The Swan Hotel was originally a sixteenth-century building. The tar-blackened timber of its frontage proudly proclaimed that fact, as did the small leaded windows and the cantilevered second storey that overhung the entrance porch. The hotel had been privately run for many years until, eventually, the economic climate had taken its toll and The Swan passed inevitably into the hands of a hotel chain. Despite this unwelcome change, it stuck to its high standards. Many of the experienced staff were retained and the hotel continued to run smoothly and efficiently. It was the best hotel for miles around, and Petworth itself was a pleasant, if rather anonymous, town.
All good reasons, Duncan Brodie had reasoned, for booking a few extra days and taking time to ponder the wisdom of his decision. He glanced at his Rolex, tutted, picked up his phone and glasses, closed his bedroom door carefully behind him, and made his way to the lounge.
She was waiting for him by the fireplace, reclining on a two-seater settee beneath a portrait of Capability Brown – in honour, Brodie supposed, of the famous gardener’s contribution to the landscaped vistas of nearby Petworth House. As Brodie approached he was struck by two things: first her sheer beauty, and second, the stroke of favourable providence that had brought them together.
‘Hi.’ She greeted him with her perfect smile.
‘Hello yourself,’ Brodie said, bending to kiss her on the lips. As he did so he kept his face close to hers for a moment, allowing her features to fill his eyes. He recalled Dudley Moore’s film, simply entitled ‘10’, the diminutive late comedian’s score for a perfect conceptual woman. Well, this lady would score twelve, if that were possible. She was quite simply off the scale beautiful.
‘Did you order?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘Tea for two with scones, cream and strawberry jam.’
‘Spot on,’ Duncan Brodie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Just what’s required.’
She laughed, a tinkling, musical sound that he found entrancing and hypnotic in equal measure. If he were a comedian, he’d make jokes all day just to get her to reprise that laugh.
‘Enjoy your morning?’ Brodie enquired, slipping into the soft cushions of the settee next to her and encircling her shoulder with his arm. ‘Sorry I couldn’t join you. Phone calls, things to organise. It never ends.’
‘I had a lovely morning,’ she replied. ‘I walked around the shops, bought a new jacket, a sandwich and a coffee for lunch at the cutest little place – you must see it – came back, had a little beauty sleep, and here we are.’
‘Good, good.’ Brodie nodded.
‘Is something bothering you?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘You seem a bit distracted, Mr Brodie.’
‘Mm? No, not really. Well, maybe a little. I apologise. It’s always the same before I commit to an investment. Have I done the right thing, you know. Is it wise? What could I do as an alternative, to make the money work better for the company? That kind of conversation bounces around in my mind. Sorry, I don’t mean to appear preoccupied.’
She took his hand. ‘You are a clever man, very wise. Look at how successful you are. I am sure that your investment is a good one. But tell me more about it. I would like to hear, really I would.’
‘Well, I don’t want to bore you.’
‘Bore me?’ The laugh came again, sent shivers of delight up and down his spine. ‘You will not bore me, Duncan Brodie. I promise.’
And yet, he hesitated to share his concerns. This wasn’t a normal purchase. This was Eagle Court, the location of his youthful traumas. But he’d survived the privations of the school’s Draconian regime, hadn’t he? He’d put it behind him. The past was the past, and best left there.
‘Uh oh.’ She nudged him teasingly. ‘I’ve really lost you now.’
‘Sorry. I’m here, honestly I am. I’m all yours.’ He smiled reassuringly.
A waiter appeared with the tea order. A minute passed in silence as the silver service was laid out and they were invited to choose from a selection of cakes from the trolley.
‘Scones and cake. I shall get fat, lose my figure.’ She opened the teapot and gave the dark liquid a stir with the provided long-handled spoon. ‘But I can’t resist these lovely English customs.’
‘Special cream tea,’ Brodie agreed. ‘One of the things us Brits do well, and this particular hotel, exceptionally well.’
He watched her small hands working with assured delicacy, applying cream and jam to the scones, first for him and then for herself, pouring the tea, arranging the plates and sugar bowl in a pleasing pattern before them on the low table. Once again he found himself marvelling at his good fortune. How had the stars aligned with such benign mathematical precision that he had found himself in the same hotel at the same time as Ms Connie Chan? And moreover, that she had been instantly attracted to him, approached his solitary table at dinner that first evening, introduced herself and, before he’d known what was happening, invited herself into his bed?
Such good fortune had been more than Duncan Brodie could have hoped for, his great wealth notwithstanding. The most pleasing thing, for him, was that she hadn’t known who he was. She’d never heard of him, being a newcomer to England. And that meant she must be genuinely attracted to him, rather than his money, or his fame. After so long with Fiona, he’d found that there’d been an outstanding question in his life, unanswered until now. That question was: ‘Am I worthy in myself? Am I an attractive personality?’
When he’d taken the first tentative steps in his entrepreneurial journey so many years ago, he now realised that he’d failed to prioritise time for personal reflection, Fiona having taken up most of his mental space during the few hours of downtime he’d allowed himself. He’d lost himself somewhere along the line. Who exactly was Duncan Brodie these days? He needed to find out. Perhaps the row he’d had with Fiona the previous week had been precipitated by just that desire; he was breaking out, finally discovering himself, cutting himself free. It was at once both frightening and exhilarating. And Eagle Court … now, of all times. It was meant to be, surely? A cathartic end and a new beginning, all rolled into one…
‘Hellooo?’ Connie Chan wiggled her fingers. ‘I’m still here, you know.’
He looked at her and grinned. ‘I know,’ he replied, ‘and I’m so glad you are.’
After a moment of silent intimacy, she raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. ’Well?’
‘Mm? Oh, the investment. If you insist, then, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you the whole thing.’ He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and began.
She listened attentively, her expression moving between fascination, concern, horror, and admiration as the story unfolded. Around them, the hotel moved into its early evening phase. Guests came and went, bellboys hurried to and fro, carrying suitcases, wheeling trolleys and sack barrows; the lounge ceiling lights burned into life and soft music crept into the room from hidden speakers. When he’d finished, she said nothing for a long time. Eventually, she stirred and said, ‘That’s quite a tale, Mr Brodie. I don’t know what to say. But the school, is it far? And it is empty – unoccupied, you say? I would very much like to see it.’
‘Of course. I’ll probably be popping over in the morning. You’re very welcome to come along.’
She frowned. ‘I’d like to see it sooner. Why not tonight?’
He was a little taken aback. ‘Well, I mean, there’s no rush. It’ll still be standing tomorrow.’
She leaned across and took his hand. ‘I want to make that connection with you,’ she said earnestly. ‘I want to feel it, understand it.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, all right. I don’t see why not.’ He glanced outside. ‘It’s a little foggy, but that won’t hinder us. It’s only a twenty-minute drive. How about we pop out shortly? I’ll show you around, and then we can stop at a pub for dinner afterwards.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Connie Chan said. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’