An Eligible Bachelor (26 page)

‘I’ve raked the leaves up three times this morning, and smoothed over the chippings.’ Malachi was red-faced with
indignation. ‘Then he comes in and leaves his tyre tracks all over the drive. I’ve told him, tradesmen round the back from now on.’

The milkman looked in bewilderment at Madeleine for confirmation.

‘I appreciate your high standards, Malachi, but we have got to live,’ she chided gently. ‘Of course Roger doesn’t have to go round the back.’

Milkman mollified and Malachi muttering under his breath, Madeleine went to look for Guy. It was no good being complacent: there was still masses to be done, and she was going to have to deal with first-night nerves. In the kitchen she found Honor kneading the dough for bread rolls and Marilyn ironing a pile of starched white napkins, while Radio Two buzzed in the background. Madeleine felt a surge of warmth. It felt as if the house had come to life again, after being in limbo over the past four years. And even if taking in paying guests wasn’t quite the same as having a proper family utilizing it as a home, she hoped that would be rectified one day soon.

Mick was lying stretched out on the hideous brown sofa that was one of the few items of furniture left in the bedsit – one of the few things they hadn’t sold, because nobody in their right mind would have bought it, stained as it was with sweat and spillages. He was slurping from a can of Woodpecker cider, wiggling his toes with excitement. The nails were long and yellow, and he sported a toe ring, the skin underneath black with tarnish.

Sally paced up and down in front of the gas fire, desperate to know what was going on in his nasty little mind.
He’d been infuriatingly smug since they’d read that article in the paper. He’d disappeared off somewhere the day before and come back very full of himself. The only thing she could be sure of was that he would be the only one to benefit from his scurrilous plan. Whatever it was.

‘What have you done, exactly? Blackmailed her or something?’

Mick gave an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction, and tucked his hands behind his head, smiling cheesily.

‘I’ve sold my story. The truth behind the real Lady Jane.’

‘You haven’t!’

‘Why not? The silly cow’s been lying about her past. The public deserve to know the truth.’

‘What did you tell them?’

His bloodshot eyes swivelled round to meet hers.

‘I gave them lots of juicy details. About what a little prick-tease she was. About how she wouldn’t take no for an answer. How could a red-blooded male resist, when she was flashing it in front of him twenty-four seven?’

Sally had heard the story so many times before. It was true, if someone repeated something often enough, you believed them. Especially if the other person wasn’t around to defend themselves. But somehow, this time, his tone was so mocking, so sarcastic, so gleeful, that she knew it was a lie.

Suddenly, she found herself saying the words she’d never had the courage to say, all these years. Voicing the fear she had pushed to the back of her mind time and time again, because it was so much easier not to face the truth.

‘She didn’t come on to you, though, did she?’

‘Huh?’

‘Rowan. I bet she never even looked at you twice. You… forced yourself on her, didn’t you?’

She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘rape’. It was too ugly. Mick just laughed.

‘I gave her what she wanted. And she loved it, let me tell you.’

For a moment Sally was tempted to hit him, to pull back her arm and give him as hard a clout as she could manage. She resisted the temptation, though, because on the couple of other occasions she’d tried it, she’d come off far worse. Mick had no compunction about hitting a woman. Instead, she looked down at him in contempt, and he gazed up at her with his cold, dead eyes.

‘You total fucking bastard,’ she spat. ‘To think I’ve wasted my whole life on you.’

‘Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.’

‘I lost my daughter because of you.’

‘Don’t give me that. You never gave a toss about her in the first place.’

‘How do you know? You’ve got no idea what I felt.’

Looking back, she’d suppressed any feelings she’d had after Rowan had left with as many drugs and as much drink as she could lay her hands on. She’d become a zombie; an emotion-free zone. Now, however, nearly ten years later, something clicked, and everything came flooding to the surface: rage, guilt, sorrow and loathing, both of herself and the monstrous man in front of her. And suddenly she felt strong enough to face the truth. The apparent success of Richenda Fox didn’t absolve her from
any guilt, but she felt empowered by the knowledge that her daughter had risen above what had happened and made something of herself. Sally knew she couldn’t take the credit for any of that, but nevertheless she felt proud of her daughter. It gave her the courage to fight for once. She wasn’t going to roll over and accept what Mick had done; let him perpetrate the myth he had created. It might be ten years too late, but she was going to atone for what had happened.

Mick had gone quiet. His head was drooping on to his chest; his roll-up had gone out in his fingers. Booze always made him conk out; he’d be snoring on the sofa for hours. She thought about setting fire to it while he was asleep. There was no doubt it would go up in seconds – if he wasn’t burnt he’d soon choke to death on the fumes. And it would look like an accident; a careless cigarette. But she couldn’t be bothered. If she killed him, there would be enquiries, questions, things to deal with – a funeral. She wasn’t going to waste a second more of her time on him.

She went to his jacket and rifled through the pockets. There was a small wad of notes, courtesy no doubt of whichever rag he’d sold his lies to. She stood still for a moment, staring at the money, wondering how it had come to this: him betraying her, her stealing from him. They were scum, really. Could their life together ever have been different? Could one tiny little change in their fate have meant a fulfilling, loving relationship? She didn’t think so. The truth was they were both losers. Wouldn’t know an opportunity if it was presented to them gift-wrapped with a gold ribbon round it. She stuffed the
notes quickly into her bag and left, closing the door quietly so he wouldn’t wake up and follow her.

By two o’clock, Madeleine was starting to feel nervous. Guy had gone into Eldenbury with the final menus to see his friend Felix the wine merchant, to pick up the appropriate vintages for the guests to drink with their meal. Madeleine hoped he wouldn’t spend too long sampling the wares. She needed Guy on his toes. He was, after all, front of house. He was going to do the meeting and greeting. Madeleine was old-fashioned and felt it was a job done so much better by a man – to be welcomed by one’s host gave a sense of occasion.

To calm her nerves, she went into the drawing room to double – check it for the fiftieth time, and decided it had never looked so welcoming. The new upholstery had given it a long – needed lift. Marilyn had polished everything to within an inch of its life, and the scent of beeswax mingled with the magnificent flower arrangements that had been ordered from Twig – at huge expense, but there was no doubt that they looked the part. The effect was extravagant but relaxed: cream and orange lilies crammed into glass vases on the windowsills; a row of square pillar candles with a trio of wicks on the mantelpiece, each surrounded by a tangle of moss studded with coral-tinged roses.

For a moment Madeleine wondered wistfully what Tony would have made of the upheaval. He would have been slightly bemused but thoroughly enthusiastic and utterly unhelpful – not through want of trying, but because he would be incapable of keeping his mind on
the task in hand, much to everyone’s exasperation. Madeleine smiled fondly at his memory, then felt hateful tears brimming up. She blinked them back furiously. She didn’t allow herself to cry any more. This was a new start, a new challenge, and she was throwing herself into it with all her heart and soul.

Someone pushed open the door and Madeleine hastily brushed away the remnants of her tears. It was Honor.

‘I was going to do sandwiches for us all in the kitchen…’ she said, and then peered at Madeleine, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s just…’Bugger. The tears were coming back uninvited. ‘I was just thinking… my husband…’

Honor came straight over and enveloped Madeleine in a big hug.

‘I know. It must be horrid. But I’m sure he’d be very proud of you. You’ve done a magnificent job, and it’s going to be a huge success.’

Madeleine nodded, sniffing, and tried to smile.

‘Sandwiches,’ she said bravely. ‘That sounds perfect. Let’s all have a break and a glass of bubbly. I think we deserve a treat.’

It was a motley crew who gathered in the kitchen twenty minutes later. Malachi, his quiff wilting from the exertion of being a horticultural perfectionist, had stripped off to the waist and was flopped in a chair, displaying his magnificently tattooed torso. Marilyn was pink-faced from scrubbing, her peroxide hair wrapped up in a headscarf with a knot on top. Honor was covered in buckwheat flour from mixing up the batter for pre-dinner blinis. Guy had managed to extricate himself from Felix’s clutches,
and handed out champagne flutes to everyone. Madeleine composed herself, clearing her throat to gain the attention of the room.

‘I want to thank each of you for putting your heart and soul into this venture,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t have entertained it without your support. So this really is a toast from me to all of you.’ She smiled. ‘To my team.’

There was a collective clinking of glasses, and much hugging and kissing. Guy gave Honor a particularly grateful squeeze.

‘You’ve done a fantastic job of keeping Mum’s feet on the ground. Thank you.’

She smiled up at him.

‘I’ve enjoyed every minute.’

Just as he bent his head to give her a kiss on the cheek, the door opened and Richenda stepped into the kitchen, immaculately groomed and fresh-faced. She smiled brightly round at them.

‘I thought you’d all be busy, so I got a taxi from the station.’ There was a rather awkward silence and Honor stepped away from Guy. ‘How’s it all going? Is there anything I can do to help?’

Everyone tried not to look pointedly at her white cashmere sweater and wide-legged wool trousers.

‘I think everything’s under control,’ said Madeleine coolly. ‘In fact, I think we’d be in trouble if it wasn’t.’ She looked at her watch. ‘The guests are due to arrive in just over an hour.’

Everyone suddenly sprang into action.

‘Will I light the fire in the drawing room, Mrs Portias?’ asked Malachi.

‘That would be lovely.’

Honor looked down at her grubby sweatshirt.

‘I’m going to go home and make myself look more presentable. I’m filthy’

‘You don’t need to be here if you don’t want. It’s tomorrow night I’ll need you.’ Madeleine rounded up the empty glasses.

‘Don’t be silly – I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Ted’s going to tea at Henty’s, so you’ll have an extra pair of hands. I’ll see you later.’

Richenda stood awkwardly on the periphery as everyone melted away, thinking it would have been better if she hadn’t come. She was quite obviously superfluous. Guy gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek then moved her gently out of the way.

‘It’s lovely to see you, darling. But I’ve got to dash. I need to go and make myself look like the gracious host.’

‘Are you wearing a jacket and tie?’ asked Madeleine, casually but hopefully.

‘Bollocks to that,’ said Guy. ‘A clean shirt and cords is my final offer.’

Moments later the kitchen was empty. Richenda looked warily at the kettle. She wasn’t going to risk making a fool of herself with the bloody Aga again. She picked up the bottle of champagne from the kitchen table. It was empty. Sadly, she put it back down again, feeling thoroughly crestfallen. She thought about going up to the bedroom to see Guy while he changed, but something about his halfhearted greeting stopped her. She didn’t think she could bear it if he hustled her out of the way again.

She looked outside. It was going to be dark within the
hour. Too late to go for a bracing walk. She couldn’t go and sit in the drawing room, or the small sitting room –they’d been put aside for the paying guests. She felt a burst of indignation. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be made to feel like an intruder in what was virtually her own house. Once again she asked herself why Guy was putting himself through this. The two of them should be making preparations to have their own friends down for the weekend; their own bloody house party. She thought how wonderful it would be: choosing the food with him, laying the table and making it look pretty, deciding who was going to sleep where. They should be upstairs together now, sharing a bath before getting dressed, having a quick sneaky bonk so that their eyes would be sparkling when the doorbell rang –

Richenda strode out of the kitchen, along the corridor, through the hall and up the stairs to the master bedroom, where she threw open the door, about to confront Guy. But the room was empty. The jeans and sweater he had been wearing were on the floor in a crumpled heap. She walked over to the window and looked down.

He was outside already, smartly dressed as promised. Richenda thought how gorgeous he looked, master of his own home, opening the front gates with Malachi, the two of them laughing and joking. Feeling thoroughly deflated, she sat down on the bed. She’d lost her courage. She couldn’t tackle him in front of the others. She didn’t want to look shrewish. Maybe later, when they were in bed. She always managed to get Guy’s full attention when they were between the sheets.

*

At half past four, a cream stretch limo with glittering fairy lights in the back window drew into the drive of Eversleigh Manor and pulled up in front of the house.

‘Dear God,’ said Madeleine faindy.

‘I’ll tell them we’ve double-booked,’ said Guy.

‘No!’ said Honor. ‘Get out there and charm the pants off them.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ said Guy.

‘Think of the money’ Honor put a hand in the small of his back and pushed him firmly out into the hallway. He gave a despairing look over his shoulder, stood at the front door, bracing himself, then pulled it open with a huge, welcoming smile as three forty-something bottle blondes fell out of the limo clutching monogrammed handbags. Madeleine looked on in horror as they tottered over the Cotswold chippings of the drive in their high heels. One was in three square inches of mock shredded Chanel tweed, another in a halterneck and jeans under an electric-blue bomber jacket, the third almost understated in a beige trouser suit – until she turned around to reveal a keyhole cut out of the back and naked flesh underneath. They were followed by three balding men in what seemed to be matching black polo necks and single-breasted leather jackets.