A Hopeless Romantic (40 page)

“I know I don’t,” Laura whispered. “I know.”

Yorky looked horrified. “Listen, I didn’t mean—”

Laura said, “It’s fine. You’re completely right, I’m sure.”

chapter thirty-seven

T
he Simon situation rankled Laura, though she didn’t understand why. Over the next week, she kept thinking about what Yorky had said on the way back from Harrow. Sometimes she thought he was mad, totally out of order, and she would feel a calm within herself that she-was-right-he-was-wrong, and no action was required on her part. And sometimes, the peeling away of that layer beneath which lay all her insecurity made her numb with fear.

Perhaps Yorky had a point about not going out enough, though. She had been a bit of a hermit since she’d got back. And she should be trying to meet someone else, she knew. But where was she supposed to meet someone, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t? Laura started thinking, How did I used to do it? Fall in love like that at the drop of a hat? How did I used to meet men so easily, so happily, be so relaxed about it all? It seemed completely alien to her now.

Still, she hated not having things right with Yorky, just hated it. The following Saturday evening, she was in on her own when her flatmate returned from an afternoon out with Becky, walking along the canal by Regent’s Park. He was mysteriously silent on the subject, which Laura assumed meant nothing had happened; instead he suggested a “casual” dinner the following Saturday to welcome Simon back. Laura knew this was in reality a chance for Yorky to drop round and ask Becky if she wanted to swing by for supper (nothing special, just a few friends coming over, no pressure). She was glad, because it meant things were okay again, so she sounded enthusiastic about it, and waited for Yorky to talk about Becky for the next ten minutes. But he didn’t. Again, this was strange.

“I’ll cook,” said Laura as she opened a bottle of wine.

“No,
I’ll
cook,” said Yorky firmly. “You call Simon, get him to come. And Jo and Chris are back next week, can you text her on her mobile, get them along?”

“Fine,” said Laura, conceding defeat happily. “That’ll be great. Have some wine.”

“Love some,” said Yorky. “You in tonight, then?”

“Yep,” said Laura firmly. “Just a quiet one.”

“Great,” said Yorky. “Me too. Let’s drink lots and tell each other sad stories of the sea.”

“Er…okay,” said Laura. “How’s it going with the girl downstairs, then?”

“Great,” said Yorky, nodding. “It’s early days, you know. But—she’s just fantastic. That’s all there is to it.” He shrugged, and simply smiled at her.

Laura felt panic shoot through her, and she didn’t know why.

“Come on, Yorks,” she said, struggling to find the joke in it. “Haven’t you got some funny story about it to tell me?”

“Not really,” said Yorky. He yawned, stretched his lanky body, and reached up to get two glasses out of the cupboard. “We had a good chat yesterday, you know. We’re going to take it slowly. But—it’s just going really well. That’s all.”

Laura watched him, amazed. “That’s…great,” she said, hating herself for not thinking it was great. “Wow. I’m really pleased.”

At eight-thirty the next morning, Laura was—like most right-minded people at eight-thirty on a Sunday—fast asleep. But gradually she stirred, for something was ringing in her ear; it kept on ringing. It would stop, and then start again. It took a good few minutes before she realized that the sound was the phone in the hallway, ringing, then stopping when the answering machine kicked in, then ringing again.

“Shut up!” Yorky croaked from his room down the corridor.

Knowing that Yorky would happily ignore the phone while it rang for a good few hours yet, Laura fell out of bed, cursing, and shuffled down the corridor.

“Hallagh,” she growled into the receiver.

“Laura? Hello, dear. It’s Annabel,” came a voice down the phone, disconcertingly close by. “How are you, dear?”

“Er…” Laura coughed. “I’m fine. Are you—is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course,” said Aunt Annabel, sounding astonished. “I rang to say hello. So—how are you, dear?”

Waking up more and more by the second, Laura shook her head and ran her free hand through her hair. “Yes, well, like I said. I’m fine. It’s—it’s a bit early for me, though. How are you?”

“Well, I’m fine, too,” said Aunt Annabel. “Really very fine.”

There was a rather tense silence for a few seconds. Laura waited for her aunt to speak, because she wasn’t really sure what to say next.

“So, Laura. Have you seen the paper today?” said Aunt Annabel.

Laura wanted to yell, “It’s eight-thirty in the morning, of course I haven’t seen the paper today. Go away!” but instead she said, “No, why?”

“I think you should,” said Aunt Annabel. “I was really ringing to say hello, of course. But I did just want to check you’d got a copy!” She cleared her throat, and said almost reverentially, “To see
him
in it. Number three, no less! My goodness.”

“In what?” Laura asked, her mind beginning to whir.

“Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelors,” said Aunt Annabel. “You know who, dear!”

Annabel had never called her “dear” before, nor rung her at home before, nor indeed ever expressed much interest in any aspect of Laura’s life before, and it was this that struck Laura first, before the mist cleared and she realized what her aunt was talking about. “Oh,” she whispered, clutching the receiver with both hands. She leaned against the wall. “What is it?” she said, trying to keep her voice normal. “Nick?”

“Well, I think you should read it for yourself!” her aunt said gaily. “But we knew you’d want to see it, so we thought we’d better let you know.”

“Right,” said Laura, wondering who “we” was.

“I’m sure everyone else will be calling to say they’ve seen it, too, but it’s quite something to say you’re an item with the Marquis of Ranelagh, especially after this!” Annabel said in tones of delight. “And you were so
mysterious
about him in Norfolk, I didn’t even say goodbye to you. Lulu and Fran were
so
sorry to have missed you, you know. So sorry!”

“Me too,” said Laura, crossing her fingers. “How are they?”

“Good, fine, wonderful. Fran and Ludo are in Singapore at the moment! Having a wonderful time, back in a few days’ time. And Lulu’s in the south of France. It’s just little old me and your uncle Robert, you know. On our own! Very lonely! So when your uncle saw the article this morning, he said, ‘Annabel, you must call Laura.’ And I thought, Gosh, yes, I must.”

Since Uncle Robert was notorious for saying nothing and contributing nothing, Laura found quite a lot wrong with this assertion. But she merely replied, “Thanks, Aunt Annabel. Look, I’d better—”

“Yes, yes,” said Annabel. “I’ll let you go—you know, it’s marvelous. That’s all. And, Laura—do hope to see you soon. Both of you, maybe?” she said coyly.

“Both?”

“Well,” said Annabel, “you…and the marquis, of course.”

“Aunt Annabel,” said Laura. “Really, there’s nothing going on with me and Nick.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really,” Laura said firmly. She forced herself to sound blithely unconcerned. “In fact, I’m sure he’s forgotten all about me. It was just a fling, seriously. I’m afraid if you’re thinking we’re an item…”

“Oh, no!” said Annabel, backtracking hastily. “Actually, it says, you know. In the article. It says he’s got a girlfriend.”

Laura’s knees turned to water; she swayed against the right-minded. “Oh,” she said. “Right, then.”

“I just thought that was probably rubbish, you know these newspapers,” said Annabel, blissfully unconscious of any irony. “And he did seem awfully—
keen
on you, you know….”

“Annabel!” came a voice gruffly in the background. “Any more tea?”

“Oh, there’s Robert,” Annabel called gaily. “Must go. Lovely to chat, Laura!”

“What?” said Laura, then hastily: “Of course, thanks, Aunt Annabel, sorry I’m not really awake….”

“Please, don’t worry! Goodbye!” Annabel said, and the line went dead suddenly.

Laura shook her head, confused, and then she went into her room and pulled on some clothes. Was she going to buy the newspaper? Of course she was.

Ten minutes later, Laura smoothed open the Sunday paper on the kitchen table.
BRITAIN’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS
, ran the headline. She tore her eyes away from the photo of Nick standing in front of Chartley, pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her fingers, and read rapidly:

Number Three: Dominic Edward Danvers Needham, 12th Marquis of Ranelagh, Earl of Albany Cross. Okay, so the Princes have to be at Nos. 1 & 2, but many are more intrigued by the deb’s delight, Dominic Needham (above). Thirty-five, single, handsome, worth roughly around £300m, the Marquis of Ranelagh is the matrimonial jackpot for almost every ambitious mother with a socialite daughter to marry off—and the heart-throb of a generation of boarding-school girls. And, of course, there’s also the house.

Chartley Hall is regarded by many as the finest stately home in England. Built by Inigo Jones, nestling next to the wild North Norfolk coast, it is full of the most fabulous treasures (the Hogarths, the greatest collection of Renaissance drawings in the country, the Grinling Gibbons woodwork throughout, the magnificent library, and the notorious soldier collection begun by his father). Visitors flock there year-round. But does the notoriously private marquis have anyone to share all this with?

“Oh, God,” she whispered to herself. “This is dire.”

Happily, girls, the answer is—for the moment—no. For beneath the glittering surface, all is not well in the House of Needham. Rarely has there been a great aristocratic family so rocked by scandal in recent years. First came the notorious affair between the present marquis’s mother, the beautiful British actress Vivienne Lash, then 11th Marchioness of Ranelagh, and her husband’s brother, notorious gambler and playboy Lord Frederick Needham. They ran off together when the present marquis was just eleven, and now live in the south of France. The 11th Marquis forbade all contact between his ex-wife and her children, and to this day Nick and his two sisters, Lady Rose Balmore and Lady Lavinia Needham, have made no effort to keep in touch with their mother, who now, in her late seventies, is said to be in ill health.

Her children have fared little better. Her eldest daughter, Lady Rose, seemed set to follow in her mother’s footsteps when, in 1978 at the age of eighteen, she eloped with Gareth Ringwood, a drummer with the heavy-metal band Roxattax. It was a tempestuous marriage that ended in divorce in 1980, and coincided with her heroin addiction reaching its height. After an overdose that nearly killed her in 1982, she entered rehab, and six years later married the multimillionaire industrialist Sir Malcolm Balmore. They have two young children, Samuel and Elizabeth, and Lady Rose is active on many committees, tireless in her work for various charities.

“My
God!
” said Laura, unable to stop herself from grinning. “Fantastic. Who’d have thought it?”

Lady Lavinia has not taken the same path as her elder sister. She might be called rootless, in fact. She spent several years in India in various ashrams, and ran a stall in London’s Portobello Road market, selling leather goods she had sourced herself. She spends six months of the year in Thailand, where she has a house—paid for by her family, it is presumed, for she has never worked a day in her life. Ethereally beautiful, she is as famous for her love life as anything, having dated several rock stars and actors. She is currently living with her brother in Chartley Hall, where sources close to the family say she is having an affair with the marquis’s oldest friend and estate manager, Charles Potter.

He wishes, Laura thought. God, this is a load of rubbish.

She read on.

So, what of our handsome romantic hero, Dominic (known to all as Nick)? Until recently, friends said, he was increasingly remote, shunning the London society that was once his lifeblood. A regular on the smart London social scene, where young rich aristocrats regularly pay £1,000 for a bottle of champagne in the nightclubs of Mayfair and Chelsea, he withdrew almost entirely from public life after his father died in 2003, when Nick went up to Norfolk to take over the estate. His father was much loved in the county for his management of Chartley and its lands and properties. His son, who has made a few attempts to alter the running of the estate without any great success, is often regarded as standoffish and arrogant by those who don’t know him. Friends say loyally that he is merely shy, growing used to the role he must play as one of the highest peers in the realm.

In recent weeks, however, his behavior has changed, and the gossip on the circuit is that he has finally fallen in love. Since June, he has been seen several times in town with Cecilia Thorson, trust-fund daughter of millionaire financier Lars Thorson and his wife, notorious socialite and seventies beauty Lady Tania Ingham. The Thorsons are well known in fashionable circles, seen as the A+ of the A list, and Nick could look no higher for a future wife. Friends say he is very much in love, spending more and more time in London and increasingly absent from his post at the estate, where he still has much to learn.

Is this true love? Is this an apprenticeship? Or is the marquis too wrapped up in himself to find the solution to his problems—a wife who will provide an heir for one of our greatest national treasures? Many would like to know—and many girls would love to be that solution.

“Who was that?” came Yorky’s voice blearily from his room. “The phone?”

“Nothing important,” Laura called back. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Laura stood up, arching her back and stretching. The kettle was boiling. She got the coffee out of a cupboard. She screwed up her eyes as if trying to stare into the distance. They stung with tears. Stupid to have any kind of proprietorial feelings about him, she told herself. You haven’t heard from him in a month, and that was your decision; you know it’s too hard, that you can’t be together, you haven’t let yourself think about him, so that’s why it’s so weird to read about him now. Just recognize that, you’ll be fine. He’s not for you, this life is not yours, the whole thing is ridiculous.