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.
‘Er, would you like to come into my office?’ I’d rather get them away from the reception area in case any of my clients happen to walk in and overhear our conversation. I don’t want people knowing my business. Although Molly’s bound to have heard all that, and I doubt she’ll keep it to herself.
The tax inspectors follow me through the showroom and into my office, where I offer each of them a seat and try to collect my thoughts. I sit at my beloved marble desk and lay the letters in front of me, wondering what the hell is going to happen now. Am I in trouble? Do I owe the taxman money? I stare down at the letters once more, trying yet again to absorb what’s written. I spot the words