Runaway Lawyer Falls in Love with Billionaire

Chapter 13

11:00 I’ve just spent £852 replacing all the clothes in the machine as closely as possible. Harrods personal-shopping department was very helpful and will send them all tomorrow, Express Delivery. I just hope to heaven Tanya and Eddie won’t notice that their wardrobe has magically regenerated.

11:06 And … oh. The ironing. What am I going to do about that?

11:12 I have a solution, via the local paper. A girl from the village will collect it, iron it all overnight at £3 a shirt, and sew on Eddie’s button.

So far this job has cost me nearly a thousand pounds. And it’s not even midday.

11:42 I’m doing fine. I’m doing well. I’ve got the Hoover on, I’m cruising along nicely—

What was that? What just went up the Hoover? Why is it making that grinding noise?

Have I broken it?

11:48 How much does a Hoover cost?

12:24 My legs are in total agony. I’ve been kneeling on hard tiles, cleaning the bath, for what seems like hours. There are little ridges where the tiles have dug into my knees, and I’m boiling hot and the cleaning chemicals are making me cough. All I want is a rest. But I can’t stop for a moment. I am so behind …

12:30 What is wrong with this bleach bottle? Which way is the nozzle pointing, anyway? I’m turning it round in confusion, peering at the arrows on the plastic … Why won’t anything come out? OK, I’m going to squeeze it really, really hard—

That nearly got my eye.

12:32 f**k. What has it done to my HAIR?

By three o’clock I am utterly knackered. I’m only halfway down my list and I can’t see myself ever making it to the end. I don’t know how people clean houses. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever done, ever.

I am not moving smoothly from task to task like Mary Poppins. I’m darting from unfinished job to unfinished job like a headless chicken. Right now I’m standing on a chair, cleaning the mirror in the drawing room. But it’s like some kind of bad dream. The more I rub, the more it smears.

I keep catching glances of myself in the glass. I have never looked more disheveled in my life. My hair is sticking out wildly, with a huge grotesque streak of greeny-blond where I splashed the bleach. My face is bright red and shiny, my hands are pink and sore from scrubbing, and my eyes are bloodshot.

Why won’t it get clean? Why?

“Get clean!” I cry, practically sobbing in frustration. “Get clean, you bloody … bloody—”

“Olivia.”

Abruptly I stop rubbing, to see Nathaniel standing in the doorway. “Have you tried vinegar?”

“Vinegar?”

“It cuts through the grease,” he adds. “It’s good on glass.”

“Oh. Right.” I put my cloth down, trying to regain my cool. “Yes, I knew that.”

Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, you didn’t.”

I look at his adamant face. There’s no point pretending anymore. He knows I’ve never cleaned a house in my life.

“You’re right,” I admit at last. “I didn’t.”

As I get down off the chair, I feel wobbly with fatigue.

“You should have a break,” says Nathaniel firmly. “You’ve been at it all day; I’ve seen you. Did you have any lunch?”

“No time.”

I collapse onto a chair, suddenly too drained to move. Every single muscle in my body is in pain, including muscles I never even knew I had. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and I still haven’t polished the woodwork or beaten the mats.

“It’s … harder than I thought,” I say at last. “A lot harder.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s peering at my head. “What happened to your hair?”

“Bleach,” I say shortly. “Cleaning the loo.”

He gives a muffled snort of laughter, but I don’t respond. To be honest, I’m beyond caring.

“You’re a hard worker,” he says. “I’ll give you that. And it’ll get easier—”

“I can’t do it.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I can’t do this job. I’m … hopeless.”

“Sure you can.” He rifles through his rucksack and produces a can of Coke. “Have this. You can’t work on no fuel.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it gratefully. I crack open the can and take a gulp, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

“The offer still stands,” he adds after a pause. “My mother will give you lessons if you like.”

“Really?” I wipe my mouth, push back my sweaty hair, and look up at him. “She’d … do that?”

“She likes a challenge, my mum.” Nathaniel gives a little smile. “She’ll teach you your way around a kitchen. And … anything else you need to know.”

I feel a sudden burn of humiliation and look away. I don’t want to be useless. I don’t want to need lessons. That’s not who I am. I want to be able to do this on my own, without asking assistance from anyone.

But … the truth is, I need help.

Apart from anything else, if I keep on going like today I’ll be bankrupt in two weeks.

I turn back to Nathaniel.

“That would be great,” I say. “I really appreciate it. Thanks.”

I wake up the next morning, heart pounding, leaping to my feet, my mind racing with everything I have to do …

And then it stops, like a car screeching to a halt. For a moment I can’t move. Then, hesitantly, I sink back into bed, overcome by the most extraordinary feeling.

It’s Saturday. I have nothing to do.

No contracts to go over, no e-mails to reply to, no emergency meetings at the office. Nothing.

I try to remember the last time I had nothing to do. But I’m not sure I can. It seems like I’ve never had nothing to do, ever since I was about seven. I get out of bed, walk to the window, and stare out at the early morning translucent blue sky, trying to get my head around my situation. It’s my day off. No one has any hold over me. No one can call me up and demand my presence. This is my own time. My own time.

As I stand there at the window, contemplating this fact, I start to feel an odd feeling inside. Light and giddy, like a helium balloon. I’m free. A smile of exhilaration spreads across my face. For the first time ever, I can do whatever I like.

I check the time—and it’s only 7:15 a.m. The whole day stretches before me like a fresh sheet of paper. What shall I do? Where do I start?

I’m already sketching out a timetable for the day in my head. Forget six-minute segments. Forget hurrying. I’m going to start measuring time in hours. An hour for wallowing in the bath and getting dressed. An hour for lingering over breakfast. An hour for reading the paper, cover to cover. I’m going to have the laziest, most indolent, most enjoyable morning I’ve ever had in my adult life.

As I head into the bathroom, I can feel muscles twinging with pain all over my body. They really should market housecleaning as a workout. I run a deep warm bath and slosh in some of Tanya’s bath oil, then step into the scented water and lie back happily.

Delicious. I’m just going to stay here for hours and hours and hours.

I close my eyes, letting the water lap my shoulders, and time wafts past in great swathes. I think I even fall asleep for a while. I have never spent so long in a bath in my entire life.

At last I open my eyes, reach for a towel, and get out. As I’m starting to dry myself off I reach for my watch, just out of curiosity.

7:30 a.m.

What?

I was only fifteen minutes?

How can I have only taken fifteen minutes? I stand, dripping, in indecision for a moment, wondering if I should get back in and do it all again, more slowly.

But no. That would be too weird. It doesn’t matter. So I had my bath too quickly. I’ll just make sure I take my time properly over breakfast.

At least I have some clothes to put on. Tanya took me out last night to a shopping center a few miles away so I could stock up on underwear and shorts and summer dresses. She told me she’d leave me to it—then ended up bossing me about and picking everything out for me … and somehow I ended up with not a single item in black.

I cautiously put on a pink slip dress and a pair of sandals and look at myself. I’ve never worn pink before in my life. My entire closet at home is filled with black suits for work—and I’ve got into the habit of wearing black at the weekends too. It just makes life easy. But to my amazement I don’t look too bad! Apart from the huge streak of bleach in my hair.

As I make my way along the corridor, there’s no sound from the Geigers’ bedroom. I move silently past the door, feeling suddenly awkward. It’ll be a bit strange, spending all weekend in their house, with nothing to do. I’d better go out later. Get out of their way.

The kitchen is as silent and gleamy as ever, but it’s starting to feel slightly less intimidating. I know my way around the kettle and the toaster, if nothing else. I’ll have toast for breakfast, with orange and ginger marmalade, and a nice cup of coffee. And I’ll read the paper from cover to cover. That’ll take me to about eleven o’clock and then I can think about what else to do.…

I wonder how the Fallons deal is progressing.

The thought pops into my mind with no warning. I can’t help picturing my last scribbled amendments on the draft agreement—all my work, left half done. And Ketterman’s due diligence report. I never finished that.

My grip on the kettle tightens as I remember all the projects I’ve left behind. I wonder who’s taken over all my unfinished deals. Edward Faulkner, maybe? He’s a year or two younger than me, but pretty sharp. With a wince I imagine him taking the files off my desk, flipping through all my work, introducing himself to the Fallons people. The team could be there right now, finishing up an all-nighter—sitting around the table, Edward Faulkner in my place …

Stop.

Just stop. I mustn’t think about it. I’ve left Steve Spink. It’s nothing to do with me anymore. I’m going to relax and enjoy my free time, like any normal person.

Forcing the images out of my mind, I head out into the hall, where I find a copy of the Times on the doormat. I bring it back to the kitchen just as my toast is popping up.

This is the life.

I sit by the window, crunching toast, sipping coffee, and leafing through the paper in a leisurely way. At last, after devouring three slices, two cups of coffee, and all the Saturday sections, I stretch my arms in a big yawn and glance at the clock.

I don’t believe it. It’s only seven fifty-six.

What is wrong with me? I was supposed to take hours over breakfast. I was supposed to be sitting there all morning. Not get everything finished in twenty minutes flat.

OK … never mind. I’ll soon get the hang of it.

I put my crockery away in the dishwasher and wipe away my toast crumbs. Then I sit down at the table again and look about. I wonder what to do next.

Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table with my fingernails. I stop myself and survey my hands for a moment. This is ridiculous. I’m having my first true day off in about ten years. I should be relaxed. Come on, I can think of something nice to do, surely.

What do people do on days off? My mind scrolls through a series of images from TV. I could make another cup of coffee, but I’ve already had two. I could read the paper again, but I have an almost photographic memory. So rereading things I already know is a bit pointless.