Luc's Revenge

Portia’s flare of triumph dimmed a little. ‘What conditions do you have in mind?’

‘First the price.’ He named a figure lower than she’d hoped, but higher than the reduction Whitefriars had been about to recommend to the vendors.

‘I must consult my partners, of course, but I’m sure we can come to an agreement on that,’ said Portia, secretly elated.

‘Also,’ he went on, ‘I wish you, personally, to conduct the entire transaction.’

She frowned. ‘But it’s actually Mr Parrish’s—’

‘I want you, Portia,’ he said with emphasis.

Or he wouldn’t buy it. The words remained unspoken, but Portia, visualising his usual shrug, was left in no doubt.

‘As you wish.’

‘Next weekend I fly back to London. In the meantime I shall arrange for information about my lawyers to be faxed to you, also contact numbers where I can be reached until we meet again.’

‘Thank you,’ she said briskly, secretly thrilled at her success in getting rid of the property Ben Parrish had failed to move.

‘Please arrange to leave next weekend free,’ went on Luc Brissac.

She stiffened. ‘Oh, but—’

‘I wish to inspect the property again. I cannot take possession of the keys until the house is legally mine, Portia. You must come with me. I shall drive you down to Turret House early on Saturday morning.’

For a split-second Portia was tempted to tell him exactly what he could do with his conditions, and his purchase of Turret House. But common sense prevailed. ‘Monsieur Brissac, I shall do as you ask, but with a condition of my own. I’ll drive down to the house separately and meet you there.’

There was silence for a moment, then he sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, if you insist. But please be there by mid-morning.’

‘Of course.’

‘Until Saturday, then, Portia.’

The following morning her news of the sale of Turret House was greeted with teasing surprise by her partners at Whitefriars, and deep respect by Biddy, who was still heavy-eyed and red-nosed, but slowly recovering from her cold.

‘I thought we’d never get rid of the place!’ Biddy had been with the firm for years and looked on every property sale as a personal triumph. She handed Portia a cup of coffee and lingered expectantly, obviously wanting details before she went off to start on the letters and valuations Portia had gone through with her on the Friday afternoon before sending her home to bed.

Before she’d ever heard of Luc Brissac, thought Portia. ‘The client wants me to go down to Turret House again this weekend.’

‘Was his wife with him?’ asked Biddy.

‘No, he’s not married.’

‘Then I’d better come with you.’

‘No need,’ said Portia quickly. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘I thought Mr Parrish always took people round it anyway.’

‘Monsieur Brissac insists on my personal attention for the transaction,’ said Portia. And, for reasons she preferred to keep to herself, she wanted to deal with this particular client on her own. She shot to her feet. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I’m due in Belgravia in ten minutes to sell a pricey mews cottage to your favourite soap queen.’

When Ben Parrish got back from his skiing trip next day he was amazed to find Portia had managed to sell Turret House while he was away.

‘Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Luc Brissac probably took one look at you and said yes to anything you wanted.’

Ben Parrish was only a few years older than Portia, stocky, sandy-haired, and possessed of a solid brand of charm that stood him in good stead in the property business. Without ever resorting to the hard sell, he nevertheless managed to move properties at a rate envied by his colleagues at Whitefriars. But success with Turret House had eluded him.

‘You know him, then?’ asked Portia.

He nodded. ‘I sold a place in Hampstead to him quite recently. He knows one of the partners is always on call on winter weekends.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me he was coming?’

‘I thought he was due next weekend.’ He consulted his diary. ‘I’m right. He was supposed to come next Saturday, in which case I’d have taken him round the place. As I always do,’ he added significantly.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Portia, softening. ‘Anyway, he turned up last weekend, and also commands my presence down there next weekend as well. You owe me, Mr Parrish.”

Whitefriars Estates was a thriving business, which dealt with desirable properties at the top end of the market, all of them in fashionable, expensive locations. The clients were often celebrities of one kind or another, and Portia’s day was rarely boring. The week progressed in its usual way, other than a hiccup with her car. When she took it in for a service she was told it needed parts which wouldn’t be available for a day or two, which meant the car wouldn’t be ready until late on Monday.

Portia travelled by Underground the rest of the week, except for the evening she went straight from the office to dine with Joe Marcus. Joe was a property developer she’d met on her MBA course, a high-flyer, clever, with a wicked sense of humour, and determined to avoid marriage until he was at least forty. He took Portia out regularly, secure in the fact that she shared his point of view. And with Marianne in the throes of a new love affair, Portia kept the other evenings free, to get as much sleep as possible to prepare for another visit to Turret House. And a meeting with Luc Brissac again. A prospect she found herself looking forward to more than she wanted to admit.

On the Friday Portia snatched a half-hour at lunchtime for a sandwich in her office. She was immersed in the designs Biddy had prepared for a brochure, when her cellphone rang. She eyed it for a moment. Marianne’s new idol probably had clay feet. Again. With a sigh, she pressed the button.

‘Portia?’ said a voice with an unmistakable French cadence. ‘Luc Brissac.’

To her annoyance her heart missed a beat, then she tensed, suddenly afraid he was going to pull out of the deal. ‘Hello. How are you?’

‘Very well. I wish to confirm our appointment tomorrow.’

Portia let out a silent breath of relief. ‘Good. Actually, I’m glad you rang. I can’t make it to the house until noon. Does that suit you?’

‘It would suit me better to drive you there myself, Mademoiselle Portia.’

A little thrill of excitement ran through Portia. It was only practical to accept, she told herself firmly, now her car was out of action. The alternative was a train at the crack of dawn, and a taxi to take her to Turret House. Which would be sheer stupidity when she could enjoy the journey in the company of Luc Brissac.

‘You are still there?’ he asked. ‘If you have an appointment tomorrow night do not worry. I will drive you back in time. Or are you only content when driving yourself, Portia?’

‘No, of course not. Thank you. What time do you want to leave?’

‘I shall pick you up at nine. Where do you live?’

‘No need for that. I’ll meet you somewhere.’

‘I insist on coming to you, Portia. Your address, please.’

She hesitated, then told him where to collect her. ‘I’ll be ready at nine, then.’

‘I look forward to seeing you again. A demain, Portia.’