“Don’t tell me you countered with your usual Why should I care attitude. Oh God, you probably pissed him off.”
“I doubt it. He’s pretty persistent.”
“He’ll offer you a massive amount of money. You’re damn good, you know.”
“Well, thanks for that.”
“And maybe we’ll get sports game tickets perks.” He grinned. “With excellent seats.”
“You’ve never been excited about my interviews.”
“You’ve never been interviewed by NBA royalty.”
At four p.m. exactly my phone rang with the de rigueur, “Ms. Paige I have Mr Petrenko on the line for you. May I connect the call now?”
“Good afternoon. I hope you received my documents?” opened his conversation.
“Indeed. More intel than I expected. You have a big fan in my husband, Mr Petrenko. To be honest, he’s the one urging me to meet with you.”
“Smart bloke.”
“I don’t want to waste your time. Your credentials impress me, of course, but I’m not sure what my next step will be. You seem to know my circumstance so sure you can understand. I don’t want to get over my head. Frankly, I have the good fortune of being able to take time to explore my options, perhaps take it easy for a bit.”
“Understood, though I know enough to presume you’d not be happy without challenges. Consider this: we meet face to face. I assure you some time in person is the best way to decide if this is what you want to do next.”
I let his offer hang for a moment. “All right. How about the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, fine. Our meeting is confidential; For now I need you to keep this between us.”
“Mr Pretenko—”
“Nothing untoward, I assure you. I own some property on the Isle of Wight. My assistant will make the arrangements.”
He was doing a lot of assuring. “The UK? You want me to travel four-thousand miles to listen to a job proposal?”
“I fully expect this to be worth your while. Of course I could be wrong about you, or my contacts were misinformed.”
“I’m not taking the bait. I deliver results. I assure you your contacts are not mistaken.”
His tone softened. “My main offices are in Zurich and London. My schedule demands I remain on this side of the pond, yet it’s only common sense we meet in person. And ASAP.”
I heard myself say, “I’ll make the trip.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you on the Isle of Wight. And, Ms Paige, relax. It’s not but thirty-five hundred miles.”
“I hope you’re happy. I’m going to the English Channel for this interview,” I said to Ethan thirty seconds later. “We’re meeting in some country house on The Isle of Wight.”
He whistled. “Forget your anxiety. This is an awesome sign, Babe. It shows he’s serious about an offer. Sports guys are well trained recruiters, experts at getting top talent.”
“He’s not recruiting me for hoop skills or running bases. Do I want to get back into that pressure cooker, especially with some high powered international muckety-muck?”
“Emma, I know what I said in Cannes, and I know you think I’m after the perks. I also know in a week you’ll be bored out of your skull knocking around this apartment looking for the next big thing. If this is a good package, grab it.”
The Petrenko final fax laid out an itinerary as specific as the Cannes trade show. Breakfast meeting, tour of the grounds, overview of Osborne House and the Commodore’s Invitational at the Royal London Yacht Club, apparently not in London. His Gulfstream IV delivered me from Teterboro, New Jersey, to Farnborough Airport, ninety minutes southwest of London. I stewed all seven hours, still that St. Louis novice on her Big Apple maiden flight. I’d have understood crossing the Atlantic for Zurich or London to meet company officers. Why the Isle of Wight? Why some yacht club event? This jaunt seemed more about Julian Petrenko than it did my future employment.
An employee met my flight, drove to Portsmouth and escorted me onto a private Hovercraft for the channel crossing. I docked at eight forty-five, a day-long journey to Priory Bay Hotel, Seaview, more intriguing than my Empire State Building caper. I expected James Bond but Petrenko assistant Alistair Downs guided me along the lighted path smelling of sea and wild flora. He concluded seven hundred years of history with a gesture. “Have a look at that bench in daylight. Holofcener’s duplicate sculpture of FDR and Churchill. The Allies.”
I revived in my quintessential country house suite, with a soak. Essential oils, supper and Merlot revived me enough to skim brochures on the island, hotel, and Queen Victoria’s Osborn House. Alistair had covered it all. I slept and just past dawn, pulled on walking clothes and backtracked down the path. Children already clamoured on the rocks with buckets and twine. Sunlight glinted off the bay; daffodils bobbed. Good opportunity or not, my contentment startled me, deeper than Cannes and far more immediate. If Ethan hadn’t insisted, I’d never had known my fairy tale-come-true smelled like an English garden, tidal flats and salt air.
At eight-thirty, in Prada head-to-toe, references, bio and resume packet in-hand, I crossed the second floor and started down the staircase. A man studied the artifacts in the foyer display cabinet below. I studied his caramel-coloured hair, Rudolph Nureyev cheekbones, bespoke business casual linen shirt, wool trousers, soft patina on his shined shoes. I reached the newel post and he turned as if he sensed my presence.
My heel snagged the tread. I tripped and he caught me by the elbow stooped at the base of the stairs. “I move too fast when putting my best foot forward.”
He laughed and brought me to my feet. “I do hope you’re Emma Paige.”
“Yes. Julian Petrenko?”
“Indeed. Now that I’ve broken the ice by breaking your fall—” He gestured and kept up the banter until we entered the circular dining room. “Take a minute,” he added.
A mural of the Isle of Wight wrapped the room, framing the full windows and historically accurate map painted on the chimney breast.
“I understand it was discovered beneath layers of wallpaper during the mansion’s restoration,” I said.
“Well done.”
“Alistair’s quite the tour guide, and of course the brochures… It’s breath-taking in person.”
“I’m a bit fanatical on the historical. Kick me whilst we eat if I ramble on too long.”
