An Eligible Bachelor (6 page)

At the same time, she wanted to be sure that whoever she married wasn’t after her for her fame and fortune. Guy certainly wasn’t. He barely acknowledged the world she came from. He was in love with her for herself, not the face that graced magazine covers. He was confident enough in himself not to find her a threat, and he didn’t want to ride on her coat-tails.

Richenda didn’t think she’d ever been this happy. Which she found very hard to explain when Guy found her sitting in front of the fire, her arms hugging her knees, with tears streaming down her face.

Guy held Richenda tightly in his arms, any fears and doubts he had felt earlier evaporating. As he kissed away her tears, he realized she was as vulnerable as the next person, and he felt a surge of love. She might be a hugely successful actress, but in some ways that made her even more fragile.

‘Sorry,’ she gulped, her sobs finally abating. ‘It’s only because I’m happy’

Guy stroked her hair. Women were weird sometimes.

‘What happens when you’re unhappy?’ he joked.

Richenda smiled, brushing away the last teardrops. She didn’t want to look red-eyed and piggy She gave a delicate little sniff, then snuggled into Guy’s chest.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said carefully. ‘I think we should get married at Christmas.’

‘What?’ Alarmed, Guy looked at her closely to see if she was joking. It didn’t seem as if she was.

‘I’ve looked in my diary. Saturday the twenty-third. We can have the reception here, so we wouldn’t have to worry about booking anywhere. And I’m sure the vicar will find us space.’

‘But that’s only two months away’

‘Which is why it’s perfect. I’ve got two months off, virtually. All I’ve got to do is some voice-over work on
Lady Jane
, and all the promotional stuff. So I’ll have masses of time to organize everything.’ She didn’t mention that
the prospect of a Christmas wedding would add weight to her box-office appeal, that the magazines would all be falling over themselves to put her on the cover. ‘And next year is a nightmare for me. The second series is due to start filming in April. And I’ve got to do a stint in the US promoting
Lady Jane
before that. And a guest appearance in my old hospital drama – a one-off special. I won’t have time to breathe, let alone get married.’

Guy didn’t answer, because he didn’t know what to say. Richenda was pacing up and down the room, excited.

‘It would be wonderful. A Christmas wedding! And personally, I don’t want a huge affair. I’ve got no family here, after all. My parents would much prefer us to go out and visit them in Australia after the event, than for them to come over here.’

It came out so glibly. Richenda found that she almost believed in her fictional parents; she could almost imagine booking the tickets here and now.

‘I’ve got hordes of cousins and aunts and Mother’s got stacks of friends that will need inviting,’ Guy warned gloomily.

‘Well, that’s OK. I’ve got the cast and crew of
Lady Jane
. I suppose they’re my surrogate family’ Richenda rolled her eyes with a grin.

‘So when you say small, you’re talking about…?’

‘Two hundred? Ish? That’s small these days.’ Richenda was anxious to reassure Guy, who looked momentarily horrified. She wound her arms round his neck, smiling coquettishly.

‘Please say yes,’ she wheedled.

Guy had learned from his father that there was little
point in protesting when a woman had made her mind up about something.

‘No problem,’ he said amiably. ‘Just tell me when and where and I’ll tip up on the day’

At six o’clock on the dot, Madeleine Portias glided into the small sitting room. She was wearing a dove-grey cashmere sweater, wide-legged tweed trousers and soft suede loafers. Three gold bangles on her left wrist emphasized her tiny bones. She looked the epitome of elegance.

Guy was hovering. Nervously, Richenda thought, which was interesting, because she’d never seen him nervous. She herself had dressed in a simple black wrap dress, her hair smoothed into a low chignon. She was wary of looking too showbiz. Someone had once mistaken her for Martine McCutcheon, and it had been an early warning for Richenda. Too much make-up and not enough clothing and she might one day be mistaken for a Slater sister if she wasn’t careful.

Guy opened a bottle of champagne and Madeleine proposed a very gracious toast.

‘I hope you’ll be as happy together here as Tony and I were.’

The three of them exchanged kisses and hugs and smiles. A little awkwardly, because none of them could be quite sure what the others were thinking. Then Madeleine perched herself gracefully on one of the sofas, and indicated Richenda should sit opposite. Then she turned to Guy.

‘Darling, please go and do something useful in the kitchen. There’s a fish pie in the Aga. Why don’t you
make a salad to go with it? I want to talk to Richenda.’

The bracelets jangled as she shooed her son away. She turned to Richenda with a smile.

‘Now, I need to talk to you about your wifely duties.’

Richenda looked at her aghast. Her future motherin-law wasn’t going to talk to her about sex, surely?

To her amazement, Madeleine broke into peals of delighted laughter.

‘Heavens, don’t look like that! I’m not talking about bed. I’m sure you’ve been road-tested already, knowing Guy’

Richenda coloured furiously, not knowing where to look.

‘I mean that as the lady of the house there are certain things expected of you. And I’m afraid that the responsibility will fall on you, once Guy takes over at the helm. I’ll be here to guide you, of course. But you will be the one they all look to. And it can be quite a daunting task, I can tell you. Almost a full-time job in itself.’

She smiled brightly. Richenda looked at her warily, not sure what the message was.

‘What sort of things?’

Madeleine opened a leather notebook, drawing a tiny pencil out from the spine.

‘First and foremost is the village fête. We have it in the grounds here every July, and I’m afraid it’s a political minefield. You have to be very diplomatic; make sure none of the committee members railroad you. Just be firm…’

Richenda nodded. She thought she could handle the village fête committee.

‘The annual crisis is who to get to open it. It’s usually
a toss-up between a celebrity gardener and a children’s TV presenter. But obviously that won’t be a problem any more. You can wield the scissors.’

Madeleine flashed her a quick smile before referring back to her list.

‘Then the May Day bank holiday the gardens are traditionally open to the public. Via the National Gardens scheme. I’ll introduce you to Malachi. He does all the planting here. He’s a bit of a law unto himself. And he spends half of his time inside. Very light-fingered, I’m afraid. Not that he’d ever steal anything from us, so don’t worry about that. The important thing is he’s a genius in the garden. Though no doubt you’ll have your own ideas.’

Richenda looked alarmed. She didn’t have a clue about gardening; didn’t know a dahlia from a dandelion.

‘Then there’s the Boxing Day meet.’

Richenda frowned.

‘I don’t know that I approve of hunting.’

‘Doesn’t matter whether you do or you don’t. The hunt’s met here on Boxing Day since 1611.’ Madeleine had plucked this date out of nowhere, but she wasn’t going to let the girl get any anti-hunting ideas. ‘It’s perfectly simple. I’ve done the same thing for years.
Vin chaud
and devils-on-horseback. And for the past three years I’ve used styrofoam cups. Get one of the kennel lads to go round with a black bin bag afterwards. Saves on the washing-up and no one cares, as long as they go off nicely anaesthetized.’

‘Right,’ said Richenda, who had absolutely no idea how to make
vin chaud
or devils-on-horseback, or even what they were. Though she would rather die than admit it.

‘Then the school have a Teddy Bears’ Picnic in about June; we usually do a summer concert in the grounds in August – a sort of bring your own picnic, Glyndebourne on a smaller scale sort of thing; then I do mulled wine and mince pies after the crib service on Christmas Eve…’

Richenda was looking utterly appalled.

‘But I am going to be away a lot of the time. Filming.’

‘You’ll just have to work round it, I’m afraid. It is a big responsibility, you know, being a mistress of a house like this.’ Madeleine softened momentarily. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t throw you in at the deep end straight away. I’ll be here to help, for the first year at any rate. Though I have to admit I’m rather looking forward to stepping back. I’ve been doing it for nearly forty years. It’s definitely time for some fresh blood – I’m sure you’ll have all sorts of wonderful new ideas.’

She closed her notebook with a satisfied snap and picked up her glass.

‘Anyway, many, many congratulations. I’m utterly delighted. Here’s to the two of you.’

‘Thank you,’ murmured Richenda, somewhat shell-shocked.

‘Fish pie, anyone?’ asked Guy hopefully from the doorway.

‘Lovely,’ said Madeleine.

‘Did Richenda tell you that we’ve settled on a date?’ asked Guy.

‘No,’ said Madeleine, looking from one to the other for enlightenment.

Richenda rose gracefully to her feet.

‘December twenty-third,’ she announced. ‘After all, why wait? What would we be waiting for?’

And she swept out of the room with a brilliant smile, leaving Madeleine uncharacteristically speechless on the sofa.

The woman’s breasts were spilling out over the top of her basque, her cherry-red nipples just visible. She was sporting a black G-string embroidered with rosebuds, and a matching suspender belt held up her fishnet stockings, revealing an expanse of smooth, creamy thigh.

Honor McLean picked up her icing nozzle and wrote ‘Happy Birthday Nigel’ carefully on the cake board underneath. The floozy cake was one of the most popular in her range: the freezer in her little outhouse was packed with sponge torsos awaiting decoration. They were fairly labour intensive – the criss-crossing on the fishnets took hours and a steady hand – but at sixty quid she didn’t mind. She needed all the cash she could get these days. Who would have thought a decent pair of Startrites would eat up more than half of that? Six-year-old boys were seriously high maintenance: Honor couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent that sort of money on herself. Not that she was going to start sawing away on a violin in self-pity. She’d learned to do without; weaned herself off the adrenalin rush that a new purchase used to bring. There was a time when she wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Major expenditure had been part of her
raison d’être
. Two hundred quid on a jumper; double that on a suit – she’d never thought twice about passing the plastic.

Now she didn’t even have a credit card. She didn’t allow herself one as she knew how easy it was to slide it across the counter, ignoring the fact that fifty-six days later would come the day of reckoning. She only spent cash, because that way she kept an eye on how much was slipping through her fingers. Only the household bills and the council tax were paid by direct debit, because it was marginally cheaper. And when money was this tight, margins made all the difference.

She lifted the cake board carefully and placed it in a white cardboard box, closing the lid with a sigh. She could really do with putting her feet up in front of the telly tonight, but she had to go through Ted’s spellings with him – he always had a test first thing Thursday morning – and make sure his PE kit was ready before forcing him into the bath. Then it was her favourite part of the day, when he snuggled up on her lap in his pyjamas and they read together – he would do one page, and she would do two, usually Dr Seuss or Roald Dahl. Once he was tucked up under his duvet, then she could flop down on the sofa and select her evening’s viewing – a pointless ritual, because she would always fall asleep after two minutes.

Her days were long. Every morning she got up at six to put wood on the woodburning stove so the house would be warm by the time Ted got up. Then she made her daily batch of three dozen scones: she supplied a local craft centre with freshly baked goods for the lunches and teas they served in their café. While the scones were in the oven she had a shower; she had it timed to perfection so that they were pale gold in the time it took her to wash her hair and rough dry it with a towel. Having
extricated the scones, she made porridge or boiled eggs for breakfast, then she and Ted raced each other to get dressed. A ritual search for an essential item ranging from a Pokémon card to a plimsoll usually ensued, then Honor walked Ted down through the village to the school gates, where he joined the rest of his mates in the playground. Once she was back home, she embarked upon the rest of the day’s orders, which the craft centre phoned through at about quarter past nine.

She often thought about going back to work properly, but she never wanted to have the dilemma of Ted being off ill. And she liked to pick him up at three fifteen. She didn’t like the thought of him trooping into aftercare, even though many of his peer group did. And she’d want the holidays and half-terms off. Apart from teaching, which she was hardly qualified to do, there were few jobs that would allow that flexibility. So she muddled through with her scones and her birthday cakes, as well as dinnerparty puddings for overworked hostesses who couldn’t quite face the ignominy of serving up a Marks & Spencer cheesecake, but it was a lot of labour for the money – she seemed constantly to be covered in flour, hot from the oven. Or tearing round trying to deliver on time – once she’d dropped Ted at school she had a two-hour window to bake whatever else was needed and deliver it to the craft centre in time for lunch.

Today she’d done three quiches and two pissaladières and dropped them off at the craft centre, then rushed back to finish the birthday cake, which was going to be picked up later that afternoon by the wife of the unsuspecting Nigel. Taking off her apron and stuffing it into
the washing machine, she looked at the clock. It was five to three – not long enough to do much about her appearance. She double-checked the calendar on the cork noticeboard to make sure there was nothing she’d forgotten. She was meticulous about writing things down because otherwise she’d never remember. Ted’s social and sporting diary was hectic – certainly more than hers was. Beavers, swimming, football on a Saturday, parties most weekends, someone for tea at least once a week in order to help out some other working mother, and all of this underpinned by a complicated rota of lift-sharing. It was a social whirl, and Honor had to keep careful track of it all to make sure that she didn’t forget to give another child a lift or take them home for tea. Once she’d forgotten to collect one of Ted’s friends from a party, and she’d taken a long time to get over the trauma and the stigma.