Entrance (Thornhill Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  “Yes, I did. I’m sorry about that. Not that it worries me or anything.”

  Greta handed me the wet cloth.

  “Thanks.” I took the cloth and proceeded to rub it into the stains. “I think it should be okay now.” I held onto the damp fabric unsure of what to do with it.

  Taking it from my hand, Greta said, “Here, give that to me.”

  As we continued down the long hallway laden with jaw-dropping artwork, Greta said, “We’ll first pay a visit to your new office. And then the cottage.”

  I stopped walking. “Excuse me. Cottage?”

  Greta frowned. “Didn’t the agency tell you? We expect you to live here during the weekdays.”

  “No, they didn’t,” I said.

  “Will that be a problem for you, Miss Moone?”

  I shook my head. “Please call me Clarissa.” I imagined going to the beach after work, walks in the flourishing gardens, the sketches I could do. “I won’t need to commute daily. Can I leave on the weekends?”

  Greta touched her graying French-roll. She reminded me of a school principal from the 1960’s. “You can come and go as you please. We prefer our staff to be housed here in case the need to work late arises. Your primary task will be to manage the gala nights and to attend them on a monthly basis. They take place on a Saturday evening.”

  “That suits me fine,” I said, flashing my biggest and brightest smile.

  As with every room I’d visited so far, my new office was astonishing. The pink silk damask wallpaper and contrasting crisp white cornices stole my breath away. “It’s simply stunning.” I sighed.

  Greta’s lips twitched.

  Unable to stay focused in one spot, my eyes moved from the antique mahogany desk to the paintings landing on a Kandinsky, at which point I exhaled audibly.

  “Aidan’s an avid art collector,” said Greta, noticing my flushed surprise. “He was impressed by your education in art history.”

  “Will I be advising him on acquisitions?” I asked, trying to remain cool while my mind popped a champagne cork at that thought.

  “No. He doesn’t need advice. Aidan’s very particular when it comes to art.”

  I nodded. “From what I’ve seen, he has excellent taste.”

  “I’m sure your views will please him,” she said with a tight smile. Greta pointed to the desk. “You should have everything you require here. You’ll report solely to me.”

  “Yes, Miss Thornhill.”

  “Call me Greta, please,” she said. “I’m Aidan’s aunt.”

  “I see,” I said, my eyes landing on the view of the sea outside the window.

  “I’ll take you to the cottage now,” said Greta, directing me out of the room.

  At the end of the hallway, towards the back of the house, we descended a set of stairs, taking us into a massive, industrial-sized kitchen decked in stainless steel. A large man, who I assumed was the chef, and a younger woman moved about the space. We then entered a dining area. From there, a door led us outside into a courtyard with table and chairs for dining alfresco.

  As we moved along the cobbled path surrounded by terracotta pots filled with exotic flourishing plants, Greta pointed to a charming cottage with a porch.

  Stepping through French doors, I was met by a cozy environment. No expense had been spared. I gushed, “This is such an inviting room.”

  “We’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible,” said Greta.

  After being given a tour of my new home, I wanted to ask what happened to the last personal assistant, but I didn’t wish to pry. Why would anybody want to leave this?

  “Your predecessor got married,” said Greta, seemingly reading my mind. “You’re free to come and go as you please. You are required to sign a privacy clause, and visitors are not allowed in the main residence. There’s a separate entrance at the back of the estate.”

  “That sounds more than reasonable. Apart from my father and my roommate, I’m unlikely to entertain,” I said.

  “As you wish,” she said, directing me out of the cottage. “I’ve drawn up a contract which I’ll give to you in a moment. Please read it with care. You’ll see what’s expected of you. It’s vital you pay attention to clause seven.”

  I followed Greta back into the dining area. She pointed to a chair. “I’ll bring the contract. Melanie will look after you for tea or coffee. Baked daily, our cakes and muffins are always on offer.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Greta.

  Served with cream, the coffee was so delicious I had two cups. The aroma of the chocolate cake made my stomach rumble, I ended up polishing the plate.

  Buzzing, not only from the sugar hit but from what had just taken place, I stared at the contract: “Hours 9:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., Mon.–Fri. Breaks for coffee, morning and afternoon, and lunch. One Saturday a month, you are to attend the charity gala event held at the Thornhill Estate. You will sometimes be required to work late. After a probationary period of six months, provided you perform your tasks satisfactorily, this contract will be extended.”

  Clause seven read, “Under no circumstances are photos of the estate or dealings therein to be divulged through social media or any other outlets, i.e., magazines, newspaper columns etcetera. Visitors are not allowed in the main house unless invited to do so.”

  That seemed reasonable enough, I thought as Greta crept back into the room. “Is that all in order?” Watching me rummage in my bag, she passed me a pen. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks.” I accepted the pen and held it over the document.

  “Have you any questions?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No, it’s easy to follow. Thank you.”

  “Right, then. That’s it for today. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I replied with enthusiasm.

  She clapped her hands together. “Good. The gala fundraiser is only two weeks away, and we have much to do.” Her eyes ran up and down my body. “You’ll be requiring six ball gowns. In this envelope is a credit card with a generous limit.” She placed it on the table. “If you prefer, a stylist can select your gowns. It’s up to you. Aidan stipulates we look our best. He’s very strict when it comes to his staff’s appearance. No casual clothes. You can charge your work clothes to the account.”

  I was still getting my mind around the six ball gowns. Do I get to keep them?

  “The clothes will be yours to keep,” said Greta, once again reading my mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You’re back? So soon,” Tabitha said. I nearly fell into her arms. She had an annoying habit of opening the door just as I was entering.

  I headed to the fridge for a juice. Tabitha followed at my heels. “So, are you going to tell me what happened? Did you meet him?”

  With a thirst equally as impatient as Tabitha, I fell onto the sofa and emptied my glass. “I signed a contract and was taken to a charming little cottage where I’m expected to live during weekdays.”

  Tabitha knitted her thin, well-plucked eyebrows. “You’re moving out?”

  “No, I just won’t be here weeknights. But I’ll be back weekends.” I touched her hand.

  “Oh…” Tabitha reflected. “It will be lonesome without you here.”

  “You can visit, you know. I am allowed to have visitors.”

  A smile dissolved her frown. “Seriously? Does that mean I can stay?”

  “I can’t see why not.” I dragged the contract out of my bag. “Here, read this. It will answer everything. I have to pack. Then I’ve got to go shopping.”

  Tabitha gaped at me. “Shopping?”

  “I need to buy work clothes. I have a charge account,” I said, keeping a straight face, unlike Tabitha, whose eyes were bulging out of their sockets. “Greta gave it to me.”

  Tabitha’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? A charge account so soon? I mean, you haven’t even worked there yet. What happens if they’re not happy with you?”

  “
Thanks for the vote of confidence, friend.”

  She tilted her head and smirked.

  Placing the contract down, Tabitha screamed. “Oh my God, Clary. Six ball gowns, and designer, I bet. Fuck. You’ve won the lottery.”

  “It certainly feels that way,” I said with a permanent grin that was making my jaw ache. “Do you want to come?”

  “Who else is going to advise you?” said Tabitha springing up off the sofa.

  “Let’s do lunch first. I’m starving, and it’s on me,” I said, upbeat and buoyant.

  Grabbing my arm, Tabitha trilled, “This is so exciting.”

  That was us. With a tendency to share in each other’s highs and lows, we were more like sisters than friends.

  ****

  “Oh my God, Clary, a $10,000 limit,” crooned Tabitha.

  “It must be for the formalwear and work clothing combined,” I said, equally stunned.

  “They don’t expect you to buy the gowns today, do they?” Tabitha asked as we sprinted towards the fashion district.

  “I doubt it. Let’s focus on office clothes for now. Not that I’m sure what to buy,” I said, happy to have my fashion-savvy friend in tow.

  “Leave it to me, Clary. We’ll have you looking sexy and professional in no time.” She looped her arm in mine and was all bouncy.

  “Not sexy, only professional,” I said.

  “Don’t lay that virgin crap on me. You’re working for the hottest guy in town,” she blurted so loudly people’s heads turned.

  “Tell the whole of LA, why don’t you?” I snapped.

  “You’ve got a figure to die for and a face like Natalie Wood’s,” Tabitha said, dragging me along by my hand.

  “Tabs, need I keep reminding you that I’m employed as a PA?”

  “I know, I know. But there’s no harm in making the most of your assets,” she said, sounding more like an ambitious mother by the minute.

  We passed “Yesterday’s Child” my favorite vintage shop. Instincts fully aroused, I headed for the doorway. Tabitha pulled me back. “No vintage, Clary, only contemporary, stylish, and sexy.”

  “Vintage can be super classy and fashionable,” I argued. Although she was right, I had a pathological addiction to 1960s clothes. Tabitha said it was because I was trying to emulate my late mother. I couldn’t disagree. My mother and I were so alike in build that I still wore her clothes. It was an obsession that had caused much trouble at college, at least until vintage became fashion. Then the bullies suddenly regarded my Mondrian-inspired mini worn over white patent-leather boots with envy.

  “Let’s go there.” Tabitha pointed to an enormous department store. I followed along submissively.

  Inside, there were racks everywhere. I frowned. “Where should we start?”

  “Isn’t this fantastic?” Tabitha was in her element. “Let’s begin with shirts.” She selected a cream-colored cotton fitted shirt. “This is a flattering shape.” She held it against me. “Three in varying shades should do it. That way, you can mix and match.”

  “It’s very fitted. Couldn’t we go more for this?” I pointed to a silk, loose-fitting shirt with a necktie.

  “Clarissa, you’re going all vintage again,” Tabitha sang, selecting three more of the fitted variety. “These are just right. They’ll look swish— trust me.”

  “I don’t know, Tabs. I think I’d prefer loose.”

  “Stop being so damn bashful. You’ve got nice big boobs.”

  “I don’t want to look cheap, Tabs. Greta made it clear they expect modest and professional-looking clothing.”

  “Hello. A high-waisted pencil skirt with a crisp cotton, well-tailored shirt is hardly skank-wear.” Tabitha pulled one of her many silly faces, making me giggle.

  “Okay, then, but I’m taking one of those.” I selected a loose silk shirt with tiny pale-pink polka dots. The price-tag read $500. “Shit, this is pricey.”

  “Classy means expensive, Clarissa.” Grabbing me by the hand, Tabitha led me to the skirts. “This is cool.” Tabitha held one with a slit to the thigh.

  “I’m not going there to perform an Apache dance, you know where I leap from my desk and end up in the splits on the floor,” I said with a chuckle.

  Tabitha laughed. “You’re a nut-job.”

  After we settled for three skirts, Tabitha dragged me over to a rack of short sheath dresses.

  “I can see what you’re doing, Tabs. You’re dressing me in alluring clothes. These are hardly professional,” I said.

  “Hello. One can be sexy and professional. You have a stunning figure and dancer’s legs. You should show them off.”

  “Yes. But not at work.

  Ignoring me, Tabitha flicked through a rack of knee-length sheath dresses, selecting a red one. She placed it on my body. “Hmm, yes. Red’s your color.”

  More mother than friend, Tabitha was bossy. But then, considering my incurable indecisiveness, it was a practical arrangement.

  Without waiting for my approval, she popped the dress in the shopping cart

  “Now for some nylons.” Stroking a silk camisole, Tabitha purred with delight.

  “I’ll get you one,” I said.

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  “Why not? Pick two. If they complain, I can always pay it back. I’m about to be properly waged,” I said, lifting my sternum with pride.

  While Tabitha chose cream and pale pink, falling for the irresistible feel of silk, I selected two as well.

  “Shit, suspenders?” I exclaimed as she dangled a lacy ensemble in front of me.

  “Coming from a girl who’s still living in the sixties.”

  “Mm…point taken,” I said, watching her pop it into the shopping cart.

  “We need to buy some shoes,” Tabitha said, extracting most of the joy from our expedition.

  “What’s wrong with my new Mary-Janes?” I asked.

  “Nothing, I guess. But we need some heels, sexy spiky ones.”

  “I won’t wear those during the day. They’re hard enough at night.”

  “Come on,” she said, stubborn as always. “Your Mary-Janes make you look like a spinster.”

  “Does anyone even use that word anymore?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

  “Whatever. You need spiky heels. Not too high, but stiletto-thin. Come on.” She dragged me off to the Shoe Emporium. Half an hour later, we walked out with three boxes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stocked with everything I needed and much more, the pantry was full. For someone accustomed to lonesome cans of beans and half-empty boxes of cereal, this was novel. There was enough food for a year. I was well prepared for a catastrophe. The fridge, likewise, was filled with all the yummy food one would pine for, especially late at night while lazing about on the sofa. Then there were the staples: milk, juice, cheese, ham, and even olives. I couldn’t believe how generous my new employers were. Not only was I being paid a decent higher-than-expected wage, but my clothes and my personal needs were being seen to as well.

  A knock came at the door. Greta stood before me, wearing a whisper of a smile. It was the warmest I’d seen from her to date, not that she gave me a bad vibe.

  “Good morning, Greta,” I said, all smiles.

  “Good morning.”

  I stepped away so she could enter.

  Greta looked about the room. “I trust Linus helped you with your cases.”

  “He was extremely helpful, thank you,” I said, recalling him carrying everything from my car to the cottage. “I also discovered that you filled the cupboards. It’s such a generous gesture and most unexpected.”

  “Stores are far from here,” she replied in her usual cool tone. Her eyes did a quick sweep of my outfit and settled on my French roll.

  “I hope this is suitable,” I said, touching my bun.

  “It’s fine. Is your hair long?”

  “Ah, yes, it is. Is that a problem?” I asked with a lopsided grin.

  “Not at all.” She shook her head. “I was j
ust curious. Most girls go for the shorter styles these days. I prefer longer hair myself. It’s easier to style.”

  “That it is. My friend helped me this morning. She’s rather adept at styling hair. I’m more of a ponytail girl. Will that be acceptable?” I could feel a little drip down my arms. All the scrutiny was making me uneasy.

  “You can wear it how you like.”

  She looked at my suitcase lying on the floor unopened. “Are you ready to start?”

  “Yes… raring to go.” I nearly saluted, but deeming it too clichéd, I resisted the urge.

  The aroma of baking, as I passed through the kitchen, was so alluring my stomach grumbled.

  “Have you eaten?” Greta asked. Her ability to read my mind was starting to freak me out.

  “No, only coffee, I’ll make up for it at lunch.”

  “We have freshly baked muffins. I’ll get Melanie to bring you one, along with some brewed coffee. How do you have it?”

  “Milk and two sugars, thanks.”

  I’d forgotten how sensory commanding my new office was. I sighed silently as I stepped into the pink haven.

  With ocean views and artwork all vying for my attention, I had to concentrate hard as Greta instructed me. My first task was to process guests’ payments and email receipts. Noting my bewilderment at the $1000 price tag, Greta said, “These events are very popular. With only five hundred tickets, they get snapped up quickly.”

  “I see,” I said, reading the list of charities that Thornhill Holdings ran. There were seven in total. Amongst those were foundations for retired members of the armed forces, homeless shelters for women and children, and even dog shelters. I formed a favorable impression of my elusive, generous boss.

  “Once you’ve done that, you need to study the spreadsheet to ensure it tallies with that figure.”

  Although I was kept very busy, the work was simple to grasp.

  “I’m ready for the next task,” I said as Greta re-entered the office.

  “Excellent. You’ve exceeded expectations. After lunch, we’ll go over entertainment and catering.”