‘Thanks very much. Did she give you directions? I’ve a vague idea where it is.’
‘She did and here they are,’ Sheila told her, giving her a piece of paper.
‘Mm. Should be easy enough to find,’ Charlotte agreed, reading through them. ‘Two o’clock. Let’s just hope the Volvo doesn’t let me down again.’
‘Have you made any decision on a new car yet?’ Sheila asked her.
‘Mm, I think so—only it isn’t one car, it’s two. I’ve decided that there’s no point in being unduly pessimistic about the effect Oliver Tennant is going to have on our business, and so as well as buying a new car for myself I’ve bought one for the office as well. You and Sophy will be able to use it.’
She laughed when she saw Sheila’s face and added warningly, ‘You’ll have to come to some arrangement between you about who has the use of it out of business hours.’ She rummaged in her open briefcase and extracted some papers. ‘Here are the colour charts. I’m opting for the dark grey.’
‘Oh, look at that red!’ Sheila enthused, avidly studying the brochures Charlotte had given her until the telephone rang again.
When she replaced the receiver she was frowning. ‘That was Dan Pearce from Rush Farm. He wanted to know if anyone has shown any interest in those semis yet.’
Charlotte frowned too. ‘He told me he was going to instruct Oliver—perhaps he’s changed his mind.’
‘Or perhaps Oliver told him the same thing you did—that he’d never get the kind of money he’s looking for unless he applies for planning consent and sells them both together. He sounded very surly.’
‘He is very surly. He hasn’t lived here long himself, has he? He inherited that farm, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he lives there on his own. His wife left him shortly after they moved in. There was a bit of a scandal about it at the time. Some suggestion that he had been violent with her.’ Sheila was looking concerned. ‘Look, do you think you ought to see him on your own?’
‘Oh, Sheila, for heaven’s sake!’ Charlotte said impatiently. ‘I admit that the man isn’t very pleasant but, really, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Have you got his number? I’ll give him a ring and arrange to go out there and see him again. After all,’ she added grimly, ‘we can’t afford to turn our backs on potential business, can we?’
Charlotte had a busy morning. Bill and Anne Markham, after going round three of the previous day’s properties a second time, announced, as she had hoped they would, that they wanted to make an offer for Cherry Tree Cottage.
Having assured them that she would put their offer to the owner and get back to them as quickly as she could, Charlotte ate a quick sandwich lunch in her car, washed down by a cup of coffee from her thermos, before checking that her hair was neat, and reapplying her lipstick before heading for her two o’clock appointment at Hadley Court.
She was less than half a mile away from the house, and nicely on time, when disaster struck. There was a short queue of traffic on the minor road, waiting to pull out at a junction. She was stuck behind four other cars, and, while she sat waiting for her turn to filter into the mainstream of traffic, the Volvo’s engine suddenly died on her.
No amount of frantic turning of the ignition key would restart the motor, and finally, flustered and bad-tempered, she climbed out of the car and, with the help of a fellow motorist, pushed the Volvo safely to the side of the road.
It was now ten past two. Damn! Damn! she swore furiously. She just could not afford to lose the kind of business Hadley Court represented. Looking down grimly at her almost new court shoes, she acknowledged there was only one thing for it.
It was a pleasant spring afternoon, but she was in no mood to appreciate the warmth of the sunshine or the beauty of her surroundings when she finally reached the gates to Hadley Court.
Ahead of her, parked on the gravel forecourt, was Oliver’s Jaguar, and gritting her teeth, she set off to walk down the drive, wincing as her shoes continually filled with the small chippings and had to be emptied.
When she finally reached the imposing front door it was half-past two. A light breeze had tousled her hair, and whipped colour into her cheeks, she felt untidy and hot, and not at all in the right frame of mind to present the kind of professional appearance she wanted to present.
The door opened even before she reached for the knocker.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologised to the woman who opened it. ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Birtles. Charlotte—’