Page 18 of Broken Beyond Repair

Sydney roused to a vibrating sensation against her cheek. Disorientated in the pitch black of Gertie, she shot up. Her head collided with something.

Fuck.

Scrabbling around in the dark for what she could only assume was a stray vibrator, she spotted the light from her flashing phone. Squinting at it through one eye revealed a long overseas number, and that it was just after midnight. She must have only just dropped off. James told her to expect a call from her new employer who was currently in the States, and it seemed, incapable of understanding time zones.

She swiped the ‘Accept’ button quickly before she could lose the call.

A rich, effortless, articulate voice floated into her ear. “Miss Sydney MacKenzie?” The voice hung on to theesound in Sydney a little longer than she’d heard it spoken before.

“Yes, hi.” Sydney rubbed her head.

“This is Beatrice Russell. I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”

“Well, it’s gone midnight in the UK.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Sydney cocked her head; was the woman being deliberately obtuse?

The warm, rounded voice continued. “You come highly recommended by your agency.”

“I’m their bes…” Sydney squeezed her eyes shut, realising how pathetic she sounded.

“I would hope so. I expect the best. Sadly, I rarely receive it. Did your agency mention it was a live-in position? I find myself indisposed. As soon as my leg has healed, I’ll be going back to the States to finish filming.”

“Yes. I’m only available for a short time anyway.”

“Perfect. I assume you drive?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m flying out of LA tomorrow and will land on Wednesday. I’ll need collecting from Biggin Hill; I’ll text you the arrival time. Do you have a pen and paper?”

Biting down the urge to remind the woman of the time and inform her she didn’t carry a notepad and pen in her ribbed tee and checked pyjama shorts, Sydney replied politely, “No, but I have a good memory.”

She wondered if she’d set herself up for a fall as the woman reeled off a list of instructions.

“Go to my house, I’ll text you the address. The gate code is 020728. Bring the Rolls— no, the Mercedes — I have a lot of luggage. The keys are in the box on the wall in the garage; the code is 260820. The code for the garage is 060218.”

“Noted.”

“Want the numbers again?”

“No, I got them,” Sydney replied, loading them into her mind visually as dates and reciting them to herself.

“Very good.”

The line went silent. Had the woman hung up on her?

Sydney opened a note on her phone and tapped out the numbers.

Within seconds her phone beeped with an address.

Highwood House, Bassington, West Sussex.

The woman’s voice was still resounding in her head. It was the type of voice you could spend all day listening to and never tire of. It was as alluring as her photograph.

What was she thinking taking this job?