Page 70 of Not So Very Sensible

“It never hurts to have some business cards you can hand out if necessary.”

“People don’t tend to use those these days. We just swap details on our phones.”

“What happens if you lose your phone?”

She shrugged. “I guess if you don’t have things saved, then you lose those too.”

“So then, isn’t something tangible like a business card better?”

“It’s clutter though.”

“Or it’s something you can find again.”

“How many times have you lost your phone, Dad?”

“I’m just saying …”

Ellie laughed, and he smiled.

“I’ve missed hearing that sound.”

“There’s been a bit going on lately.”

She went home, got changed into the nicest pair of trousers she owned and a cream lacy blouse. She was shooting for stylish enough in case Francine was a politician’s daughter, but also comfortable enough in case she literally needed to get on the ground to measure things, as she’d been led to believe.

At six thirty she was driving to the address given her, in one of the wealthier areas of the Highlands. People in this neighbourhood were known to have their own helipads, saunas, and guesthouses on their “estates.” The houses here were a mix of renovated-to-the-hilt old farmhouses and newly built award-winning architectural marvels. This was the landscape many identified as being most like England, with its gentle rolling hills of green, bordered with hedges and old trees planted by English and Scottish settlers well over a hundred years ago. It was so pretty, especially in the fading light of sunset, when the sun gilded the trees and—

“Oh!” A smudge of brown on the road made her swerve sharply, before she pulled to the side of the road. Oh, thank goodness. Her heart was pounding frantically. What was a wombat doing on the road at this time of day? Usually they preferred darkness.

She watched as the wombat waddled across the road, safely making it to the other side.

Sweat slicked down her back, forcing her to scrabble in her handbag for her mini deodorant spray, which she applied, then followed with a quick spray of her usual perfume, a tiny sample of Jo Malone’s Nectarine Blossom & Honey. This was not the way to start her evening. Still—she glanced at the clock—if she hurried, she’d be on time. She never liked being late.

It was seven on the dot by the time she was pulling into the stone-pillared drive, complete with spotlit house name. “Sunnyside” mightn’t be original, but facing the north as this property did, she bet it scored lots of sun.

She gave her name to a security guard, who checked a list, nodded, and let her through. Then followed the long curving drive, with several feature trees again lit by low lights—clearly they had a healthy budget for garden lighting—and slowed as the house approached.

Okay. This was grander than she’d expected, the creamy sandstone two-storey mansion positioned to take advantage of the views. She followed the line of cars parked around a central fountain, then parked farthest away. And that was probably just as well, as her humble Mitsubishi didn’t quite fit in with the Mercedes and Range Rovers and even a Bentley parked here. She wiped perspiration-slicked hands on her trousers and slowly made her way along the gravelled drive.

Hmm. It was hard to see why Francine might need landscaping work done, not when everything looked groomed within an inch of its life already. This seemed so weird. She’d much rather be doing proper graphic design instead of whatever this was. She caught a glimpse of some guests, who looked rather more glamorous than her, dressed as they were in sparkly long dresses and skyscraper heels. Still, she needn’t stay long. Long enough to talk to Francine and find out exactly what she wanted, take a few photos, and make a few notes; and then maybe she’d still have time to catch up with Annabelle at the movies. And hey, if she got the chance to eat some of the delicious-looking food she could see being handed around by servers, then that was a bonus.

So, where was Francine? She passed an older male guest, busy holding conversation with several people hanging on his every word. He paused, his gaze flicking from her hair to her lacy boho top, and she offered a small smile and kept walking. No prizes for guessing what he might be thinking. Still, she wasn’t here to impress anybody. Apart from Francine, she wouldn’t rub shoulders with these people ever again.

She stopped a passing server. “Excuse me, do you know where Francine is?”

“Mrs. Dashwood?”

Crepes. She’d better remember that. “Yes. The owner of the house.”

“She’s over near the wisteria pergola.”

She bit back a smile. That sounded so pretentious. Although, considering the house and gardens, perhaps there were multiple pergolas deserving the distinction of different names.

She followed a curved path and found the lady of the manor holding a glass of champagne and a smile that broadened when she noticed Ellie. Here went nothing, then.

“Ah, Elinor.”

Would it be petty to insist on being called Ms. Bennett? Probably.