Every name on the list means something to me now. They’re real people. They live, they breathe, they have hopes and dreams, they love their families, and they hurt when I go after them. I remember how emotionlessly I had compiled the list. How proud I used to be of the impressive responsibility I had, to make a decision on whether to challenge a declared tax return, and at what level that challenge should be made. How powerful it used to make me feel.
I was a different person then.
My mobile pings. I pick it up and look at it.
Want to celebrate with me?
I type back:
Obviously.
The answering ping is immediate.
Pick you up at 6. Wear a bikini under your clothes. Or don’t.
Still smiling, I click out of the form and pull up the ICE Feedback Form. I complete it and click ‘Send Form’. There. Case closed.
I sit for a while with my hands in my lap and then I open a fresh Word document and begin to type into it.
We drive out to his country house, which takes us about two hours. We turn off a main road and drive for another couple of minutes on a much narrower country lane before we come upon a rather nondescript steel gate, which he opens with the touch of a button on his key fob.
We then travel through about a mile of woods, which Dom tells me he has turned into a bee, bird and deer sanctuary. And as we drive slowly through, I start to see colorful birds everywhere.
‘Oh my God,’ I cry with delight, when Dom points out two sweet little deer hidden among the trees They do not scamper away, even at the monstrous sound of the V8 engine, but they gaze back at us, their large, moist eyes totally unafraid.
‘Are they tame enough to be petted?’ I ask, turning my head to stare at them.
‘They come up to the house looking for food in the mornings. You can hand feed them then.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ he says and there is an indulgent look in his eyes. He obviously cares very much for his deer.
The sun is setting, but the air is still deliciously warm, and I’m almost struck dumb by the unspoilt beauty of the woods, and the thought that one man owns all this while people like me cannot even afford to buy a matchbox apartment. But I don’t think these thoughts with the resentment I would have felt in the past. Instead, it is with a confused sadness. Is the world really just an unfair place where people have been arbitrarily made poor or rich by the accident of their birth? And does that mean that there is nothing I can do to make it a better place?
As we drive up to the house, I have to gasp. It is so beautiful. With two stately stone pillars and a frontage utterly covered in ivy, it is like an enchanted mansion straight out of a fairy tale.
Dom turns to me. ‘Like it?’
‘Like it? Dom, it’s absolutely fabulous,’ I enthuse. I turn to him. ‘Does it remain empty while you are in London?’
‘No, I have a housekeeper, and her husband doubles as the gardener. They stay the nights in the house when I’m not around, but when I’m here they live in that lodge there.’ He points to a small cottage covered in wisteria and climbing roses. Nothing could be more English than that pretty little country home.
‘Right,’ I say, my eyes going back to the dreamy main house.
Dom parks the car and we cross the gravel and go up the stone steps. He pushes open the beautiful old doors.
‘Don’t you lock your doors?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Only in London.’
Inside are powder blue walls with white trims, gleaming oak floors, palladium windows with beautiful window seats, and a charming mixture of antique furniture and pastel furnishings. It is airy and elegant. There’s a wingback chair next to a bay window and a book on a little round table next to it. I can almost see myself sitting in that chair reading and leaving the book there on the table.
I turn away from the sight. Disturbed. Why, I care not to think about.
He takes me through to a dining room with gold damask wallpaper and black and white curtains. It leads on to a large, shabby-chic style French kitchen with sandstone tiles. There’s a cute breakfast table in a sunny corner.
‘Want a drink?’ he asks.