Art and Soul - Claire Huston

Chapter 1

The security gates were wide open. Hoping against all sense this was a sign Charlie was expecting her, Becky drove in and parked the unfamiliar car by the porch. She yawned, rubbed her eyes and sat back to collect her thoughts while admiring the imposing beauty of the Old Station House. Even she, who would happily admit to knowing nothing about Victorian architecture, could appreciate the original features: looped terracotta ridge tiles, steep gables topped by spiked finials, meticulously carved white bargeboards and three massive brick chimney stacks.

With so little notice, and a screaming toddler to contend with, her research the previous evening had been rushed and scrappy. When she finally got to bed, her ethics kept her awake. Charlie had clearly been drunk when he called her and left a message. She should return his call and give him the chance to withdraw his invitation. But then, from what his sister had said, he needed help and wouldn’t ask for it when sober.

That morning, as she made herself a vat of black coffee, Dylan strapped in his highchair with more breakfast in his hair than in his stomach, the latest gas bill dropped through the letterbox and silenced her qualms. Placing the envelope in the neat pile next to the toaster, Becky decided a conscience was another item on the growing list of things she couldn’t afford.

She got out of the car, tucked two strands of fine mousy hair behind her ears, adjusted her glasses and knocked on the door. Calm and composed, calm and composed, was her silent mantra. The key to a first meeting was to appear confident; the client needed her to be. Nevertheless, the fluttering in her chest reminded her just how out of practice she was and her empty stomach growled. Great. Exactly what she needed.

She was raising her hand to knock again when Charlie opened the door and stunned her into momentary paralysis. Oh dear God. Why hadn’t Lauren warned her about this?

His facial hair was rampant, tufted and piebald. Above that undergrowth, dirty brown hair, with patches of grey at the temples, rambled down past his shoulders. Worn, faded jeans and a paint-stained T-shirt completed the crazy castaway look. But his eyes were of more immediate concern. They brought to mind those of a chocolate-brown Labrador she had once seen tied up outside the supermarket in the chill rain waiting for its owner to return.

She smiled. Calm and composed. Calm and composed. Kill Lauren later.

‘Mr Handren? I’m Rebecca Watson.’

He blinked but showed no sign of recognition.

‘Your sister, Lauren, emailed me. She gave you my number and then you called and left me a message last night. Around midnight.’ She searched the visible parts of his face for any reaction. ‘You asked me to come here after lunch. I wasn’t sure when that was. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.’

He opened and closed his mouth but all that came out was an incoherent stutter.

‘I’m sorry, you are Mr Handren, aren’t you?’ She gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m in the wrong place.’

His startled expression softened. ‘No. I mean, yes. You’re in the right place.’

‘Great!’ Becky pressed on. ‘So can I come in or are we going to chat out here?’

‘Look, sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I made a mistake, that is, I called you by mistake.’

Becky refused to be so easily dismissed. The gas bill was no longer alone at the front of her mind. It was jostling for pole position with the boiler, which was grumbling and likely to take strike action soon. And this brown-eyed castaway needed help. She had to get through the door.

Charlie fiddled with the security chain. Becky decided it was time to push the point.

‘You meant to call someone else at midnight and invite them here today?’

‘No. I mean …’ He faltered and scratched his beard. ‘I shouldn’t have called you. Sorry. It was late and I’d been … you know, I’d been thinking … and drinking.’ The tips of his ears turned pink. ‘I guess I wasn’t thinking that clearly.’

Her lips twitched. Nearly there.

‘Mr Handren,’ she said, peering at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I spent an hour this morning persuading my cranky best friend to look after my son and lend me her car so I could get here. I hardly slept last night because he’s teething. So I am begging you to let me in. I promise it’ll take under an hour and if you’re still