Pink Wellies and Flat Caps Read Online Free PDF

not on a pittance of a salary. It felt like no one wanted me any more. I’d lost my fiancé and now my job. With a heavy heart I replied to Lady Fairfax-Mason’s email.
     
     
    From: Alice Lane
    To: Lady Fairfax-Mason
    Subject: Interview
     
    Dear Lady Fairfax-Mason,
     
    Thank you very much. I look forwarding to meeting you at Claridge’s on Tuesday, 3 p.m.
     
    Yours sincerely ,
    Alice Lane.

Chapter Five
     
    ‘I’m meeting Lady Fairfax-Mason for afternoon tea,’ I say grandly, while feeling anything but.
    ‘Follow me madam.’
    I am so nervous. In fact I had sat in Casper’s car for ten minutes trying to build up my courage to go in. I step through the revolving doors into a world that exudes luxury and am mesmerised by the numerous photographs that adorn the walls portraying the rich and famous that had visited. I wonder if Georgie was right when she had said it will be Princess Diana all over again. I am escorted past the sweeping staircase to a beautifully prepared table adorned with green and white china. I am so intent on looking that I do not notice the elegant immaculately dressed woman who stands to greet me. I do however smell her soft intoxicating fragrance.
    ‘Alice Lane, it is lovely to meet you at last. Thank you so much for coming.’
    Her voice is as clear as crystal and as soft as silk. Her perfectly manicured hand clasps mine and then gestures for me to sit down. I look curiously around for the other applicants. Out of nowhere a menu miraculously appears and I lift my eyes over it to get a better look at Lady Fairfax-Mason. I’m no fashion expert but even I know that the simple two-piece floral suit she is wearing isn’t off the peg from Debenhams, and that the sparklers in her ears are most certainly the real thing. Her complexion is flawless and expertly made-up.
    ‘I thought it would be much nicer for us to have afternoon tea here rather than in my room. A much nicer ambiance don’t you think?’ she says casually.
    My God, is she staying here? The farmhouse must be enormous and with an army of staff if she can afford this. There is no way I am going to land this job.
    ‘You’re staying here?’ I ask stupidly.
    ‘I always do when I’m in Englan d. I’ll have my usual thank you Chester,’ she says to the waiter who seems to materialise from somewhere but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where. It’s rather like being a volunteer in a Paul Daniels act. One minute they are there and the next gone. I look at the choice on the menu and wonder what her usual is. She smiles indulgently at me.
    ‘The Earl Grey here cannot be matched. Shall I order for you, unless of course …’
    I nod and she quickly and expertly voices our order before relaxing in her seat and studying me.
    ‘I live in Sydney,’ she volunteers.
    ‘Sydney Australia?’
    ‘It’s the only Sydney I know, unless you know of another.’
    I feel myself blush.
    ‘I presumed you lived on the farm …’
    She looks astonished.
    ‘I leave the farm to my son, Edward. It must be very rewarding, working for the NHS,’ she says, making it sound like UNICEF. ‘Helping people like that. I have great admiration for people like you.’
    Christ, she makes me sound like Mother Teresa. And she most certainly hasn’t met Mr Ramsbottom. I can tell she has never had to wait in an NHS surgery waiting room.
     
    The tea arrives, along with an assortment of finger sandwiches, scones, Marco Polo jam, cakes and pastries.  Already I am thinking I should ask for a doggy bag.
    ‘So when can you start?’ she asks.
    I choke on my cucumber finger sandwich. What the hell happened to the interview, and what happened to all the other applicants? Did they somehow get spirited away along with the waiters? I listen to the pianist play ‘It had to be you,’ and wonder if I am in a dream.
    ‘Start?’ I hear myself echo.
    She wipes her fingers delicately on her serviette and sips from her teacup while eyeing me curiously over the