The silver tea service, polished to a high sheen, glinted in the sunlight streaming through the large bay windows. The value of the teapot alone would have paid our rent for a month. A woman in a simple black uniform leaned over the low mahogany table, pouring amber liquid in a steady unbroken stream into two dainty teacups. She prepared each cup with milk and sugar - though I hadn’t specified how I take my tea - and handed one to me, one to my hostess.

“That will be all, Madeline,” the woman across from me said. She took a sip of her tea, then set the cup and saucer down on the table. I did the same, suppressing a cringe at the rush of sweetness. I didn’t like sugar in my tea.

When I arrived at the manor, a black-suited butler had escorted me to a sitting room at the back of the house looking over the sprawling green grounds. I could see a bulldozer, sitting abandoned and lonely, outside the window.

The job ad was for a Project Manager, the project being the renovation of a large manor house in the countryside. I’d sent in a resume and almost immediately received a phone call. _Is this Jessica Hardy?_ It is. _You submitted a resume in response to an ad regarding a Project Manager position?_ I did. _Can you come in for an interview this afternoon?_ I can.

The conversation started curtly, and I expected the man I was speaking to wanted to end the call as soon as he gave me a time and address. But I had questions. Who would I be working for? What was the scale of the project? Why was this position available?

He’d sighed. _The client is Tomasina Fletcher, wife of the late Edward Fletcher. The project is a full scale demolition and rebuild of the west wing._ He’d hesitated before answering my third question. In my mind’s eye, I saw him take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose in a gesture so tired and defeated I felt a twinge of sympathy for this imaginary version of him. When he spoke again, his voice had lost the faux-professional abruptness he’d had earlier, as if my vision was less imaginary and more premonition. _Look, we’ve been through six Project Managers on this thing. There’s equipment scattered everywhere. Walls half demolished. We haven’t been able to keep a consistent crew since the start. I’m not gonna lie. It’s a mess. I really need someone to come in and take the reins and pull this shit together. On paper you look like you have everything we need - organizational skills, people leadership, budget management. The pay is good. What do you say?_

Red flags. So many red flags. Six managers? This project sounded like a nightmare. I’d be putting myself in an impossible situation.

But you’re already in an impossible situation, aren’t you? The voice in my head said. Ten years as a stay at home mom and with one single accident we suddenly had no income, and I needed work. Organizational skills? Budget management? My resume was a novel of clever wordplay. My skills hadn’t been applied in a professional setting for a decade. I’d taken so many artistic liberties with my skillset I felt like a fictional version of myself.

So I’d agreed, and made the hour long drive to the manor, and sat in the plush sitting room on an antique settee across from Mrs. Tomasina Fletcher, with her red-soled stiletto-clad foot dangling from crossed legs, as she eyed me appraisingly.

“So, Mrs. Hardy,” she began, her vaguely transatlantic accent reminding me of old silver screen movie stars, “tell me about yourself.”