Page 8 of Oz
Niall looks at him and then back at me. “Let me introduce you to the young man you’ll be mentoring. Milo, meet your mentor, Oz.”
The two of us exchange mutually horrified looks before I turn to Niall. “Have you been drinking?” I demand. “You’re giving me a job and also the responsibility of moulding a young mind.” I shake my head. “You’re off your bloody rocker.” I pause. “What will his lordship say about this?”
Niall smiles. “I think you’re just what he needs, Oz.” He mutters something about being bored but I can’t hear him properly.
I shake my head. “This is going to be a disaster,” I say in a very doom-laden voice and Milo nods emphatically, but Niall just smiles.
“On the contrary, I think you’re going to be perfect.”
One week later finds me sitting on my suitcase in the dusty carpark which is attached to the extremely small Cornish railway station. It’s like one of those stations you see in the miniature Lego village at Legoland. Perfectly proportioned, but small. I smile. A bit like me.
I stretch my legs out and enjoy the hot sunshine and the quiet. The two people that got off the train with me have long gone, leaving me alone and starting to wonder if all this has been a joke. I can’t summon up the energy to be worried about that after the horrendous train journey here. If the job doesn’t pan out I might just stay here and become some sort of monument to the folly of trusting in strangers.
My thoughts are interrupted by a dirty green Land Rover pulling up in front of me. The window rolls down and I look into Milo’s anxious brown eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says immediately. “I got stuck behind a tractor and with these narrow roads it’s impossible to get past and–”
I wave my hand and interrupt his anxious monologuing. “It’s fine, Milo. Don’t worry about it.” I stand up and watch as he vaults out of the car and scurries around to open the boot. I heft my case up, ignoring his outstretched hands. “I can manage it.” I swing the case in and the car rocks slightly with the impact. He shoots me an uneasy look.
“What is in that?” he gasps and immediately looks worried that he’s offended me.
I smile at him. “Mainly shoes and–” I pause. “No, it’s mostly shoes. I’m like Paris Hilton but with far better hair and dress sense.”
He shoots me a bewildered look but shows some sense in that he doesn’t travel down my conversational cul-de-sac.
I climb into the car and pull my seatbelt around me, watching as he pulls off neatly onto the road. I sneak a look at him. On a second glance he’s actually extremely pretty. He’s tall and willowy with wavy hair that’s the colour of dark muscovado sugar. However, the overriding impression is one of nervousness.
We drive in silence for a while until I start to fidget slightly. “So, tell me about the house,” I demand. A bit abruptly, obviously, because he swerves slightly. “Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Tell me what it’s like. Is it in a huge mess?”
He presses his lips together, but discretion evidently takes a back seat to indignation because his words come out in a huge rush. “It’s a real mess. David left it in terrible order. None of the building work is on schedule. It’s so far behind and the house is due to open in six months. Nothing is done. There aren’t any staff being trained. The collections haven’t been looked after properly and nothing is being done about setting the house up for visitors.”
He stops to take in a much-needed breath. I whistle. “Wow. Okay, that sounds … terrible.” His lip quirks, the first display of humour I’ve seen in him, so I chance more conversation. “David was the previous house manager?”
He nods and shoots me a quick look. “He was a friend of the earl.”
“Oh, okay, I get it,” I sigh and pause for thought. “Actually, that makes it worse. He’s afriendand he still left like that?”
He shifts in his seat uncomfortably and my interest sharpens. “I think they had a bit of an argument,” he mutters, taking a deep breath. “And David walked out.” He shrugs. “Good riddance. Lord Ashworth deserves a lot better.”
I’m not sure whether he’s putting down what I’m picking up, but I’m thinking the mysterious Lord Ashworth was sleeping with his house manager. “Ouch!” I say with feeling. “Been there, done that.”
His lips twitch again. “Yes, I remember that bit vividly from your interview.”
We share a look and as if synchronised we both burst into laughter. I shake my head. “I’m not normally that flamboyant.” He shoots me a disbelieving glance and I capitulate. “Okay, I totally am, but I really thought I wouldn’t have a chance at this job so I just relaxed.”
“Relaxed?” he says doubtfully. “It was like watching a really easygoing car crash.”
I grin and give him a gentle nudge. “Milo, you’re so sassy. Who knew?”
“Not me,” he says wryly.
I smile. “I think we’re going to get along together, after all.”
Lapsing into a comfortable silence, we drive down winding roads that look like green tunnels with trees hanging over them. Occasionally he pulls over to let a car or van past. This is always done with huge civility and smiles, and on one occasion we stop so Milo and the other driver can have a quick chat. He accelerates away, and I shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s very different from London. We’d have had several rude hand gestures by now and a lot of bellowing and swearing accompanied by the utter refusal of both parties to move until the police have to be summoned.”
He smiles. “It’s the country. It’s different here.”
