Her host retrieved his drink and took the seat at the head of the table. Becky took a sip of water to buy herself a few more seconds to compose her thoughts and avoid Charlie’s expectant stare. His dark eyes and long black lashes were his most prominent features, although they had the advantage of not being obscured by hair.
Maybe sensing she needed some encouragement, Charlie said, ‘Your process?’
Grateful for the prompt, Becky launched into her opening pitch.
‘When I first meet a potential client—so you, in this case—we talk about you and your life at the moment. Once I have a good idea of what needs to be done, I go away and come up with a proposal for what I think we can do to improve your current situation.’
She watched for a reaction. His features remained inscrutable under the fuzz. At least he wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes.
‘I’ll also tell you how long it will take and what my fee will be. Then you can accept, negotiate or reject the proposal. If you reject it, that’s it: I charge you nothing. Everything you’ve told me stays between us and I won’t contact you again.’
He continued to stare at her, perhaps waiting for her to say more, or maybe preparing to dismiss her already?
Becky wrung her hands under the table, trying to keep her fidgeting out of sight. That had to be the worst explanation she had ever given. About anything. She wouldn’t blame him if he told her to get stuffed and get out.
But when his reply finally came, his tone was unexpectedly playful. ‘And if I say yes? I sign a contract in blood and the devil gets my soul when you’ve granted all my wishes?’
The tension in her neck eased. ‘I prefer ink, but I’ll take blood if you insist. I’m a modern Mephistopheles. I don’t want my Faustus’s soul, just fair payment.’
At the corners of his lips was a movement Becky interpreted as a mouth-shrug, rather than a smile. ‘Is striking these Faustian bargains your full-time job?’
‘It was. I finished my last commission a couple of weeks before I had my son, he’ll be two in September, and you would be my first client since he was born. But before Dylan came along I’d been doing this eight years. I also do some events work.’
‘Events work?’
Becky stifled a sigh and the urge to tell him she thought of her current employment as putting out fires for people too posh to piss on them themselves. Instead she said, ‘Crisis management, that sort of thing.’
He nodded. ‘So, what do you need from me? I expect my sister has already told you everything she thinks she knows.’
‘She’s told me a bit, but I need to hear things from you. How about we start with your routine? What do you do on a typical day?’
‘I get up at seven. I take Phoebe, my daughter, to school and sometimes go shopping. Maybe a run after lunch, and the gym about three times a week. Then cleaning, washing, gardening … I collect Phoebe from school, make dinner and three nights a week I teach a class at the adult education college.’
Becky glanced at the patchwork of stains on his faded T-shirt. ‘And I guess in there somewhere you paint?’
Charlie rubbed his left thumb across the dried black smear on his right knuckles and sighed. ‘Every day. I try.’
‘And what do you do at the weekends?’
He shrugged. ‘More of the same.’
‘Your daughter will be eighteen in October?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And she doesn’t drive herself to school?’
‘Sometimes, when I don’t need the car.’
‘This coming academic year will be her last year at school?’
He nodded.
‘Is she planning to go to university?’
He rubbed his brow line. ‘I don’t know. She might prefer art college.’
‘She’s an artist too?’
‘She’s good. She’d be better if she practised.’
Becky tapped her index finger on the table. She had been warned he would be less than receptive, but Charlie’s monotone mumbling was testing her mask of composure and her conversation skills. What did she have to do to get more than eight words out of him?
‘Your sister mentioned your wife left about six years ago. Does your daughter hear from her?’
His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together. A flush appeared around the edge of the beard and he scratched his cheek, raking his nails through the thick hair. ‘She sends birthday cards.’ He coughed, but failed to dispel the sudden venom in his tone. ‘Christmas too, last year.’
Becky swallowed a sigh. While part of her was delighted to have provoked any display of feeling from Charlie, angering him at this early stage would be stupid. She needed to retreat to less sensitive ground. What had Lauren said about a home studio? His pride and joy, an inner sanctum?
‘I believe you have a studio here. Is it upstairs?’
Charlie’s lips curled and he snorted, holding back a laugh. ‘It’s outside.’
If you could make someone laugh, you were halfway to getting them to like you. Sensing progress, she pushed on.
‘May I see it?’
He tilted his head to one side and fixed her with a disconcerting stare. It seemed to absorb every surface detail while slipping under her skin to seek out her secrets. Was this a professional habit or an attempt at intimidation? Well, if it were the latter, he was out of luck.
Charlie blinked first. ‘All right,’ he said, rising and beckoning for her to follow him out into the garden. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
Chapter 2
Charlie waited for Becky to step out onto the concrete band which had once been the northbound platform.
Even with his eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight, Charlie noted with pride how the garden was at its best in early summer. The air was still. Birds were singing in the sycamore trees and bees hummed among the sweet pinks of the border roses. And next to him, shading her eyes with her hand as she scrutinised every inch of it, was Rebecca Watson. An unwanted intruder, dark against the view.
This was mostly Lauren’s fault. She was the one who had found this life-fixer character and foisted her number onto him. Although he had to take the blame for calling her and letting her into the house. God, he was pathetic! He’d allowed embarrassment and guilt to push him into being accommodating. And now he was taking her to the studio! What was he thinking?
As he closed the door after Becky, Charlie entertained a fleeting fantasy in which he hopped back inside, turned the key in the lock, and left his sister’s spy to find her own way out of the grounds.
‘Is that your studio?’
Her right hand still hovering over her eyes, Becky was using her left to point towards the large red brick building to the south, close to the perimeter wall.
‘Yes.’
Without wasting energy on extending an invitation, he made off towards the building. If the woman wanted to see his studio she could bloody well keep up. ‘It was the engine shed and workshop,’ he said, glancing at Becky who had caught up and was trotting along next to him. ‘We kept as much of the original walls as we could. We bricked in the windows on the long sides, which are about fifty feet long. We also restored the two sets of large wooden doors in both of the short ends of the shed. And the roof is new.’