‘Oh, I have myself a nice bungalow up west. Lived there for fifty years. It’s too big for just me, mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell it after I lost my Ernie ten years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Very sweet of you, dear.’ We come to a halt outside some intricately carved double doors, and Mrs Potts yanks on a brass bell hanging to the right. I take in the detailed engravings on the wooden doors. The first thing I notice is two people, both naked. Then I spot a tree and an oversized engraving of an apple. ‘The Garden of Eden?’ I ask, stepping forwards to get a better look. It’s beautiful, so detailed and intricate.
‘Stunning, don’t you think?’
‘It really is.’ I reach up and run my fingertip over the face of Eve. I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘And purple heart too.’ It’s a notoriously difficult wood to carve, so the creator of this masterpiece must have been beyond talented and patient.
‘Come in,’ a gruff voice calls, and I snatch back my hand.
‘After you, dear.’ Mrs Potts pushes one of the doors open, and I look to her, nervous. ‘Go on.’
I’m reluctant, though I don’t know why, and when I slowly convince my heels to take me forward, past the doorway, my mouth drops open. ‘Bloody hell,’ I whisper, slapping my hand over my mouth the moment the words pass my lips.
‘Language, dear,’ Mrs Potts scolds, pushing my lower back to encourage me forwards. This place just keeps on giving and giving. Three of the four walls are made up of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all bursting at the seams with books, all old, judging by the smell. It’s too much, but my eyes take in more and more and more.
Two chesterfield couches reside proudly opposite each other with an old trunk positioned in the middle, and at the end of the room there are huge sash bay windows, dressed in luscious heavy gold drapes that pool to the floor.
And between them, a desk.
And what a desk. The king of desks. Solid. Sturdy. An absolutely beautifully engraved double pedestal piece. My bottom lip slips between my teeth as I consider how many people have sat at that desk. Or who has sat at that desk. It looks like a replica of the famous Theodore Roosevelt desk that was saved from the 1929 fire at the White House.
I’m so rapt by the beautiful piece – its story seeping from the well-oiled dark wood – that I miss the fact that there’s actually someone sitting at the desk.
Someone concealed behind a broadsheet.
‘Mr H,’ Mrs Potts sings, wandering over to the curtains and tweaking the tie-backs. ‘This is Eleanor Cole. You asked to meet her.’
The paper rustles, and I watch on a held breath as it’s folded slowly before my eyes, revealing the occupant of this amazing office.
I smile, taken aback. He’s wearing a bottle-green shirt with a brown tie to match his tweed jacket, and his head is topped with a thick silver mop, combed neatly to the side. He’s a looker now – at what, mid-eighties? – so he must have been a stunner in his day. He has one of those warm, friendly faces that make you feel like you’ve known them for years.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Cole.’ He looks over the top of his spectacles at me as he places his newspaper on the desk.
‘Good afternoon, Mr . . . H,’ I reply politely, following Mrs Potts’s lead. I resist the urge to curtsey. I feel like I’m in the company of royalty, with my surroundings, his attire, his posh accent. He could be a duke or a lord.
‘Your CV was very impressive, how you spoke so passionately about this world.’ The old man pushes his paper to the side of the desk.
I blush a little. ‘Thank you.’ I’m still in the dark and a bit taken aback by this interview process, but I really, really want this job.
‘We could do with some help for Mrs Potts,’ he continues. ‘She isn’t getting any younger.’ Chuckling, he rests back in his captain’s chair, a big smile on his face.
I hear Mrs Potts tittering from across the room, and I look over to find her rolling her eyes as she makes her way to Mr H. She unhooks a walking stick from a coat stand to the side of the desk. Even his walking aid looks like an antique, all shiny and gold.