‘Rupert? Hi– it’s Christina. Just checking in about that idea we discussed. Chase Lodge.’
She slid into the driver’s seat, listening to the financial expert’s voice crackling through the speaker.
‘Ah, yes, I’ve spoken to a broker. With fifty grand of equity and Hamish’s salary, you’d likely qualify for a developer mortgage.’
‘Developer mortgage?’ she asked, starting the engine, the wipers brushing away the mist on the glass.
‘Yes – it’s aimed at people developing derelict property. Usually interest-only. It’s helpful for big fixer-uppers with resale potential. Provided you can show value in the end project, you’re fine. You’ll have to tell the broker you intend to sell, so that’s what he pops on the application form, but then you can ‘fall in love’ with the project, change your mind and you just re-mortgage onto a standard loan.’
She smiled into the mirror. Everything was falling into place. Hamish was back from his lecture tour tomorrow. She’d suggest a walk on the beach. Neutral ground. No questions, no confrontations – just the wind, the salt, the shifting horizon. It might be easier to talk while walking, side by side, not forced to meet each other’s eyes. And she would tell him they could do it – with a developer mortgage, and Ernest’s twenty grand, Chase Lodge would become their shared project and bring them together again.
‘Good. That’s ... well, that’s pure dead brilliant, actually.’
‘Er . . . right. Wonderful.’
Did I just say ‘pure dead brilliant’ to Rupert?He knew her as sensible Christina Pemberton, the sort who deliberated over every financial decision. Not someone who got giddy about property deals.
Rupert was still talking. ‘Just get me your quotes – architect, builder, surveyor. Then I can help you pull together an application.’
She told him she was seeing an architect imminently and resolved to speak to this Humphrey man Penelope kept mentioning as soon as possible.
For the first time since she’d laid eyes on that large, dark,dilapidated house in the valley, genuine excitement was starting to stir.
Eighteen
The tide was on its way out from Brambleton beach, leaving behind a slick sheen of seawater that made the shells glisten in the pale March light. The wind came in fresh off the Atlantic, bringing with it the tang of kelp and salt, and carrying the harsh squawk of gulls as they wheeled and bickered overhead. Christina pulled her hat over her ears, her scarf snapping in the wind. Beside her, Hamish strode along, boots sinking softly into the sand, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar, professorial pose – as if addressing a hall full of undergraduates rather than walking with his wife.
‘You know,’ he began, clearing his throat in that way he did when limbering up for something long and inevitably Tudor, ‘the coast was vulnerable to piracy in the sixteenth century. Especially in March, when coastal patrols were lax. There’s a letter – very obscure – that mentions a vicar’s wife from Devon being carried off by Algerian corsairs.’
Christina smiled vaguely, one glove balled in her fist as she gripped her phone in her other hand, trying to hide the glow with her coat. Ernest’s name was on the screen. She chewed her lip.
‘Romantic, isn’t it?’ Hamish added, squinting out at the pewter sea, where waves broke lazily on the low tide line.
She made a vague sound of agreement before gesturing to her phone and stepping slightly away. She pressed the phone to her ear, tilting her head against the wind. ‘Ernest?’
‘Morning, sweetness,’ Ernest’s voice came with his usual insufferable cheer. ‘Got a tiny wrinkle to iron out. That auction house you dropped the ‘Storr at? Seems they’ve had a bit of a flutter.’
Her throat tightened. ‘What kind of flutter?’ she asked, turning slightly away from Hamish, who had stopped to examine a piece of seaweed with scholarly interest.
‘One of their moreastutebuyers flagged something odd about the hallmark on the tureen, it triggered some digging. Clive’s apparently called in a second opinion. Bloody annoying, really. I thought that one was watertight.’
Christina closed her eyes. The wind tugged at her hair, whipping strands against her mouth. ‘So, what do we do?’ If they unmasked this piece as fake, the other two she took over yesterday would surely follow.
‘Well, darling, ideally you carve out a bit of time to pop over and collect the stash. Before Clive gets any smarter.’
Christina grimaced. ‘I’m frantic with bills, Ernest. Quarterly stuff, it’s all stacked up. Can’t Frank go?’
‘You know Frank can’t drive that far, not without stopping every ten minutes like a Glasgow bus. And anyway, darling one, Alice Linton has the plausible face.’
‘I don’t have time,’ she hissed.
There was a beat of silence, then Ernest’s voice, lower, sounding amused. ‘I’m surprised Hamish leaves you to pay the bills, leaves you in charge of money, given your ... history.’
Christina flushed. A gust of wind flung salt into her eyes, making them sting. ‘Don’t.’
‘I’m just saying, poppet. You don’t want anyone looking too closely, do you, not at ‘the Great Matter’?’
She turned back towards the sea, blinking furiously. Hamish was watching her now, his brow faintly furrowed, lips parted like he was about to ask a question. She gave him a tight smile andturned away again.
