Page 19 of Dr. CEO (The Doctors)

“There are always rumors because the earl clearly can’t afford the place. Rio says he had to attach plastic bags to the roof of the orangery last week because there was a leak.”

“So?” That sounds like a practical solution to the problem. “I’m sure it’s just a temporary thing until they can bring someone in to fix it. Rio is a handyman, not an orangery specialist.”

Meghan unzips her jacket. “If it did sell, it wouldn’t affect the pub, would it? I heard it’s got a long lease on that land.”

“Crompton is not for sale. No way would the earl part with it.”

“He’s not going to live forever. Even if Basil’s wrong this time, eventually the Crompton Estate will be sold. There’s no heir. No children for him to pass it down to.”

The idea turns my blood to ice. I can’t bear to think about Crompton being owned by someone other than the earl. Crompton is my home. My life. The culmination of all my childhood dreams. I like things just how they are.

Basil is just being Basil.

Crompton hasn’t changed since my grandmother and grandfather started working here forty years ago. Even through the seasons, the shifts are gentle and expected, blending into each other like the watercolors of a painting. Life at Crompton is an immoveable rock that weathers every shift, every obstacle, and comes out looking just as it always has. It’s part of the reason I love it here so much—the consistent reliability, the expectedness of everything, the lack of change. Basil can spout all the doom and gloom prophecies he likes; the Crompton Estate isn’t going anywhere.

EIGHT

Vincent

Working remotely, all participants in a meeting on the screen in front of me, isn’t something I started during the pandemic. I’ve always worked this way. Yes, I have an office in New York and some staff are based there. But I work wherever I am. And at the moment, I am in London. That means my office is in London as well.

I have a view of Hyde Park from my preferred penthouse suite at the Four Seasons on Park Lane, which makes a perfect backdrop for any meeting. It’s a little different from my room at the Golden Hare in Crompton. Flashes of memory from the night I spent there with Kate cross my mind. She was beautiful.

“What I want at the end of this meeting is first to understand if Crompton is financially viable. And if it is, I want to know what our opening offer is,” I say to Jason, my chief financial officer. I know from experience he’s sitting at the board table in the New York office, his team around him so we can make a quick decision. He knows I don’t want to have to wait for him to check x, y, and z with his people. I’m going to want the answer during this meeting.

“We’ve had numbers in from the team overnight,” he says. “Although the architects have a huge range, depending on our instructions. The same goes for the building surveyor and the head contractor.”

“That’s understandable,” I say. “I just want you to run a sensitivity analysis to understand our best- and worst-case scenarios.”

Jason falls silent, which is what he always does when he thinks I’m not understanding what he’s saying. But I do understand.

“I get the profit numbers depend on the number of rooms. And that impacts the building costs.”

“Yes,” he says. “You need to make a decision on number of rooms today. Without seeing the final drawings from the architect.”

“But we need square footage of each room before we can decide,” I say. “And these guys are the best. They’ve worked with all the five-star hotel brands around the world. Let’s get them up on screen. I want to hear what they’ve got to say. Let’s bring the designer and the contractor into this too.”

While my assistant brings more people onto our call, I bring up Instagram and go to Crompton’s page. When I see a new image on the grid, my heart thuds against my chest.

Over what? It’s a damn photograph.

But I know who took the picture. And besides, it’s beautiful, with the red brick of the house lit up in the dark and trees shadowing the background. Kate’s got a talent, whether she knows it or not.

I click on the comments and add, “Beautiful.” Part of me hopes she smiles when she sees it. Another part of me wants her to know it’s me who posted it.

Before I look away, I get a notification. She’s liked my message.

Kate’s online now. I wonder if she’s at the café, show tunes in the background, checking her phone between customers. I think about her pink striped uniform and sliding my hands under its skirt, my skin against hers, again.

Another notification appears. I have a message. It must be her. Right? My heart picks up speed and I click on it.

Yup. Just as I thought.

“I’m so pleased you like the images of Crompton. Have you visited?”

It’s like adrenaline has been poured into my veins and I can feel it racing to my heart.

Does she message everyone who comments on her photos?

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