not convinced I can help then you’ll never have to see or hear from me again.’
She watched as he blinked and swallowed. She needed a clincher.
‘And if nothing else, you can tell your sister you talked to me and get her off your back.’
Charlie scratched his cheek, snorted, and opened the door. Becky hurried past him before he could change his mind.
To the left, the old station waiting room was now a bright study. To the right, the ground floor of the two-storey part of the house had been opened up to form a large living room. Beyond it lay the other single-storey section of the building: a spacious kitchen-diner. All the rooms were bathed in afternoon sunlight which streamed through windows at the rear of the house. In the study and dining area French doors opened to the back garden. The lush green lawn was bordered by rose bushes, purple foxglove spires and bursts of yellow marigolds. Charlie might not invest much time in maintaining his personal appearance, but his home was idyllic.
As she followed him into the kitchen, Becky compared his house to her own IKEA shoebox. Charlie interrupted her covetous thoughts.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Water, please. From the tap is fine.’
Charlie left Becky standing on the other side of the breakfast bar. Opening and closing doors, he shuffled between cupboards, his shoulders hunched. When he found the glasses, his hands shook as he carried two of them to the sink.
Hoping to calm his nerves and hers, Becky started with a compliment. ‘Your home is beautiful. It must have been a lot of work.’
Water sloshed over the rim as he thrust the glass towards her. Drops pooled on the countertop and he stared at them as if they were something he’d never seen before.
‘A lot of dealing with bloody lawyers, I remember. My wife managed all the renovations.’
She nodded, glancing at the gold band on his left ring finger which glinted as he worried it with his thumb.
‘I suppose doing any work on a listed building is a challenge and particularly on one that’s been left to fall down.’ She smiled but only received a grunt in reply. Time to get down to business. ‘I guess you have some questions for me?’ she said.
He went back to the sink and filled the other glass, moving his shoulders to shake out the tension. ‘I might, if I understood what it is you do.’
‘Ah. Well, I suppose the simplest explanation is that I’m a very hands-on life coach. But to really understand what I do, it’s probably best to explain the process I usually follow.’ She pointed towards the dining table. ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’
‘Of course not. Sorry.’
Good manners, in Becky’s opinion, were sadly undervalued and vanishing. So as Charlie rushed to the table and pulled out a chair for her, he went up several notches in her estimation. Perhaps her first impression had been harsh.
She jammed her knees together and, keeping her back straight, lowered herself to the seat in what she prayed was a ladylike movement.
Her host retrieved his drink and took the seat at the head of the table. Becky took a sip of water to buy herself a few more seconds to compose her thoughts and avoid Charlie’s expectant stare. His dark eyes and long black lashes were his most prominent features, although they had the advantage of not being obscured by hair.
Maybe sensing she needed some encouragement, Charlie said, ‘Your process?’
Grateful for the prompt, Becky launched into her opening pitch.
‘When I first meet a potential client—so you, in this case—we talk about you and your life at the moment. Once I have a good idea of what needs to be done, I go away and come up with a proposal for what I think we can do to improve your current situation.’
She watched for a reaction. His features remained inscrutable under the fuzz. At least he wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes.
‘I’ll also tell you how long it will take and what my fee will be. Then you can accept, negotiate or reject the proposal. If you reject it, that’s it: I charge you nothing. Everything you’ve told me stays between us and I won’t contact you again.’
He continued to stare at her, perhaps waiting for her to say more, or maybe preparing to dismiss her already?
Becky wrung her hands under the table, trying to keep her fidgeting out of sight. That had to be the worst explanation she had ever given. About anything. She