Guilty Pleasures

Charles nodded.

‘I think we both need to go away and think about it.’

Cassandra smiled politely and pushed her chair back, offering her hand.

‘I will definitely be in touch,’ she said, holding his hand and his gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary. She knew by the way he smiled back at her that she had hit home. Mission accomplished. It had been a very productive day indeed.

14

‘You’re a little early, madam,’ said Morton, opening Winterfold’s double doors before Emma had a chance to put her key in the lock. She threw her car keys on the walnut console table, flopped into a deep wing chair and kicked off her

shoes.

‘Ooh, that feels good,’ she said, wriggling her feet in the deep pile carpet. ‘When it’s eight o’clock and you’re telling me it’s early, maybe it’s time to retire,’ she smiled at Morton, glad to see his genial face, even more glad of the mug of hot tea he produced from nowhere. When Emma had first moved into Winterfold, she had thought having a butler was a terrible extravagance, some strange reactionary throwback to colonial times, but now she realized why Saul enjoyed having him around so much. The house felt far too big for her to live in alone and coming home to dark empty rooms would have had her reaching for the gin. With Morton in residence, however, Winterfold felt more like a home – a huge home, admittedly-but slightly more warm and cosy, slightly more alive. Plus, Emma enjoyed the old man’s company; he was polite and deferential, however many times she asked him to treat her ‘as a friend’, but there was a twinkle in his eye and a wry smile on his lips. I suppose that’s what you’d need, looking after Saul for so long, thought Emma.

‘This arrived for you this afternoon, madam,’ said Morton, carrying a large cardboard box through to the study. ‘I think you’ll be more comfortable in here. I’ve made the fire for you.’

‘Morton, please call me Emma. And here, let me get that,’ she said, standing and taking the package from him. Emma had no idea how old Morton was – 70, nearing 80? – but he was certainly too old to be doing heavy lifting.

‘Whatever can this be?’ she wondered, walking into the cosy study, warmed from the crackling fire. According to his butler, Saul had spent most of his time in this room and Emma could see why. It was one of the most welcoming in the house, with wood-panelled walls, acres of bookshelves and deep squashy sofas facing a home-cinema grade media system: plasma TV, state-of-the-art stereo, internet access, the works. Emma placed the box on a mahogany coffee table in front of the fire and knelt to open it. She pierced the top with a letter opener and sliced back the lid. She frowned as she pulled out the layers of bubble-wrap packing. Stacked inside were dozens of CDs. She pulled them out and spread them on the table: David Bowie, Marvin Gaye, Led Zeppelin, Oasis, John Coltrane. One by one she looked at them, having a foggy awareness of some names – The Beach Boys or John Lennon, of course – but most she had never even heard of. I mean, who were the Velvet Underground? And surely there can’t be a band called Niggers With Attitude? As she reached the bottom, she noticed a business card which had fallen down the side of the box. She picked it up and had to suppress a smile at the hand-written message on the reverse. It read: 100 albums to listen to before you die. Enjoy. Rob x.

Morton walked in carrying the teapot and a plate of biscuits. Placing them on the side, he bent and picked up a copy of Frank Sinatra’s Songs For Swingin’ Lovers.

‘I have this on an LP. Oh, and this,’ he said, picking up Bob Dylan’s Blood On The Tracks.‘It’s a good selection; whoever sent these has good taste.’

‘Thanks, Morton,’ said Emma, still smiling. ‘I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur.’

‘Oh, in my youth, madam, in my youth,’ he smiled, the twinkle back in his eye. ‘Myself and Mrs Morton used to cut quite a dash through Soho, if I do say so myself.’

Emma giggled.

‘You’re a dark horse, Mr Morton.’

Emma crossed to the CD player and slotted a disc into the drawer. The Beatles by The Beatles. It seemed the safest choice to Emma, although curious it doesn’t have much of a cover, she thought. She pressed the shuffle button, expecting a random jingly jangly Sixties pop song but instead was faced with a spiralling swirl of psychedelic guitars. Emma’s mouth hung open and she scrabbled to look at the track-listing. ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’? ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’? ‘Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey’? What was all this? But as the record carried on, Emma found herself swept up in it. It had a strange primal urge she liked. She settled in a big armchair by the fire and used the remote to flick through the tracks, finding everything from beautiful ballads to strange avant-garde soundscapes. The record seemed to be almost as big a revelation as the man who had sent them. Emma had googled Rob Holland the evening after they had met on the common. She hadn’t meant to, but curiosity had got the better of her and she’d been surprised that he had his own Wikipedia entry. An even bigger surprise was that Rob wasn’t just an executive of Hollander Music he was the European chief executive. The company itself was a subsidiary of Hollander Media, a huge NYSE company that owned thirty radio stations, a major Hollywood studio, and a TV station network, to just scratch the surface. It was a multi-billion dollar international company. His father Larry was chief executive and the family were still major shareholders, which made the Hollands one of the fifty richest families in America. Rich enough to rent Winterfold? thought Emma, recalling their conversation on the run. Rob Holland could probably buy Winterfold with the interest from his trust-fund alone.

Morton popped his head around the door.

‘I was about to serve dinner, madam, but you have visitors.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Emma, surprised. ‘Who is it?’

‘Your mother, your Uncle Roger and Aunt Julia. Should I show them into the red room or would you rather stay here?’

‘Here, I think,’ said Emma, rising. She smoothed down her skirt and quickly looked in the mirror above the fire, suddenly unaccountably nervous.

‘Hello. What a surprise,’ said Emma as they walked in. Her unsettled feeling increased as she saw the cool look of purpose on their faces. She doubted they were popping round for a cup of sugar.

‘I hope we didn’t disturb you,’ smiled Julia, taking off her scarf.

Emma shook her head. ‘Of course not, please do come in. I was just… well…’ she said, scrabbling for the remote to turn down The Beatles.

‘Don’t worry, we won’t be long,’ said Roger gruffly.

‘Yes, I think we should cut to the chase here,’ nodded Virginia, sitting in a chair without removing her coat.

‘We’re all a little worried, dear,’ said Julia with a note of kindness, leaning against the desk.

‘What about?’