She grins at me. “Interview going well?”
I blush even more.
“Can’t you tell?” he asks her.
“You never invited any of the others to lunch.”
They both turn to me.
“Evangeline Palmer,” he says. “I think you would be great in this job.”
I glance from one to the other.What? I got the job? Really?Hope and excitement fizz up through me.
“Welcome to the community.” Leonie beams as she picks up the teapot and pours something very aromatic into my cup. “Have the biscuits. It’ll be twenty minutes for the sausage rolls.” And she walks away looking happy.
She’slooking happy? It’s me who should be happy, but part of me still doesn’t believe it.
“Evangeline,” he starts.
“Please no more of this Evangeline – you make me sound like an Edwardian lady. Just call me Evie.”
“All right, and you can call me Evan.”
Aha. So he was being formal because he wasn’t convinced.
“Although, I have to tell you”—he grins at me and for the first time I notice he has deep dimples—“an Edwardian lady would fit right into this house.”
I have no idea what he means but I hold my questions through lunch. When we’re finished he attempts to pay. Leonie refuses.
“I’m your first customer; you have to let me pay otherwise you can’t call The Orange Tree Café open,” he insists.
She shakes her head. “Kendric House community get special concessions.”
“Of course we do,” he agrees, pulling a twenty-pound note from his wallet. “But concession doesn’t mean free, or your business will fail before it starts. I heard you yesterday saying you need a pressure cooker.”
Leonie glances toward me then breaks into a happy laugh. “I don’t think we should argue in front of our new partner.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just relieved there’s such an incredible café here. Discount or no discount.”
It’s true. I’m not much of a cook and tend to eat out a lot. An hour ago, before tasting Leonie’s melt-in-the-mouth shortbread biscuit or the hot-from-the-oven sausage rolls in flaky pastry, I was mourning the loss of all those restaurants and pubs in Camden.
“Let me show you around.” Evan leads me out of the café and up a staircase at the back of the house.
“This is the west wing of the house,” he says, pointing down a long, wide corridor. “Your rooms will be here.”
Everything is clean and smells of fresh paint. We walk past a decorative tile border: green and blue leaves twirl in a long ribbon.
“This is gorgeous,” I can’t help saying. “Is this an original feature? I mean, you don’t normally see this quality of décor.” The tiling is elegant and definitely has an Art Nouveau look.
He doesn’t stop but slows down so I can look. “Back in the nineteenth century, many people lived in Kendric House: artists, architects, designers… you name it. They took it in turns to add their own contribution to the building of these wings.”
He glances around the walls and ceiling as we continue walking down the corridor. “Once, it was a magnificent house. Then it was abandoned for reasons I still don’t understand. When it came to me a couple of years ago, it was uninhabitable. We’ve been trying to clean it up slowly. My own brother was of the opinion that we should sell it.” His expression tightens at the words. “Property developers would have paid me a million pounds for the chance to knock the house down and build a hotel or shopping centre in its place.”
I look around at the swirling Art Nouveau plaster mouldings and pretty cameos set in the walls here and there, all in white and green. A jade green which seems to be a signature colour in this house. “It would be a tragedy to tear all this down.”
“Exactly,” he agrees with feeling. “So we came up with a different solution. If we can’t afford to restore the property, we’ll share it with people who can.” He stops and faces me.
“That’s why we can’t pay you. Why this job doesn’t come with a salary.”
