An Eligible Bachelor (2 page)

Eventually, satisfied with his handiwork, he lowered himself to the ground and she was able to get a better look at him. His thick brown hair was tousled; his skin weatherbeaten. She watched as he lifted a bottle of mineral water to his lips and drank thirstily, then tipped the rest of the bottle over his head to cool down. Little
rivulets ran over his torso, sliding over the corded knots of his muscles.

He looked up and their eyes met. Richenda blushed, realizing she was gawping at him. All she needed was a dirty old raincoat.

‘Hot work?’ she offered, her voice weak with embarrassment and longing.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Had to get rid of them, though. We’re due some high winds next week – don’t want them crashing through the roof.’

For a moment, Richenda was puzzled. She’d expected a country burr. His voice was slightly husky, the accent clipped, careless. And he had an air of confidence you didn’t usually get with hired help.

He picked up a faded blue sweatshirt and wiped it over his chest to remove the residues of water and sweat. Then he shivered.

‘Actually, it’s chilly when you stop.’ He tugged the sweatshirt on over his head. Richenda swallowed, thinking hard.

‘Would you like a hot chocolate, to warm you up?’ she offered. ‘I was just about to get myself one.’

This was a monumental fib – she’d battled all week to resist the hot chocolate that the caterers were dishing up by the gallon. But she didn’t want this vision to escape. She was intrigued.

Actors bored her rigid. They were self-obsessed, vain and insecure with only one subject of conversation – themselves. And even if they managed to achieve a perfect physique, they weren’t real men. Richenda couldn’t imagine any of the actors she was working with going
anywhere near a chainsaw, let alone risking life and limb to climb a tree with it.

‘I was about to go to the summer house and learn my lines for this afternoon.’

‘Oh, right. So you’re one of the actresses?’ His eyes flickered over her with only a modicum of interest as he gathered up his paraphernalia.

Richenda was momentarily speechless. For the past three months she hadn’t been able to walk out of the house without being recognized. She was practically a household name. The seminal photograph of her in nothing but a belted white trench coat, barefoot and sprawled on a tiger-skin rug, was hung in every garage and workshop in the country. Men drank out of mugs imprinted with her image; had her as their screensaver on their computers.

‘Yes,’ she replied faintly.

‘Sorry, I should probably recognize you.’ He gave her a fleetingly apologetic smile, accompanied by a cursory glance of appraisal. His eyes were navy blue, long-lashed, with deep lines that spoke of sunshine and laughter. ‘I don’t really watch the telly. Only the six o’clock news. Anyway, I’ve been out of the country’

That would account for the tan, thought Richenda. He didn’t look like the type to take advantage of a tanning cab.

‘Really? Where?’

‘Cuba. I’ve just spent six months there. Riding and diving. Before it gets totally ruined. Have you ever been?’

‘No.’

‘You should. Before it’s too late.’

He was gathering up his things, ready to go. Richenda knew she had to pounce quickly. She held out her hand.

‘I’m Richenda Fox.’

She tried to recollect the last time she’d actually had to tell someone her name. He took her hand in his – it was surprisingly warm and dry, not clammy as one might expect after all that exertion.

‘Guy Portias.’

‘Portias?’ She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘As in…?’

She waved an all-encompassing hand at the house and grounds.

‘Yep. couldn’t ignore the irate telegrams from Mother any longer. I had to come home and do my duty. We’re opening for business as soon as you lot have gone.’

‘What sort of business?’

Guy made a face.

‘Country house weekends. Aspirational bollocks for people with more money than sense.’ For a moment his blue eyes looked bleak. ‘You can’t keep a place like this running without selling out.’

‘It must be awful.’

‘Yep. One up from prostitution, really’

He replaced the safety guard carefully on the blade. When he looked up, his demeanour seemed more cheerful.

‘So – where’s this hot chocolate, then?’

That had been nearly six months ago. And of course, once Richenda had made up her mind that this was the man for her, there was little that Guy could do.

She slid out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. There was just time to make herself look presentable
before Guy came back with the tea. She spent two minutes with her whitening toothpaste, cleansed her face, applied a hint of mascara and lip gloss and ran some serum through her hair. Then she flipped out her contact lenses, studiously ignoring her reflection while she applied some drops. She could never bear to see those myopic, watery pale-blue eyes staring back at her. She stuck her lenses back in hastily and double-checked the results.

Perfect. She finished with a squirt of Bulgari to her cleavage then, satisfied that she had perfected that just-got-out-of-bed-but-utterly-irresistible look, slipped back between the sheets to wait for her fiancé.

The florist’s van had woken Madeleine Portias. She peered out of the window of her flat in the coach house and saw it disappearing through the gates. The little green van with its distinctive logo, ‘Twig’, had been a familiar sight at Eversleigh Manor over the past few months. They’d done very well out of the recent filming, as they’d supplied all the floral arrangements for
Lady Jane Investigates
which, being a lavish period piece, had been many.

In fact, the whole community had done well. The inhabitants had moaned and groaned when the streets were blocked off for filming, but the truth is the local economy had boomed. Hotels, B&Bs, pubs and restaurants had enjoyed maximum bookings all year, whether through cast and crew or curious tourists. Now it was coming to an end, though Madeleine had been assured by the producer that
Lady Jane
was fairly certain to be recommissioned for another series.

When the location manager had come knocking at the
door eighteen months ago, Madeleine had been initially horrified at the suggestion that Eversleigh Manor be used for filming. Until the fee was mentioned, and it began to dawn on her that this would be the ideal way of financing her pet project.

After her husband’s death four years before, it had soon become apparent to Madeleine that keeping Eversleigh Manor running just for herself was quite ridiculous. With Tony alive, there had been some point. But now her charming, absent-minded, genius of a husband had gone, the house felt as redundant and useless as she herself did. Its rooms echoed with emptiness. But Madeleine wasn’t one to be defeated. She was determined to find some way to suppress the dreariness of grief. It was that or a bottle of paracetamol, and although sometimes she went to bed with a dread of waking up, she wasn’t one for melodramatic gestures. She was a coper; a doer. She needed a challenge, a purpose, for herself and the house, something that would bring them both back to life.

Friends urged her to do bed and breakfast. People would fall over themselves to stay the night in a manor, they insisted. But for Madeleine this didn’t have quite enough glamour or cachet. It smacked of drudgery, watery poached eggs and bed-changing and having to be polite to people you couldn’t stand the sight of. She had in mind something with more impact; something with a bit of style. After much deliberation, she hit on the idea of country house weekends. It was the perfect compromise, allowing her to live unhindered during the week and then pull out all the stops for forty-eight hours. Guests – a maximum of twelve – would arrive on the Friday
night and enjoy a simple kitchen supper. The men would spend Saturday shooting, fishing or at the races. The ladies would spend the day shopping in Cheltenham or being pampered at a local day spa. Saturday evening would be a magnificent five-course dinner in the dining room, with fine wines and Havana cigars, and guests entering into the spirit of the occasion, with the men in black tie and the women in evening dresses. The very best of everything would be served, from Loch Fyne oysters to Prestat after-dinner chocolates. The shining mahogany table in the dining room would be laden with gleaming silver, glittering glass, the huge five-armed candelabra dripping beeswax, Waterford rosebowls stuffed with magnificent blooms, their scent mingling with the smoke from the fireplace. Then on Sunday, the guests would be gently nursed back to reality with a late breakfast, the newspapers, a roaring fire and the offer of a place in the family pew if any of them were in need of salvation before taking their departure.

Simple but opulent. Unashamed but tasteful luxury. Live like a lord for a weekend. A taste of the life that people craved, that they’d read about in Wodehouse and Mitford and seen in
Gosford Park
. It was an ideal fortieth birthday celebration, or anniversary, or an excuse for well-off thirty-something couples to escape their responsibilities for the weekend and totally indulge. Of course, it wouldn’t come cheap, but Madeleine had a shrewd idea that she could get away with charging outrageous prices, as the sort of people she was likely to attract got a kick out of being thoroughly profligate. She knew it was new money she was going to be entertaining, and that more
likely than not they wouldn’t be sure which of the knives and forks they should be using, but she didn’t mind exploiting the nouveaux riches, not at all. And if she could teach them something, so much the better.

So when the location manager sat down in the kitchen at Eversleigh and outlined exactly how much she stood to make, Madeleine grasped the opportunity with both hands. It was serendipitous. While
Lady Jane Investigates
was being filmed, the rest of the house could undergo a refurbishment financed by the hefty location fee. The film crew only wanted to utilize the exterior and the main reception rooms – the magnificent hall and stairs, the drawing room, the dining room and, for each episode’s denouement, the library – and part of the deal was that they would decorate those to Madeleine’s order, as well as leaving the curtains and furniture specially commissioned for the drama. The existing curtains were far too dull and faded and wouldn’t show up well on television, so sumptuous, rich drapes were hung, and fat, velvet-covered sofas brought in. Meanwhile, six of the bedrooms upstairs were repainted – in some cases replastered – and thick, luxurious carpet was laid in a tawny, old gold the colour of a lion’s mane. A joiner fitted wardrobes into awkward nooks and crannies along with discreet cabinets – televisions, DVDs and sound systems with hidden speakers were essential if she was going to get the price she was planning on charging.

Thank God Guy had come back in the middle of it. She loved her son dearly, but he exasperated her. He was always off on some madcap adventure, subsidizing his travels by writing articles for newspapers and magazines
about his experiences, as bonkers and irresponsible as his father had once been. She’d finally mastered the computer in Tony’s study, sending Guy subtle emails via his Hotmail account that hinted he was neglecting his filial duty; his two sisters had homes and families of their own to run, and couldn’t really be expected to pitch in. He’d reappeared eventually, deeply tanned and dishevelled, and together with Malachi, her gardener-cum-handyman, he’d been bringing the house and grounds up to scratch. It was incredible how quickly things deteriorated without a man about the place.

Madeleine drew on her dressing gown and went out into her little kitchen to make tea. When she’d first moved into the flat above the coach house, she’d thought she would hate it, and assumed she would move straight back into the main house as soon as the production team moved out. But now she’d decided she’d stay. The flat was warm and cosy and, above all, manageable, and she could keep an eye on proceedings while having her own space.

She realized she was feeling quite excited. Filming was finished; the production team were going to spend the next couple of days restoring order and then the Portias family would have Eversleigh to themselves. They then had a week to kick things into touch before the first of their weekends took place. Madeleine had scarcely needed to advertise. The success of
Lady Jane Investigates
had taken care of that – there had been no less than six articles in the weekend papers which meant they had a raft of bookings already between now and next April, when the film crew was provisionally scheduled to film another series.

Madeleine was under no illusion that the next few months were going to be anything other than jolly hard work. But that had been the whole point of the project – to have something to throw herself into. Anyway, she wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty. She did, however, need Guy’s full attention. He’d been somewhat distracted lately by that girl. Madeleine thought Richenda was perfectly sweet, but was glad that after today they’d be seeing the back of her.

She poured herself a mug of strong tea and began to write a list.

A squeaking floorboard in the corridor outside alerted Richenda to Guy’s return, and she snuggled back down under the covers, spreading her long, dark hair out on the pillow around her head and shutting her eyes.

He came in behind an enormous bouquet.

‘Darling, you shouldn’t have.’

‘I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘They’re from Cindy Marks.’

Richenda sat up, batting her lashes in bewilderment as she read the tag.

‘However did she find out?’

Guy sighed.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I would have liked a couple of days to get used to the idea myself.’

Richenda buried her nose in the roses, hoping that the greenery would hide any hint of a blush on her cheeks. She might be an actress, but she wasn’t all that used to deception. She’d already deleted any evidence of the call she’d made to Cindy at four o’clock that morning from the confines of the bathroom. Not that Guy had a
suspicious nature, or would have a clue how to get into Call Register on her tiny Nokia – he was the only man she’d ever met who didn’t know how to use a mobile phone – but it was better to cover your tracks when the stakes were this high.