Page 7 of His Housekeeper's Twin Baby Confession
Butterflies erupted in Carrie’s gut. She was used to dealing with high society in London, but Manhattan was a whole other level.
‘Okay.’ Impulsively she added, ‘Look, I don’t want to let you down—are you sure you want me to take care of this?’
‘I trust you and your judgement. You’ll be fine.’
He meant in a professional capacity, of course. Not personally. But Carrie couldn’t stop the little glow in her chest. She knew how exacting her boss was.
The car was slowing now, and it came to a stop outside a vertiginous steel building. Even when Carrie craned her neck at the window she couldn’t see all the way to the top.
Before he got out Massimo said, ‘I’ll be working late, so feel free to do whatever you like. We can discuss things tomorrow morning.’
Carrie felt like pointing out that he didn’t have to tell her his movements, but instead she just nodded.
Massimo uncoiled his large body from the back of the car and immediately left a vacuum behind. Carrie watched him stride into the building in his three-piece suit, not one inch of him looking as if he’d just got off a transatlantic flight.
Carrie grimaced. When she’d dressed much earlier that morning in a dark trouser suit and short-sleeved light woollen top, flat brogues, hair coiled up into a chignon, she’d hoped to project a coolly professional image. Now she felt thoroughly wrinkled and badly in need of refreshing.
Even though it was late summer, almost tipping into autumn season, she hadn’t expected the heat in Manhattan to be so intense. She’d only been outside in between transferring into different vehicles, but in spite of the air-conditioned car she could still feel perspiration on her lower back and the back of her neck.
Not long after dropping Massimo at his office the car turned down a wide street that was immediately less frenetic. When they emerged at the other end Carrie could see a leafy green park ahead of them.
She leant forward to ask the driver, ‘Is that Central Park?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The car turned onto a street bordering the park and came to a stop outside another impossibly tall building—except where Massimo’s office had been all sleek modernity, this building oozed old Manhattan grandeur. When she got out of the vehicle and looked across the road she noticed the iconic address: Fifth Avenue.
Of course.
A man in uniform hurried out from under the awning of the building and said, ‘Miss Taylor?’
She nodded and smiled, feeling the heat quickly enveloping her.
‘I’m Matt, the concierge. I’ve been instructed to show you around Mr Black’s apartment.’
Carrie allowed him to lead her into a blessedly cool marbled reception area. There was a massive round table holding a vase of opulent blooms the size of a small tree. The air was subtly perfumed.
Matt led her into an elevator and as the doors closed said conspiratorially, ‘This is Mr Black’s private elevator. He owns the whole building, but he just uses the top floor for himself.’
‘You don’t have to call him Lord Linden, then?’ Carrie observed.
The older man shrugged. ‘He prefers not.’
Carrie absorbed that nugget. Maybe he appreciated the relative anonymity and more relaxed social protocols of America. The elevator doors opened into a reception hall that oozed classic sophistication. Tiled floors and panelled walls. Doors leading off in different directions.
The concierge led her over to one and opened it. It was only because Carrie was used to Massimo’s London house that she didn’t gasp out loud. She’d never seen ceilings so high nor windows so huge. She walked over to a window to see the green expanse of Central Park laid out before her. And there was a terrace beyond the windows, lined with flowering plants.
The furnishings were opulent, but understated. This was obviously a formal reception room, with different seating areas, chairs and couches around low coffee tables, upon which sat various massive hardback tomes featuring art, photography and architecture.
There were numerous antiques and a lot of art was hung on the walls. Carrie wouldn’t have been able to name the artist, but she recognised one painting of a Parisian scene featuring a woman that must undoubtedly be an original.
‘If you come this way I’ll show you where the kitchen and utility rooms are, and also your private rooms.’
Carrie flushed. For a second there she had almost been imagining herself inhabiting this space as a visitor, not an employee.
She followed Matt out of the room and down another plush corridor. He led her up some stairs and opened a door into a kitchen that made Carrie gasp audibly. It was stunning—state of the art. A gleaming marble-topped central island was surrounded by acres of countertops. There was a Belfast sink. A cooker that looked as if it could launch a satellite. And a walk-in pantry, stocked to the gills—as was the massive fridge.
‘I was told to let you know that the chef will work to your instructions when you have them.’
