An Eligible Bachelor (28 page)

By seven o’clock the Portiases and Marilyn, who’d been drafted in to wash up, realized they were in the hands of a ruthless taskmaster whose attention to detail was second to none. But they had to admit she had a flair for the job, an unerring instinct for the momentum needed.

‘It’s all about timing. The anticipation is as important as the reality,’ she explained. ‘Drinks should last long enough for everyone to become relaxed, but not totally sloshed. There should be enough canapés to take the edge off their appetite, but not fill them up. So when they go into dinner they are convivial and hungry.’

‘Convivial and hungry,’ repeated Guy obediently, as if it was a mantra. ‘Then what?’

‘Not too long a wait once the starters are cleared. Then everyone should get their main course at roughly the same time,’ Honor continued. ‘As they’re all having the same this should be easy, but I suggest we serve up in here and each take in two plates, so everything stays hot.’

‘OK.’

‘Then we have a good ten or fifteen minutes before pudding, so everyone can have a fag and a wee.’

‘Charming.’

‘Seriously – everyone will be dying for one or the other by then. Followed by cheese. And tonight, with coffee –
the pièce de résistance. Gavin the Groin. At this point you can also try and ply them with more champagne, though it might be worth assessing how far gone they are, and whether you want to add a carpet cleaner to your overheads.’

Mick sat in the lounge bar of his local. It was dingy, rundown and unwelcoming, so it suited him down to the ground. He was grinding his teeth with rage. Rozzi Sharpe had phoned him earlier, putting the pressure on. Jesus, didn’t she think he’d have been in touch by now if he’d sorted it? Women had no bloody patience. They wanted everything done yesterday. He’d placated her in the end, telling her Sally had gone to stay with a friend for the weekend but she’d be back Monday, and they’d come in then.

‘She can’t wait to set the record straight,’ he assured her. ‘Tell the world what a fraud her daughter is. This is the chance she’s been waiting for. Her chance to get her own back.’

If he could only find Sally, he could talk her round, he knew he could. He’d always been able to control her. And once she realized how much was in it for them, she’d soon comply. But he had to find her first.

He couldn’t believe she’d gone. She wasn’t answering her phone either. He shouldn’t have had a skinful the day before, but he hadn’t been able to resist celebrating. He’d woken up on the sofa at three o’clock in the morning with a stiff neck and a blank memory. He couldn’t remember for the life of him what he’d told her or what had happened. Had they had a row? They must have done,
else why would she have disappeared like that? Along with the money out of his jacket. That had gone too. He’d had to scrat around in the pocket of his dirty jeans to get enough for a pint this evening. What was she thinking of, leaving him with nothing?

Bitch. She was an evil bitch, just like her daughter.

At Fulford Farm, the atmosphere was surprisingly genial for a Saturday. Usually there was squabbling (Lily and Robin), sulking (Charles and Thea) and tears (Henty and Walter), as everyone tried to negotiate what they were doing for the evening. But with the arrival of Travis, calm seemed somehow to have descended. He and Charles had spent the afternoon schooling Charles’s horse, with Thea and Lily happily looking on. Charles was feeling so affable as a result that he offered to take Henty out for supper. Thea, who would usually be desperate to go to some hideous teenage gathering in a highly inconvenient location, was for once happy to stay in, so Henty was spared the trauma of the teenage hysterics which she always found utterly exhausting. By the time she’d finished remonstrating with her daughter she’d usually lost any desire to go out and socialize herself, but tonight she’d actually been able to have a long, luxurious bath without any interruptions.

As she put her make-up on, she decided that this week had been a real turning point in her life. Any doubts she’d had about Travis’s suitability had evaporated: although he was utterly drop-dead gorgeous, he had an underlying steeliness and self-control that convinced her he was no threat to her daughters. He took absolutely no crap from
either of them. Henty wasn’t sure how he did it. Whenever she tried firm and no-nonsense with Thea and Lily, they wiped the floor with her. But Travis had them jumping to attention. They didn’t even attempt to answer him back. It was quite extraordinary. Like now, for instance – he’d actually got them cleaning their tack. In the kitchen, admittedly, which was always a mess – there were reins and stirrup leathers strewn everywhere, sweaty girths draped over the backs of the chairs and horrible grass-encrusted bits in the sink – but Henty didn’t care because she was going out and Pizza Pete had already been contacted and was delivering in an hour.

Even more gratifying, she’d already typed nearly three thousand words of her new opus the day before. She’d been thoroughly excited by the word count facility on her laptop. At first she’ clicked on it after virtually every paragraph, but now she’d restricted herself to every half an hour. Three thousand words in just one day! If she carried on at that rate, she should have a sizeable chunk done before long. The words just seemed to be spilling out of her, just as they had when she’d written
Chelsea Virgin
. The bare bones were there already, in the notebooks she’d extricated from her tights drawer, but Henty had been pleasantly surprised how lucidly it all came together. It was as if there was a voice in her head dictating to her, and all she had to do was type it in. It was the most glorious feeling. She’d sneaked back into her little room this afternoon, just for an hour, and reread what she had already written, terrified that it would be the most utter rubbish. But it wasn’t. It was funny. Sexy Slightly outrageous. Naughty but nice. She couldn’t wait for
Monday, for an empty house, when she could sit back down at the keyboard and have another bash.

It was incredible how the hideous events of last Saturday, when Charles had made such a fool of her and then lost his licence, had turned out to have a silver lining. And the nicest surprise of all was that when she dried her hair it actually looked almost as good as when Gianni had done it. As she surveyed the final results in the mirror, Henty felt on top of the world, the happiest she’d felt for a long time.

Her euphoria was short-lived. She spotted Fleur’s sleek navy-blue Mercedes convertible as they drove into the car park of the Honeycote Arms, and her heart sank. Henty prayed Charles wouldn’t notice her – that the Gibsons would already be seated in some dark little corner. Luck, however, was not on her side. As soon as they walked in, Charles’s eyes lit up.

‘Look who it isn’t!’ he exclaimed, and bounded straight over to the bar, where Fleur was perched on a stool swinging her legs carelessly as her husband ordered their drinks. She slid off her stool as soon as she spotted Charles and snaked a sinuous arm round his neck.

‘Charles – darling. What a surprise. I didn’t know you ate here.’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘I know. Isn’t it fab? We come here every Saturday if we’re not going somewhere else. Robert, look – it’s Charles and Henty’

She managed to make ‘Henty’ sound like ‘fat lump’. Robert, standing patiently at the bar with a twenty-pound
note folded between his first two fingers, greeted them genially.

‘Hello, you two. What’ll you have to drink?’

‘Hadn’t we better go through?’ asked Henty anxiously. ‘Our table was booked for eight, and it’s already quarter past.’

‘I know! Let’s see if they’ll push our tables together,’ Fleur was trilling excitedly. No! Henty wanted to scream. I don’t want to sit here while my husband gawps at your unfeasibly large and suspiciously upright breasts.

But it was too late. An amenable waiter was nodding as Fleur outlined their desire. Moments later two tables were conjoined and the Gibsons and the Beresfords were ushered into the dining room. Trailing miserably behind, Henty surveyed Fleur’s champagne suede mini and high-heeled boots with the diamanté studs, and immediately felt enormous and a total frump. She didn’t suppose she could get Fleur’s minuscule skirt over one of her thighs. Her combat trousers and the silky knit sweater that had made her feel svelte and a little bit trendy now made her feel stumpy and middle-aged and as if she was trying a bit too hard. Deep down she knew that Fleur looked as if she was touting for business, but superficially she desperately wanted to wear an outrageously short skirt and silly boots. Fleur’s legs were bare, and even though it was October they were toned, silky-smooth and tanned. Henty knew hers were flabby, dimpled, blotchy, hairy and white. She shuddered with revulsion at the thought of them being exposed.

Henty sighed as she sat down and took her menu from the waiter. She was going to feel utterly inhibited now. If
she ordered anything more substantial than a rocket and red onion salad for starters, she knew Fleur would look at her pityingly as if to say it was no wonder she was the size she was. And Henty desperately wanted the wild mushroom tortellini. And bugger – here came the waiter with a basket of warm homemade breads and a big pool of green olive oil to dunk it all in. The men helped themselves eagerly.

‘Don’t you want bread, Henty?’ asked Charles.

‘No – I’ll never be able to manage my main course otherwise. The portions are huge here.’

‘I don’t know how you can resist,’ said Fleur. ‘This bread is totally scrumptious.’

She ripped off a hunk of tomato focaccia and dipped it in the oil, then ate hungrily. Henty was sure she was taunting her. She bent her head and studied the menu, wishing she was at home with Travis and the kids, with pizza and Ben and Jerry’s.

At half nine, Richenda couldn’t ignore her hunger any longer.

She’d stayed out of the way during the day. It seemed the most tactful thing to do, so she’d taken a cab into Cheltenham and consoled herself by buying some extremely expensive nightwear. Guy wouldn’t be up
all
night seeing to his guests’ needs – at least she hoped not – so when he came off duty she could see to his. But in the meantime, the party still seemed to be in full swing. The last time she had peered down the stairs over the banisters she’d seen Guy racing through the hall bearing a perfectly hideous cake on a silver tray.

If they’d reached the cake stage, she thought things might have calmed down in the kitchen by now, and there might be something left over that she could have. She was slipping down the stairs, hoping not to be noticed, when a vision in coral-pink stretchy lace and four-inch perspex sandals, en route to the loo, caught sight of her.

‘Oh my God!’ she shrieked, clasping her hands to her chest. ‘It’s Lady Jane!’

Richenda smiled as graciously as she could. There was no point in denying it.

‘Oh please. Will you come and say happy birthday to Gaynor? It’ll make her day, it really will.’

Richenda hesitated, not really wanting to be drawn into a public appearance situation – she hadn’t put any makeup on. But what was the alternative? Being in the way in the kitchen, or going back to the bedroom on her own? She smiled.

‘Of course I will.’

Her reception in the dining room was very gratifying. They all made a fuss of her, but in such a warm and welcoming way that she couldn’t begrudge them her presence. Terry pulled her up a chair and gave her a glass of champagne, and Gaynor insisted on cutting her a piece of cake.

‘Though I bet you never eat cake. Look at you.’

Richenda was actually starving, so she ended up eating two pieces and nibbling at the remnants of the cheese-board. In the meantime, the three women regaled her with the intimate details of their sex lives, bank accounts and cosmetic surgery, much to their husbands’ excruciating embarrassment. They were an absolute scream.

‘After three kids I had no pelvic floor left,’ Gaynor was saying. ‘But then I discovered these little weights. They’re fantastic, honestly. I’ve got a grip like a vice now. Haven’t I, Terry?’

Terry was mortified, not knowing where to look. The women collapsed with laughter, and Richenda with them.

‘He can pretend not to know what I’m talking about,’ screeched Gaynor, ‘but he calls me the Gin Trap.’

‘That’s because of your drinking habits,’ quipped Terry drily. ‘Nothing to do with your performance in the bedroom.’

Richenda wiped her eyes. She hadn’t laughed so much for years. Or enjoyed herself so much. On the surface, she wouldn’t have thought these people were her type at all, but they were warm, funny, raucous and obviously had a deep sense of loyalty to each other. Their marriages, she guessed, were as strong as a rock, even though she’d heard some of the most outrageous sexual anecdotes. She wished she could take a leaf out of their book, relax and let herself go a bit. But then all her grown life she’d been putting on a performance, both on and off camera. Or had she – was this the real her? She supposed that by now it was. She’d created who she was: the image of perfection who could do no wrong. She had absolutely everything that the public craved for themselves: beauty, celebrity, talent, true love… everything the media told them repeatedly was important and was to be striven for. But was it enough?

Or perhaps it was too much? Perhaps she’d be better off with only one of those things, like these people. They obviously had a bit of money and they had love… but
not a modicum of talent or fame. Or beauty. Yet they were clearly happy.

It was at this point that it struck Richenda that she wasn’t. Not really. There was something deep inside her that felt unsettled. Whenever she thought of the future – even though on paper it held so much promise – she had a strong sense of foreboding.

‘Are you all right, bab?’ Gaynor was looking at her anxiously.

‘I’m fine. Sorry – I just drifted off for a second.’

‘Give her some more champagne, Terry’

Terry jumped and did her bidding, topping up her glass with a flourish in a camp imitation of the most obsequious maître d’. Out of the corner of her eye, Richenda saw Guy enter the room with a tray of liqueurs. He did a double take when he saw her.