Page 7 of One Summer Weekend
Chapter Three
It didn’t take long for Jack Smith to be in touch. He acknowledged my email by return and copied in his HR director as requested. To my surprise, he sent through the signed documents and completed the questionnaires by the end of the week. He even paid the invoice within the stipulated term of seven days.
The following Monday morning he rang my mobile and,as planned, I let it go to voicemail. The problem was that he didn’t leave a message. This happened several times, but I refused to bend and call him back; not until I knew what he wanted to discuss.
Towards lunch time Celia, our PA, came and perched on the edge of my desk. She was only a few years younger than me, but seemed to live on a different planet. For a start, she regarded her jobas an inconvenient break in a chaotic round of dating, shopping and partying. By her standards, I did far too much work and far too little of anything else. I was therefore an object of pity.
But not today, it seemed. She waited for me to finish an email, then pounced. ‘This Jack Smith, does he look as good as he sounds on the phone?’
No way was I answering that. She could ask Google– given that she seemed to spend most of her working day surfing the internet. But her question triggered one of my own. ‘When did you speak tohim?’
‘A few minutes ago. By the way, he can’t understand why you won’t answer his calls. Especially, he says, when you earn your living by talking to your clients.’
My lips tightened. ‘For all he knows, I could have been in a meeting—’
‘Oops! I told him you weren’t. But if you want a job swap,I’ll do the four days with him—’
‘Four? I’m only up there for two!’
‘Not any more. That’s the message he asked me to give you – he’s fixed up a customer visit, but the guy’s only available over the weekend. Some sort of outdoor activity thingy in the Lake District, and he’s wangled you an invitation.’
I digested thisinformation in silence. In the absence of a finalised schedule for the Friday, I’d booked my train ticket as an open return. But the fact that I could travel home on the Sunday without additional expense simply wasn’t the point. ‘And if I have other plans …?’
‘Your diary’s blank, I told him you were free.’
We usually blocked out personal commitments in our work diaries, in case wehad to travel to Monday morning meetings the night before – or attend coaching conferences, which were often held on a Saturday. Normally, Celia was slow off the mark to establish my availability for anything – except on this occasion.
It turned out that she’d been even more helpful. She went on, ‘He said he hoped he wasn’t tearing you away from a nice relaxing weekend with the man in yourlife, but I told him that you didn’t have one.’
For some reason, this rankled even more than the previous revelation. ‘In future, please don’t share that sort of information with clients,’ I said tetchily. ‘And before I decide whether I’m going, did you get any details about the weekend?’
‘Yeah, the customer’s name is Bill McGraw and someone called Mitch McGraw will be there too. Oh,and I wrote down the address of where you’re staying … Here it is. Blencathra Lodge, Threlkeld. Sounds like a foreign language, doesn’t it?’
‘A hotel?’ I clicked on Google, ready to check the reviews. Or at least confirm that it was a valid address and not some subterfuge on Jack Smith’s part. When it came to getting his own way, that man would be capable of anything; abduction was probablythe least of my worries…
Celia interrupted my train of thought. ‘No, I think it’s where Bill and Mitch live.’
‘Oh. Is anyone else staying with them?’
‘Don’t know. Anyway, Jack said you’d be out and about most of the time, going up hills and things.’
It sounded as if Bill and Mitch were a couple; at least their company would offer me some protection against Jack Smith.And, as there was no mention of any women, I wouldn’t have to watch him hitting on every available female under forty. Nevertheless, I felt uneasy.
‘Thank you for the message, Celia, I’ll give him a call.’
As soon as she’d dawdled back to her desk, I reached for my mobile and looked up Jack Smith’s number. After several controlled breaths, I selected it and waited.
He answeredit on the fifth ring. ‘Morning, Alicia.’ Did he have a photographic memory, or had he stored my number in his phone contacts just as I’d stored his?
‘It’s afternoon, at least down south.’
‘What the—? You’re right, it’s past twelve o’clock up here too. Strange to think we’re in the same time zone.’
‘Amazing. Now, about the deep dive—’
‘The what?’
A sudden vision ofplunging into the sea, the blue-green-flecked sea, with this man; not side-by-side synchronisation, but a perilous tangle of limbs … Yet I’d used the words ‘deep dive’ regularly in previous client conversations, with no side-effects whatsoever.
