An Eligible Bachelor (41 page)

‘Shit!’ she swore. ‘I’ve got to go and pick up Ted. I’m never going to get everything done in time.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ offered Guy. ‘I’ve done my jobs. The guests aren’t arriving till seven. He can come and help me in the garden for an hour while you finish off.’

‘You’re a star,’ said Honor. ‘Whose idea was it to do spun sugar baskets?’

‘Yours, I think,’ grinned Guy cheerfully. ‘See you later.’

As he left the house and made his way down the high street, he realized he felt back on track today. His disillusionment had abated somewhat, and anyway, with the imminent arrival of another batch of guests, he didn’t
have time to dwell on matters of the heart. He’d get the weekend out of the way, then he could focus on his private life. Richenda had phoned to confirm that she and her mother Sally were coming down for Sunday lunch. Guy had resisted the temptation to ask whether there was going to be a photocall capturing the happy moment for posterity. Sarcasm wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

He took Ted back up to the garden, where they spent a good half hour scratting around for conkers until Ted’s pockets were full to bursting. Guy smiled as he pictured himself doing the same thing nearly thirty years ago; the garden had barely changed. It was a paradise for children, with its secret paths and dens and hiding places. Then he remembered something.

‘Hey,’ he said to Ted. ‘Follow me. I’ve got a surprise.’

Charles got his usual early train home on Friday afternoon. He leaned back in the comfort of his first-class seat, his eyes closed, not intending to sleep but just wanting to enjoy planning the weekend ahead in his mind. It seemed the perfect antidote to the utter hideousness of the past few days.

He couldn’t even bring himself to think about Wednesday. He’d gone to bed that evening blind drunk, and all he could hear was the sound of Henty and Travis talking and laughing in the kitchen as he lay in his bed trying to stop it spinning. The day after had been horrendous. He’d had the most monumental hangover: champagne always gave him a blinder, and he hadn’t been able to focus on anything. By the time he’d got home in the evening, children’s activities took over and he hadn’t
actually clapped eyes on Henty until half nine, by which time he was ready for bed. The relief of waking up on Friday with a clear head had been marvellous. He’d spent a useful morning at the office, and now felt filled with resolve on the journey home.

They were going to have a good old-fashioned family weekend. Who needed thrills and excitement? The price was too high. He felt a desperate need for some stability after the recent turmoil. Perhaps they could make some plans for the house together. Henty was longing for a new kitchen, and the boys’ bedrooms could do with revamping. He’d held off for a long time because of the expense, but a couple of his authors’ royalty cheques had come in that week. Bugger it, he thought. He’d go off and get paint samples, pick up some kitchen brochures, get Robin and Walter the study bunks they’d been going on about…

As he idly ran through various possibilities he felt something brush itself against his leg. Without opening his eyes, he moved slightly, not wanting to embarrass whoever had inadvertently rubbed against him. Moments later, he felt it again, more insistent. Someone was running their foot up the inside of his trousers! This time he looked up with an indignant glare. Sitting on the other side of the table, fixing him with a sweet, innocent smile, was Fleur.

‘Hello, Charles,’ she said. ‘Fancy us being on the same train. I’ve been up to town to do some shopping.’ She indicated a clutch of carrier bags to prove her statement. ‘I was just going to go and get a hot chocolate from the buffet car when I spotted you.’

Charles could only manage a strangled greeting from the back of his throat.

‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ She leaned forward. ‘We might as well take the opportunity to talk about our… project’

Charles’s eyes flicked wildly round the carriage. There could be any number of people on board that he knew. He didn’t see anyone he recognized in the immediate vicinity, but he knew from experience that people listened in keenly to other people’s conversations.

‘Not here,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘Not in here.’

With his eyes, he indicated behind him to the toilets. The sign luckily read vacant. Fleur nodded her understanding, got up and made her way down the aisle, then disappeared through the sliding door. Charles looked at his watch. They were at least half an hour from Eldenbury, or he might have done a runner. Instead, he gave it two minutes, then followed her, tapping on the door. She opened it up and let him inside, grinning mischievously. No sooner was the door closed than she pressed herself urgently up against him.

‘Hold on, hold on!’ he squawked in alarm, pushing her away. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘We’ve got unfinished business.’

‘I’m a happily married man.’

‘And I’m a happily married woman. That doesn’t stop us, does it? I don’t want to marry you. I just want to fuck you.’

She leaned back against the sink matter-of-factly,
thrusting out her chest. Charles looked aghast.

‘Not in here. I couldn’t.’

‘You don’t want to join the 125 club?’

‘No.’

Fleur surveyed him, a little smile playing on her lips, as if debating whether to pursue the issue, then relented.

‘So – how’s the pilot looking?’

The rushes were still sitting in Charles’s study. He couldn’t bear to look at them. In fact, he’d been meaning to erase them, destroy the evidence. He didn’t want the tape getting into the wrong hands. There’d be a lot of explaining to do. He scolded himself. He really must learn to be more careful. What with the knickers, and the tape… he really was too careless for this infidelity lark. Not that he had any intention of taking it any further. Though he thought Fleur had other ideas.

He feigned a nod of enthusiasm, for the time being.

‘It’s looking good. There’s still a lot of work to do, of course.’

‘Can we have a private viewing? When it’s ready?’

‘Of course. Good idea.’ Bad idea. Very bad idea. He looked at his watch. ‘Hey look – we better get back to our seats. We’re nearly at Eldenbury.’

Fleur went to unbolt the door.

‘Oh dear,’ she said after a moment. ‘The lock seems to be stuck.’

Looking back on it afterwards, Guy was sure he had only been gone two minutes. But then, on reflection, you didn’t leave six-year-old boys alone for even one minute. Especially not if there was an old tree house right in front
of their eyes. Even if you had said don’t go near it till we make sure it’s safe. He’d gone to fetch a hammer and nails, and when he got back Ted was lying on the ground, perfectly still and as white as a sheet.

As he looked down at the little boy, Guy realized he had never felt fear before.

It had been quite possibly the most humiliating experience of Charles’s life. He’d managed to stop Fleur pulling the communication cord. She’d insisted that otherwise they’d end up in Hereford, but Charles imagined everyone lining up on the platform to see what the emergency was, and the two of them filing out. Instead he had to stick his head out of the window at Eldenbury and call the guard’s attention.

‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ he’d explained in a stage whisper. ‘I’m locked in the lavatory.’

Behind him he could feel Fleur convulsed with giggles.

‘Oh dear, what can the matter be?
’ she sang.

‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘It’s not funny!’

‘Where’s your sense of humour?’

The guard had done something magical with his penknife and the lock slid back. He looked a little taken aback when two people instead of one emerged from the cubicle, but by then it was too late to attract anyone else’s attention to the situation and Charles barely thanked him before bolting off down the platform and mingling in with everyone else.

He hid in the waiting room until he saw Fleur climb into her Merc and drive off. Even now he wasn’t convinced that her appearance on the train had been a
coincidence. Charles remembered mentioning that he always got the three-eighteen on a Friday. His heart pounded. This was getting a bit spooky. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have got himself his very own stalker.

Honor sat in the ambulance at Ted’s side, utterly transfixed with terror. Her whole world was imploding; her mind whirling with random thoughts and images. Nothing was coherent because nothing was certain. The only thing that gave her any vague reassurance was the thought of Guy following behind the ambulance. Somehow that gave her a crumb of comfort, knowing he would be at her side throughout the ordeal. The ambulance men were kind, but refused to give any prognosis. She supposed they had to stay on the fence. They couldn’t say Ted was going to be all right, because he might not be.

He was just so very still. She had never seen him so still. Even in his sleep he gave off a certain energy, his limbs occasionally twitching. He was a wriggler. There was no hint of wriggling now. Whatever state of consciousness he was in, there were no signals being transmitted. Her stomach churned. Her mouth was dry. And, strangely, her eyes. There were no tears yet. Presumably because she didn’t know yet what to cry for. Without a diagnosis, you couldn’t prescribe the amount or quality of tears needed.

She could feel the ambulance slow, feel it encounter the speed bumps on the hospital drive, and her heart began to pound. The agonizing limbo was at an end; the expertise and machines that would ascertain Ted’s future
were only minutes away now. The doors of the ambulance were opened and she climbed out to wait on the pavement, knowing that hanging over Ted would impede the work of the paramedics. She felt a strong arm round her shoulder. Without looking, she knew it was Guy, and she allowed herself to fall against his chest for a moment to draw some strength.

The stretcher went past. For a moment she had a flash forward to the future: a tiny coffin being held aloft by pallbearers. Then she told herself not to be stupid. He was still breathing. Where there was life there was hope. This was the twenty-first century. She grasped Guy’s hand and hurried inside the hospital, trying to ignore the sympathetic glances of passers-by. Again she had the sense of mourners at a funeral, pouring sympathy on the grieving mother.

Once inside, protocol took over. The form-filling was interminable; the questions tedious and confusing – or was that just her state of mind? They mistook Guy for the father; she had to explain over and over again. At one point they asked her if she wanted to phone anyone and she said no, even though a small voice told her she should contact Johnny. Finally they were left to wait, on hard orange plastic chairs, in a small cubicle, listening to the mayhem of the accident and emergency unit: the barked orders, the complaints of the patients, the ringing phones, the two of them still and quiet amidst the chaos. Guy gripped her hand tightly but neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

At last, the curtain was drawn back by an authoritative hand. The swish was so certain, so definite, that Honor
knew the perpetrator was the bearer of the verdict. She shut her eyes, not sure if she could bear it, and felt Guy’s protective arm around her once more.

The consultant spoke, in the smooth modulated voice of one who couldn’t be contradicted.

‘I’ve got a little boy out here who wants his mummy.’

Honor slumped against Guy with a low moan. The joy that flooded through her made her feel sick. She could barely stand up. She took in several juddering breaths to steady herself.

‘Is he going to be OK?’

The consultant nodded kindly.

‘We’re going to have to take him up to X-ray shortly – I think he may have cracked his collarbone. And we’ll have to keep him in tonight for observation. But I think he’s going to be fine.’

Henty stood in the queue at the post office in Eldenbury, clutching a large brown padded envelope to her chest. As she arrived at the window, she slid it carefully under the partition.

‘Special delivery, please.’

She couldn’t risk this getting lost. Ten thousand carefully chosen words. Words that had tumbled out of her mind in a glittering cascade, falling exactly where she had wanted them. She had reached a natural turning point in her story: before she poured her heart and soul into completing it, she needed to know if anyone would want to read on. Or was it meaningless, mindless drivel?

Harry Jenkins was her old editor, who’d steered her through the first two novels and had tried to coax a third
out of her, who had been so patient and supportive and, in the end, when she had become thoroughly frustrated and miserable, had gently suggested she have a break. At the time she didn’t think he’d meant fifteen years – he’d kept in touch every few months for the first two, but then his letters had trailed off. After ten years his Christmas cards stopped, though she suspected it was his assistant who had culled her from the list, not Harry himself. But she knew he’d be pleased to hear from her. He was an absolute sweetheart. Better still, he wouldn’t be afraid to tell her it was absolute crap. He’d told her to throw her first attempts at a third novel straight in the bin. He didn’t believe in writers torturing themselves to produce something they didn’t believe in.

Henty had believed in what she was writing this time. It was why it had been so easy. The question was, would anyone else be interested? She didn’t know the market any more. What she’d written wasn’t exactly chick-lit – she was too old to be a chick. But it was fun. And there was a message underneath that she thought a lot of women would identify with. It was the tale of a Cotswold housewife who, devastated when her husband leaves her, embarks on a trail of sexual reawakening courtesy of a young garage mechanic. It was bitter-sweet, semi-pornographic but ultimately optimistic. Henty had a feeling in her gut that it would be a success: there must be hundreds of women out there who could relate to what her heroine was going through. She knew Harry would give her an honest appraisal. He’d always understood her work completely; the way she twinned naivety with naughtiness, then added an unexpected twist to the tale to show
that what she’d been writing wasn’t just superficial froth.