‘Spasibo,’ I say haltingly.
‘Pazhalooysta,’ she replies.
‘She’s telling you “That’s all right”,’ Noah says from the doorway.
‘Good morning,’ I greet.
Olga says something to him in Russian and leaves.
‘Are you going to join me?’ I ask.
He looks at me strangely. ‘No.’
‘There’s so much food here,’ I say.
‘I eat in the kitchen,’ he says briefly.
‘OK.’ I put two teaspoons of sugar into my coffee.
‘After you eat I will show you around the house,’ he says.
I stir my coffee. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Enjoy your breakfast,’ he says and leaves.
After I have finished my meal I wander back into the kitchen where Noah and Olga are laughing about something. They stop when they notice me.
‘I’m finished,’ I say to Noah.
He pushes off the counter and passes me. ‘You’ve already been to the study, the breakfast room, and the bathhouse. So we’ll leave those out.’
The tour of the house is accomplished quite quickly. Underground there is a gym, a temperature controlled cellar, a sauna, a steam room, a cinema room, a swimming pool, a large room on the floor Noah calls minus 2 for throwing parties. Above ground there are the usual rooms that any London mansion would have, dining room, multiple living rooms, eight bedrooms which we don’t explore, and surprisingly a music room with a glossy grand piano.
‘Who plays the piano?’ I ask.
‘Nobody,’ he says stiffly.
‘Just for show, huh?’
Noah shrugs and refuses to be drawn into conversation. So far he has been polite but distant, which makes me feel he doesn’t like me. Especially since I saw him affectionately rub Stella’s head in the kitchen. I suddenly remember how very rude I was to him on my first visit. I stop in the middle of the corridor.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I was rude the first time I was here. I didn’t want to come so I was in a bad mood, and you kind of pissed me off too.’
‘No worries,’ he dismisses casually.
‘So we’re cool?’ I insist, because I really am grateful to him.
A ghost of a smile flits across his face. ‘We’re … cool.’
I grin at him. ‘Oh and thanks for hauling me all the way to the top floor.’
‘There’s a lift in this house,’ he reminds.
‘Otherwise you would have left me on the kitchen floor.’
‘Maybe.’
I smile. ‘So what’s the plan for today?’
‘Boss wants to see you in the study at 10.00am. He hates to be kept waiting. Please don’t be late.’ Then he strides off in the direction of the front door.
I glance at my watch. It is only nine o’clock. Maybe I can get an hour’s work in before I face the tiger. I head back to the kitchen. There is no one there so I make myself a mug of coffee and go back up to my room.
I pull out my rucksack crammed full with a fraction of the submissions from the slush pile. I take it out, place it on the table, and pull out a white armchair. Well, it certainly is a peaceful place to read.
The first submission is terrible. If I had a cent for every submission that begins with the female protagonist checking out her face in the mirror, I’d be rich. Fifty Shades has a lot to answer for. I put the neatly stapled three chapters down, dip my finger in the coffee, smear it on the rim of my mug and place the mug on the manuscript. Then I thumb the edges to give the impression that someone has read it while drinking coffee.
It is a charade, but unfortunately it is necessary. In the past when I used to return bad manuscripts to their owners, they would write back accusing the agency of not having read their work. With this technique I don’t get such letters anymore.
I pick up the next envelope. The first thing I see is a professionally taken photo of a pretty woman. Her letter says she would like to use that photo on the back jacket of the book. Not a good sign. Usually the worst bits of writing come with glamorous photos attached. I start reading it and sigh. I can barely get past the second page.
I put on the coffee stain, dog ear the manuscript and slip it with our agency’s polite rejection slip into its self-addressed envelope, and stare out of the window. I will do no more this morning. I am not myself. I look at the time.
Ten minutes to ten. Time to go down.
I’m gonna love ya, until you hate me.
Thirteen
Dahlia Fury
I rap my knuckles smartly on the study door. I no longer feel nervous and frightened like I did the first time I timidly knocked on this door. Daisy is all right and I already know all the steps to this dance. Maybe even with my eyes closed.
‘Enter,’ Zane calls.
Keeping my shoulders straight I push open the door, and hot damn, the undigested blinis in my stomach do little somersaults. His hair is damp, and he is wearing a crisp cream shirt that exposes his strong throat. The raw power and masculinity takes my breath away. I steel myself not to react.