An Eligible Bachelor (20 page)

She stood up reluctantly.

‘I really should be getting home. Ted should have been in bed an hour ago.’

They tried to persuade her to stay, and Ted added his pleas, but she was resolute. A late night this early in the week wasn’t a good idea, especially after such a hectic weekend, and supper would only mean more wine: she’d already drunk more in the past forty-eight hours than she usually did in a month. She needed her bed. She had a lot to think about.

‘Guy will walk you back,’ said Madeleine.

Honor protested that they would be fine, but Guy insisted. As they wandered back out of the drive, the autumn moon lit up the little high street. Ted held on to her hand, his steps dragging a little with tiredness.

‘Thanks for coming to the rescue,’ said Guy. ‘She still misses my father dreadfully, and she’s constantly looking for ways to fill the gap he’s left. I think she’s bitten off more than she can chew this time.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Honor reassured him. ‘With a setting like Eversleigh, you can’t go wrong.’

He saw her to the door with perfect chivalry, and they agreed he would pick her up at half nine the day after tomorrow.

We’ve got an old pick-up that we use for carting logs and things around,’ he said. ‘We can shove everything in the back of that, if you can bear to be seen in it.’

‘I’ll wear my dark glasses and a baseball hat,’ Honor promised solemnly.

Half an hour later, once she’d tucked Ted in, she snuggled up in her own bed with a pen and paper and
started to draw up a shopping list, smiling to herself as she remembered Guy’s disparaging remarks. She’d loved being in that huge kitchen, the banter between Madeleine and Guy. He obviously had a hugely irreverent affection for his mother, and it had made Madeleine seem less intimidating. Honor had been rather in awe of her at first, but it was dawning on her that the glacial elegance was just a facade. Though she wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her – Madeleine was the type to know exactly what she wanted, and woe betide anyone who got in her way.

She’d also enjoyed having her opinion asked. Honor realized that she’d missed the power she’d once had, the adrenalin of decision-making, the buzz that came from a new project. It was going to be fun to be involved in Eversleigh, if only on the periphery. And from her point of view, there was no great risk attached to it.

She was halfway down the list when her eyelids became unbearably heavy. She put the papers on her bedside table and switched off the lamp, unfeasibly excited about her trip to the cash and carry. Oh dear, she thought, as she drifted into sleep, it really is about time I got myself a life.

At Eversleigh, Madeleine was washing up the supper things. Guy sat at the table, tipping back his chair and finishing off the last dregs of the second bottle of wine they’d opened.

‘Well, I think Honor’s arrival is timely. She’s just what we need.’

‘Yes,’ said Madeleine. ‘She seems very… real.’

‘Real?’ Guy looked puzzled. What’s that supposed to mean? Real? Of course she’s real.’

‘You know what I mean,’ answered his mother. ‘She’s got her feet on the ground.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I just think she’s a nice girl, that’s all.’

Somehow Guy got the feeling that Madeleine meant an awful lot more by her comments. He looked at his watch.

‘I’d better give Richenda a call. She was having dinner with her producer this evening. She’ll probably be back by now.’

He stood up and pushed his chair in, and went to give his mother a hug.

‘Don’t worry, Mum. This weekend’s going to be brilliant.’

He kissed her on top of her head and sauntered off. She watched him go, her gloriously exasperating and loveable son. He was so like her beloved Tony, whom she’d spent years nurturing and cosseting. People laboured under the misapprehension that it was Madeleine who’d worn the trousers at Eversleigh Manor, but she had utterly adored her eccentric and amiable husband. His every wish had been her command, his every whim her pleasure. He had drifted through life answerable to nothing and nobody; she smoothed the path of his daily routine so he could wallow in his own genius. It was amazing, really, that he had been so charming; he could have been thoroughly spoilt and petulant. Even more lucky was that Guy had inherited his equable nature.

Madeleine felt a momentary fear curdle her stomach.
Tony had been allowed the luxury of being utterly delightful because she had made sure nothing had got in his way. Should she do the same for her son, or was that unhealthy? It was certainly unfashionable. But Guy was so carefree, so confident, she just hoped he knew what he was doing. If anybody hurt him, or worse still tried to change him, she’d rip them apart with her bare hands…

Richenda had just climbed into the bath when she heard the phone going. She sighed. About the only thing her apartment
didn’t have,
was a phone in the bathroom – she usually remembered to bring the handset in with her, but not this time. She clambered out again and pulled on her robe.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’

It was Guy, and immediately she melted.

‘I’m just about to get back into my bath,’ she purred. ‘I wish you were here with me.’

‘Is there room for two?’ he asked.

‘At least.’ She slid back into the rose-scented water. ‘Fantastic flowers, by the way. Thank you.’

‘They got there?’

‘They arrived just as I did.’

‘I’m glad you liked them.’

‘They’ll remind me of you all week.’

‘Good. How was your dinner, by the way?’

‘A tedious debrief with the director, and the producer droning on about plot ideas for the feature film. Not that I’m not interested, but I’m not an ideas person, so there’s no point in asking me about it. I wanted to scream ‘Just
give me the script when it’s done!’ But I don’t like being difficult.’ She’d picked her way listlessly through chargrilled artichoke, then pumpkin gnocchi, wishing that she was having supper in the kitchen with Guy. ‘How was your day?’

‘Great. I spent the morning chopping logs with Malachi. Then Mother found this fantastic girl to help with the food. She used to run a hotel in Bath, so she knows what we should be doing.’

‘Oh,’ said Richenda, wondering when Guy said ‘fantastic’ just what he meant exactly.

‘She’s the girl who’s going to do our wedding cake. Remember?’

‘Oh yes. I wanted to talk to you about that.’

‘Our wedding cake?’

‘No. Just the wedding. We need to think about sending out invitations – or at least a “keep this date free” thingy.’

‘Do we?’

‘Well, yes – if it’s so close to Christmas. It’s already October and people start making plans so early, we don’t want to find they’re double-booked.’

‘I suppose not.’ Guy sounded wary.

‘What’s the matter? I thought we’d agreed…?’

‘Yes, I know. It’s just… I’m so wound up with all this house party stuff, I can’t take a wedding on board as well. Not just yet.’

‘Why don’t you leave it all to me?’ said Richenda brightly. ‘I’ll organize everything, and you can just turn up on the day.’

Guy was silent for a moment. He knew he should be
taking an interest, but he didn’t have the headspace. The last thing he wanted, though, was Richenda getting carried away – he had a sneaking suspicion that her idea of small, intimate and low-key might not be the same as his.

‘Listen, why don’t we talk about it at the weekend? You’re coming down on Friday, aren’t you? We should have got rid of the guests by midday on Sunday, so we’ll have the rest of the day together. I promise to give you my undivided attention.’

‘OK.’ Richenda sounded mollified. ‘By the way, I wondered if you could make it up here for dinner one night next week?’

‘What for?’

‘The
Daily Post
Entertainment Awards. I’ve been shortlisted for Favourite Actress, remember?’

Guy had a dim recollection of Richenda and Cindy discussing something like that at the photoshoot.

‘Oh yes,’ he said enthusiastically.

‘Lady Jane’s
taking a table at the ceremony. The producer wants to know if you’ll be able to join us.’ She teased him gently. ‘Tickets are like gold dust. If you don’t want to come…’

‘Is that one of those things where you have to look happy for the camera when you don’t win? I don’t know if I could do that. On your behalf, I mean.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Richenda. ‘The
Daily Post
love me, especially now I’ve got a sexy, gorgeous fiancé. All they’re interested in is photo opportunities and fodder for the paper. So I’m sure they’ll fix it for me to win.’

‘That’s totally corrupt!’

Richenda laughed, a glorious, sexy gurgle. The one Lady
Jane used when she knew she’d got the villain stitched up like a kipper.

‘That’s showbiz.’

She sometimes forgot just how clueless Guy was about her industry. It delighted her. How refreshing it was to go out with someone who wouldn’t know a Bafta if you hit them over the head with it, instead of some self-publicizing, scene-stealer with hollow aspirations and a determination to hang on to your coat-tails. A vision of his shocked expression came into her head and she felt a rush of fondness, together with a stab of longing for his taut body and his slightly roughened – but not too rough – hands on her breasts…

‘Of course I’ll come.’Guy’s voice snapped her out of her fantasy. ‘I’ll be ready for a break by then. And it’ll be good to spend some time together. I’m starting to forget what my own fiancée looks like.’

‘Then let me remind you.’

Guy listened as Richenda painted a picture, with intimate and graphic detail, of just exactly what he was missing.

Clouds of sesame-scented steam billowed out of the kitchen of the Happy Wok in Reading. Outside in the waiting area, Sally Collins stared at an illuminated photograph of some jasmine blossom, her mouth watering. Mick had got some cash that afternoon and they were having a blow-out. She looked sideways at him. He was rolling a cigarette with his yellowed fingers. His dreadlocks, once a sign of youthful rebellion, now looked ridiculous on a man his age. The six o’clock shadow on
his face was grizzled. There was no hope in his eyes any more. This wasn’t a young man with fire and passion in his belly. This was a wasted no-hoper; a scrounger.

What did that make her? Sally sighed. She no longer had the bloom of youth to help her through life either. What would anyone want with her? The grey in her hair was more and more reluctant to take on the henna she applied, resulting in a matted, unattractive mane of brindled rust. Her skin was dull, lifeless and lined. Her eyes had lost any sparkle. Her legs were still thin, but despite the fact they rarely ate properly her middle had thickened and her breasts had sagged, giving her a top-heavy appearance.

She was sick of life. Why the hell had she stayed with Mick, with his schemes and dreams for fame and fortune that never bloody came to anything? A second-rate dope-dealing drop-out with nothing to offer her but his slightly rancid body. Even the farm had gone. They’d been evicted in the end; someone had found a loophole in the law and got them out, even though Mick had protested squatter’s rights until the very moment their belongings had been hurled out of the door.

Now they had a grotty bedsit in Reading. They couldn’t even cook, because the gas had been disconnected. Hence the need for a takeaway if they wanted something hot and proper. She was sick of Pot Noodles.

She reached out idly for the paper on the table. It was the supplement to Saturday’s
Daily Post
The day before yesterday’s news – she couldn’t imagine there’d be anything of interest in it. She never read the papers. Or watched telly. World War Three could have broken out
and she wouldn’t know about it. To be honest, she’d be hard pushed to name the American president.

But on the front cover was a face that seemed familiar. It was a mother’s intuition that made her heart beat faster as she gazed at the girl, who glowed with happiness as she rested her head on the shoulder of what appeared to be her fiancé. You never really forgot the face of your own child – the set of the eyes, the shape of the nose, the curve of the lips, the features that were half your own. Not even if you were a bad mother who’d made terrible mistakes.

She prodded Mick urgently in the shoulder.

‘That’s Rowan. I’m sure of it.’

Mick peered closely at the photo. He was as blind as a bat these days, but there was no cash for an eye test. Let alone glasses.

‘No. It says here she’s called Richenda Fox.’

‘Don’t be stupid. That must be a stage name or whatever they call it. It’s definitely Rowan.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘I think I know my own daughter when I see her.’Sally’s voice rose in indignation that was bordering on hysteria.

Having made a closer inspection, Mick was inclined to agree with her.

‘Do you know, I think you might be right. You know what this means, don’t you? If it is her?’

‘What?’

‘Money.’

‘Don’t be stupid. She’s not going to give us money.’

‘She’s
not, no.’ A sly smile slid across Mick’s face,
showing several gaps where he’d lost teeth. ‘But someone would pay good dosh to know the truth.’

He pointed out a paragraph with a slightly shaking finger.

‘Richenda had an uneventful childhood brought up in the Home Counties.’ He gave an unattractive sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. ‘Her parents emigrated to Australia when she was seventeen, leaving her torn between a new life in Adelaide or drama school. Luckily for us, she chose the latter, and now she is the new darling of prime-time television, rumoured to have signed a golden handcuff deal worth… well, it would be vulgar to discuss money with Lady Jane. Not that money is likely to be a problem, as she has just announced her engagement to Mr Guy Portias, owner of the exquisite Eversleigh Manor where
Lady Jane Investigates
was shot…’

‘Fucking hell,’ said Sally.

Mick rolled up the supplement and stuck it in his pocket as the waiter appeared.

‘Chicken chow mein beef in black bean sauce fried rice prawn cracker,’ he recited as he dumped the already grease-stained bag down on the counter.