Like those years of hanging out on Lake Minnetonka and hoofing it to class at Hopkins High haven’t completely faded. There’s something about his boyish exuberance, his goofy grin that seems almost, well, Midwestern. Nate Berkus lives one of those fabulous jet-set lives: a pied-à-terre in Milan with ex-model and designer boyfriend Brian Atwood, a stunning condo in Chicago where he runs an exclusive interior design firm and a Manhattan pad that is now home base more than ever.īut the thing about Nate Berkus is that he doesn’t come off as a jet-setter. I laugh and give his belly a rub.Photography provided by Sony Pictures Television and Jason Decrow It takes a few minutes of gentle coaxing, but he eventually allows me to scratch his ears, then a few minutes later, he’s right up close and rolling on to his back, paws in the air. He recoils a little, unsure, but soon edges forwards again. ‘Hey, Winston,’ I say quietly, moving my hand up to his ears. I put my hand out and Winston sniffs tentatively, clearly unsure of me. ‘He’s Becker’s best friend.’īest friend? His best friend is a dog? ‘A British bulldog?’ You have to gain his trust.’ Mrs Potts scratches his ears roughly, and I laugh as he nuzzles into her hand, grumbling deeply as he does. ‘Meet Winston,’ she says, a proud edge to her tone. ‘Aw, look.’ I join Mrs Potts in her crouched position as a big furry beast emerges. I frown and bend to see under the table, and it’s only a few moments until a wet nose appears. Completely composed, she approaches and crouches, looking under the table and extending her hand. ‘Language, dear,’ Mrs Potts says, giving me a disapproving glower. Bloody hell, what is that?’ I jump up and scamper back, frightened out of my skin. I jump a mile when something wet touches my leg, smacking my knee on the underside of the table as I do. I head to the table and sit down, then watch Mrs Potts as she faffs around the kitchen. Take a seat, dear.’ She fills a kettle and pops it on the gas stove. ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Potts ushers me through another doorway, and I find myself in an enormous traditionally appointed kitchen, with an old-fashioned range cooker and a grand old table and huge, solid wooden chairs in the middle. I mentally slap myself for fleetingly wondering what he must have thought seeing me here. That’s his apartment up there, where he stood and watched me in his grand hall. ‘Out of bounds,’ Mrs Potts says sternly, not even looking back to see where I’m looking. We pass the curved staircase again, and my damn curious eyes drift up the stone steps. ‘He just can’t help himself.’ She opens the door and gestures for me to exit, which I do on a nervous smile, wondering if I’m going to be given any more than that. She almost laughs, but I can tell that her fizzing anger prevents it. ‘Difficult?’ I ask as I take her offering and stand, pulling my skirt down as I do. I can’t help but smile when she offers me her wrinkled old hand, like she suspects I need help to my feet after what I’ve just encountered. ‘I’m sorry, Eleanor.’ She shakes her head in despair and makes her way over to me. I release them and flex, allowing the blood to circulate again. ‘Are you okay?’ I manage to say, before realising my fingers are clawed into the arms of the chair. I feel I should calm her fussing hands that are now frantically dusting down her front, but I’m still pretty useless. I watch her faff with her string of pearls, getting all worked up. ‘Well,’ Mrs Potts fumes, slamming the door behind him.
‘Yet,’ he adds, before crossing the threshold and disappearing down the corridor. ‘Don’t worry’ – he sniffs, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, exuding coolness as he rolls his broad shoulders – ‘I haven’t bitten her.’ I’m treated to his perfect profile as he turns his eyes down on to the short, old lady. He pauses next to a riled Mrs Potts, but he doesn’t look at her. ‘Calm your britches,’ Becker huffs, his long legs eating up the distance between them.
I’m stunned at the anger rolling off Mrs Potts. ‘You promised to let me handle this,’ she seethes, clearly not afraid to unleash her temper on her boss. ‘Afternoon, Dorothy,’ he says cheerfully. I follow her line of sight, finding him resting his hands in his trouser pockets, relaxed in his standing pose.
Her alarmed face takes in my flustered form, before she turns to Becker Hunt. ‘Then it’s yours.’ He turns and walks away, just as Mrs Potts comes flying through the door. I don’t even know what the salary is, or any of the package details. ‘Yes,’ I answer without much thought, because it really doesn’t take much thought. But we’re also talking about me being in close proximity to this divine, albeit infuriating, man on a daily basis. This should be a stupid question, given we’re discussing a position at the Hunt Corporation – a place many would give their right arm to work for.
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