, despite my completely exhausted body, my head keeps running, replaying the images from the exciting day I’ve had. And always lingering over one particular image. Darn it! Annie’s right, I have got to stop constantly thinking about Jonathan Huntington. I’m going to see him a few more times at most, from a distance. He has nothing to do with my life. So forget him, Grace!

He’s a future earl, with a seat in the House of Lords; who grew up in a stately home. As if his wealth and the company and everything else weren’t enough already. We are worlds apart. So tomorrow I’m finally going to start being sensible, I’m not going to think about him anymore, I’m going to focus on my work. That’s my last thought before sleep overcomes me.

“Are you serious?” I’m staring at Annie, as the subway, which is called the Tube here, hurtles over a switch and we are shaken through and through. It’s half past seven in the morning and the subway car is full of people like us who all want to get to the city and to work on time. We have to stand, holding on to the bar above our heads.

“Would I have suggested it otherwise?” Annie grins. “The boys and I discussed it, after you’d already gone to bed, and we were all in favour.” She winks at me. “Especially Marcus. I think you’ve made an especially lasting impression on him.”

“That’s so nice of you.” I still can’t believe my luck. I can stay at the apartment for the whole of my internship! That’s the offer Annie’s just made me and I’m so happy, I could kiss her. I woke up this morning dreading the prospect of looking for a place to stay. “I’ll start paying rent right away,” I explain resolutely.

Annie waves the suggestion away. “We’ll see about that. First you’re going to have to cope with the loss of your three hundred pounds. Speaking of which, we can go to the police after work today and report it, if you like. Who knows, perhaps they can get the guy.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” I answer, even though I’m secretly no longer at all sad that the Whitechapel apartment didn’t work out. The alternative is so much better! I don’t have to spend my evenings sitting by myself in a lonely apartment. Instead, I can spend my time with three really nice people. I’ve found a real home in this foreign city and that’s a great feeling. Everything could have worked out so differently.

We walk from Moorgate tube station to the Huntington Building by London Wall. It’s a magnificent day again: the sky is blue and cloudless, reflecting my current state of mind. On the way up in the ‘lift’, Annie explains which departments are situated on which floors.

“And which is the management floor?” The question slips out before I have time to think about it.

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re starting that again.”

“I just want to know,” I defend myself and Annie gives in. She points to the top of the strip of buttons. “Right at the top. There’s a fantastic view of the city from there.”

The doors open onto the fourth floor and we go down the department hallway again. But we don’t get as far as our offices because, as we’re passing the secretary’s office, Veronica Hetchfield stops us.

“Just a moment, Miss Lawson. The boss just called. He wants to speak to you.”

I literally freeze. The boss? Then I realize that she must mean the Head of Department. “Thanks,” I say, and start to move off, in the direction of Clive Renshaw’s office. But she stops me.

“Wrong direction. Mr. Huntington’s office is upstairs.”

I swallow so hard it almost hurts. “Mr. Huntington?” I repeat hoarsely. “You mean, Mr. Huntington is the boss?”

She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Exactly. Mr. Huntington is the boss,” she repeats and I realize what a stupid question that was.

“I mean, so he’s the one who wants to speak with me?”

“That’s what he said when he called just now.” She makes an impatient hand gesture. “Go on then, don’t keep him waiting. He hates that.”

Annie, who’s still standing next to me, opens her eyes wide. Veronica also seems to find the fact that I’ve already been summoned to the management floor on my second day unusual. She’s examining me closely, which only makes me even more nervous.

Well, OK then. I give Annie my purse and my light summer coat, and then I turn back to the same elevator we just got out of. I can feel my heart in my throat.

“Go right up to the top, they have their own reception. The secretary will take you to him,” Annie calls after me, and I nod at her over my shoulder, smiling uneasily, and then set off.

The elevator takes an agonizingly long time to get to the top floor and when the doors open, I’m amazed to find myself stepping into the power hub of Huntington Ventures. Wow. The lobby is enormous and, just like everywhere else in the building; the outer walls are made of floor-to-ceiling glass, which really does give you a breathtaking view of the city. It’s silent here because the soft carpet seems to swallow every sound. Including those I make as I walk on it, past two expensive designer chairs arranged in the middle of the room, between the four doors and obviously meant for waiting visitors. These doors aren’t made of glass, as they are on the lower floors, and don’t let you see what’s behind them.

An attractive dark-haired woman looks up as I approach, and smiles at me.

“Ah, Miss Lawson,” she says, as if I’d been here a hundred times before, and stands up. “Mr. Huntington is waiting for you.”

She comes around the desk and goes toward the door on the far right. Her sapphire-blue suit looks expensive and very elegant, and I am suddenly conscious that I can’t begin to compete with her, as far as fashion sense is concerned.

I’ve swapped yesterday’s black look for a light-colored skirt and a pale green blouse. Standing in front of my suitcase–which I haven’t unpacked yet–this morning, I remembered what Hope said and looked for the most spring-like thing I could find.

I smooth my tight skirt down nervously. Now I wish I hadn’t. The green skirt isn’t anything as bright as the blue one the receptionist is wearing. Quite the contrary; it seems really boring by contrast. I look down at myself quickly and undo another button on my blouse. Now you can see the lacy edge of my slip, and I feel a bit more attractive.

The woman opens the door and tells someone inside that I’m here. She nods to me to go into the room and I do so hesitantly. As soon as I’m through the door, it closes behind me and I’m alone—with the boss.

Jonathan Huntington is sitting at a broad, elegantly curved wooden desk with a beautiful sheen at the end of a long room, as big as the conference room downstairs we sat in yesterday—no, bigger. There is a seating corner with brandy-colored leather couches on my right and light-colored wall cupboards, which go with the timeless and minimalist, but probably very expensive, decor. The wall behind the desk is completely made of glass. I could see London’s magnificent skyline beyond.