We’re currently talking through the mood board I’ve designed for their home office-slash-library. I’ve been trying to steer them towards the Nordic look we first discussed, which will sit beautifully with the traditional building – lots of sheepskin rugs, woven fabrics and blonde wood. But they’re now talking about possibly ripping out a lot of the original features and going for a sleeker, even more minimalist design. To be honest, I’m not sure why they bought the house in the first place if they’re so intent on tearing it apart. But I don’t want to lose their business. They’re from out of town and extremely well connected. If I get this right, it could potentially mean a whole raft of new clients.
‘Tell you what…’ I slide the boards towards me, stacking them up like a deck of cards and trying not to think about how many days’ work it’s taken me to put them together. Work that they’ve barely even glanced at. ‘How about we forget this look for the moment and I create something more luxe and architectural instead?’ I flash my eyes and grin. ‘Something that will really knock your socks off.’
‘Yes, that sounds ideal.’ Harry turns to his wife. ‘What do you think, Bel?’
Belinda’s expression instantly lifts. ‘Luxe and architectural! I knew we could count on you, Fiona. We just don’t want anything that’s going to date. And while we really love the Nordic look, it seems to be everywhere these days.’ She picks up her phone. ‘I’ve also seen some amazing photos on Pinterest of this Moroccan-type vibe which could be fantastic in the den. As a contrast to all the minimalism, you know?’
‘Sounds gorgeous!’ I sigh inwardly and wonder how many times they’re going to change their minds. I’m willing to lay money on it that Belinda will want me to design the whole place like a middle-eastern bazaar before declaring that it’s all too much and we should go back to the modern look once again. In fact, I’ll keep hold of this last lot of work in case they come back full circle.
Through the interior floor-to-ceiling windows I spot Molly talking to a couple who are standing awkwardly in the reception area. They don’t look like any of my regular clients. They’re actually quite official-looking – wearing ugly grey suits and serious expressions. Molly glances over at me, her eyes wide and somewhat panicked. She jerks her head in the couple’s direction and I realise she wants me to come out and see to them. However, the Carmichaels aren’t the kind of people you can ditch in order to talk to someone else. I shake my head at Molly and try to indicate that I need her to deal with them.
Molly rolls her eyes and turns back to the couple with a forced smile, but they don’t look very happy at what she’s saying. Molly gestures to the sofa and, after a moment’s hesitation, they sit. I tip an imaginary teacup in Molly’s direction to indicate that she needs to get on with making our teas and coffees.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to instil fresh excitement into Belinda and Harry at the thought of how incredible and original and timeless their new holiday home is going to be.
‘I can’t wait until it’s habitable,’ Belinda says with a sigh. ‘These things always take so long.’
Only because you change your mind so many times. ‘How’s your stay at the Ripple?’ They’re booked into the beautiful five-star hotel on the other side of the lake.
‘It’s lovely, but it’s not like having your own place. One thing I will say, the spa’s incredible. Have you been?’
I nod. ‘I could quite easily live in that spa.’
‘It’s bliss, isn’t it.’
Harry makes a harrumphing noise.
‘Oh, ignore him.’ Belinda gives his arm a playful slap. ‘He’s grumpy because of the distance.’
‘I’m “grumpy”, as you put it, because it’s such an unnecessary trek from the hotel to the mill house every day. I don’t know why we can’t stay in town.’
‘Because there aren’t any decent hotels. It’s a lovely town, but it’s a bit rustic. No offence, Fiona.’
‘None taken. But you really should check out the Scott Arms.’
‘What, the pub?’ Belinda’s nose wrinkles.
I try not to smile at her distaste. ‘They have rooms and a couple of apartments. The food is incredible. My friend Tia’s husband, Edward Perry, is the chef there. In fact, I think they offer monthly rentals too.’
‘Hear that, Bel? Let’s go and take a look. To be honest, I’m not that impressed with the food at the Ripple. It’s a bit bland.’
They finally take their leave with plenty of hugs and kisses, as though we’re lifelong friends. I try not to think about how much more time it’s going to take me to pull together their new concept. But, as long as the Carmichaels are willing to pay, then I’m happy to oblige. Plus, I guess it will be quite fun to see what I can come up with.
The walk-ins are still sitting in reception, perched on the edge of the sofa as though it’s against the law to get comfortable. Molly is glaring at me as though I’m the worst boss in the world for leaving them with her. If this couple want to hire me for a project, they’re going to have quite a long wait. I’m booked up for the rest of the summer and through most of autumn.
I feel a little hot and flustered after my meeting with the Carmichaels, but I don’t have time to freshen up in the loo before meeting these potential new clients. Instead, I make do with running my fingers through my chestnut hair and pinching my cheeks to inject some colour before approaching them with a smile.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Fiona Salinger, how can I help?’
They both stand.
‘Hello,’ the curly haired woman says without a smile. ‘My name is Cathleen Docherty, and this is my colleague John Garland.’
Colleague? Must be a business project. ‘Nice to meet you.’ I hold out my hand. Cathleen’s handshake is soft, her hand cold. She’s about my height and gives me direct eye contact, which is a little unnerving. John’s handshake is firmer, his hand a little sweaty. He’s tall with mid-brown hair that’s greying at the temples. Neither of the two seem particularly friendly or enthusiastic. Usually I like to guess at people’s tastes in decor, but I honestly wouldn’t have a clue about either of these two. They seem very unlikely clients.
‘We’re here from HMRC – Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.’ Cathleen opens her bag and extracts some papers, holding them out for me to take.
I need a moment to process her words. HMRC? Why are they here?
Cathleen continues talking. ‘We’ve sent you several letters and voice messages over the past few weeks, but you failed to reply to the letters or return our calls. Here are copies of those letters.’
‘I… er…’ My chest tightens and I feel heat flood into my face. I vaguely remember receiving some letters from the tax office, but I set them aside to deal with at a later date. Somehow I forgot, not realising that they might be serious. That they might result in two tax inspectors showing up on my doorstep. I take the thin sheaf of papers from the woman’s hand, giving the contents a brief glance, but the words swim on the page.
‘Can you confirm that you received our correspondence?’ she asks. They’re both staring at me and, from the corner of my eye, I can also see Molly gazing over curiously.