A Summer of Secrets by Alice Ross Page B

Sorry. I thought you might’ve heard of me. I’m a property developer. And a bloody good one. This place would make a great apartment block, you know.’
    Portia’s jaw dropped.
    ‘It’s the way forward, sweetheart. Nobody can afford to run these big houses any more. Money pits, they are. Everyone’s selling them off. Taking the money and running.’
    Folding her arms defiantly over her chest, Portia shook back her mane of hair. ‘I have no intention of taking the money and running. And I am not your sweet –’
    ‘Ah, I know your game,’ he said, tapping a finger on the side of his nose. ‘Playing hard to get. Pretending you don’t want to sell, when all the while you’re desperate to be rid of it. Desperate to jump on that plane and buy a little villa in Lanzarote …’
    Portia’s eyes grew wide with indignation. ‘I can assure you I have no –’
    ‘… Well, if that’s the way you want to play it, I’ll go along with you. Won’t be the first time I’ve played this game. You hang out as long as you can so I keep hiking up the price. Well, okay then. I’ll kick things off now. No time like the present, as they say. A million quid. Cash.’
    Portia’s knees weakened as a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Who was this creature? Was this really happening? Or was she in the middle of some kind of surreal dream? She wished he’d go. Disappear in that crass little car, never to be seen again. He’d been there less than five minutes and she felt as though she’d been through a mangle – twice. He had no right to be there. He was trespassing.
    ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carr,’ she replied, pulling her cardigan tightly around her. ‘But the house is not for sale. And I would appreciate it if you could remove yourself and your vehicle from my property forthwith.’
    And with that, she whisked around and flounced down the path back to the cottage.
    Back in the safety of the little house, her head reeling, she tugged off her cardigan and shoved it in the washing machine. She felt soiled, dirty. And sick to her core. But she couldn’t decide if it was the stench of pervading damp that had made her so nauseous, or the cloying scent of Jed Carr’s aftershave.
    ***
    Haring down Buttersley’s country lanes, Jed Carr pressed the accelerator of his Porsche a little harder, as Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ blasted out from the powerful speakers.
    Jed loved this song, but not half as much as he loved his car. He’d always wanted a Porsche. Ever since his mum had given him a toy one as a Christmas present when he was twelve years old. She hadn’t had much money. In fact, since his dad had walked out on them three years earlier, seemingly disappearing into the ether, things had been tough financially. But his mother had worked her socks off to ensure her son went without nothing. A situation Jed had appreciated even at that tender age. And so, that fateful Christmas Day, he’d vowed he would work equally as hard; that he would make his mother proud; that one day he would own a Porsche exactly like his new toy, and make enough money to give his mother everything she wanted.
    Not being academically inclined, he’d left school as soon as possible, taken an evening job waiting on in a restaurant, and signed up for a plastering course at the local technical college. Once the course finished, he found a job with a local building company that worked on new-build developments. Jed loved it. The camaraderie and banter with the lads, the pleasure of being part of a team, the feeling of belonging somewhere and, most notably, the satisfaction of doing a job well.
    Even though he arrived home every evening fit to drop, he continued working at the restaurant. Not only did this constant employment prevent him from going out and spending money, but it also enabled him to save some.
    Three years passed in this fashion, until one day, when Jed had been walking home from the building site, a sleek black Jag pulled up beside