A Hopeless Romantic (32 page)

“That okay? I can send someone, if you want.”

“No,” said Laura, smiling. “You are funny.”

“God. I really have to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “Why am I funny?”

“No reason,” said Laura. “I’ll see you later.”

“It’s going to be great,” said Nick. “I’m so glad you’re coming.”

chapter twenty-nine

S
he should have listened to herself, when she was getting ready that evening, thanking the God of Odd Packing she’d brought along a simple little black dress. She had wondered why on earth she’d seen fit to pack it, but thank God she had. It was nothing special, but she could just about get away with it tonight. What did you wear to something like this, anyway?

As she showered, as she brushed her hair, there was a voice in her head telling her to be careful, to watch out, not to go too far, too fast. To make sure she could get out of this thing, this falling feeling that she had, without hurting herself again. Mrs. Danvers kept telling her to be careful, as Laura looked at herself in the mirror and put on her makeup. She kept telling her she should go back to London, that she shouldn’t go to Chartley.

You’ll be going there as his girlfriend. You’ll roll up that driveway in your car and get out, and you’ll see yourself running up the stairs, the Mrs. Danvers voice in her head said. You’ll imagine what it’d be like to live there. All that good work you’ve done, not daydreaming, not believing in that stuff—gone.

Laura said impatiently to her reflection, “I know. I know. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

No, it’s not,
said the voice.
Look at you. You’re doing exactly what you always do. Yorky needed you tonight, and you were too busy snogging some bloke on a beach to go home and be there for him.

“But this is different,” Laura told herself. “It is different, isn’t it?”

No, it’s not
, the voice said again.
This is like Dan all over again, Laura.

Dan. Dan Floyd. Dan. Laura said his name out loud, as if it were a foreign word on her tongue, amazed at how neutral it sounded. “Dan.” When was that? When had it been? It seemed to have happened months ago. The last three days, four days—they, in turn, seemed like years.

She put her hand in her sponge bag, looking for mascara. There at the bottom were two diamanté scallop-shaped clips, pretty things. Jo had bought them for her for Christmas. She’d never got the chance to wear them, much as she loved them. She slid one onto each strap of the dress, feeling rather glamorous suddenly, excited.

Oh, Laura,
said the voice in her head as she looked at herself in the mirror, her hand on her breastbone, trying not to get too nervous, trying to tell herself not to care as much as she did. Suddenly, she felt utterly defenseless, like the baby bird she and Xan had rescued from the street of their house in Oxford when she was small. The egg had fallen from a tree and shattered. The baby was ugly, tiny, totally exposed, and though they gave it water, though Xan stayed up to look after it, it died. Being out in the open, too soon out of its shell with no protection, was just too much for it. It had upset her so much, the ten-year-old Laura. She remembered how distressed she had felt, watching herself now.

She shook her head, her eyes dark, her pupils huge, her reflection in the mirror strange to her, like someone she didn’t know. “Oh. Just be careful.”

She should have listened to the voice, she thought as she drove along the winding lanes, her palms sticky on the steering wheel in the sticky summer’s evening. And as she turned into the drive, and crawled along in solitary, splendid isolation, she suddenly felt self-conscious in her parents’ Rover. What did posh people drive? Not Rovers, probably.

As she reached the house, she could see a figure waiting for her on the steps. She looked up expecting to see Nick’s face, and found it was Charles, in black tie, hands behind his back, hair combed back. The machine was in operation.

“Leave the car there,” he called as she wound down the window to say hello. “Someone’ll take it around the back for you.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “Cor.” She coughed. “Thank you so much,” she added. She wondered if she should mention her overnight bag, lying so neatly packed on the backseat, and then decided that would complicate things far too much, so she left it where it was, got out of the car, and climbed the steps to meet Charles, who gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Jolly nice to see you again, Laura,” he said. “So pleased you’re here.”

“Oh, well,” said Laura. “It’s great to be here.” She looked down at her strappy silver evening shoes; they were worrying her. She normally wore them with jeans. They were high but not too high, in fact strangely comfortable, considering their silver-high-heeled-evening-shoe pedigree. But the heels were scratched, the silver covering torn, and she wished with all her heart that she were in something glamorous, nice. She clicked her heels together. Perhaps they would magically transform into gorgeous new shoes. But no.

“Jolly nice diamond clips, those,” Charles said as she looked up. “Very pretty.”

“Oh, thanks very much,” said Laura, fingering one of them. She smiled at him. “Jolly glad. Don’t want to let the side down,” she added, then stopped, alarmed by the role she was giving herself, which was, she realized, Virginia McKenna in
Carve Her Name with Pride.
She’d cried over that film one long Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago during a particularly low moment with Dan, but really, there was no need to start talking like her.

“Hey,” said Charles, patting her arm. “Shall we go in? Everyone’s here, pretty much.”

“Really?” said Laura, taken aback. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No, no,” said Charles. “They’ve been having drinks for a while. In the great hall. Most of them arrived in the afternoon, you see. Staying the weekend, and all that.”

“Ah,” said Laura. She looked past him, past the balustrade into the great hall. “Er…right. Where’s—er, where’s Nick?”

“He’s in there,” Charles said. “Shall we go and find him?”

It would be pathetic to say “Can you get him to come out here while I wait, I’m scared, I don’t want to go in?” It was, wasn’t it? Laura pulled herself together. “Yes,” she said. She slid her arm through Charles’s. “Let’s go in.”

“So,” said Nick’s great-aunt Teresa, five minutes later, “Laura. Where are your people from, then?”

“Oh,” said Laura. She took a nervous sip from her heavy champagne glass. The alcohol tasted chalky; the bubbles rasped in her throat. Over on the other side of the room, Nick was talking to Sam and Penelope, two cousins from Somerset. Laura had said hello to them both briefly, and Nick had squeezed her arm and whispered, “I’ll come and find you in a minute, okay?”

The room was crowded; fifty or more relatives of varying ages, but tending toward forty-plus, were talking loudly, laughing, greeting each other. Ripples of amusement, of shared jokes or reminiscences, floated to Laura’s ears as she stood there, trying not to feel too much like an outcast: “Well, hello there! Terrific to see you again, old thing.” “Minty’s in Cornwall.” “John? Wife died a few months ago. No, he’s up at Balmoral.” “Damn nag fell at the first fence. I know.’ In front of her stood one such specimen, Nick’s great-aunt, well over ninety, clad in upholstered purple velvet and wearing a small diamond brooch, with beady eyes that bored into Laura in a most disconcerting fashion.

“Sorry?” said Laura, who felt as if all she could hear was a loud buzzing noise.

“Hello? I said, your people. Parents. Where are they from, dear?”

Laura dragged her gaze away from the back of Nick’s head to Great-aunt Teresa, who was regarding her intently. “Oh,” she repeated. “Sorry. My parents? They’re from Harrow.”

“How lovely,” said Great-aunt Teresa, politely but vaguely. She grimaced, sucking her lips into her mouth. “I don’t know it very well, I must say. Although my brother was there. Beautiful.”

“Oh, Harrow boys,” said Lady Lavinia. She was standing next to Charles, who was gazing at her as if she were an exotic princess. “Gosh. Lucky you, living so near them.” She smiled, her little pink tongue darting out between her tiny white teeth, and tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder.

Charles scowled, and rubbed his face; Laura had never seen him so discomfited.

“Not really,” said Laura. “I mean, the school—it’s not that near where I love—I live, I mean.”

“Right,” said Lavinia. She smiled at Charles from under her eyelashes. He blushed rosily, and Lavinia lapsed into a vacant silence that seemed to say “I’ve done my bit.”

Great-aunt Teresa picked up the gauntlet. She peered at Laura’s dress. “Those clips,” she said. “Very pretty.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Laura. “My friend Jo—”

“The diamonds are lovely. What is the setting? Platinum, or silver?” Great-aunt Teresa peered at one of them, her beaky nose almost jabbing Laura’s arm.

“Oh, no,” said Laura, laughing. “They’re not real. They’re fake. But they’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“Fake?” said Great-aunt Teresa loudly. “Oh. I see.”

“My friend Jo,” Laura said again weakly. “She gave them to me.”

Nick left the cousins and was moving across the room. Her heart leaped, then sank again as she watched him shake hands with someone else, a dark-haired, bearded man.

“So, Laura, you’re off back to London tomorrow,” said Charles, turning to her.

“London?” said Great-aunt Teresa. “Whereabouts do you live, then?”

“North,” said Laura noncommittally.

“Regent’s Park?” said Great-aunt Teresa. “Near there?”

“Er—yes,” said Laura, reasoning that in relation to, say, Newcastle, her flat
was
near Regent’s Park. “Lovely, isn’t it?” She added politely, “Where do you live?” She felt with unease that she should know how to address Great-aunt Teresa, whom she was sure was a lady or something and moreover not
her
great-aunt; but, as with Lady Rose earlier in the day, she wasn’t sure enough to ask.

“Where do
I
live?” said Great-aunt Teresa in tones of astonishment. “At Dearden.”

“Dearden Hall,” Charles murmured in her ear.

This meant nothing to Laura, not even with Charles’s kind clarification; it only made her feel even more gauche, were that possible. “Right,” she said politely, hoping that was contribution enough to the conversation, knowing that it wasn’t.

Great-aunt Teresa, of Dearden Hall, and Lady Lavinia moved off in different directions, to be greeted with shrieks of joy by their respective new companions, and Laura was left standing next to Charles, trying not to feel like a shorter, fatter Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
, that she was failing some subtle, silly test. This was the twenty-first century, what the hell did it matter who was who and where they lived and all that? It didn’t make them important. It didn’t matter that she was from Harrow and lived in Tufnell Park. She was here because of Nick, because of how she felt about him. The rest of it wasn’t a big deal.

Why did it
feel
like a big deal, though? Why couldn’t she shake the idea that she was about as welcome tonight as a cockroach infestation? She glanced at Charles gratefully. He was watching her, and smiled as she looked around the room again for Nick, who was talking politely to the same man as before and a couple of other people about her parents’ age. One of them said something, and Nick nodded seriously. He was so handsome, she thought. The white of his shirt gleamed against his dark hair, black tie, and black dinner jacket, and stood out in the cavernous gloom of the great hall. He looked grown-up. Remote. Different. Very different from the Nick she knew.

Of course, he was, though, Laura thought, and her hand flew to her cheek, because thinking that upset her, though she knew it was stupid. He was a marquis. He was an important person, not just because he was so rich, so posh, so well connected, but also because he was the employer of hundreds of people, the person who ran the estate, who had investments, who sat in City boardrooms while people presented plans to him. She didn’t know that Nick at all; and it was all very well for him to say it didn’t matter, that only the two of them mattered, but she couldn’t help feeling the rest of it mattered more than he could see or she had realized.

Then she thought, You stupid girl. You think he’s wonderful, don’t you? You’ve fallen for him, for this handsome marquis in his huge stately home. You’ve convinced yourself you know him, that he knows you. You’ve had three wonderful nights together, and you’ve bloody fallen for him. And then she heard Mrs. Danvers loud and clear, and this time, Laura listened.

It’s been three days. You met him three days ago, Laura. How could you let yourself do this again? Haven’t you learned anything?

But, Laura said to herself, staring into her empty glass, it’s Nick. He’s not like that.

Laura, Laura. Come on. Three days. How can you possibly know? Of course, he’s nice. He’s lovely. He’s kind, he makes you laugh, you get each other really well. But isn’t that just because of circumstances? Isn’t it something to do with the fact that he was the first person you’d had a normal conversation with in days, when you met him? Because he’s tall, and so handsome, and looks at you with those big dark eyes like he’s falling in love with you? Oh, Laura. It doesn’t mean he is….

Her throat hurt, she didn’t know why. She wanted to be alone, but she knew she was just being silly. She smiled and pulled herself together, taking a deep breath. She turned to Charles, still standing there politely, carefully, nicely.

“What about you, Charles?” she said, trying to get onto something approximating common ground.

“What about me?” said Charles, smiling at her.

“Well,” said Laura, waving her hands vaguely and trying not to sound like the queen asking someone questions in a lineup, “what do you do? Er, in your spare time, I mean?”

“When I’m not running after Nick, or sorting out the house, or his crazy family, you mean?” Laura nodded. “Ha. Well, that leaves about five minutes in the day.”