Читать книгу The English Wife - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 10

A movement outside the window catches Sophie’s eye. The hawk turns its head, fixing her in its yellow eye as it glides past the shining glass, its orange-red tail feathers a stark contrast to the blue summer sky above the city’s skyscrapers.

‘Sophie? Can I have Jackie book your flight to Newfoundland? You’re clear what the consortium needs you to do?’

Sophie looks across the vast Italian glass desk at Richard Niven, the man whose award-winning architecture practice had drawn her over from London to New York ten years before. His thinning grey hair is cropped close to his bull-like head, and round, black-rimmed glasses frame his piercing hazel eyes. You look like a buzzard. She imagines him in twenty years’ time, jowls dropping from his square jawline, his eyes drooping and watery. By then he’d look like a vulture. Turning into his spirit creature.

‘I understand, Richard.’

‘Those photos you took up on the Newfoundland coast ten years ago, well, that coastline is just what the consortium has been looking for. Luxury travellers love nothing more than a place in an exotic, “eco”—’ he tweaks his fingers to indicate quotation marks ‘—location. Especially one that’s virtually impossible to access. Keeps out the riffraff. We’re talking about absolute exclusivity here, Sophie. They love the idea of Newfoundland. No one’s even heard of the place.’

‘Richard, the photos weren’t really meant … I mean, they were basically holiday snaps. The local community … I’m not sure how the consortium’s vision is going to go down with them. The hotel’s going to be a hard enough sell, but, seriously, Richard, a golf course? It’s winter there for eight months of the year, and it’s all moss and wonky trees. You have no idea. Those cliffs are a death trap. You know the locals call it The Rock? There’s a reason for that.’

Her boss waves his hand as if he’s swatting an annoying fly. ‘They play golf in Scotland, don’t they? My God, they haven’t seen the sun there for centuries. I got dragged around St Andrews last June with that obnoxious TV guy, pitching for his hotel job in a bloody parka. Couldn’t feel my fingers for hours. Bloody June! I could see my breath! Newfoundland can’t be any worse than that.’

‘Yes, but, you know, the locals in Tippy’s Tickle … I mean, don’t you think it’s better to get the locals on board rather than buying them out? It could be a wonderful employment opportunity for them. They’ve been having a hard time up there since the cod fishery shut down. There are a lot of talented people—’

Richard’s fleshy face folds into in a frown. ‘That’s another thing. Tippy’s Tickle? What kind of a name is that? That’ll have to go.’ He pushes his glasses down his large nose and peers at her over the top of the frames. ‘All you need to do is secure the land, Sophie. Everyone has a price and the treasure chest is full. We need hotel staff with experience, not some local yokels. Get them to sell up, and I’ll make you the lead architect on the project.’

Sophie sits back in the black leather chair. ‘The lead architect?’

‘Absolutely.’

This was a turn-up for the books. No matter the awards she’d brought to the practice, the front-cover features in Architectural Digest, the hard graft on the front line as the project architect, she’d never been made lead architect. That was a job for the big boys. Richard Niven, Tony Mason and Baxter T. Randall. The Triumvirate.

She frowns. ‘I’m not sure, Richard.’

A thick black eyebrow twitches above his glasses. ‘You’re not sure?’

‘I want you to make me a partner in the firm.’

Richard’s eyebrows shoot upwards like two birds taking flight. ‘Partner? You know I can’t promise that. I have to speak to the other partners. It has to be a unanimous decision, which is … well. I’m sure you understand.’

Yeah, sure I understand. She could almost feel the glass ceiling bang against her head. ‘You’re the controlling partner. I’m sure you can sway the others.’ She stands and straightens the jacket of her Armani suit. ‘Think of the consortium, Richard. Think of all the awards the firm will win. Think of the publicity. Richard Niven & Associates Architects will be up there with Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright.’

Richard fixes her with a stare, his eyes like two green marbles flecked with orange. ‘Fine. A partner, then.’ He presses the intercom on his desk. ‘Jackie, get Sophie on the next flight to Newfoundland.’ He glances over at Sophie. ‘Book economy.’