Chapter One
In many ways the place hadn’t changed. There were some differences – the high rises were gone, replaced with nests of tiny newbuilds. The pit head was a museum, now, and there was a ring road encircling the town, keeping it in, separate from the old coalmining landscape that had been its life blood, as if to say ‘This isn’t part of you, any more’.
The signs of modernity were calculated to comfort, but they didn’t do much for Jenna’s mood, and she found herself in uncertain spirits as she parked the car and wandered down the lone, pedestrianised street that made up the ‘town centre’.
Perhaps this had been a mistake, she thought, looking into the shop windows – those that weren’t boarded up. The only businesses that seemed to be flourishing on this wet Wednesday afternoon were the bookmakers, the pound shops and the glorified pawnbrokers that had sprung up on every corner.
A big chain pub with a happy hour that lasted until teatime was full and bright, as if its façade of good cheer had sucked everyone off the street and left it empty. She thought about going in and getting a nip of something to keep the shivers off, but there was no guarantee she wouldn’t be recognised, and conversation was the last thing she was after.
The high street drifted into nothingness: the old covered market was abandoned now, just a shed earmarked for demolition. She stepped under its dark, old awning and tried to remember it the way it was: the smells of overripe fruit and veg, meat and fish all competing to hit the back of her throat the hardest. The little stalls full of knitting wools or costume jewellery or model-making kits. The slow crowds of old ladies in five layers of clothing and kids in tracksuits. And at the centre of it all, Smash Records, where she had spent every Saturday afternoon. Where she had met Deano.
She made a sharp about-turn and walked swiftly to the end of the street and into the residential area beyond, her umbrella charging before her like a weapon. Densely-packed terraces gave way to more spacious environs, within a ten minute walk, and soon she saw the church tower that confirmed she had taken the right route and was near her destination.
She decided to walk through the churchyard rather than keep on the straight path. Something about churchyards in pouring rain encouraged contemplative peace, and she was in need of it. Among the lichened stones bearing names of people who had breathed their last centuries before, she stopped and looked up at the sky. Its grey threat was not the best omen for a day on which her life would change.
But she didn’t believe in things like that. She believed in making your own luck. She had made hers, and now she could afford to buy the house that had fascinated her since childhood. And if she didn’t get a move on, she’d be late to pick up the keys.
There it stood, just the other side of the churchyard, mostly hidden behind a high yew hedge. The grounds of Harville Hall had been the scene of many a childhood exploration, ever since the owners had abandoned it during the miners’ strike, when she was five. She and the other kids from the estate had used its ever-more-overgrown gardens and woodland for innumerable games of A-Team and Robin Hood. She had never managed to get inside the house, though, because the walls had bristled with alarms and those new cameras that filmed you. The big, red, spray-painted ‘TRAITOR’ on the side gable hadn’t been washed off for years.
Of course, it would be long gone now.
She went to stand by the padlocked front gate, looking up and down the street for signs of the keyholder. The house had been lived in again, since its abandonment, but little had been done to it in the way of renovation. Although structurally sound, it had a blank, neglected look.
Within half a minute, the door of a shiny, red sports car parked up the road had opened and a man in a very smart, dark blue pea coat stepped out and strode towards her. Having no umbrella, he held a leather satchel over his head to keep off the rain and he grimaced at her as he drew level. The grimace did nothing to disguise his handsomeness, though. Jenna was pleasantly impressed and couldn’t help giving him one of her brightest beams back.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Jenna Myatt.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he said, holding out the hand that wasn’t occupied with the satchel. ‘Lawrence Harville. What a day. Shall we step inside? Or I could hand over the keys in my car, if you prefer?’
She shook his rain-wet hand and nodded, indicating that they might go inside the Hall in order to complete their transaction. She wasn’t sure who was checking out whom harder – both of them trying to keep their cool at meeting a ‘celebrity’. Old money meets new, she thought, and it’s hard to say who’s more impressed. It was nice, and novel, to be able to hold her own with a Harville now. He might have the history, but she had the stellar career, the amazing roster of celebrity clients on her books and the international reputation for being the best manager in the business.
He unlocked the gate, which was in dire need of oiling, and led her up the side path. The borders were so overgrown that the weeds brushed against her tights, wetting them. She would have to hire a gardener. What was the going rate around here? Much less than in London, she guessed.
The stone steps were still intact, and the front door’s paintwork might have been peeling but it was still substantial enough and only needed a bit of a shove to open.
‘It’s the damp weather,’ explained Harville, with an apologetic little smile.
‘You’d think it would be used to it by now,’ said Jenna. ‘Living round here.’
Harville’s smile brightened into brilliance and he laughed politely.
‘Indeed,’ he said, stepping into a musty
but enormous hallway.
Jenna had been living in Los Angeles when she bought the place, and this was the first time she had crossed the threshold. Her assistant had tried to warn her, she remembered.
It’s not in the best condition. You can get a modern mansion in Cheshire for just a couple of hundred thousand more.