At His Service: Cinderella Housekeeper. Fiona Harper
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He’d be back at Larkford in just over a week.
And Ellie would be there. It was what he’d hired her for, after all.
Suddenly the thought of the two of them alone in that big old house together seemed a little … intimate. He stood up, walked over to the parapet and stared out towards the Hollywood hills. A house like his—well, what it really needed was to be filled with people. Lots of them.
On the day there were only five spaces left on the calendar Ellie got restless. All her tasks were done, and she’d finished the book she was reading. She needed something to do. Something to clean out. Sorting through cupboards and purging the rubbish was a therapeutic activity she rather enjoyed. It made her feel as if she were in control of something for once.
The infamous cupboard opposite the bathroom had become the object of her obsession. As far as she could see it was full of boxes of miscellaneous clutter that had been sent down from Mark’s London flat and had yet to be sorted out. She’d found plenty of bedlinen, a squash racket and three boxes of books. The empty shelves in the study came to mind, so Ellie decided to liberate the volumes from the dust and cardboard and put them where they could be useful.
She carried the box down to the study and started pulling books out and putting them on the thick wooden shelves. As she got to the last book in one stack a slip of paper fell out of the pages and wafted to the floor. She picked it up and realised it wasn’t a piece of paper after all, but a photograph.
Not any old photograph. It was a wedding picture.
Mark and an anonymous bride.
Well, well, who’d have thought it? The bachelor playboy hadn’t always been a bachelor. Bet he’d always been a playboy, though.
She frowned almost instinctively and studied the photograph more carefully. Mark looked younger—maybe in his mid-twenties?—fresh-faced, and very much in love with his beautiful, sophisticated bride. Her expression softened a little. A man who could look at a woman like that had something. Exactly what, she didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t either, because he’d thrown it all away and was living a very different life now. What a pity.
Turning the picture over, she saw the words ‘Mark and Helena’ scrawled on the back. The date underneath was twelve years earlier. Ellie slid the photograph back into its resting place and put the book on the shelf, feeling a little bit guilty for having found out what she sensed was a secret.
She reached for the next book, but was interrupted by the shrill beckoning of the telephone—the house line, not the one here in Mark’s office.
Blast! She’d noticed the cradle in the hall was empty when she’d walked past with the box of books. She’d probably left the phone lying around again, which meant it might be anywhere.
She stood still and listened carefully.
The kitchen.
She raced down the passageway, skidding on the tiles in her socks.
It’s in here somewhere!
The ringing was louder now, but oddly muffled. She ransacked a corner of the kitchen near the hob. Nothing! She leant closer to the worktop, then started frantically opening drawers.
Nope. Nope. Aha!
There it was, nestled amongst the wooden spoons. Where else?
She jabbed the button and uttered a breathless hello, then snapped to attention as she heard Mark’s deep tones.
At first she didn’t listen to the words, the content of what he was saying, because she hadn’t been prepared for the way even his voice made her tingle. Oh, why couldn’t he have e-mailed her? She wouldn’t have had to concentrate on sounding normal if she’d been typing a reply!
Ah, but the phone call might have something to do with the fact she’d forgotten her password and hadn’t been able to check her e-mails for a while.
It was just then that she realised Mark had stopped talking.
‘Ellie?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Are you …? Is everything all right?’ She could hear him suppressing a smile.
Unfortunately she was more than a little breathless—from all the phone-hunting, of course.
‘Just … couldn’t … find the phone.’ She took a gulp of air and managed to croak, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yep. I’ve decided to throw an impromptu party as a kind of housewarming when I get home. Only a few dozen guests—don’t worry.’
A few dozen?
‘My PA is handling the invites, and I’ll get her to send you a list of caterers. We’ve decided on Saturday.’
‘Saturday? This Saturday? That’s less than a week away!’
‘I know. I’ve been e-mailing for days, but you didn’t reply. Don’t stress. That’ll be plenty of—hang on—’
Ellie huffed and tapped the counter as Mark chatted to someone on his end of the line. She thought she heard a woman’s voice.
None of my business. I don’t care who he’s with.
‘Got to go, Ellie. I’ll be back on Friday evening.’
The receiver hummed in her ear.
He hadn’t even given her time to tell him that she couldn’t possibly organise a party in six days. She’d only just got to grips with the day-to-day running of the house, and the last thing she needed was something that was going to send all that into a tailspin.
However, it didn’t seem as if she had much choice. If she wanted to keep this job she would have to cater to her boss’s whims, no matter how inconvenient.
Catering.
Was that the best place to start? It was so long since she’d had a social life herself, thinking about planning a party seemed as run-of-the-mill as planning a trek up the Amazon.
She closed her eyes. Remember what you learned at the support group. Don’t panic over the big picture. Take things one step at a time. Start with the obvious.
Her eyelids lifted again. The cleaners were coming on Friday anyway, so no problem there. And she could get Jim the gardener to help her rearrange the furniture in the downstairs reception rooms, and the florists in the village could provide some arrangements.
After her initial panic she realised it wasn’t that different from what she’d done when she’d worked as a PA in the City after leaving college. Her cantankerous boss had had a penchant for drop-of-the-hat cocktail parties to impress the partners, where he would swan round being all sweetness and light, then return to being a sour-faced grump the next day. If she could create a party to blow Martin Frobisher’s socks off, she could certainly succeed with a lovely backdrop like Larkfield.
Yes, but that was before …
Shut up, she told herself. It’s all there inside your head still. She was just going to have to do a little … archaeology to uncover the buried bits.
She could do this.
Her brain began to whirr with excitement as menu ideas sprang up in her mind. This was her chance to prove to Mark Wilder that she wasn’t a loose cannon, that she could do this job.
She reached for the phonebook and flipped it open to ‘F’ for florists, her smile wide. Passwords could wait for later. For now she would use the phone.
If Mr Wilder wanted a party, she was going to give him a party!
Ellie slipped the straps of the little black dress she’d borrowed from Charlie over her shoulders. She wasn’t looking forward to this evening one bit. She’d tried hard to talk him out of it, but Mark had insisted she attend the party—partly to keep an eye on the caterers and whatnot, but partly to ‘have a bit of fun’. She’d