Chapter 1
The security gates were wide open. Hoping against all sense this was a sign Charlie was expecting her, Becky drove in and parked the unfamiliar car by the porch. She yawned, rubbed her eyes and sat back to collect her thoughts while admiring the imposing beauty of the Old Station House. Even she, who would happily admit to knowing nothing about Victorian architecture, could appreciate the original features: looped terracotta ridge tiles, steep gables topped by spiked finials, meticulously carved white bargeboards and three massive brick chimney stacks.
With so little notice, and a screaming toddler to contend with, her research the previous evening had been rushed and scrappy. When she finally got to bed, her ethics kept her awake. Charlie had clearly been drunk when he called her and left a message. She should return his call and give him the chance to withdraw his invitation. But then, from what his sister had said, he needed help and wouldn’t ask for it when sober.
That morning, as she made herself a vat of black coffee, Dylan strapped in his highchair with more breakfast in his hair than in his stomach, the latest gas bill dropped through the letterbox and silenced her qualms. Placing the envelope in the neat pile next to the toaster, Becky decided a conscience was another item on the growing list of things she couldn’t afford.
She got out of the car, tucked two strands of fine mousy hair behind her ears, adjusted her glasses and knocked on the door. Calm and composed, calm and composed, was her silent mantra. The key to a first meeting was to appear confident; the client needed her to be. Nevertheless, the fluttering in her chest reminded her just how out of practice she was and her empty stomach growled. Great. Exactly what she needed.
She was raising her hand to knock again when Charlie opened the door and stunned her into momentary paralysis. Oh dear God. Why hadn’t Lauren warned her about this?
His facial hair was rampant, tufted and piebald. Above that undergrowth, dirty brown hair, with patches of grey at the temples, rambled down past his shoulders. Worn, faded jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt completed the crazy castaway look. But his eyes were of more immediate concern. They brought to mind those of a chocolate-brown Labrador she had once seen tied up outside the supermarket in the chill rain waiting for its owner to return.
She smiled. Calm and composed. Calm and composed. Kill Lauren later.
‘Mr Handren? I’m Rebecca Watson.’
He blinked but showed no sign of recognition.
‘Your sister, Lauren, emailed me. She gave you my number and then you called and left me a message last night. Around midnight.’ She searched the visible parts of his face for any reaction. ‘You asked me to come here after lunch. I wasn’t sure when that was. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.’
He opened and closed his mouth but all that came out was an incoherent stutter.
‘I’m sorry, you are Mr Handren, aren’t you?’ She gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m in the wrong place.’
His startled expression softened. ‘No. I mean, yes. You’re in the right place.’
‘Great!’ Becky pressed on. ‘So can I come in or are we going to chat out here?’
‘Look, sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I made a mistake, that is, I called you by mistake.’
Becky refused to be so easily dismissed. The gas bill was no longer alone at the front of her mind. It was jostling for pole position with the boiler, which was grumbling and likely to take strike action soon. And this brown-eyed castaway needed help. She had to get through the door.
Charlie fiddled with the security chain. Becky decided it was time to push the point.
‘You meant to call someone else at midnight and invite them here today?’
‘No. I mean …’ He faltered and scratched his beard. ‘I shouldn’t have called you. Sorry. It was late and I’d been … you know, I’d been thinking … and drinking.’ The tips of his ears turned pink. ‘I guess I wasn’t thinking that clearly.’
Her lips twitched. Nearly there.
‘Mr Handren,’ she said, peering at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I spent an hour this morning persuading my cranky best friend to look after my son and lend me her car so I could get here. I hardly slept last night because he’s teething. So I am begging you to let me in. I promise it’ll take under an hour and if you’re still not convinced I can help then you’ll never have to see or hear from me again.’
She watched as he blinked and swallowed. She needed a clincher.
‘And if nothing else, you can tell your sister you talked to me and get her off your back.’
Charlie scratched his cheek, snorted, and opened the door. Becky hurried past him before he could change his mind.
To the left, the old station waiting room was now a bright study. To the right, the ground floor of the two-storey part of the house had been opened up to form a large living room. Beyond it lay the other single-storey section of the building: a spacious kitchen-diner. All the rooms were bathed in afternoon sunlight which streamed through windows at the rear of the house. In the study and dining area French doors opened to the back garden. The lush green lawn was bordered by rose bushes, purple foxglove spires and bursts of yellow marigolds. Charlie might not invest much time in maintaining his personal appearance, but his home was idyllic.
As she followed him into the kitchen, Becky compared his house to her own IKEA shoebox. Charlie interrupted her covetous thoughts.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Water, please. From the tap is fine.’
Charlie left Becky standing on the other side of the breakfast bar. Opening and closing doors, he shuffled between cupboards, his shoulders hunched. When he found the glasses, his hands shook as he carried two of them to the sink.
Hoping to calm his nerves and hers, Becky started with a compliment. ‘Your home is beautiful. It must have been a lot of work.’
Water sloshed over the rim as he thrust the glass towards her. Drops pooled on the countertop and he stared at them as if they were something he’d never seen before.
‘A lot of dealing with bloody lawyers, I remember. My wife managed all the renovations.’
She nodded, glancing at the gold band on his left ring finger which glinted as he worried it with his thumb.
‘I suppose doing any work on a listed building is a challenge and particularly on one that’s been left to fall down.’ She smiled but only received a grunt in reply. Time to get down to business. ‘I guess you have some questions for me?’ she said.
He went back to the sink and filled the other glass, moving his shoulders to shake out the tension. ‘I might, if I understood what it is you do.’
‘Ah. Well, I suppose the simplest explanation is that I’m a very hands-on life coach. But to really understand what I do, it’s probably best to explain the process I usually follow.’ She pointed towards the dining table. ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’
‘Of course not. Sorry.’
Good manners, in Becky’s opinion, were sadly undervalued and vanishing. So as Charlie rushed to the table and pulled out a chair for her, he went up several notches in her estimation. Perhaps her first impression had been harsh.
She jammed her knees together and, keeping her back straight, lowered herself to the seat in what she prayed was a ladylike movement.