1. An Intriguing Opportunity
Dr John Rogers stopped reading the report and glanced up at his laptop when he heard the chiming sound that indicated that he was due for a meeting. He pushed his glasses further up his aquiline nose and smiled as he saw the notification informing him that young Amber Smyth was due in the next few minutes. He leant back in his executive chair and swept his hands through his thinning grey hair as he conjured up an image of the young woman.
Such a pretty young thing with bright blonde hair and the kind of slim figure that reminded him of his first wife. Ideally, he preferred a few more curves on a woman, a little more meat on the bone but she was undeniably one of the most attractive members of his staff.
He recalled why he'd called her in, remembering that he had a pretty good opportunity to offer her. His thin lips curved into a smile as he thought about the possibilities. Maybe if he played it right, she'd be so grateful she'd consider going out for a drink to celebrate.
---
Amber glanced at her watch and noted she was a little late. She quickened her pace, walking a little faster down the long corridor, past the seemingly endless glass display cases, the rhythmic click of her black heels on the wooden floor echoing around the bare walls. She knocked on the door of the Head Curator's office and waited.
"Come," she heard him shout.
"Dr Rogers? You wanted to see me?" she said, as he looked up.
"Ah yes, come in, come in," he said, ushering her in with a casual wave of his hand.
He'd been the head curator since she'd started, a gaunt, bespectacled man in his fifties with neat, steely grey hair and a certain reputation amongst the female staff for sometimes being 'overly-friendly'. More than one of her colleagues had warned her to give him a wide berth at any after-work events involving alcohol and she felt his eyes sliding over her body as she made her way towards his desk. Despite the summer heat, she pulled her charcoal grey suit jacket a little tighter and tugged her skirt down over her knees self-consciously as she took a seat.
"Yes, yes, do sit down. Now then, where's that email..." he muttered as he turned his attention back to his laptop.
She crossed her legs and waited patiently whilst he searched. Behind him, the sounds of the city were carried in on the warm breeze drifting through the half-open window: the multi-lingual murmur of tourists, a distant siren, the low rumble of an airplane taking off.
"Ah, yes, here it is," he said, peering at her over the top of his half-moon glasses. "A little opportunity for you."
"An opportunity?" Amber echoed.
"Yes, how long have you been with the museum now? Four years, is it?"
"Nearly five, actually. I joined right after graduating," Amber said, shaking her head. A strand of honey-blonde hair had escaped her black hair-clip and she neatly tucked it behind her ear.
"Ah well, high time you got the chance of a little field trip then. I'd normally send Vanessa, she's our Edwardian era expert, but she's on maternity leave right now, so I'm looking for a volunteer for a little excursion."
"Okay..."
"Yes, we've had an email from a couple renovating an old manor house in Cornwall. We get quite a few emails like this, usually about roman coins or worthless old pottery fragments found in fields but this seems more intriguing. Apparently, their builders found a large collection of antique erotica in the cellar and they've asked if we'd be interested in assessing it. I'll forward the email onto you. They've attached a few images, but there's a lot of stuff here. Three large trunks to sort through, so we really need someone to go down and have a proper look to see if there's anything worthwhile."
"Oh, but I don't know anything about Edwardian-era erotica, I specialise in..."
"Early twentieth century photography, Cartier-Bresson, Weston and the like. Yes, I know but I think this find is mainly photographs, so it's very much up your alley, so to speak."
"I see..."
"And you're from the south-west, right?"
"Well, from Dorset, yes, but I'm not sure I'm the best person. Isn't there anyone more suitable?"
"To be honest, a lot of people are on holiday right now, so you'd be helping me out, but of course it's up to you..."
"I see. How long do you think it would take?"
"Well, at least a week, maybe two. Listen, if you're not sure we could always talk it over after work..."
Amber barely heard him. Whenever she had a tough decision she had the urge to rush outside for a cigarette, but she'd given up two weeks earlier. She would have loved to take a moment to give it some proper thought, or maybe discuss it with her colleague Fiona in the dingy alley around the back of the museum, where the smokers gathered.
She supposed there wasn't anything that urgent to keep her in London and Fiona would look after the apartment and feed her cat, so perhaps it would be nice to have a kind of working holiday. She'd been a bit listless and lacking motivation since she split up with her boyfriend Jeff several weeks back. She really shouldn't spend another weekend moping around the flat, hoping he'd call. Perhaps it would be cathartic to get away and see somewhere new.
"No, that's kind but actually it does sound good. Can I just think about it overnight?"
"Of course, of course. I'll send the email on, but there are plenty of others who'd fancy a couple a weeks in sunny Cornwall so can you let me know tomorrow?"
---
A little over a week later, Amber found herself hurtling along the narrow country lanes of Cornwall in the bright summer sunshine, loudly singing along to a catchy pop tune on the radio and obediently following the polite female voice of her sat-nav. Once she'd turned off the drab, grey motorway, the roads had become increasingly narrow and colourful, and now she listened to the engine groan and whine like a moody teenager as the rollercoaster road suddenly switched from steep downhill to steep uphill. It felt remote out here, and she found herself squeezing into lay-bys as she passed tractors and caravans, the villages becoming smaller and sparser, her car radio and mobile losing reception as she headed towards the coast.
"It can't be far now," she muttered to herself, as the car struggled up yet another steep lane, the trees on either side arching over the road forming a leafy tunnel that was dim even in the bright sunshine. She kept thinking she must nearly be there, but these windy country roads seemed to stretch on endlessly, a country mile seemingly much further than the miles she was used to.
"Left turn in one mile," the sat-nav instructed her as she reached the summit and the trees became a low hedge offering up fine views across rolling green pastures dotted with distant farmhouses, the sea a thin blue strip on the horizon, a shade darker than the sky.
Amber had to brake hard to avoid missing the sharp left turn and soon she was driving up a long, tree-lined drive and pulling into a circular car park dominated by an old stone fountain in front of a grand, old country house. She got out of the car and stretched her long legs as she took in her surroundings.
It looked like a grand, Victorian-era manor house, constructed with solid, light-grey stone blocks with tall windows along the first two floors, and smaller angled windows built into the slate roof. It was clear that there was a lot of building work underway; two white vans were parked opposite her and she could hear the sounds of hammering coming from inside.
She was just ducking back inside the car to put her sunglasses away when she noticed a pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady striding towards her, her bright pink trainers crunching on the gravel.
