Samantha
When the unknown number appeared on my phone the next afternoon, my hands started to shake. I have a bad habit of being bold and outspoken and then regretting it later when my senses return. It was all I could do to put the phone to my ear and answer the call.
The voice at the other end was more middle-class and less tony English prep school than Harry's. While I was recovering my wits, the man explained that he was Paul Coster's polo manager and he'd heard I was looking to pick up some work.
"Umm, yeah, sure," I answered. So Mr. Coster was the owner of the gray butt-biter pony that Harry was so fond of? Did that mean I might see more of Harry? "As long as it doesn't interfere with my work at the riding school."
There was a hint of buried laughter in the man's voice. "As you wish. Although I might advise you that Mr. Coster pays a good wage when his grooms work for him exclusively." He named a figure that was twice what I was making per hour at the riding school. "Plus tips. And I've heard you come highly recommended."
In the end I agreed to try the job for a few months and see how it worked out, since Coster's polo string was at a stable some distance from my flat. And as I hung up the phone, I wondered if I was "highly recommended" by someone with a fancy title in front of his name.