Amy Perry's Assumptions, page 15
‘Amy!’ Grace yelped. ‘Language! Think of Ken.’
Amy glanced sheepishly at her former teacher, whose strong aversion to swearing was all too familiar from her college days. He waved a hand at her in understanding that, if any occasion called for the F-word, this was probably it.
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Dave confirmed. ‘We’ve got to be out within six months.’
‘I can’t believe they can do this,’ Amy said, her voice thick with tears.
‘They can, and they are,’ Barbara sighed, ‘even though we were assured long before we retired that the house was ours until we kicked the bucket. I’ve met with Roger several times over the years, and I made sure to double-check the situation when I got my pension lump sum. With that as a deposit we could have bought somewhere smaller, on the other side of the water, maybe … We could have got a mortgage, then, while Dave was still working. We should have.’
Amy winced at Barbara’s tone, heavy with disappointment in her own judgement – judgement that, in all fairness, had probably never failed her until now. Thanks to Gran, she was also aware that most of Barb’s pension payout had been spent on helping their son, Mark, pay for university and get onto the housing ladder. It was beyond unfair that such generosity should come back to disadvantage her like this, to make her vulnerable at this point in her life.
Seeming to recover a little of her usual stoicism, Barbara said: ‘Still. Six months is much more notice than most landlords would have given us. I’ll start looking around tomorrow to see if there’s anywhere local we might be able to afford – though I don’t rate our chances.’
‘I’ll help in any way I can,’ Amy said.
‘Thank you, love,’ said Barbara, nodding. ‘Sam’s said the same. He has a few contacts that might be useful – other landowners that might have places coming up for rent.’
Amy folded her arms and scowled. She bit down on her lip in order to keep from launching into a tirade about this being the absolute least Sam could do; ranting wouldn’t help anyone, and it would only upset Barb more.
‘That’s good,’ said Grace. ‘I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can for you.’
‘Oh God, not you as well,’ Amy burst out, her temper finally fraying. ‘Am I the only one here who’s joined the dots between Barb and Dave losing their house and Sam inheriting millions of pounds? He’s the good cop to his father’s bad cop, but they’re on the same side! Sam profits from this in the end! He isn’t the good guy here – he’s just really great at handling his own PR. He’ll have everyone eating out of his hand by the time he’s the Viscount, which will no doubt facilitate some nefarious agenda he’s yet to reveal.’
‘I must confess, Amy, I think that’s a rather cynical point of view,’ Mr Bradley said softly. ‘I know you and Sam never saw eye to eye, but it seems to me he’s doing his best to be helpful in a very difficult set of circumstances.’
‘You’re all mad,’ Amy said. ‘I can’t believe any of you are standing up for him.’
‘Amy,’ Grace said, severely enough that her granddaughter felt chastened. ‘Nobody’s standing up for him. He hasn’t done anything. This is an awful situation, but it isn’t his doing. It’s Roger at the helm, just like it’s always been. I’m well aware there’s long been some issue between the two of you, but you might want to consider that we know him better than you do these days. This is the most time you’ve spent in the village since you were eighteen, after all.’
Amy looked at the kitchen floor, not wanting to meet Grace’s eyes. She sighed and scrubbed a hand over her forehead, wishing already that she hadn’t made such a show of herself.
‘It means the world that you’re in our corner, Amy,’ Barbara said, ‘but Grace is right. Sam isn’t the enemy here, so I don’t want you wading in and having another ruck with him on our behalf. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway.’
Amy nodded and swallowed hard, trying to tamp down her exasperation.
‘On the subject of rucks,’ said Grace, ‘I heard about your little disagreement after the bake sale – not at all becoming of two adults over thirty, if you ask me.’
Amy winced, wishing powerfully that Gran hadn’t brought this up.
‘I know you have your own reasons for disliking Sam,’ Grace went on, eyeing Amy in a way that made her wonder if her gran had X-ray vision, ‘but they have nothing whatsoever to do with this. Promise me you’re not going to try taking him to task or screeching him into submission. I believe him when he says he’s already doing everything he can.’
‘Fine,’ Amy said tonelessly, struggling not to launch into a rage-fuelled explanation of how she knew first-hand that what Sam said didn’t always have much bearing on what he did. ‘I promise.’
Mr Bradley cleared his throat. ‘How about that tea then?’
‘Forget it, Ken,’ Grace told him, sounding suddenly exhausted. She got up from the table to grope in the old dark-wood drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘I don’t know about everyone else, but I could certainly do with something stronger.’
‘Right,’ Ken said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a series of short cut-glass tumblers.
‘Make ours doubles,’ Barbara said, tipping her head towards her husband.
‘Mine too, please,’ Amy said, nodding in sympathy – though she already knew that no amount of strong booze, even at this tender hour of the day, would wash away the bitter, fiery taste of her own anger.
Chapter 14
By the following Wednesday afternoon, Amy thought she’d done a fairly good job of simmering down. Work had been a welcome distraction from thoughts of Barbara’s devastation and Sam’s involvement in it, and it was easy to sink into her emails, submissions pile and to-do list now that she felt like she was making progress with them.
She’d already signed several authors for Howard-Knight’s new imprint, and found herself genuinely excited about publishing their stories; while all were about love in one form or another, they were far from a homogenous mass. Some were gritty, some were sad and others were funny, while several tackled issues such as racism, poverty and homophobia. In addition, the writers she’d be working with were ethnically, culturally and socially diverse – far more so than was usual for H-K.
Carolyn was thrilled with how things were shaping up, and to her own surprise Amy felt proud of what she’d accomplished. Between them, they’d decided to name the new imprint ‘Torch’ – in honour of the many flaming emotions the characters in its stories would feel, but also in celebration of its mission: to publish smart, modern, illuminating women’s fiction.
According to Kit, Carolyn had made a point of shouting about Amy’s successes so far at H-K’s latest company meeting, much to the annoyance of Hugh. ‘Caro is singing your praises,’ Kit had live-texted her. ‘Hugh looks bloody LIVID – like someone just keyed his car.’
Amy had also managed to obtain several important sponsors for Torch’s launch event: a local up-and-coming gin distillery that would donate cocktails, a catering firm prepared to provide a luxury dessert cart, and a tea company that had offered hundreds of flavoured infusions for free, provided their name was on the recyclable cups it was served in.
In addition, all the new authors Amy had signed were happy to attend the party and take part in a group Q&A, and Amy was hopeful that if she could get a contract in place, Philippa Fotheringham would be willing to come on board too. There was plenty more still to organise, but it was a decent start.
Amy’s main, niggling worry was where on earth they’d hold the event – she’d had little interest from the hotels and conference centres she’d contacted, probably on account of her shoestring budget. She was going to have to raise it with Carolyn on their catch-up call tomorrow, and was already bracing herself for a dismissive ‘just get it sorted’ reaction to any plea for assistance.
As she checked her emails one last time and closed her laptop – logging off at 5.30 on the dot for a change – her phone pinged with a notification. She’d been added to a WhatsApp group: Rowton Readers. This was good timing – Amy was heading to her first book club meeting tonight, so if she needed to bring anything other than herself and a willingness to chat about And So We Meet Again, now was the time to find out what.
Nisha: Everyone, can we please welcome PUBLISHING PROFESSIONAL Amy to the group! She’ll be joining us tonight for the first time and I for one am EXCITED
Bless Nisha, she was lovely. But also, cringe.
There followed a flurry of messages from numbers Amy didn’t recognise, but which came from WhatsApp profiles that thankfully had names attached.
Megan A: Welcome Amy! x
Kenneth Bradley: Welcome Amy.
Si Smith: Really looking forward to seeing you Amy! Xx
Eek. The postman’s enthusiasm for her company made Amy nervous, but before she could dwell on it another new message arrived.
Sam: Hi.
What fresh hell was this? Sam was in the book club?
Amy racked her brain, trying to remember whether anyone had mentioned it before.
She drew a blank, then instantly began berating herself for not having asked – for not having thought of this on her own. Of course Sam would be in any local group that was dedicated to reading. Not only was he apparently on a mission to seem as involved as possible in every community initiative Rowton’s residents could think up – he was also, or at least had been, a true lover of stories.
Despite being a ‘publishing professional’, Amy had met few people in her life who seemed to adore novels, plays and poetry in the same way she did. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that Sam was one of them.
Before she could start feeling warm or sentimental about his love of literature, however, she reminded herself how irritating she’d found watching him tote The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists around college. She’d accused him of vapid preening on the fourth or fifth day he brought it in, only for him to launch into a well-informed sermon on why George Orwell had been right about its status as a classic.
This had annoyed her all the more, and the conversation had descended into trivial sniping until Hari broke it up by threatening to withdraw lift privileges. He’d passed his driving test by this time and had begun taking the three of them – the only Rowton residents who attended – to sixth form every day. The thought of having to catch the bus to Stratford-upon-Avon at the crack of dawn each morning was enough to silence both Amy and Sam. As she recalled, this wasn’t the last time Hari had held the prospect of a return to public transport over them in order to break up an argument.
Gah.
Could she get out of tonight somehow? Perhaps she could fabricate a work-related excuse … But Nisha would be beyond disappointed if Amy didn’t turn up. She’d gone out of her way to befriend Amy, and her febrile adoration of Philippa Fotheringham – as well as Amy’s personal knowledge of the author – meant this was a meeting she’d been looking forward to all week.
Amy gritted her teeth and tapped out a message.
Amy: Hi all, thanks again for inviting me! Looking forward to it x
Nisha: Just a reminder, too – we’re not at the pub tonight
Oh …?
Nisha is typing …
Nisha: There’s a large private party in & the bar is closed – so Sam has v. kindly offered to host us at Rowton Hall. Ideal setting for discussion of Lady Sarah and Thomas, right?!
Shit.
Just when Amy had written the evening off as likely to be unpleasant, Nisha had to go and prove her wrong. It was going to be excruciating.
Amy had sat in the grounds of Rowton Hall many times, typically without permission. However, she’d never set foot in the house itself – and unlike most people around here, she’d never had any desire to.
It was a huge, imposing structure made of sand-coloured stone, symmetrical and elegant in the way of most Regency mansions. Its array of vast sash windows glittered in the late-evening sunlight as she approached, each one as tall and wide as a standard doorway would be in a normal home. Two neoclassical columns stood on either side of the property’s entrance, and a further four decorated its frontage, holding up a large triangular frame that featured the Waverley coat of arms.
It was beautiful, but Amy reminded herself that she’d long ago resolved not to be impressed by it. A vague feeling of intimidation, however, was harder to banish. The sheer scale of the place made her feel even smaller than usual, and – although it was odious – the sense that someone like her didn’t belong in a place like this hung on her like the smell of old cigarette smoke.
When Amy got nearer, she saw that Sam was standing in the doorway ready to greet people and direct them inside. It took an effort to keep her feet moving in his direction when everything in her was vying to turn back, go home and bury her head in Unforgettable You, another Philippa Fotheringham book. The more of them she read, Amy had told herself, the better: a strong knowledge of the author’s back catalogue could only help with getting her to sign a deal.
As she drew closer to Sam, Amy thought she detected a stiffening in his shoulders – but it vanished before she could be sure, any tension she might have imagined replaced by his usual easy grace. He was wearing jeans and a pale blue cotton shirt – slightly oversized, with the sleeves pushed up. He looked precisely as you’d expect an off-duty aristo to look: confident and polished in an understated sort of way. His hair was slightly too long, and tousled in a manner that implied he – or someone else – had spent the afternoon clawing at it.
‘Amy,’ he said when she was finally standing in front of him.
‘The very same,’ she said drily.
They remained still for a few awkward seconds, looking at one another as though fearful that a wrong move might prematurely inflame hostilities.
‘Am I allowed in?’ Amy asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Of course,’ Sam replied, briefly shaking his head and then stepping aside. ‘Apologies. Long day. I think that’s everyone now you’re here, so I’ll show you to the drawing room.’
The drawing room. Good lord. Imagine having so much living space in your home that you had to give all the rooms with sofas and armchairs different names. Parlour. Sitting room. Morning room. Smoking room. Amy was certain Rowton Hall had them all.
Sam led her into an entrance hall that could only be described as … Well. Stunning. It was wide and high-ceilinged, and the floor was tiled black and white with alternating slabs of what Amy thought must be marble, arranged in a simple pattern that highlighted their smooth gleam. The walls were of the same bare stone as the building itself, but decorated with gilt lamps and priceless artwork in heavy, ornate frames.
Amy’s eyes were drawn inexorably inwards, towards a broad staircase that led up to a round arch. Through this she could see a chandelier, a bust set atop a red marble plinth and the outline of yet more stairs. There was a landing that jutted from the upper floor into the hallway, delicately suspended above it. The mezzanine was edged with wrought-metal railings painted old gold, their rich colour illuminated by the light spilling in through the massive windows that sat behind it. When Amy looked up at the ceiling – every inch of which was decorated with a mural featuring creamy-skinned Adonises and ample-bosomed women – her breath caught in her throat. Damn it. She hated that she was wowed by this.
She swallowed, forcing herself to remember that the extravagance of these surroundings was apparently maintained by periodically turfing villagers out of homes they’d rented for decades, or selling out business premises from beneath hard-working people like Jed.
Since that afternoon in Gran’s kitchen, she’d discovered the extent of Roger Ainsworth’s ‘asset liquidation’ and the depth of Rowton residents’ antipathy to him. Determined that the Hall would never end up in the hands of the National Trust, he’d spent years impoverishing the wider estate in favour of investing in the house – so much so that he’d been dubbed ‘the Vampire Viscount’ by one local blogger. Furthermore, Roger was insistent that Rowton Hall must remain a private home – never open to the public and not available to commoners for functions such as conferences or weddings, which might have brought in vital income. This position seemed to sum up his selfishness and snobbery, and made it all the more remarkable that people were willing to give Sam – and apparently his sister – the benefit of the doubt.
Amy and Sam made their way up the stairs and along a corridor in silence, their feet barely making a sound on the thick oriental runner beneath them. Sam led her through a pair of dark-wood double doors into the drawing room – another impressive space with rich decoration and lavish furnishings, though not particularly tasteful in Amy’s opinion. This part of the house was doubtless among those the senior Ainsworths had renovated to their own liking.
The walls were adorned with paper in a bold carmine shade, its metallic fleur-de-lis pattern glinting in the sun that came through the sashes. Heavy swags of burgundy velvet framed the windows, and the huge but rather uncomfortable-looking sofas were covered in the same fabric. Elsewhere, the mahogany wood and oxblood leather of the remaining furniture combined with the room’s general redness to make Amy feel almost oppressed. Once the doors closed, she could almost believe she’d been swallowed – gobbled down into the greedy belly of some hostile beast.
‘Amy!’ Nisha cried, the second she walked into the room. She patted the space next to her on a two-seater Chesterfield and Amy duly sat down, her stomach squirming like a bag of angry snakes. She shucked off her denim jacket and put her tote bag between her feet.
‘Have you met everyone before, or should we do introductions?’ Nisha asked.
‘I think I know everyone already,’ Amy replied, looking around the room. Mr Bradley was here, perched in a high-backed armchair, though Gran had declined to come along this evening in favour of relaxing with Bertie, Miss Marple and a new box of After Eights. Simon was sitting next to Barbara and Dave on one of the velvet couches; Dave looked very much as though he’d been dragged here against his will. In another chair – the oldest, squishiest-looking one in the room – sat Meg. She smiled at Amy tentatively, but with sincere warmth.
