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Authors: Kate Saunders

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BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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“So are you,” I said.
“Yes, but I think it's harder for Fritz. He takes on all the responsibility, you know—he doesn't let me do nearly enough for her. It's as if he has to take Dad's place.”
I put down my fork. My throat had closed. “How is she?” It was time for the question that always had to be asked.
“Very cheerful,” Ben said. “Very busy pretending not to be ill. But she's started the new course of chemo, and even she has to admit she's exhausted. She doesn't even argue when Fritz orders her to lie down.”
“Oh God, that's a bad sign.”
“Fritz says we have to let her do it her way,” Ben said. “She has to rest every afternoon—but I go upstairs to play for her, and we all have to pretend she's just listening to me practicing.”
I swallowed several times and took a sip of water, wondering at that moment if I would ever be able to eat again. I did my best to keep my voice light, for the sake of my old Cotton House companion. “I'm sure it does her good, though. You know how she loves to hear you play.”
Ben smiled. “I'll never have a better audience.”
“Fritz said you were both single,” I said. “Does that mean you've done something about Mrs. Appleton?”
“Is that what he told you?” Ben was nettled. Points of color appeared in his pale cheeks. “I didn't do anything, actually. It's just that our understanding has—changed.”
“Oh?”
“She—she wanted to sleep with me,” Ben muttered crossly. “I had to tell her we didn't have that kind of relationship. Not on my side, anyway. I thought it was purely friendship, you know. In the platonic sense. A meeting of minds.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheeks not to laugh at this. Good grief,
I had done Ben a terrible injustice. Incredibly, he had been telling the truth about his relationship with the aging music lover.
I asked, “Was she angry when you turned her down?”
“Furious,” Ben said morosely, wincing over the memory. I didn't expect him to elaborate, and was all ready to change the subject, but he was in confessional mood. “I was round at her place, and we were literally in the middle of a Haydn flute sonata, and all of a sudden she was trying to snog me and get her hand down my jeans. I barely got out of there alive.”
“Poor you.” I reached across the table to squeeze his hand.
“So you see, I certainly wasn't having sex with Vinnie. God, no. I haven't had any sex since I split up with Karen.”
“Karen? Did I ever meet her?”
“No. It didn't last long enough.” Ben sighed heavily, and took a huge mouthful of lasagne. “You know me, Cass. I never can make these things last. I'm still looking for the right person. I'm not like Fritz. He dumps his women, and I get dumped.”
“That's not entirely true,” I couldn't help saying. “They only dump you because they can't get any sort of commitment out of you and you never pay for anything. That's why Phoebe's so particularly anxious to see you settled.”
“I'd love to be settled,” Ben said seriously. “I need to fall in love properly. Especially now.”
“Leave it to me,” I said, determined to be as bullish as possible. “I'm coming round tonight with a list of hand-picked brides.”
He smiled wryly. “I don't know. I don't seem to have Fritz's pulling power.”
“Nonsense—you've been beating them off with a stick since you were twelve. Quite frankly, now you've got a job, you're more marriageable than that brother of yours.”
“You reckon?” Ben brightened. “That'd be one in the eye for him, wouldn't it? If I got there first for once.”
A waiter removed our plates—mine still full, Ben's wiped clean—and Ben cheerfully ordered cheesecake for pudding.
Before it arrived, he suddenly pointed to the door of the restaurant. “Hey—look who it is!”
I glanced over my shoulder at the tall, striking dark-haired woman. “Do you know her?”
“Not as well as you do,” Ben said. “Don't you recognize her? It's your friend Honor. The one who was going to buy me concert tickets, until you ruined it.”
“What?” I swiveled round in my chair to take a closer look.
Yes, it was Honor Chappell. But what had she done to herself? The terrible mousy crew cut had been replaced by a neat cap of dark hair that showed off an unexpectedly well-shaped head and the luminosity of those great gray eyes. She had also visited a decent clothes shop—possibly for the first time in her life—and was wearing a gorgeous dark red linen jacket. Designer glasses had replaced the unflattering specs.
I was vindicated. The egghead was beautiful. Cinderella had emerged from her dusty library. There had to be a man in the picture, and I was desperate to hear the details. Within seconds, I had mentally composed e-mails to Annabel and Hazel.
“Honor!” I waved her over excitedly. “How are you? Your hair's wonderful!”
When Honor saw us, she flushed almost as red as her jacket. “Cassie—hello—what are you doing here?”
“I work in Dover Street.”
“Oh God—of course.”
“You remember Ben,” I said happily. “Come and join us.”
“Oh no, I'm not exactly—I can't—actually, I'm meeting my publisher.”
I couldn't think why she was so flustered. “Do you have time for a glass of wine?”
“I'd love to, but I really can't.” Honor stiffly shook hands with Ben. “Nice to see you.”
“Hope it goes well,” I offered.
“Thanks.” She scuttled to the back of the restaurant. An elderly man in a corduroy suit (academic publishers are not known for their elegance) rose to meet her.
“She looks great,” Ben said.
“I told you, didn't I? But I think you're probably too late.” I was laughing softly. “Honor only gets into a state like that when she's in
lurve
.
Now I'm totally intrigued. Maybe she's seeing some famous married novelist, and knew I'd recognize him.”
“I should have listened to you,” Ben said, attacking the large wedge of cheesecake that had just arrived. “Next time you chuck a girl at me, I'll pay more attention. Fritz might think he can do it without you—but I obviously need all the help I can get.”
 
On the packed Northern Line, standing all the way up to Hampstead, I mentally ran through my select list of suitable females. Honor Chappell appeared to be spoken for, but you never knew, and I didn't want to cross her off entirely. And there was always Annabel, whom I considered my Star Buy. The Darlings had known her for years, but I was sure she could be presented to them in a new way, like a secretary in an old film who suddenly takes off her glasses (“Why, Miss Levett—you're lovely!”). Hazel was another obvious winner.
Hazel Flynn, as I believe I've mentioned, was the youngest-ever editor of a glossy magazine. I'd met her at college. For the first five minutes, I thought she was ghastly—loud, brassy and assertive, with tons too much makeup. And then I noticed the bank of steady warmth behind her swaggering confidence, and the intelligence of her raucous humor. In a matter of days she had become one of my essential friends. Hazel had a deep, sexy northern drawl and a pneumatic figure, and was always knee-deep in boyfriends.
These days, she was sleeker and more angular, an immaculate assisted blonde in conspicuous designer clothes. She was still surrounded by men, but none of them had stuck for more than a few months. She was devoted to her job, and besides this, Annabel and I thought she had dreadful taste in boyfriends. The worst of it was, you couldn't pin it down to just one taste—she had been through every type of dreadful boyfriend, from a dreadful titled guy at one end of the scale to a dreadful street busker at the other. She was constantly lamenting her single state, and she had fancied Fritz from afar at Oxford. She was a fabulous candidate.
Annabel and Hazel were my top girls, but I also had two of Matthew's female colleagues up my sleeve, and a couple of excellent names from my old school. The Darling boys would soon see that I
meant business. In fact, I was so sure of my success that I was even slightly worried about being beaten to the altar by one of my friends.
As I approached the Darlings' house the sound of the piano poured from the open drawing room window. I halted on the pavement for a moment. Ben was playing one of Phoebe's favorite Chopin ballades. God, he was good. The woman across the road, listening as she pruned her roses in the front garden, gave me a friendly wave.
Fritz opened the door of the basement. He was wearing shorts and a vest. His muscles were magnificent, and gleamed with sweat. He had been working out with his weights in the back garden. There was an angry bluish bruise on his cheekbone, which I tried hard not to stare at. Good God, Madeleine must be insane—he was so well rid of her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Ben will be down in a minute.”
“He took me out to lunch today. I daresay he told you.”
“Oh, yes. Great about his job, isn't it?”
“Wonderful.”
“Fancy a beer?”
“No thanks. I brought some wine.” I held out the bottle, which I had picked up on the way. Fritz took it. I followed him into the sitting room, feeling a little awkward to be alone with his sweating, gleaming, half-naked body. He searched among the clutter on the kitchen counter for the corkscrew. The flat was as chaotic as ever, but I was heartened to notice certain small signs that tidying had taken place. Ben's sheet music had been bundled into one heap. The bicycle parts had gone. There were fewer mugs, and they were all clean.
“I heard about Mrs. Appleton,” I said, mainly to make conversation. “Poor Ben.”
Fritz chuckled, a little savagely. “We live and we learn. Another time, he'll know not to form a beautiful friendship with someone, unless he's prepared to have his cock felt.”
I couldn't help laughing. “Oh, harsh but fair.”
“I expect he told you about my little fracas with Madeleine.”
“Yes.”
“The official story is that I whacked myself with one of my weights, okay? Mum will have a fit if she hears the truth.”
“You can trust me,” I assured him. I longed to offer him comfort.
He was bristling at me, to show he didn't want it. He opened the wine and poured some into a cleanish glass. “She lost her temper. She wasn't really trying to kill me, as Ben would have you believe.”
“Congratulations, anyway,” I said. I suddenly realized why I felt shy—this was the first time in untold years that I had seen Fritz truly single. In the normal way of things, he never jumped until there was someone to catch his fall.
He handed me the glass and opened the fridge for a beer, releasing a smell like an invalid's belch. “Mum's pleased,” he said. “That's the main thing. She wants to see you later, by the way.”
“Phoebe doesn't know why I'm here, does she? You and Ben aren't supposed to know about the matchmaking.”
“Relax. We'll tell her you just happened to be passing.” Fritz led me through the glass door, out to the leafy garden. We sat down at the weathered wooden table among the tubs of flowers.
“Yes, it's great about the job,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Ben needs something to take his mind off it all.” He shot me a calculating look. “I know he's a silly arse sometimes, and that whole thing with Mrs. A was laughable. But don't give him too much of a hard time about it, will you?”
“Of course not.” I was startled to hear this, from Fritz of all people.
“I have to bite my tongue, but I'm making a huge effort not to tease him. He takes things badly. I worry about what'll happen when we lose Mum. He's not as tough as I am.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to birdsong and Chopin, and soft, indistinct conversation from the garden next door. I found myself watching Fritz with real and surprising tenderness. I was deeply touched that both brothers had asked me not to be too hard on the other—as if I ever could be.
The Chopin stopped. The window directly above us opened, and Ben's head appeared. “Hi, Cassie. I'll be right down.”
This pulled Fritz out of his pensive mood. He smiled at me. “I hope you've come prepared.”
“I certainly have.”
“Do bear in mind, dear Grimble, that being unattached hasn't made either of us one whit less fussy.”
“Only the best, I swear.”
Ben's Doc Martens could be heard pounding down the stairs. He opened the fridge (muttering, “Phew, what died in here?”) and emerged into the garden clutching a beer. He sat down, with a look of expectancy.
BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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