An Eligible Bachelor (50 page)
‘That’s completely amazing.’
‘I know. But I can’t bang on about it now – the kids all need taxi-ing here, there and everywhere. This would bloody happen at half term. I just wanted to ask you over for a celebration.’
‘Of course! Try and stop me!’ Honor was thrilled for her friend. ‘Look, I’ve got to go or I’m going to be late. I’ll see you later…’
Honor arrived at Eversleigh Manor at ten past ten, hot and bothered, with Ted in tow. Malachi appeared from nowhere with a fishing net.
‘Ted. Just the man. I need someone to scoop the fish out. They’re too fast for me.’
She burst into the kitchen, apologies on her lips. There was only one person at the table.
It was Guy.
He looked at her, frowning.
‘Hello.’
Honor felt her cheeks flaming red as she ventured into the room. He didn’t look very pleased to see her.
‘I’m really sorry about this. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Between you and Richenda, I mean. And I totally understand if you want me to hand in my notice.
It was Madeleine who insisted I came into work –’
Guy was looking at her evenly. She took a step back again.
‘But it was a really silly idea. I should have just been more firm. I don’t think your mother really understands quite how embarrassing this all is.’
Her hand was on the doorknob, ready to make her escape.
‘Honor.’
‘What?’
‘Richenda and I… it’s all over.’
‘Oh God.’ Honor put her hand to her mouth, horrified. How could she have thought that awful article had done no damage? Now she was going to be branded a marriage wrecker, or worse. ‘Guy, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can say, or do, to convince her?’
‘Richenda doesn’t need convincing. The article had nothing to do with it, really. It just brought the day of reckoning forward a bit. Things… weren’t working out between us.’
‘Oh.’ Honor struggled to take in everything he was saying. ‘So… it wasn’t my fault?’
‘No,’ said Guy. ‘Sit down. I’ll make some coffee while we wait for the others.’
Honor sat down obediently while Guy went to put the kettle on. Then he sat down again. There was a long silence. Honor tapped her pencil against her notebook.
‘I wonder where everyone is?’
They both looked at the clock.
‘Madeleine said to be here at ten or else.’
‘She said the same to me,’ said Guy.
Honor snapped her notebook shut and stood up.
‘Well, if there isn’t going to be a meeting, I’ve got to get on. I’m going out to lunch. I need to go and make myself presentable.’
Guy looked at her. To him she looked perfect.
‘Special occasion?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes sparkled.
Guy’s heart sank. She and Johnny had obviously patched up their differences.
‘My friend Henty. She’s just sold her book. She’s asked me over to celebrate.’
‘Oh.’ Guy managed a smile. ‘I thought you might be having lunch with Johnny.’
‘You’re joking.’ Honor looked suitably unimpressed. ‘It’s going to be a while before Johnny and I are on proper speaking terms. Obviously we’ve got to pretend to be civil, for Ted.’
‘But you’re not…?’
‘Not what?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever you call it. An item.’
Honor shook her head.
‘The only thing Johnny and I are is history. For good, this time. I’m not going to get in the way of him and Ted, but I’m keeping him at arm’s length, I can tell you –’
Honor stopped, aware that Guy was staring at her.
‘What?’
He gave a funny little twisted smile.
‘I’ve just realized when it was.’
‘When what was?’
‘It was when you hit me over the back of the hand with your spoon.’
‘Sorry?’
Guy pushed back his chair and walked over to her. She looked up at him, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t step away. He put up a hand and brushed her fringe out of her eyes. She blinked once or twice in surprise and smiled, a little unsure. He bent his head and kissed her, just once, on the lips.
‘That was when I fell in love with you,’ he explained. ‘When you whacked me for pinching your chocolate.’
She breathed in, shakily, and Guy steeled himself. He was ready. He could take the rejection. But he had to take the risk. It would be crazy not to, after everything that had happened. And Richenda had known how he felt all along. He couldn’t let her sacrifice their engagement for nothing. She’d done the noble thing. It was up to him now.
Honor was looking up at him, obviously trying to figure out the best way to let him down gently.
‘You can pinch my chocolate any time,’ she smiled.
Guy swallowed. His throat was dry. He wasn’t sure what she meant. But as she curled her arm around the back of his neck, and pulled his head towards her until their lips met again, he finally got the drift…
Moments later, Madeleine swept in through the swing door of the kitchen, then promptly turned on her heel and walked out again.
She met Marilyn in the corridor, bearing the candelabra from the dining room table.
‘I was just going to give this a polish.’
‘I wouldn’t go in the kitchen,’ said Madeleine. ‘Not just yet.’
Marilyn looked at her quizzically, and Madeleine gave an imperceptible nod, accompanied by a smile.
‘About bloody time,’ pronounced Marilyn.
Two hours later, wrapped in Guy’s arms, Honor called Henty.
‘Henty – don’t kill me, but I can’t do lunch. I’m really, really sorry. I’ll explain everything later…’
Henty just giggled. She sounded rather drunk.
‘That’s OK. I’m actually doing a bit of research anyway.’
Honor was scandalized.
‘Not with Travis?’
‘God no, darling. How deadly dull and predictable. With my husband, actually…’
Charles looked out of the kitchen window. Henty was climbing into the driving seat of her Alfa Romeo Spyder. She pressed the button that rolled back the roof, revealing Travis in the passenger seat. She was driving him to Heathrow; he was off to university in September, and was going to travel for the next three months, so his stint at Fulford Farm was over. The agency was sending them a Swedish girl as his replacement. Charles hoped she was capable rather than comely: they needed the extra pair of hands more than ever.
Henty was flying high. He’d brokered the most fantastic three-book deal for her with
Cotswold Housewife.
She had a column in a newspaper; she was an agony aunt for a magazine. And things had snowballed for Charles off the back of it. Whether because it had given him confidence, or because success breeds success, he couldn’t be sure. But already he’d picked up three fantastic new clients and done deals for them too; business was looking up. He was back on the circuit and he felt on top of the world.
Not least because he and Henty had rekindled their marriage. Things were now on a more equal footing, and both of them felt comfortable with their status and therefore each other. They were each enjoying their own renaissance, and now the children were growing up it was
possible to make the most of the lifestyle that went with it: launches and lunches. They were enjoying family life as well. Only last week they had gone to Sports Day. Charles decided that Henty was the most glamorous mother there, curvaceous in her red silk halterneck with the white polka dots. Fleur, by contrast, had looked decidedly ropey, obviously a few weeks behind with her Botox. She’d hovered next to them with her picnic basket, angling for an invitation to join them on their rug now Henty was the closest the school had to a celebrity, and Henty, warm-hearted and generous to the end, had made room for her.
The postman arrived, with a hefty parcel. Charles ripped it open eagerly; it was the cover proof for
Cotswold Housewife,
and he couldn’t wait to see what the publishers had done. Henty had hinted that he would be very surprised.
Charles picked up the proof. It was satisfyingly glossy. On the front was an illustration of a harassed-looking housewife pushing a Hoover, her hair in a headscarf, and tiny little motifs of her life were scattered around – scrubbing brushes, can-openers, shopping lists, car keys.
On the back was the rear view of a shapely woman, dressed only in –
For a moment, Charles thought he was going to faint. It must be a coincidence, surely. For the woman was wearing a pair of knickers exactly like the pair Fleur had abandoned that night in the Honeycote Arms. Black satin, with ribbon bows tied at each side. Then he read the tag line at the top: Tor abandoned housewives everywhere.’ And he knew. This was a message. Henty had known all along about Fleur, and this was her revenge.
Despite himself, he grinned. It was a tiny little dig at him that she hadn’t been able to resist, but he admired her for it. And their marriage was strong enough now for him to be able to take the joke.
In the departure lounge, Henty waited by Travis’s luggage while he bought chocolate and a new CD for the journey. She hoped she wasn’t going to cry when he left. She was hopeless at airports. There always seemed something so final about someone getting on a plane. The best thing to do, she decided, was to leave before his flight was called, so she didn’t make an idiot of herself.
‘I’m going to get off,’ she said briskly as he reappeared with his booty. ‘You’ll be OK, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. Henty felt unsettled. He was looking right into her eyes, and he suddenly seemed very serious.
‘Of course you will,’ she laughed nervously.
He didn’t answer, just slipped his arms round her waist and drew her to him. She giggled, and went to give him a peck on the cheek. Suddenly, she found his warm lips on hers. For a full ten seconds they kissed. She drew away, breathless, unsure what to say.
Travis was staring at her.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that for months,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how much self-control it took to keep my hands off you.’
He turned sharply, picked up his rucksack and strode off towards the departure gate without a backward glance. Henty watched him go, her heart still pitter-pattering, her tummy jumbled upside down.
She didn’t know what to think, but she could definitely feel a sequel coming on.
Sally looked ten years younger. She’d lost her bedsit pallor, her skin was starting to tone up from all the swimming and the massages, her hair was glossy and her eyes bright from the healthy food they’d been eating: steamed fish and vegetables and rice and fruit so fresh it had barely left the tree. She hadn’t had a cigarette for days, or even a drink apart from the occasional glass of wine. Her mind was clearer than it had been for years. The future seemed bright, not blurry. The past was behind her; issues dealt with or buried.
She was sitting on the sand next to Richenda’s sunlounger, sketching ideas. She was going to open a boutique. It was going to be called Ravers, and stock sexy, well-cut clothes for middle-aged women who didn’t want to look middle-aged. Even though Richenda was bankrolling it, Sally had done all the hard work: the market research, the sourcing, the deals, the décor. It had already created a lot of interest and it wasn’t due to open for another four weeks. Which was why they’d escaped for a week on holiday to Thailand: once it was open there would be no respite.
Next to her, Richenda put down the script she was reading with a sigh of satisfaction. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Swashbuckling and bodice-ripping, of course. But witty and stylish too. Deeply romantic. With a tear-jerking ending that would have the entire nation sobbing into their handkerchiefs. Correction, the entire world. For this script was a blockbuster. A lavish,
big-budget production with American money and a huge distributor behind it. Richenda knew in her gut that this was the platform she had been waiting for, the one that would launch her as an international superstar. The project was a remake of the black and white classic,
The Wicked Lady,
with Richenda in the tide role. The leading man hadn’t been pinned down yet, but some heavyweight names were being bandied around. Richenda had a sneaking hope for Russell Crowe – there was something about him that reminded her of Guy, with his dishevelled devil-may-careness.
She picked up the phone that was lying on the arm of the sunbed next to her and pressed the number that would put her through to her agent.
‘I love it,’ she gushed. ‘I love it and I want to do it. Fax me the contract now.’
Guy carefully turned the dial, opened the safe and drew out the little leather box.
He had long been in a dilemma. Was it bad luck to use a ring again, when it had already been returned to you once? What exactly was the etiquette? He took it out of its velvet bed and turned it over and over in his fingers. It was stunning; far more beautiful than anything he’d seen in the shops. And if he didn’t use it, then it would stay in its box for ever. Jewellery like this was made to be worn.
He put it back carefully and snapped the lid shut. He’d go and ask his mother. Madeleine always knew the right thing to do.
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