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it was an understatement. Thierry Dupont was one of the most in-demand architects in the business. At seventy, he was semi-retired but had agreed to the Casa D’Or project as a favour to Jim.
    ‘Now you do know we have a tight schedule on this?’
    Thierry gave a Gallic shrug. ‘We always need more time, no? But this house has good bones, structurally it is sound. And with the outbuildings, I think we can extend your room capacity.’
    Jim fixed his eyes on the computer screen as Thierry moved his mouse around, slowly spinning a 3D computer image of the house. The picture was only made up of blue lines, the walls and roof transparent, but it was still wonderfully evocative. Jim could see exactly how Thierry was planning on dividing up the existing rooms; he could even zoom inside the entrance hall, giving an idea of how the space would look and feel. This was the part of his job he enjoyed the most. He supposed it was the creative part of him being exercised, the part he’d always thought he’d use for composing songs or writing books. Instead he was here in his New York office, breathing life into an idea, creating a space people could actually move through, a place they could live in. There was a satisfying and creative value in that.
    ‘ Thierry, this looks great. Seriously.’
    The Frenchman gave an ironic bow. ‘I aim to please.’
    Jim stared at the image of the entrance, picturing how it had looked all those years ago – and for some reason, all he saw was Sylvia Wyatt, the lady of the house, standing by the fireplace, a look of distaste on her face. Yes, the Johnsons had been the poor neighbours – literally – and Sylvia had always made it clear she didn’t think they were good enough for her social circle. At the few parties they had attended, even his father, the great author, had been viewed by Sylvia and her wealthy friends as an object of curious interest, but not quite respect. If Sylvia Wyatt were still alive today, he wondered what she would think of him now. Jim Johnson, CEO of Omari Hotels – or he would be if Casa D’Or was ready for guests by Thanksgiving.
    Thierry closed the laptop and rolled the plans into a tube.
    ‘Now, how would you like to take an old man for a drink?’
    Jim clapped him on the shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
    ‘I’d love to, but I haven’t even unpacked yet. If I don’t get back and turn the heating on, I swear the front door will be iced shut when I get there.’
    Thierry chuckled. ‘I can’t believe you’ve finally moved to New York. I thought you were too much of a diehard Brit to ever leave.’
    ‘It’s a temporary thing, Thierry, just until the project is done.’
    The Frenchman nodded, but Jim saw a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t quite believe it.
    ‘ Thanks again, Thierry. I think Casa D’Or is going to be your best yet,’ he said as they walked towards the lift.
    ‘Oh, no doubt about that,’ said Thierry, tapping the rolled plans against Jim’s chest. ‘When a seed is planted with passion, the fruit is always the sweetest.’
    The lift doors closed and Jim let out a long breath. He glanced at the clock above the reception desk and realised that their meeting had dragged on for three hours: everyone else had gone home. He walked back to his office, still quietly pleased by its size and grandeur, even though he knew it was all relative. Omari’s Manhattan outpost was tiny compared to the London office, taking up just a single floor of the Commodore Tower on 57th, but still Jim loved it. Here at least he was solely in charge, the master of his own destiny, which was exactly how he liked it. Here he could show Simon just how good he was, with no one questioning his decisions or taking credit. Plus he had an amazing corner office with uninterrupted views along Lexington and across to Park. At night, from the twenty-fifth floor, the ebb and flow of the neon traffic far below was mesmerising.
    For a moment, he thought of calling Melissa, or