Page 3 of Neighbor from Hell
“Yeah?”
“Good Morning, Sir,” she says in her clipped, super-efficient voice. “Good news. Barrington & Hauser have finally agreed to your terms. They will sign the contract this afternoon at 2:00 p.m. Hopefully, you will now feel it justified to thoroughly enjoy your week in the country.”
“Excellent. Well done,” I say with a victorious smile. This news is the icing on the cake for an idea I’ve been planning on.
“Thank you, Sir. The team did a brilliant job.” There is pride and joy in her voice.
“I’m going to stay longer than a week this time, Athena. Can you reschedule and work on shifting most of my meetings for the next three weeks, at least, to the manor? I think we can set up some kind of system here. Let’s use the next week to test it. I want to run things remotely, only heading to London for emergencies. Can you handle it?”
I hear the faint tap of her keyboard in the background, and my gaze flicks towards the rolling pastures flashing by—cows dotting the green, lazy and fat, chewing cud without a care in the world.
“Of course,” she says moments later, smooth as ever. “I’ll get started with arranging everything—video calls, secure lines, the works. Anything else?”
“Not for now. Good work with the Barrington deal. There’ll be a special bonus in your paycheck this month.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
She cuts the call, and l lean back with a sense of great satisfaction. The team worked hard, and it was not an easy deal to put together, and it’s the perfect news to start my retreat. The countryside stretches out ahead, endless and gorgeous—fields stitched together with stone walls, the sky a pale blue streaked with wispy clouds. It is a balm for the soul, peace soaks into me, easing the knots in my shoulders.
Montrose Manor comes into view as the road crests—a magnificent white stone piece of history. Built in the eighteenth century, it has survived two world wars, five fires, and long periods of neglect and decline, but I have restored it to its former glory. The windows glint in the morning sun. Deer graze in the fields beyond, their faces turned towards the noise of my car, their tails swishing nervously. It is a fucking postcard, pristine and picturesque, and every acre is mine.
I pull up the drive, gravel crunching under the tires, and kill the engine. Silence reigns, broken only by a distant whinny from the stables. I step out, boots hitting the ground, and stretch, my spine popping from the drive. The air’s cool, tinged with the sweet rot of manure and hay. Home.
Then my eyes snag on it—the cottage. That damned eyesore squatting next on what should be my land, a blight on the horizon. Crumbling brick, sagging roof, overgrown with ivy and weeds. It literally looks like it’s trying to claw its way back into the earth. My mood sours, a tight coil of annoyance ruining my sense of well-being. I’ve been after that patch for years—offered the grumpy old woman, Mabel Morrel, who lived there more than it was worth, and she still spat in my face. Now she’s dead, she’s willed it on to some granddaughter of hers. Never even knew the hag had family. Another stubborn fool, probably. I shove the unwelcome thoughts to the back of my mind as I head inside, but still, as always, it gnaws at me. It’s a problem unsolved.
The warm and rich smell of coffee and bacon wafts from the dining room. I walk through the heavy oak doors and find my mother seated at the end of the long table, a plate of toast and eggs in front of her. She’s all elegance—silver hair swept up, pearls at her throat—sipping tea like she’s posing for a portrait. She looks up and smiles. I cross the room and kiss her offered cheek. Her skin is soft and powdery under my lips.
“Morning, darling,” she greets warmly.
“You’re dressed up,” I comment.
“I have some errands to run in the city, and I was thinking of spending the night in the flat. My flight to Paris tomorrow is quite early, and I fear missing it.”
“Why don’t you just take the jet?” I ask curiously. “You can leave whenever you want with that option, and you won’t have all the hassle of flying commercial.”
“Waste of resources,” she says. “I have booked a seat in First class, and the check-in will be speedy. I’m fine.”
“As you wish, Mama,” I concede and drop into the chair across from her. A maid—a new girl, all nervous hands—sets a cup in front of me and pours steaming black coffee into it. I nod at her, and she scurries off. “But what’s the rush? Stay a few more days. You know I like having you here.”
She laughs lightly, brushes crumbs from her fingers, and lifts her cup of tea. “That’s sweet of you to say, my darling, but I’ve been closeted here for the last three months, and that is quite enough. This house is too quiet. When you’re not here, I feel like a demented ghost wandering around aimlessly by myself. Ever since your father… the memories… it’s all a bit much. Anyway, I’m a city girl at heart. I need the noise, the bustle. Paris calls. I’ve been here long enough.”
I sip my coffee. It’s exactly how I like it: bitter and scalding hot. “Fair enough. What about the Sweetbriar Cottage? Any news?”
She sets her teacup down, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “The dreadful woman’s granddaughter is American, I hear. But no word from her yet. Still, the fact that she hasn’t turned up is good news. Perhaps she’s not interested in the property, and she’ll accept your offer. We can live in hope.”
I lean back, jaw tightening. “Hope? No, that’s not how I run things. I want that land, and I’m going to get it by hook or by crook. It’s a fucking disgrace, just sitting there rotting—ruins the view, drags the look of the whole estate down. You know how stunning it could be if I got my hands on it. And no neighbors for miles—complete privacy. I’m not waiting. I’m going to hire someone to work on it.”
“Preston’s firm will be able to sort it all out for you. They’re awfully clever. The fly in the ointment is those ghastly developers, The Harrington Group. They’re always trying to buy up chunks of the countryside, and Mrs. O’Brien tells me they’ve been sniffing around. If that girl hears from them first and falls for their cunning sales pitch, it’ll be lost for good. You’ll never pry it back from those frightful foreign vultures.”
My grip tightens on the cup, heat seeping into my palm. The Harrington group represents unlimited Qatari money. Those bastards are responsible for most of Canary Wharf’s vulgar glass and metal towers and the tackiest resorts around the world. The thought of them sinking their greedy claws into the land next to mine makes me want to punch something.
“They’ll completely devastate the area if she sells to them,” I growl.
My mother nods sagely and sips her tea. “Indeed. You’ll have to move fast. If I hear anything more about the elusive granddaughter, I’ll let you know, of course.”
I’m already halfway out the room, fishing my phone from my pocket. The hall echoes with my steps—polished wood, portraitsof hundreds of years’ worth of ancestors staring down at me. I dial my lawyer, Edward, pacing as it rings. He picks up on the second ring.
“Why the delay?’ I ask. “Haven’t you found her yet?’
