A Hopeless Romantic (24 page)

“Your way’s the best way, I think,” said Laura. Because it was still Xan and Mary she looked up to more than anyone else in the world, not her parents, and it was Mary’s approval she craved all the time, rather than her mother’s.

Mary looked up sharply. “There’s no right or wrong way, Laura,” she said, sticking her neck forward and tilting her hat up so she was looking at her granddaughter. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, each to their own. What’s sauce for the goose, and all that.”

“What?” said Laura, confused.

Her grandmother lay back in the chair again. She said quietly, “You’re twenty-eight. Aren’t you?” Laura nodded. “My memory’s so terrible these days. Darling, all I’m saying is—you’re not your parents’ age. Yet. Or mine. You should enjoy yourself while the going’s good.”

“Right,” said Laura. She stared out across the sea, wanting to ask more; but when she turned to her grandmother to say, “Do you know where I was last night, then?” Mary was asleep.

She picked up the sandwich her mother had given her and munched it happily; then she dozed for a bit in the sunshine, her mind stretching lazily back across the previous twenty-four hours, sifting through everything that had happened. It was refreshing, really, she decided. For so long her life had been so narrow, so confined to what one man was doing, when he could see her, at the expense of everything else, that to be here, to have met Nick—and Charles, of course, and seen the house—it was all really interesting. Yes, that was it, nothing more than that.

Yes, it was true that Nick was attractive. In fact, he was gorgeous. It was also true that he lived in a huge house, one of the greatest houses in the country. And there was also the other stuff—how easy it was to talk to him, how funny he was, how she felt she could tell him everything even though they had nothing in common. She thought of the previous night, sitting high up in the soft glow of the dining room overlooking the darkening woodland, each of them leaning into the candlelight, their elbows on the table, drinking wine and talking, talking and laughing. It was a great Brief Encounter, that was all, and Laura told herself that it was a really good sign that she could get out there and meet someone as nice as him. It boded well for the future, even if she wasn’t going to see him ever again. She wasn’t. It was just too weird. Leave it at that, a perfect evening, a nice experience, an amusing story to tell Jo and Yorky when she got back, to show them she was over Dan, that everything was okay and all of that—yes—

Her phone rang again and, without thinking, she picked it up out of her bag.
Nick Mobile.
Well—just to be polite.

“Hello,” she said softly, not wanting to wake Mary. She got up and walked to the low wall on the other side of the garden.

“Hi,” said Nick. “Get home okay?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Laura. “Thanks again.”

“It was…a good evening, wasn’t it?” said Nick.

“Really good,” Laura agreed, wanting to say more but not wanting to go too far.

“I mean it. I really enjoyed myself, Laura.”

“Well, I did, too,” she said. “I mean it, too.” She smiled into the phone. There was silence, and she knew he was doing the same thing.

“You know,” said Nick, “it’s a real shame about tonight.”

“The Seekers?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” said Laura. “You have no idea.”

“Do you have to go?”

“What?”

“Can you get out of it?” he said.

“No,” said Laura. “They’ve got me a ticket and everything.”

At that moment, her father appeared at the French windows and called, “Laura?”

Mary shifted in her chair, and lowered her hat even farther.

“Laura, we’re going for a walk,” her father said, bending down to brush something off his Gore-Tex sandals. “Come with us? We’re going to look at the marsh, about two miles away. Marvelous birds.”

“Oh,” said Laura.

“Wait a minute, George,” her mother called, disappearing back into the house to fetch something. “My binoculars.”

“Oh, God,” Laura whispered into the phone. “Help.” Then she realized Nick was still there, and said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, and she could hear laughter in his voice. “So, you’re going to the marsh, and then to the Seekers Tribute Band concert, and you’re not going to let me take you out for a drink?”

“No,” said Laura sadly. “I’ve said I’ll go. I can’t get out of it.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“Of course,” he said, “I’m not the kind of man who’d ask you to lie to your parents and get out of an evening with them so I can see you again.”

“No,” said Laura. “You’re not.”

“And you’re not the kind of girl who’d agree to lie to get out of the evening in the first place.”

“No, Nick,” said Laura again. “I’m not.”

“So,” he said, “I’ll meet you at six-thirty, then?”

“Where?”

“The north gate?”

“See you there,” said Laura, smiling into the phone again as her mother emerged from the house.

“Ready?” her dad said.

“Oh, dear,” said Laura, putting down the phone. “Mum, that was Naomi again. Her boyfriend. He’s just dumped her. She was really upset.”

As she walked across the lawn to her parents, Laura distinctly heard Mary chuckle softly beneath her hat, but she ignored it, knowing she would pay for it on Judgment Day, but also knowing that, as lies went, this one was almost excusable.

chapter twenty-one

…T
hat’s why you don’t seriously like them. Name one single player.”

“Cole.”

“Exactly,” said Nick. “You don’t even know his first name.”

“Yes, I do,” said Laura. “Joe. No! Ashley! Ashley! And the French bloke. Thierry Henry. There.”

“Right, right,” said Nick, pushing aside a protruding branch and waiting for Laura to pass by. They were walking through the wood to the south of the house, having met at the north entrance. “Yes, of course, so you can name two members of one of the most famous football clubs in the world, so that makes you a really big fan of theirs.”

“I like them,” said Laura obstinately.

“I’m sure you do. I’m just saying, you like them because you live in North London and you’re deeply middle-class and think you have to support Arsenal as a result.”

“That’s not true, and don’t be rude to your guests,” said Laura. The evening sunshine was filtering through the branches, creating a kaleidoscopic effect of hundreds of tiny flecks of light shimmering over them in the slight breeze. “Where now?”

“I thought we’d walk over toward the pond, then out to the village. There’s a nice pub there, too, we can have a drink.”

“Great,” said Laura, following her host along the path. Even after a summer of sunshine, it was dark and damp, and the way was cool after the heat of the day. It was deliciously green, the air mossy and moist, in contrast to the already parched, yellowing land of the fields nearby, dry and brittle now that summer was so far advanced.

“So,” said Laura, breathing deeply, enjoying the cool on her arms, “what did you do today?”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” said Nick, fiddling in his pocket for something.

“Well,” said Laura, slightly taken aback. “I wasn’t being nosy. I just wanted to know. I have no idea what someone like you does all day.”

“God, no, sorry,” said Nick. “I was…thinking of something I forgot at the house. Sorry. Of course. Right.” He took his hand out of his pocket, picking a switch off a tree as they passed. “Today—well. I spent the morning in the kitchen garden with Fletcher—he’s the head gardener—talking about what our yield will be this year. What we’re likely to get, where we’ll put it, and so on. How much we can use. I want the estate to be as self-sufficient as possible, you see.”

“Right,” said Laura. “Is that possible?”

“Not really, no,” said Nick, laughing. “Although we do make all our own jam and scones for the tea shop, which I’m very proud of. All Chartley products, which is good, isn’t it?”

“That’s great.”

He picked a flower growing out of the mossy bank nearby. “Here. Have a white campion.” He handed it to her, and she took it, startled. “Especially when you realize how many damn cream teas we sell on a day like today.”

“Must be hundreds,” Laura said, tucking the flower behind her ear.

“Hm? Oh, yes, it is. Hundreds and hundreds. We have nearly a hundred thousand visitors a year, did you know that?”

“Oh, my God,” said Laura. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Nick tapped a tree with his branch. “All of them wanting a slice of heritage. They come, they have their cream teas, they see the tapestry and the Hogarths and the staircase, and they wander round and hopefully buy a tea towel, and then they go home.”

“It’s bizarre,” said Laura.

“No,” said Nick. His voice was determined. “It’s not. It’s great that they want to come, and it’s our job to make sure they have a good time. I feel…we need to make it somewhere people feel genuinely welcomed.”

“And do you think it is?” said Laura, remembering how she’d criticized it yesterday. He read her thoughts.

“Well…yes and no. I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know.”

Laura looked down at her feet as she followed the path. “I’m sorry. I was really rude.”

“No, you were honest. Which, believe me, people usually aren’t.”

“Honesty’s not always the best policy,” said Laura ruefully.

“It is,” said Nick. “Really it is.” He stopped. “Anyway, I—it was helpful.”

“Are you going to talk to Charles about it?” said Laura.

“Charles? Oh—yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

“That’s nice of you!” said Laura, laughing.

“Ha,” he said. “Yes. You’re right, though. I—we should do something about it.”

“Get the sign repainted,” said Laura.

“The what?” His face was blank. “What sign?”

“When you arrive, on the drive,” said Laura. “The sign looks awful. It’s the entrance to the house, and it’s cracked and peeling, and it just looks like the place is falling apart. And your sister and that bloke in the ticket booth,” she continued, getting into her stride. “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s what Charles would want people’s first impression of the house to be. Especially when they’re paying fifteen quid for the privilege. You need some friendly, nice, welcoming person who says they’re just completely delighted you’re there and gives you a guidebook and is sensible.”

“That flower suits you, in your hair,” Nick said. “You’re pretty when you rant, did you know that?”

Laura felt herself going red. “Am I?” she said, rather stupidly.

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “You are. Well, don’t get distracted. I take your point. You’re saying an encounter with a randy young woman and some confused, exploited, sex-mad youth isn’t the right way to say ‘Welcome to Chartley’? Well, I can’t think why. Look, here we are. Here’s the pond.”

They had come to the edge of the wood, and he stopped, Laura next to him. In front of them was a wide expanse of water surrounded by thick gray reeds waving gently in the breeze. Over on the other side was a tiny bridge of golden stone, and a stream flowed under it, cutting through the grass. They were high up, Laura realized—she looked over in wonderment and there, as the land sloped away, was Chartley Hall below them, a hundred yards or so in the distance. They were looking at the north side and the back view, with the formal gardens stretching out behind the house. The dark green of the tiny formal hedges looked like perfectly drawn letters of the alphabet, a secret message to someone. The stream ran away through the landscape, following the contours of the hill until it reached the formal gardens, where it became part of the layout, flowing into the fountains at the foot of the terraces, sparkling in the setting sun. The stone of the house glowed; on the terraces there were people, tiny as ants, taking pictures, sitting in the sun. Around them was the green of the landscaped park, the dull gray-yellow of the shorn fields, rolls of hay puckering the view, and in the distance to the north, the thin blue band of the sea, behind the wood at the north of the park. The people looked so small, incongruous, compared to the breathtaking size and grandeur of the house and its surroundings. Laura turned to her companion to say this to him, and found him watching her, a strange expression on his face. He leaned toward her, and then very slightly stepped back.

“You like it?” he said.

Laura laughed. “It’s okay.” She looked out again, not wanting to move. “You are lucky, living here, you know.”

“I know,” Nick said. “I’m very lucky.” He checked his watch suddenly. “Right. Shall we get a drink? It’s not that long to Chartley village. Have you got time?”

“Oh, yes,” said Laura. It was nearly eight. “I told my parents I didn’t know when I’d be back.”

“Don’t you feel horrible?” said Nick gravely. “Lying to them, making them think some imaginary friend of yours is in trouble.”

“She’s not imaginary,” said Laura. “I used to work with her.”

“Naomi. Excellent. Poor Naomi.”

“She doesn’t even know I’m here,” said Laura. “I shouldn’t think she’s losing sleep over it; she wasn’t even that nice. She…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Laura felt a bit embarrassed. In fact, Naomi had stopped speaking to Laura when she’d finished with Josh—they’d all worked together. She’d told Laura she was a bitch, and that Josh deserved much better than her. Naomi had then got really drunk at Rachel’s birthday do a couple of months later—God, they were fun, those evenings, especially Rachel’s birthdays—and thrown herself at him. Josh had politely said no, and then no again and again, as she virtually started to stalk him. People at work had said that was why he’d moved to Australia—to get away from her—and Naomi had moved to Norfolk to try to live down her stalker shame. So it was hardly likely she’d be overjoyed to hear from Laura, really.

“Go on,” said Nick, putting his finger on his chin. “I’m all curious now.”

So Laura told him about Naomi. He was highly amused, and let out a yelp of laughter. “She sounds lovely.”

“She was pretty awful. I feel sorry for the wetlands, you know, being looked after by her.”