Hot Property

by Zoe Barnes

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

When Claire inherits a house out of the blue, she thinks she's struck it rich! But while the word 'cottage' conjures images of romantic idylls and roses round the door, there's nothing remotely heavenly about Paradise Cottage.It's a tumble-down wreck in the middle of nowhere - more in need of a demolition expert than a decorator.

Still, Claire's not one to shirk a challenge.Much to the amusement of her hunky new neighbour, Aidan, she decides to renovate the cottage herself.After all, problem-solving, trouble-shooting - it's what Claire does best.She's used to planning events for thousands of people.She can sort out one little cottage . . . Can't she?

Release date: June 28, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Once Upon A Time …


‘Teletubbies to the main stage please, Teletubbies …’

The public address system boomed across the lawns of Brockbourne Hall, so deafeningly that all the sheep in the next field
started bleating in protest. Not that anyone could hear them; not above the din of several hundred children pursuing a man
in a rubber brontosaurus costume into the tea tent.


‘My God,’ panted Lorna Walsh, staggering up the last few steps to the second-floor landing. ‘Is it always like this?’

Claire wedged a cardboard box of books between knee and chin, and used her left hand to nudge open the front door of the flat.
‘Don’t ask me,’ she replied cheerily. ‘I don’t officially start work here until tomorrow.’


She staggered into the flat and Lorna followed, dragging an immense suitcase behind her, two-handed.

‘I can’t imagine why you’d want to work here,’ Lorna went on. ‘In fact I can’t imagine why anybody would.’


‘Why not? The money’s good – and it’s a change of scene.’

‘Change of scene? It’s a madhouse. I’d advise you to leg it while you’ve still got the chance, only I can’t face lugging all
your stuff back down those stairs.’


Claire stood in the middle of the flat and surveyed her surroundings. Her new home. Two nice big rooms, her own bathroom and kitchenette, pretty casement windows straight out of a Rossetti painting and carpet so thick you could lose your
toes in it. Living over the shop had never seemed so good.


‘Come on Lorna, of course it’s not like this all the time. Mostly it’s conferences and seminars and stuff like that. This
is a Children’s Fun Festival, the punters are bound to be a bit … lively.’


‘Steer well clear of animals and children, darling,’ warned Lorna. ‘Take it from me, they’re bad news every time. I should
know, I was the back end of Esmeralda the cow in Skegness.’


‘It’s hardly the same as being operations manager at a prestige conference venue, is it?’ scoffed Claire.

‘Prestige?’ laughed Lorna. ‘Obviously you’ve never had your tail ripped off by a gang of six-year-old hooligans.’ She dragged
the overladen suitcase another half a yard, abandoned it in the middle of the carpet and collapsed down on to its bulging
lid. ‘What have you got in here – bricks?’


‘Nothing that exotic.’

‘Oh, I get it. Just the decaying corpses of a few ex-lovers, huh?’

‘Yeah, and the loot from my last bank job.’

‘That’s all right then.’ Reaching to her left and rolling on to her side, Lorna dived into one of the many cardboard boxes
strewn around the living room. A second later she emerged triumphantly with a bright yellow electric kettle. ‘Tea, Miss Snow.
Now. Or I shall expire on the Axminster.’


‘Be my guest.’

Lorna flopped on to her back in a flourish of shoulder-length black curls. ‘I am dead, Horatio.’

‘Yeah.’ Claire snatched the kettle from her best friend’s hand and headed for the kitchen. ‘Dead hammy. If that’s the best
you can manage, it’s no wonder you haven’t made it to the Old Vic yet.’


Lorna sat up. ‘You won’t mock when I’m Dame Lorna and you have to stock my dressing room with fresh orchids and pink champagne.’

A voice floated through the open door from the next room. ‘Lorna.’

‘What?’

‘There’s no milk for the tea.’


‘So we’ll have it black.’

‘There’s no tea either.’

‘Gawd, Claire. For a professional organiser you’re pretty darned useless.’ Lorna kicked off her desert boots and padded into
the kitchen in her purple socks. ‘So what are we having? A nice reviving cup of hot water?’


Claire presented Lorna with a dusty bottle, wiping her hands on the seat of her Levi’s. ‘There you go.’

Lorna wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s this?’

‘Vimto cordial. I found it under the sink.’

Lorna blew the dust off the bottle. ‘Urgh, I’m not drinking that, it’s gone all brown!’

‘Well, it’s that or drain cleaner.’

Lorna shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But I want a choccy biscuit to take the taste away.’

The tannoy blared again, the sound so loud it was distorted. ‘Ms Vance to the worm farm please, Ms Vance …’

Lorna cocked an ear. ‘Worm farm? I could have sworn he just said “worm farm”.’

‘He did. It’s one of those eco-friendly things – you know, like that ant farm we made in Biology. Educational. The kids love
it, apparently.’


‘Give me candyfloss and roundabouts any day.’

Claire gazed out of the kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil. Two storeys below, the grounds of Brockbourne
Hall sloped verdantly away to the distant river. Green hills clustered round on three sides, dotted here and there with flocks
of sheep which had learned not to be surprised by anything. They had seen it all: sales conferences, survival weekends, family
fun days, management training courses, even Bryan Adams in concert. Now that was a frightening thought.


She looked down at the milling crowds, trying to make out exactly what was going on. Stilt-walkers, scary clowns with orange
hair, people in unidentifiable fun-fur costumes, fire-eaters, fairground rides, kiddies’ entertainers – they were all here, for one day only. Monster trucks, monster burgers, monster kids. God, but it was chaotic down there.


Not that chaos had ever bothered Claire; in fact she thrived upon it. Problem-solving, trouble-shooting, organising things
and people: it was what she did best, without ever really trying. Somewhere at the back of her mind she secretly hoped that
one day she might come across something she couldn’t cope with. It would almost be a relief.


They stood by the window together, drinking their Vimto, looking like two people who could not be more different if they tried.
Lorna was tall and dark and bosomy, Claire petite and pretty in a Goldie Hawn kind of way, with short, naturally blonde hair
that she had given up dyeing because it invariably ended up green. It wasn’t just that the two friends looked different; they
hardly ever agreed about anything, either. Funny that they had been such good mates for so long.


‘First aider to the funhouse please, first aider to the funhouse.’

Lorna opened the kitchen window and stuck her head out. ‘What’s he doing down there?’

Claire joined her. ‘Who?’

‘That kid in the red parka. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?’

Claire stifled a giggle. ‘No, I don’t believe it! If his mum catches him …’

They were so busy laughing that they didn’t hear the knock on the outer door. In fact, the first Claire knew that she had
a visitor was when an apologetic head stuck itself into the kitchen.


‘Er, hi. Mattie Sykes. We met at the interview, remember?’

Claire smiled and stuck out her hand. ‘Hi.’ Something on Mattie’s harassed face told her that this was not just a social call.
‘Is there a problem?’


Mattie achieved the impossible and looked even more embarrassed. ‘Hey, I’m really sorry about this, and I know you don’t officially
start work until tomorrow …’


‘But?’ interjected Lorna.

‘But could you get over to the funhouse right away? The Smurfs are kicking hell out of Mr Blobby.’

‘So then, he starts screaming.’


Claire poked her plastic fork around her paper plate, hunting for edible bits in her carbonised burrito. It took concentration.
‘Screaming?’ she said vaguely. ‘Who?’


‘Roderick Usher,’ repeated Lorna, with a despairing sweep of her large, dark eyes. ‘My mate Worm.’

‘Oh, Worm. Why didn’t you say so?’


‘I did!’ Lorna’s gaze was accusing. ‘You’ve not been listening, have you?’

‘Of course I have,’ protested Claire. ‘I always listen. But you lost me after that bit where the assistant stage manager put
his foot through the diorama.’


Claire pushed her plate away with a queasy burp, and asked herself for the umpteenth time why a night out with Lorna invariably
meant supper at the Cotswold Cantina. It had been suggested many times that Les, the owner, should diversify into indigestion
remedies. He’d be sure to make a fortune.


It was well after midnight, and Claire and Lorna were the only two people left in the café. They’d probably have gone home
half an hour ago, only a savage March wind was howling down Albion Street, whipping up flurries of wet crisp packets and sticking
them to the shop windows. It wasn’t a nice night out there. And at least it was always warm in Les’s Cantina.


Lorna looked wounded. ‘If you don’t want to hear about my play, why don’t you just say so?’


‘Of course I want to hear about it.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘I do!’

‘Hrrmph.’

‘Stop being a prima donna and get on with it!’

It was a pact they’d shared since schooldays. Lorna would make supportive noises while Claire went on about how unchallenging
her latest job was, and in return Claire listened sympathetically to Lorna’s never-ending fund of theatrical mishaps.


Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Lorna was going to be a big, big star. It was a long, hard road though. Ten years
she’d been in the business, and she was still at Cheltenham Rep, understudying people you’d never heard of, with the occasional
starring role as a victim on Crimewatch UK. Yet her dedication never wavered.


Claire was a different kettle of fish entirely. The longest she’d ever stuck a job was fifteen months in her current one,
and sometimes that felt like fourteen too many. It wasn’t that she was no good at her work, or that she wasn’t quite fond
of it, just that she got terribly restless. In the six years since she’d left school, she’d never found anything that felt
like a proper challenge.


She stifled a yawn, and tried to ignore Les’s meaningful stares at the fly-specked clock. It was way past her bedtime and
she had a conference of German beer salesmen to organise tomorrow, but like the bride of Dracula, Lorna didn’t really come
to life until after dark.


‘So,’ Claire coaxed, ‘Worm was screaming, was he?’

‘Of course he was screaming!’ Lorna waved an arm and sixteen Indian bracelets chimed in unison. ‘Look, it was Saturday night,
OK, and the leading lady’s locked in the loo with explosive diarrhoea. Well, I’m over the moon, aren’t I? At last, I’ve got
my chance to play Madeleine. It’s going great, I’ve got the audience eating out of my hand, and then Worm, that idiot …’ She snorted. ‘You just won’t believe it.’


‘Try me.’

‘You know how method he is, darling. If the script says shoot someone, he wants real bullets. So what does he do? He only
goes and accidentally nails himself to the door of the crypt, doesn’t he?’


‘No!’

‘As I live and breathe. Screamed the place down, blood everywhere, fleets of ambulances …’

‘Oh Lorna …’

‘Naturally the whole performance had to be cancelled, and – hey, stop laughing, it’s not funny!’

‘I’m not laughing.’ Claire tried so hard not to that half a cup of hot chocolate shot up her nose. ‘And you actually share
a house with this lunatic?’ She grabbed a paper napkin and blew a stream of chocolate-brown snot into it. ‘I hope you keep
all the sharp knives locked away.’


Lorna harrumphed. ‘Just wait till you have a major life trauma and you want my shoulder to cry on.’


‘Ah, but I don’t have traumas,’ Claire reminded her. ‘They’re a complete waste of time.’

‘You’ve got Kieran,’ retorted Lorna.

Claire laughed. She’d only been seeing Lorna’s house-mate for a few weeks. In fact it was so casual between them, she had
difficulty thinking of him as her boyfriend – particularly after this evening’s stupid row. ‘Kieran? He’s not a trauma, he’s
just a … a …’


‘Another waste of time?’ enquired Lorna archly.

Claire considered. ‘Just a bloke. And you know what it’s like with me and blokes. Sooner or later they always end up annoying
or boring or both.’


‘So which one’s Kieran?’

‘I’ll keep you posted.’ Claire cradled what was left of her hot chocolate. ‘The thing is, I like my life the way it is. Men
are fun, but …’


Lorna winked filthily. ‘But why have one Mars bar when you can gobble the whole sweetshop?’


‘Lorna Walsh, you’re disgusting.’

‘And you’re a jammy little devil. You’ve got it made. Lots of money, a free flat in a country mansion, all those hunky rock
stars you get to meet.’


‘True,’ Claire agreed. ‘But don’t forget the lardy sales reps and the spotty management trainees who grab your bum. It’s not
all open-air rock concerts you know – besides, you’d hate all that pandering to people’s egos.’ She chuckled. ‘Mind you, you’d
love it whenever things went horribly wrong.’


‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means, you’re only happy when you’re having a crisis.’

Lorna flicked her silk scarf over her shoulder. ‘That’s a vicious lie!’

‘Ahem,’ grunted a low-pitched voice from behind the counter. Claire screwed her head round. Les Lynch was lugubriously flicking
his teatowel at a fly that had somehow escaped the Insect-o-cutor. ‘You two going home tonight, or shall I get you a couple
of pillows and a duvet?’


The clock on the wall said twenty-five past midnight. ‘Uh-oh.’ Claire fished in her pocket for a tenner. ‘I think we’re about
to be thrown out.’


‘It’s my turn to pay,’ Lorna promptly announced, and started rummaging in her fun-fur duffel bag.

‘You said you’d only got five pounds to last you till next Thursday.’

‘Yes, well, there’s probably some change in here somewhere.’

‘It’s all right, you can owe me.’ They had this argument every week, mused Claire; she could have repeated it word for word.
By now, Lorna probably owed her about three million quid, but that was actors for you. She went across to the counter and
slapped down the note.


‘Enjoy your meal, ladies?’

‘Nope,’ replied Claire cheerfully. ‘Was that washing-up liquid I could taste in the chimichangas?’

‘Could be,’ admitted Les. ‘That or the authentic blend of exotic Mexican herbs and spices.’


‘Washing-up liquid,’ decided Lorna, scooping up Claire’s change and pocketing it. She followed Claire out into the street.
Huge raindrops were bouncing off the pavements like jumping beans and the two friends sheltered under the awning for several
minutes, loath to move. ‘You coming back to mine for a bit?’ enquired Lorna. ‘Or are you still mad at Kieran?’


Claire considered. It was such an effort being mad at Kieran, particularly since he hardly seemed to notice. But that was
the problem with blokes; if they were bright enough to understand why they’d pissed you off, they generally thought they had
a perfect right to take over your life and arse it up for you – so you wouldn’t want to go out with them anyway.


‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a lift back. But I’m not sitting in that armchair with the spring sticking out of the seat.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, Claire Snow.’

‘And your landlord’s got a perverted sense of humour.’

Claire parked as close as she could to the house on Jardine Crescent, but she and Lorna were still wet through by the time
they’d negotiated the broken gate, the tricky paving stone and the brambles that poked sneakily across the path between the
overgrown shrubs.


Number sixteen skulked apologetically near one end of the crescent. Architecturally identical to all the other square-cut
Victorian villas, it nonetheless managed to draw instant attention, like a crooked tooth in an otherwise perfect smile.


At least the darkness camouflaged the worst of its peculiarities: like the cracked exterior paintwork (in three different
shades of mauve); and the so-called conservatory, tacked on to one side like a 3D jigsaw of orange-boxes and corrugated PVC.
Then there were the gardens: a random tangle of unchecked greenery for the most part, in stark contrast to one long cultivated
strip, lovingly dedicated to the owner’s obsession with exotic vegetables.


To cap it all, number sixteen Jardine Crescent knew it wasn’t like all the other, smarter houses in the road. It suffered from the worst affliction possible for a house with
social pretensions.


It had tenants. Lots of them.


Rainwater trickled down the back of Claire’s neck as she shifted from one foot to the other on the doorstep, waiting for Lorna
to find the front door key.


‘So what’s all this about Facade?’ demanded Lorna, lifting up her bag and angling it so that it caught the faint glimmer from
a street light, twenty yards away.


‘I told you, they’ve gone all New-Age-pagan. They’re reforming to play a Millennium solstice gig at the Hall.’

Lorna’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Bit of a leap from New Romantic isn’t it?’

‘Oh, anything to make a bit of cash I expect. Do you remember when they split up, back in the mid-Eighties?’

‘All because Brent Lovelace went all Sisters of Mercy on them?’ A slow grin spread over Lorna’s face. ‘I was only thirteen
you know, but boy did I fancy him. Oooh, the sight of his bum in all that tight black leather …’


Claire snapped her fingers. ‘Oh yes. You wanted to get a death’s head tattoo and black lipstick, so you could be just like him.’


‘And Mum said if I dared come home looking like a warmed-up corpse, she’d make me sleep in the cemetery.’ Lorna turned the
key in the lock, opened the front door and stepped inside, shaking herself all over the hall carpet like a wet Airedale. ‘Not
that I cared, I would have done it anyway.’


‘Oh, I know you would. Only you got a crush on Adam Ant and painted a stripe across your nose instead.’

Lorna chuckled. ‘Poor old Mum.’

They crossed the hall, past a line of wet nylon underpants gently steaming on the radiator. From somewhere deep in the bowels
of the earth, Claire could make out the sounds of ‘Arrivederci Roma’ being played, very badly, on a B-flat cornet.


‘How on earth does anybody ever get any sleep in this place?’ she marvelled. ‘No matter what time I turn up here, there’s always somebody making a racket.’


Lorna didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Oh, that’s just Mr Veidt in the basement. It’s all right, he’ll stop practicing at quarter to,
he always does.’ She pushed open the kitchen door. ‘Coffee?’


Claire glanced at her watch. ‘All right, but make it a quick one, I’ve got an early start in the morning.’

The kitchen light clicked on, revealing the kind of beige Formica wall units that had never been the height of fashion, not
even in 1972, a bolognese-spattered microwave and a beaten-up fridge-freezer adorned with a single, upside-down magnet in
the shape of an ice-cream sundae.


In the middle of the kitchen a young man was snoring serenely, slumped on a kitchen chair. He wasn’t bad-looking, if you like
them big and craggy, though the he-man effect was somewhat diluted by the single red rose sticking out of his shirt pocket
and the cushion tightly cuddled to his manly chest. On the table in front of him sat the remains of a makeshift supper: half
a jar of pickled gherkins, a packet of dry-roasted peanuts, and a McDonald’s strawberry milkshake.


‘Aah,’ smirked Lorna. ‘Sweet. Now how could anybody be angry with that?’

‘Easy.’ Claire pursed her lips and tried not to laugh. She was, after all, still annoyed with Kieran. He had stepped out of
line tonight, and she didn’t see why she should forgive him just like that. All right, so it had been a silly argument about
a pair of shoes she didn’t even like that much, but being compared unfavourably with your new boyfriend’s fifty-year-old mother
wasn’t exactly flattering.


On the other hand, she knew perfectly well that Kieran hadn’t meant to be a tactless oaf; it just came naturally. Hopeless, hapless and brainless, that’s what he is, she thought to herself.
Pity he’s cute as well.


‘Kieran.’ She first prodded then shook him, but all he did was mumble incoherently and roll over in his chair.

‘I shouldn’t bother,’ counselled Lorna. ‘That boy could sleep through an earthquake. White or black?’


‘White please.’

Lorna opened the fridge and selected a carton of milk from the row of six or seven on the shelf. The label on it read ‘Kieran’s
milk, hands off’. Opening it, she gave it a cautious sniff. ‘Ugh, God!’ She checked the sell-by date. ‘It’s a fortnight old!’


‘In that case, black’s fine.’ Claire jumped up and perched on the end of the kitchen table. She helped herself to a peanut.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever thought of buying your own milk?’


‘Lord no. And Worm does a lovely line in contraband loo rolls. He steals them from the—’

‘Don’t tell me, I don’t think I want to know.’ Claire contemplated the sleeping colossus on the chair. ‘What do you reckon,
should I chuck Kieran?’


Lorna looked horrified. ‘After all the trouble I went to to pair you two off? No way!’ She poured hot water into two mugs.
‘I bet he bought that rose for you, to say sorry.’


‘Pity he couldn’t stay awake long enough to give it to me.’

‘At least it’s a nice thought. Go on, forgive him. Just this once.’

Kieran’s nose twitched in his sleep. He didn’t look like a great big hairy hydraulic engineer who’d just spent five years
in Saudi; he looked like a little boy cuddling his teddy.


Claire smiled. ‘Oh all right then, maybe I will. But not until I’ve made him sweat a bit.’

It was laughably late by the time Claire got back to her flat at Brockbourne Hall. So late, she really ought to have gone
straight to bed without even bothering to take her makeup off.


But thanks to Lorna she was wide awake now; and not in the least bit tired. So she put on her comfiest pyjamas, made herself
a milky drink and stood at the window, watching the rain lash down into the fountains two storeys below. It wasn’t everybody
who could say they lived in an ex-stately home, even if they were only the hired help.


In this little self-made world she felt cosy, warm, and secure. This two-room flat might be tiny, but it was a perfect fit.
Since she had come to work at the Hall she had made it that way, packing it with gifts and mementoes, pictures of friends,
a favourite photograph of her brother, Pete. Perhaps some people had noticed that there were no pictures of her parents on
the mantelpiece, no netball cups or swimming certificates on the walls, no threadbare old teddies on the pillow – in fact,
nothing at all that related to her childhood. Perhaps they noticed. But if they did, they were far too polite to ask why.


The sound of the rain hammering against stone and glass was pleasantly hypnotic. Claire wondered idly what the next day’s
work would bring. Nothing she couldn’t cope with, she was sure of that. Perhaps it was time to move on, find something different
to do with her life.


She settled into her comfy armchair and sipped the last of her hot milk. No, she decided as she drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t
time to move on. Not just yet.


‘Which one’s Johannsen? I can’t remember,’ flustered Naomi Vance, sweeping her arm across the desk and knocking the calculator
into the wastepaper bin. Claire stooped to fish it out.


‘Johannsen’s the tall blond one,’ she said patiently. ‘You met him before, don’t you remember? At Kidderminster.’

Claire willed her boss to tap into some inner reserve of resilience, but Naomi was never the most clear-thinking of people
under stress, PhD or no PhD. And she was finding the cut-and-thrust of the commercial world a real shock after five years
organising academic symposia on plankton.


‘Kidderminster? Did I? Oh God, I don’t remember.’ As Naomi rifled through the papers on the desk, Claire couldn’t help noticing
that she had forgotten to varnish three of the fingernails on her right hand. ‘Where are the notes for my speech? I know I
left them here somewhere. You know what I’m like, if I don’t have my notes I’ll never be able to—’


‘Here they are.’ Claire whisked them out from underneath a plate of stale ham sandwiches. She’d already taken the precaution
of copying her boss’s notes and locking the copy in her own desk, just in case they had a repetition of the time Naomi accidentally
threw out her own personnel file and it turned up three weeks later on a landfill site. ‘And here’s the complete guest list
for this morning.’


Naomi scanned the guest list for the grand opening of Brockbourne Hall’s new management training wing. Michael Tang, Claire’s Singaporean colleague, mimed something derogatory
from across the office, but Claire didn’t respond. She wasn’t best pleased with that young man.


After all, it was Michael who’d got Naomi into this state in the first place, winding her up about how important the new wing
was going to be to the company, and how many national newspapers had promised to turn up to cover the event. Michael seemed
to derive a perverse delight from showing people up at every possible opportunity, especially his boss. Claire had a shrewd
suspicion he rather fancied being the boss himself.


‘Tell me again,’ said Naomi, passing a hand over her brow. ‘Which one’s the one who doesn’t like the other one’s wife?’

Outside, watery March sunlight crept timorously across the lawns of Brockbourne Hall, slowly illuminating a large blue and
white marquee and, beyond it, lush green hillsides dotted with the obligatory huddles of sheep. Some days, thought Claire,
it would be rather relaxing to be a sheep. Nothing to do all day but eat, bleat and wander about looking woolly. Rather like
Naomi in fact. She chased the unkind thought from her mind.


‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ she reassured her boss. ‘We’ll take care of the political stuff, won’t we Michael? You just
concentrate on your speech.’


Michael forced a smile as he shrugged on his sharp new jacket. ‘Certainly we will, Naomi. Just leave it all to us.’ Everything
about Michael Tang was sharp, thought Claire. Sharp suit, sharp tongue, sharp wits. One of these days he was going to cut
himself.


Naomi took a deep breath and stood up. ‘How do I look?’

‘Great.’ Claire gave her boss’s chiffon scarf a discreet pat so that the ends lay flat on the smart black dress, subtly flattering
to Naomi’s slightly lumpy figure. ‘But I’ll just brush these few hairs off before you go, shall I?’


‘Hairs?’ Naomi swivelled her head round to see the back of her dress, and let out a gasp of horror. A thick white circle of
Persian cat hair had adhered to her bottom like a portable seat-cushion. ‘Oh no!’ she moaned. ‘I must have sat on Snowball’s special blanket.’


‘It’s fine, no problem.’ The clothes brush was already in Claire’s hand. Her tone of voice was the sort she would generally
have deployed on a tearful two-year-old, but it seemed to work on Naomi too. ‘Just hold still, all be gone in a minute. There,
all lovely and smart again.’


The whole room seemed to let out a relieved sigh as the door closed behind Naomi, only one minute thirty seconds behind schedule.
Michael picked up his walkie-talkie from the desk and threw one to Claire. ‘Why do you always cover up for her like that?’


‘Because I like her. And she’s my boss.’

That produced something between a pitying smile and a sneer. ‘Oh come on Claire, we both know she should never have got the
job in the first place.’


‘And you should, I suppose?’ she countered.

‘At least I know how to do my job properly.’

‘Yes, well, that’s a matter of opinion. Teamwork’s supposed to be part of this job, remember?’

He laughed. ‘You don’t honestly believe all that personnel-speak, do you? Get real, Claire. Or do you want to be running around
after no-hopers for the rest of your life?’


By eleven