Authors: Nick Spalding
‘Please take a seat,’ Mischa says. What I feel she should be saying is: ‘Please run a fucking mile.’
Danny, bless him, is so enamoured with the girl that he automatically sits down in front of Hollingsbrooke’s desk without a word of protest. This forces me to join him, despite every fibre in my being telling me to leave.
Hollingsbrooke instantly sits bolt upright and gives us both a steely look. ‘A farmhouse then!’ he exclaims loudly, and looks up at his assistant before we have a chance to say anything in return. ‘Tea, Mischa! Tea and biscuits for our guests!’ he orders. Then a firm finger is held up. ‘Not the garibaldis, though! You know how I feel about them!’
Mischa nods, smiles and backs away calmly, as if she hasn’t just been treated like a lowly servant by a man in a sailor hat with a tuba parked next to him. She must be used to this kind of behaviour as well.
‘A farmhouse then!’ Hollingsbrooke repeats loudly.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘It’s a big place,’ Danny adds. ‘It’ll be a big job.’
Miracle of miracles. Without a hot woman in the room, my brother has returned to his senses. Let’s just hope it takes Mischa a good ten minutes to sift out all the garibaldis.
Hollingsbrooke puts his elbows on the glass desk and steeples his fingers. ‘A big job, you say?’
‘Yes. Danny’s right. It needs a lot of work,’ I say.
‘What year was it built?’
‘1890,’ I reply.
‘Where is it?’
‘About ten miles north of town.’
‘A good location?’
‘Yes. Very pretty.’
‘Is it on loam?’
‘What?’
‘Is it on loam?’
‘No, chalk, I think.’
‘Architraves still present?’
‘Some of them.’
‘Plumbing still working?’
‘No idea!’
‘Is it iridescent at sunset?’
‘What?’
‘Iridescent at sunset!’
‘We haven’t been there at bloody sunset!’ This quick-fire interrogation is making my blood boil.
‘The garden’s massive,’ Danny pipes up.
Hollingsbrooke looks horrified. ‘I care nothing for gardens!’ he shrieks.
‘I don’t think we should—’ I start, but I am again interrupted by the upraised finger.
‘Wait! Wait! Look at this please!’ the architect snaps, and reaches behind him for a large leather-bound photo album on the shelf behind his head. He throws it onto the glass desk and sits back, a look of triumph on his face.
Danny opens the album and we both peer at its contents.
There are page after page of pictures of some of the loveliest-looking houses and rooms I have ever seen. All of them are in the style of an English country cottage, and all of them are marvellous. There are images of pristine kitchens with butler sinks and Shaker style cupboards; gorgeous bedrooms that look so comfortable I have to stifle a yawn; lounges decorated and designed with such ruthless attention to rustic detail that I am quite taken aback; and lush, shiny bathrooms with roll-tops that I would happily stay in until my entire body had turned into a prune.
I look up from the album to Hollingsbrooke, who has raised eyebrows and an expectant expression. ‘Thoughts?’ he demands.
‘Is this your work?’ Danny asks, earning him a sharp and derisory exhalation of breath.
‘Of course!’ the architect says. ‘All projects similar to yours that I have completed. Four in all, I believe. Each one better than the last.
’
Wow. I can’t tell which is worse, the purple trousers or the ego.
. . . Actually, it’s the purple trousers. They are truly dreadful.
What quite clearly isn’t dreadful is Hollingsbrooke’s talent as an architect – and it turns out, as an interior designer as well. If this is an example of how good he is at planning renovations on properties like ours, then I want to hire him – horrible cords and inflated ego notwithstanding.
‘These are very good, Mr Hollingsbrooke,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t realise you designed interiors as well.’
‘Of course! The work is only half finished if all you build is the shell!’ He points a finger at his own face. ‘I am a completist! I cannot walk away from a project until I know every element of the house is
in situ
!’
‘Well, that does sound very thorough, Mr Hollingsbrooke.’
He quickly sits back again in his chair. This bugger is twitchier than a man whose pants are made of ants. ‘Please! Call me Mitchell,’ he tells me with a smile. Then he looks up and his eyes widen with pure happiness. ‘Aha! Tea! And biscuits!’ The brow instantly furrows. ‘No garibaldis, though?’
‘No garibaldis, Mr Hollingsbrooke,’ Mischa assures him as she steps back into the office, holding a tray of cups and an assortment of biscuits. I spot a Jammie Dodger, which pleases me no end.
‘Aha! There are Jammie Dodgers!’ Hollingsbrooke virtually shouts. Oh great . . . now I have competition for my favourite biscuit.
‘Jammy,’ says Danny from beside me, giving Mischa an awkward smile.
Mischa departs, to presumably go and feed all the garibaldis to the seagulls, so we have Hollingsbrooke’s undivided attention once more. I nibble on a Jammie Dodger while leafing through the pictures of his work for a second time.
‘What would you need us to provide?’ I ask him. ‘You know, about the house?’
He waves a hand around in the air. ‘Oh, as much as you can possibly give me. Your email gave me a good idea of the project, but there is some paperwork I will need. A floor plan of the property, information about the deeds, the local services, etcetera, etcetera. Mischa and I will undertake the necessary research, and then we will start to draw up plans.’ He springs forward in his chair again, giving both Danny and I quite a start. ‘Do you iPad?’
‘What?’ we both reply at the same time.
‘Do you, or do you not, iPad?’
I wasn’t aware iPad was now a verb. ‘Er, I have an iPad, yes,’ I say to him.
‘Excellent! We have recently discovered a rather wonderful app on iPad that can create a three-dimensional interpretation of a planned renovation. I am finding it invaluable for giving my clients an accurate representation of what I have planned for their property.’
I’m slightly taken aback. If the shiny glass desk plonked in the middle of a rustic houseboat is incongruous, then a man who wears tweed and corduroy, likes a tuba and has a moustache from the 1920s knowing all about iPad apps is doubly incongruous, with a side order of highly unlikely. I am forced to remember that Mitchell Hollingsbrooke is only in his late twenties, despite all sartorial evidence to the contrary.
‘What about money?’ Danny asks, seeking to make up for his uselessness in the presence of Mischa with a question that cuts right to the heart of the matter.
This earns him a raised eyebrow from Hollingsbrooke. ‘I’ll need a small retainer to begin with,’ he tells us. ‘Five hundred pounds should do it. My standard rate is ten per cent of whatever the total build and design cost may be.’ He gives us an indulgent smile. ‘I’m sure we can work everything out once I have a better idea of the job at hand.’
Ten per cent of the cost is quite a lot of money once we’ve borrowed it, but then £500 up front isn’t. The only other option open to us would cost far, far more before any work had actually started. Hollingsbrooke represents the best deal we’re going to get. He probably knows this as much as we do. Without architect’s plans, we can’t work out a budget, and without a budget we can’t mortgage the property. We’re just going to have to throw our lot in with this eccentric, or risk not being able to move forward on the project at all.
I look round at Danny, to see what he’s thinking. He catches the look I give him, understanding it in an instant. In silent reply he shrugs his shoulders and nods his head.
What other choice do we have?
I look back to the architect, safe in the knowledge that my brother and I are on the same page. ‘Fair enough,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll bring all the information about the house to you tomorrow.’
Hollingsbrooke’s eyes light up. ‘So does that mean we have a deal?’
I smile. ‘Yes, Mitchell, it does.’
He stands bolt upright. ‘Excellent!’ One arm goes out, with hand extended and palm open. ‘High-five me then!’
‘You what?’
‘High-five me! I can never say I have started a job until I high-five my client!’ He points at us with his other hand. ‘Do not, as the common vernacular holds, leave me hanging!’
So let’s reflect: I am about to enter into a business relationship with a man who works on a houseboat, wears a headache-inducing combination of clothes, despises garibaldi biscuits and insists on a high-five instead of a handshake; all because I like the way he positions a roll-top bath.
Reluctantly – oh so very reluctantly – I slap Hollingsbrooke’s hand.
Danny is far more enthusiastic about the whole thing, and delivers a right palm stinger. This doesn’t seem to bother Mitchell in the slightest. ‘Fabulous! I’m so excited that you’re going to be working for me.’
Eh?
Aren’t
we
the clients?
‘You just wait,’ he adds, waggling a finger in our general direction. ‘I will transform your farmhouse into something fit for a king!’
I admire his conviction, but I’ve seen the place up close and personal – he hasn’t yet. I just hope Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s rock hard self-confidence is enough to withstand the horrors that await him at the Daley farmhouse.
‘Thank you, Mitchell, we look forward to working
with
you too,’ I say, emphasising the word with for all I am worth.
‘Yes . . . you and Mischa,’ Danny adds with a dumb smile. Mitchell’s eyebrow goes up once again. Purple-corduroy-wearing lunatic he may be, but there’s evidently a shrewd mind underneath all that bombast.
‘Indeed,’ he says, a sly smile crossing his face. There’s obviously nothing going on between architect and assistant then, judging from his reaction. ‘I’m sure she is looking forward to working with you as much as I am.’ He breathes in deeply and picks the tuba up again. ‘Now please get out.’
‘I’m
sorry
?’
‘Please pop off. I have to ruminate on my tuba.’ He cranes his neck. ‘MISCHA!!!’
‘Good grief!’ I exclaim loudly, deafened by my new architect’s shrieking command.
Poor old Mischa re-enters the room calmly. ‘Yes, Mr Hollingsbrooke?’
‘Show my two new valued clients out please. Feel free to issue them with garibaldis on their way out.’
‘Yes, Mr Hollingsbrooke.’
Mischa holds out a hand towards the door. I quickly take it before Mitchell has the chance to destroy any more of my five senses.
‘Bye,’ Danny says, and gives Mitchell a little wave.
I suppress a sigh of exasperation, and make my way back to the front of the boat, leaving Mitchell to gaze lovingly at his tuba and twiddle his moustache.
‘If you could email me all of your contact details,’ Mischa asks at the main door, ‘I will draw up the preliminary contract and get it to you for signing. If you like, I can come and pick up the paperwork for the house from you later today, if that is convenient.’
‘Thank you, Mischa, that’s very kind of you.’ I regard the young girl for a moment, before continuing. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’
She looks a bit startled. ‘Um, okay?’
‘Why do you work for him?’
Mischa smiles. Not the first time somebody has asked her this, I believe. ‘He isn’t as bad as he appears. I want to be an architectural designer, and I want to learn from the best. Mr Hollingsbrooke is the most talented artist I have ever met.’
‘But he treats you like a servant.’
‘No . . . no, he really doesn’t. I have worked for other architects and interior designers, and he is the only one who values my opinion,
and lets me contribute to the projects he takes on. All the others
just see a silly little girl from Slovenia. He sees a fellow architect and designer. Everything else does not matter.’
Interesting. I’d completely misjudged their relationship.
‘Slovenia,’ Danny remarks helpfully.
Mischa smiles. ‘Yes. I am from Novo Mesto, Mr Daley. Have you heard of it?’
Have you ever seen a small defenceless mammal trapped in the glare of your headlights on your way home from a late-night party?
Mischa stares at my brother’s blank expression for a few moments, trying to figure out what is wrong with him. ‘Would you like a garibaldi?’ she ventures, holding up the packet.
Danny fumbles a biscuit out of it. ‘Thanks,’ he says, taking a bite.
I grab his arm. ‘Come on, Danny, let’s leave Mischa here in peace and go see if we can find a builder who can work with Mitchell.’
‘Okay,’ my brother says around a mouthful of crumbs.
I lead us back up onto the deck and along the gangplank to the safety of dry land. ‘Well, that was quite an experience,’ I say as we walk back to my car.
‘You think he’s actually going to do a good job?’ Danny asks me.
‘Oh! Hello, Danny! Come back to us, have you?’ I mutter sarcastically. ‘For a while there, I thought you’d been replaced by one of the pod people. Was she really that pretty?’
He blushes furiously. ‘I’ve just never seen a girl like that before. Did you hear her accent?’
‘Yes, Danny, I did hear her accent. It was very musical.’ I stop and place my hands on my hips. ‘Look, are you going to be able to function while she’s around? It sounds like Mitchell works quite closely with her. I’m sure she’ll be on site at the house quite a lot.’
‘I’ll be fine!’ he replies, not sounding convincing in the slightest.
I’ll have to take Mischa to one side and ask her to wear an unsightly boiler suit and no make-up if she comes within a mile of the Daley farmhouse. Smearing herself with cow shit may be a good idea too. ‘You didn’t answer my question. Do you think he’ll do a good job?’
I look back down the river at the houseboat and draw in a breath. ‘I don’t know, Dan. I really don’t. But he’s cheap up front, comes highly recommended . . . and doesn’t seem to doubt his own abilities one bit. I guess we’re just going to have to take the plunge and hope he’s everything he’s cracked up to be.’
Danny looks dismayed. ‘It’s risky.’