A Hopeless Romantic (23 page)

Nick followed her pointing finger. “What?” he said.

“
There.
Jesus, what
is
that?’

“Oh,” said Nick. He came and stood behind her. “Fuck.” He gazed out the window. “That’s a helipad. And that—
that
—is a helicopter. Help, I’d forgotten. Rose is coming for the weekend.”

“Rose?”

Nick ran his hands through his hair. “Yes. Er—the sister. Charles’s sister. With her awful husband. Bloody Malcolm. There’s a thing on Saturday evening, a dinner for…Shit. I should go and…” He groaned, and looked out gloomily. “Damn. She
has
brought Malcolm. Help.”

There was a light tap on the door. They froze, as if caught in the act. Nick was first to relax. He smiled ruefully. “God, this is ridiculous. Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s Charles,” came the calm voice from outside. “Man, Rose is here. I was wondering where Mrs. Hillyard is, I can’t find her. Can I tell her—”

Nick leaped up, went to the door, opened it, and had a muffled conversation with Charles in the hallway, leaving Laura realizing suddenly that she really should go, she was getting in the way. She looked out the window, from high up on the top floor of the house. How strange it must be to wake up here, even if you’d known it all your life. The countryside sloped gently away from the grounds, the woods of the estate to the north merging into pinewoods, which stopped abruptly, and there beyond them was the sea. There was a fresh breeze, and Laura breathed in, catching the scent of pine and seawater. She felt calm, awake.

“It’s a lovely day,” she said, as Nick came back into the room.

“It is,” he said. He was looking at her, his hand on his forehead.

Laura inhaled again, closing her eyes. It was gorgeous, air you could taste. She sighed, and shivered suddenly.

Nick watched her. “Goose walk over your grave?” he said.

Laura nodded. “Something like that. Right, I’d better go, I think.” She allowed herself one last glimpse out the window, and said dreamily, “The beach looks so lovely from here, doesn’t it? You must want to spend all day there when it’s like this.”

“I suppose so,” said Nick. “I—where? Oh, it’s there. I’ve never really been.”

“What?” Laura gaped at him. “You’ve never been to the
beach
?”

“Not really,” he said, looking out the window again.

“Nick, sorry, sorry,” said Laura, holding up her hands. “You live overlooking that beach, the beautiful sea, and you’ve never been there?”

“Yes, of course I have,” he said impatiently. “I used to go, but when I was small. I mean, I haven’t been—you know, since…” He waved his arm vaguely. “It’s always too crowded. With people. You know. And I don’t really have time to go. Since I came back.”

“How long ago was that?” said Laura

“Two years ago.” Nick backed away, walked across the room. He chewed a nail. “I moved back two years ago.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “Why did you come back?”

Nick scratched his head. “I had to, when my father died. Before that, I didn’t come here much. I was…being stupid, mainly. Pissing my life away in London. That’s why I hate London. And I love it here. It saved me, basically. Charles did, too. And—I’ll do anything—well.” He stopped suddenly, and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s all.”

“Well, you should go to the beach,” Laura said, following the thread of the conversation, not really knowing what else to say. She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Right. Well, I’d better be off.”

“I should, I know,” said Nick unexpectedly. Then he stood up and said casually, “Listen. What are you doing later?”

“What, later today?” said Laura. “God, no idea. Going to a windmill. Or a buttery or something, I expect.”

“I meant tonight,” he said.

“Oh,” said Laura. “Oh.” She wanted to see him again, she knew it, but—

“Not that that doesn’t sound lovely,” he said. “Well—give me a call if you need rescuing or you fancy a drink or whatever.” As Laura involuntarily opened her mouth, he said, “Relax, old chum. I feel it’s my duty, since I’m your best friend here, to make sure your holiday goes well.”

“Well, thanks to you,” said Laura, “it’s actually much better than I thought it was going to be.”

“Cool,” said Nick.

“Cool,” said Laura.

They said goodbye by the back door, the one through which they’d entered last night, a few minutes later. It was nearly eleven, and the sun was climbing higher in the sky. Nick had offered to walk her to the car, but Laura said no, she’d be absolutely fine. He’d given her his number, too. They stood in silence for a moment, suddenly awkward, and then Laura saw Charles approaching them, skirting the formal garden at the back. Laura pushed her sunglasses on her head, held out her hand, and said, “Thanks. I’ll—I’d better go.”

He took her hand in his, and shook it firmly. He smiled down at her, a smile that was so familiar to her now, so strange.

“Remember what I said about tonight,” he said casually.

“Yes,” said Laura. “Thank you.”

“Fine,” said Nick. They grinned at each other. “Are you going to tell your parents where you were?”

“Nope,” said Laura. “They’d just get overexcited. I told them when I texted last night. You’re Naomi. You’re a friend from my first job, and you work for the Wetlands Trust.”

“I do, do I?” said Nick in amusement, as Charles reached them.

“Hello there, again. It’s…Laura, isn’t it?”

“Good morning,” said Laura, resolved not to be embarrassed or obsequious. She smiled at him, then turned back to Nick and said, “Maybe I’ll see you later, Naomi.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for a lovely…er…thanks for a lovely evening.”

As she walked away, her heart was beating strangely fast. She looked back, but Nick had already turned and was heading toward the front lawn, his tall, rangy frame solitary against the vast expanse of grass, toward where a voice was bellowing forth.

“Nick! You’re there. Hello. Where’s that useless sister of yours? Lavinia not up yet? The roses have got ash-rot, you’ve been over-watering them, you must tell Fletcher…” came a voice from behind him, heels on the terraces. Lady Rose Balmore’s strident tones rose above the garden and floated over to them. Nick answered, his voice inaudible, and the sounds of greeting, familiar exchanges, gradually faded away as he slipped back into his life, and Laura continued on her way across the lawn, up to the path she’d taken on that strange night before. She was in no hurry. She’d slept so well, the tired feeling behind her eyes had gone, and she could feel the sun on her arms, on her hair, as she walked away from that strange world, back to hers. She turned and looked at the house as she reached the gate. It looked so different in the morning sunshine, gold and glittering, with green all around it. Windows were open all over its façade, and she could hear the hum of a tractor in the distance, and the coos of the fat pigeons in the dark trees to the north.

chapter twenty

A
s Laura walked round the side of Seavale over an hour later, dodging the deck chairs, she could hear her parents and Mary making polite conversation over what was clearly an early lunch.

“Pass the ratatouille, would you, Angela dear?”

“Yes, Mum. Would you like some more water?”

“No, thanks. Is there any wine left in the bottle?”

“George?” said Angela. “George, is there any wine left?”

“No,” said George. “Oh, well.”

“Hm,” said Mary.

Silence fell as George and Angela Foster carried on eating. Laura watched them through the window, mesmerized by her own family and the contrast to the scene she’d left behind.

“How about opening another bottle?” said Mary. “I think I’d like another glass.”

George looked up, aghast, as Angela frowned. “Really, Mum? Do you think…?”

She trailed off as Mary gave her a stern look. George and Angela were not great drinkers, but Simon and Laura took after their grandmother. The idea that three people could get through more than a bottle at lunch clearly appalled George, whereas the idea in reverse appalled Mary. But George was a good son-in-law, and so, as Laura watched him fondly, he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, stood up, and said, “Of course. I’ll just see if there’s any…”

“In the wine rack, the Hamilton Russell,” Mary said firmly. George crossed the sunny dining room and disappeared into the tiny kitchen through the corridor.

“Lovely.” Mary looked pleased. “You know, after lunch I think I shall sit outside and do the crossword for a little while. It’s such a beautiful day.”

“Yes,” said Angela, though it was clear she was actually thinking, No, you should have a nap and a glass of water. “I wonder where Laura is,” she said out loud. “Her text message did say she’d be back from Naomi’s by lunchtime, didn’t it?”

“Naomi. Yes,” said Mary musingly. “Funny. I’ve never heard her mention Naomi before. Have you?”

Laura hurried across the lawn and through the French windows. “Hello,” she called, putting her bag on the floor as her father appeared with the wine.

“Laura!” said Angela, her face alight with pleasure. “Here you are, and there’s still some lunch left. Ratatouille, you like that, don’t you? Would you like some ham? Here, have this sandwich.”

They looked at Laura expectantly, as one.

“Did you have a nice evening, darling?” Angela said. “How was Naomi?”

“Er.” Laura cleared her throat and stared at them.

“Bread?” said George, proffering the bread basket.

“Wine?” said Mary, pushing a spare wineglass toward Laura.

Laura cleared her throat again and ran her hands through her unruly hair. She was starving again—why was she so hungry all of a sudden?—but felt like a savage come amongst civilization and did not trust herself to form a full sentence.

“Thanks,” she said, and sank into the chair her grandmother pulled out for her.

“So,” said Angela. “We were surprised to get your text message. But how nice. Did you and Naomi get to chatting, then? Reminiscing about old times?”

“Yes,” said Laura. “Yes, we did.”

In answer to her mother’s curious stare, she tried to expand.

“Because it was nice to see her.”

“Great,” said George, talking to his ham. “Well, you missed the windmill this morning, Laura, but we’ve got some great news!”

“What?”

“Great! Laura, we’ve managed to get tickets to see the Seekers Tribute Band! The box office just rang to confirm they’re holding them.”

“For me?” said Laura in a slightly strangulated voice. “Oh—well, I—”

“They thought they might be able to get you one, too, Laura. Come on, love,” said George. “It’ll be terrific fun. Oh, I know, they’re not that popular with you lot”—he waved his hand in the direction of Laura and Mary, leaving Laura unsure whether he meant not popular with young people, old people, or merely people with ears—“but I promise you’ll have a good time.” He stood up. Laura swallowed a remark in her throat.

“Mary, are you sure you don’t want to come? We can get Laura one if she wants, there’s one for you, too, I’m sure. Tickets are still available, you know.”

“What are the odds?” said Mary to her plate of ham. “Amazing.”

“Yes,” agreed George happily.

“No, thanks,” said Mary. “Just fantastic you can go, of course, and Laura, I’m so jealous. But at my age—whew. I think the excitement might be a bit too much for me, you know. I think I’d better stay in and get an early night.” She smiled serenely at her daughter.

“Excuse me a moment,” said Laura, pushing her chair back and getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

She went outside, plucking her phone out of her bag, and texted:
You were right. Going to Seekers Tribute Band tonight. Help.

Mary was standing up when she got back. “I’m going to sit in the sun for a while,” she said. “Enjoy the calm before the storm tomorrow.”

“Why?” said Angela, who was collecting the plates. “What’s tomorrow?”

Mary gave her a look. “My birthday, Angela dear. Don’t be silly.”

“It’s on Saturday, Mum,” said Angela.

“Oh.” Mary smoothed her gray hair. “Oh. Of course it is. It’s—it’s Thursday today, isn’t it. Yes.” She looked rather uncomfortable, her hand clutching the back of the chair. “Silly of me.”

“Let me give you a hand,” said Laura, coming forward. Her phone rang in her bag. “Oh.”

“You get that, darling.”

“No,” said Laura, thinking it could be Amy. “Let’s go outside. If they leave a message, I’ll hear.”

“So, you had a nice time yesterday,” said Mary, walking slowly, her grip on Laura’s arm tight as they went outside. She relaxed a little in the sunshine, pushed her sun hat on as she sat down again.

“Yes,” said Laura uncertainly.

“Did you hear all about the wetlands yesterday?” asked Mary. “They’re not that special, are they? Personally, I’ve always thought they were rather dull.” She fixed a beady eye on her granddaughter.

Laura breathed in as she met her grandmother’s gaze. She could have just told the truth. There was nothing to be ashamed of; she was a grown-up, she could do what she liked with whom she liked. And it was hardly as if she’d actually
done
anything, anyway. She could just say, “I met this nice bloke yesterday, he lives at Chartley Hall, and I stayed in his room but nothing happened.” But something stopped her. She breathed out again.

“It’s funny,” said Mary. “Xan and I, when we used to come here, do you know what we’d do?”

“No,” said Laura. She sat down next to her grandmother. “What?”

“We’d read. And go for long walks. And watch films. Eat lots. Listen to the radio, do the crossword.”

“Nice,” said Laura, because it was, and she loved hearing Mary talk about Xan.

“He loved fish,” said Mary, her eyes closed. “Grilled fish. That barbecue”—she waved in the direction of the barbecue at the edge of the garden—“we’d use it every night. Just the two of us, some wine, some classical music on the radio, sitting out here watching the sunset.”

She was silent.

“Your parents don’t go in for that sort of thing, though. They like being told things. Seeing things. Cramming in as much as possible. Your grandfather and I—well, we liked doing our own thing.”