A Hopeless Romantic (18 page)

Mr. Mower smiled back at her. He looked her up and down. “Well. I look after it, too. So I get to sleep there.”

So that was what it was like, working for one of these places—you had to be able to make the frigging tea, sell people tea towels in the shop,
and
get out and mow the fields. What a life. She looked at him with something akin to pity, and he stared back at her with that glowering expression, his brows furrowed. He drew on his cigarette and said, “What about you? Where do you live?”

“In London,” Laura said. “I’m on holiday here. With my…er.” She stopped. “Er…with my boyfriend.”

“And where is he?” asked Mr. Mower.

Slightly nettled by his nosiness, and unwilling to entrench herself too deeply in the lie she was already regretting, Laura said, “Er…looking at the soldiers. But I got bored, so I went for a walk.”

An expression of annoyance strode across Mr. Mower’s face. “So, you’re on holiday together, then?”

“Yes,” Laura said, putting the lighter back in her bag. “Look, I’d better go. Sorry again about…you know. Don’t tell your—well, whatever you call him. Or perhaps you don’t see him. Don’t tell whoever your boss is.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Mr. Mower. “What’s your name?”

“Laura. What’s yours?”

“It’s…Nick.” He held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Laura. I’ll let you get back to your boyfriend, then. Have a nice holiday. Thanks for the cigarette. Oh, shit. There’s Charles. I need to speak to him.”

Laura followed his gaze over to the house. There, under the spreading plane tree by the shop entrance, stood a tall, lean man about her age, stooping slightly as he stopped to talk to some visitors, who were drinking in the sight of him with obvious pleasure. One of them took a photo of him. He smiled, put his hands up in a semidefensive but still polite gesture, and the couple walked away, their heads together, twittering with excitement and looking at the photo on their camera.

“Who’s Charles?” said Laura. “What does he do?”

“Er,” said Nick, scratching his cheek. “Well—he kind of runs things. You know?”

Laura looked up at him. “Oh!” she said, realization dawning. “I’ll let you get back to your boss, then.”

“He’s not really my boss,” said her companion. Charles waved at them, and Nick waved back. Charles disappeared back into the house via a side door, and Nick turned to her and smiled wryly. “Well, he sort of is, I suppose. I’ll catch him later. Couple of things he wanted to ask me about.”

“Oh?” Laura said, happy to delay her return for a moment or two. She leaned against a tree and watched him. He looked at home there, standing almost arrogantly on the grass. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her pink top and skirt. A bit flimsy. Silly. “You are lucky to be self-employed.” She thought of the decisions she hadn’t made, the mess she’d left behind.

“What do you do, then?” he asked curiously.

“I’m a…I work with schools,” said Laura uneasily. She could hear her own voice, knew it sounded like a lie, even though it was the truth. “For the council. I’m a coordinator. Sort of.” She cleared her throat. “Well. It’s kind of weird at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” Nick said, looking at her rather strangely.

“Well…like I don’t…I don’t really know what I’m doing, even though I know it’s what I want to do. Anyway.” She shook her head, and Nick stared at her again. “That sounds stupid, forget it.”

Nick was silent. After a moment he said, “No.” His voice was matter of fact. “It doesn’t. It doesn’t at all. You love it, but you think you’re rubbish at it. I’m the same.”

“That’s exactly it,” Laura said. She stared at him. “It sounds so stupid when I think of it myself.” She smiled at him gratefully. “Well, I’m going to be late. My parents want to spend a long time in the shop. A
long
time.”

Nick laughed. “Doing what?”

“Well…” Laura scrunched her eyes up, trying to explain. “I don’t know what your parents are like in a place like this, but mine like to finish off a long day somewhere like here by going to the shops, buying about fifty postcards of obscure portraits of the family who live there, and then having a really,
really
long, intricate discussion about the merits and demerits of every tea towel. ‘Interesting Norman church fonts of Norfolk’? Or one in aid of the local RNLI lifeboat?” She ticked them off on her fingers, oblivious to Nick’s quizzical expression. “Or ‘Narrow Boats and Scenes from the Broads’? Or ‘How to Make Cheese in Five Easy Steps,’ printed on some cotton so you can dry the dishes with it.”

“Right,” said Nick, smiling.

“Right,” said Laura. “So I have to meet them to get started with—” She stopped, suddenly remembering what she’d said before. “Them…and, and…my boyfriend, I mean.”

Nick raised an eyebrow at her. He smiled sardonically, his eyes glittering with amusement. “So you don’t have a boyfriend, then,” he said, throwing his keys up in the air and catching them.

“Yes,” Laura said hotly. “He likes tea towels, too. He’s just not here. He’s, er…oh, God. Never mind.”

“Never mind,” Nick agreed politely.

There was a pause.

“Boyfriends are for losers,” Laura muttered after a while.

“Are they?” said Nick. “Really.”

“Forget it.” Laura said defensively. “It’s not your problem.”

“Not really, no,” said Nick. “I have no boyfriend problems. Perhaps I should, though. Perhaps I should spend ages in my room reading magazines and writing about how horrible boys are in my pink diary with a padlock so flimsy and crap that a blind fingerless newt could break into it if they wanted.”

Since this was how Laura had spent most of her teenage years, she didn’t quite know what to say. She could feel herself blushing, and tried to cover her tracks by saying jovially, “Well! I’ve never done that, that’s for sure! But—er, I do have some friends who did. How d’you know that?”

“I’ve got a sister,” said Nick feelingly. “Well, two. But one of them spent about five years doing just that.”

“Anyway,” Laura said, feeling the conversation was veering wildly off the point, and reminding herself not to come across as a stupid person who
did
spend her teenage years scribbling “I love Mr. Wallace” in several different languages in a pink diary, “nice meeting you.”

“I’ll walk back to the house with you,” Nick offered. “I’m going that way. Time for my tea. We can talk about your psychological disorder as we go.”

“What psychological disorder?”

“The psychological disorder you have that means you need to invent imaginary boyfriends who like picking out tea towels with your parents.”

Laura said, in what she hoped was a dignified manner, “No, thank you. I’ll walk back this way, thanks. Goodbye.”

She stomped off again. Nick followed. He strode easily, catching up with her. Laura ignored him.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Go ahead,” Laura breathed, increasing the length of her stride.

Nick stopped suddenly and stood in front of her so she almost fell onto him.

“
What?
” Laura said, steadying herself. “God, you’re annoying, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“Lots of people,” Nick said. He put his hand on her arm. “It was nice to meet you, Laura.”

“You too,” said Laura. “Thanks. And I’m—I’m sorry about the fire thing. Really stupid of me. I
am
really stupid.”

Nick looked at her. “I’m sure you’re not.”

“Trust me,” said Laura fervently. “I really am. Anyway, there are my parents, ho-hum. Better be off to meet them, get on with the rest of my lovely holiday.”

“Well,” said Nick. “I’m sure you’ll have a whale of a time. Sounds like the perfect recipe for a really great holiday.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Laura. “If you like jigsaw puzzles and going through guidebooks looking for Roman roads. And going to craft fairs. And having to see the Seekers Tribute Band. Which is called the Seekers Tribute Band, by the way,” she added bitterly.

“What a crap name,” said Nick. “You’d think they could have come up with something better. They Seek Them Here, or something.”

“Exactly!”
Laura said, hitting him on the arm. “Sorry,” she added, as Nick yelled with shock. “That’s what
I
said, though! That was
my
suggestion! To myself, I mean,” she said confidentially. “My other one was Desperately Seeking the Seekers—you see, I think that’s much better.”

“No, it’s not,” said Nick, rubbing his arm. “Who’s heard of
Desperately Seeking Susan
if they’re a Seekers fan? They wouldn’t get the reference. No, mine’s best.”

“No way,” said Laura. “But, hey. Let’s agree to disagree. Well, agree, as well. I can’t believe you said that, too. Hah.” She was silent for a moment. “Anyway. I’m just glad I’m not going mad.”

“Blimey,” Nick said sympathetically. “Holiday not great, then.”

“Like I say,” said Laura. “Jigsaw puzzles, craft fairs, the Seekers. If you like that, well, great. Oh, and listening to endless monologues about some boring Marquis of Blah-Blah and his ancestors and their stupid house you have to pay millions of pounds to get into and then it’s about as much fun as—as
botulism.
” She stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “God, Nick. I’m really sorry! Sorry. I know he’s your—your boss and everything. And you work here. I didn’t mean it. This is a lovely house. Really nice.”

“What do you mean?” said Nick.

“Not my thing,” Laura said. She tried to explain. “Just—well. You know how there’s two sides to everyone? I used to like this kind of thing, going around pretending I was a countess or something.”

“Really,” said Nick.

“Yes,” said Laura. “But not so much now. Anyway,” she said, remembering Mrs. Danvers, “it’s a long story.”

“I’m sure,” said Nick. “I barely know you, but I’m sure it is a long story.”

“Shut up,” said Laura. She liked him. She looked around again and said, “Look, I’d better go. And there’s the lord and master himself, coming to find you.”

Indeed, Charles had emerged from a door in the side of the vast edifice and was walking toward them.

“Fair enough,” said Nick. He added, “Look, I know this is a bit…out of the blue, but how about a drink tonight, maybe some food?”

“Tonight?” said Laura. She felt awkward suddenly.

Nick said easily, “No big deal if you can’t. I just thought you might want a bit of time out from your family. I always do.” He looked up as Charles approached, then back at her. “So? What do you think?”

“Um,” said Laura, not really sure. What did it mean?

Then she thought of the new her, and thought, Well, maybe, fuck it. Who cares if it is or not, it’s a holiday, and it’s an evening away from Mum and Dad and Granny. This is the new Laura, who dates casually and doesn’t start replaying the plot of every slushy movie she’s ever seen every time some new bloke crosses her path. She glanced at him, up and down, and smiled a small smile. And—well. Look at him.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I’m not going to ravish you,” said Nick, puncturing her pretensions. “It’s just a drink, for God’s sake. I know you appear to have taken some vow of asceticism, but you look like you might need a drink with someone under the age of forty.”

“Yes,” said Laura. “My God, yes.”

“The George,” said Nick, almost urgently, as Charles drew near. “Do you know the George?”

She did know the George; at least, she knew of it. It was the most popular gastropub in the area, booked up for months in advance, notoriously heaving with posh Londoners and those savvy enough to make their dinner reservations in January for July. She wanted to ask how on earth they’d get in there, but she didn’t. She merely nodded, mutely.

“At eight?” Nick said. “I can get a table there. Yes? What do you think?”

There was silence.

“Okay, then,” Laura said recklessly. “Okay.”

She had no idea why she was agreeing to go out to supper with this total stranger, only that there was something about him she liked. She wanted to talk to him again. She was also curious to know how he was going to get a table there, but there was something about him that made it seem certain he would.

“Charles, this is Laura,” said Nick.

Charles looked down at Laura and smiled. He was a tall man, a few years older than Laura. He looked sort of how you’d imagine a marquis to look. He was handsome in a rather gaunt way, with hollow cheeks and a hollow sternum. But he had a kind, wistful face and a courteous smile, and as Nick raised his hand in greeting, he bowed slightly as he bent over Laura’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Laura,” he said. “Has this man here been a nuisance?”

“You could say that,” said Laura, looking up at her companion, whose expression was impassive. “No, not really.” She collected herself. She was talking to a marquis, after all. “This is an absolutely beautiful house,” she said.

Charles nodded, obviously pleased. “It is, isn’t it. We’re very lucky.”

He talked politely, asking about her holiday so far, as they crossed the grass back toward the house, Nick following a little way behind them, silent. As they reached the gate, Laura saw that the three middle-aged ladies from the house had gathered there and were watching their arrival. Charles lifted his head and smiled at them courteously, while Nick lingered in the background.

“Lovely house,” said Lady #1, simpering and holding a bag from the gift shop.

“What a lovely day out, my Lord,” said Lady #2, who had a wicker basket under her arm that was crammed to the gills with jams and marmalades with the Chartley logo on them.

Charles held up his hand in a gesture of thanks. “I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed yourselves,” he said simply. “Do hope to see you back here sometime.”

Nick nodded. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “It’s wonderful you came, isn’t it, Charles?”

“Oh, thank you, Lord Ranelagh,” said Lady #3 as Charles smiled politely at them, and they all dissolved into the near-hysterical yet deferential giggles that affect the British public only when confronted with the Royal Family or members of the aristocracy or people like Judi Dench or Joanna Lumley.

“Thanks again,” said Nick, steering Charles gently but firmly away from them.