An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  His mother’s voice cut through his deliberation.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting the master bedroom.’

  Guy stubbed his cigarette out studiously. Anything rather than meet his mother’s eye. He couldn’t confess that he’d spent the night shagging the arse off Richenda in that very room.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll have it done out for you,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’ve been putting it off as it is. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being used for paying guests.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Guy faintly, not daring to ask if Richenda could choose the wallpaper.

  ‘We’ll have champagne in the small sitting room at six. It’s just a pity your father’s not here.’

  Madeleine said it as if Tony was off on a fishing trip, not six foot under in the graveyard. Nevertheless, Guy managed a small smile at the thought of his father with Richenda. Tony would have had even less of a clue about what Richenda did than Guy, but he had appreciated a beautiful woman. It was amazing how sexually attractive the absent-minded professor act could be when executed correctly. His father had been utterly exasperating and totally charming. No regard for mealtimes or bedtimes, dress codes, deadlines; he had been a law unto himself. Guy suspected he’d never had to confront a bill or a bank statement in his life, let alone a leaky tap. Which was why Madeleine’s life hadn’t been any more difficult since his departure. Just empty.

  ‘Then Richenda and I can have a little chat,’ Madeleine carried on. ‘I want her to be quite clear what she’s letting herself in for.’ She put her slender hand over Guy’s in a rare moment of affection. ‘I’m very pleased for you, darling. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

  Guy’s stomach gave a little flip. With his mother’s seal of approval, he realized he was moving into the next phase of his life. Things couldn’t stay the same, after all. He was thirty-five – he couldn’t remain a bachelor much longer without attracting speculation. No, it was definitely time he settled down and faced up to his responsibilities. He told himself he was bound to feel nervous. He felt certain everyone had doubts. It was a lifetime commitment, after all – no one could ever be a hundred per cent sure they were doing the right thing.

  ‘I’ll go and pay’ He stood up and went over to the bar. While Barney totted up the bill, Guy wondered why his stomach was still churning. Had the terrine been too rich? Or was there a more sinister meaning? He leaned an elbow on the bar.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said to Barney. ‘How did you feel when you proposed to Suzanna?’

  Barney looked up, somewhat startled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Were you shit scared?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I suppose so. It’s not every day you ask a girl to marry you. But I was excited too.’ A smile spread over his face. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  Guy scratched his head, grinning a bit bashfully.

  You’ll read about it soon enough. In the papers.’

  Barney gave him a playful punch on the arm.

  ‘Congratulations, mate. And don’t worry. You’re bound to feel nervous.’

  As Guy counted out the money for lunch, he tried to feel reassured. But still he couldn’t ignore the little nagging feeling of doubt. And he thought he knew what it was. He adored Richenda, that was certain. His heart leaped when she came into the room, or when he woke up next to her; he missed her dreadfully when she wasn’t around. But he wasn’t sure he knew her. She was mysterious, alluring, enigmatic – all things he found incredibly attractive and a turn-on, but he wasn’t sure they were qualities you looked for in a wife. ‘Wife’ said to him comfort, cosiness, familiarity – knowing about each other’s hopes, fears, bunions, childhood illnesses. When you looked at Barney and Suzanna, for example, you knew they knew each other inside out. But he hadn’t a clue whether Richenda had had chicken pox, or whether she liked marzipan. Or even where she’d like to go on their honeymoon. It would be up to him to book it, but he wasn’t sure of her ideal destination. Or even if she was afraid of flying…

  As he drove his mother back through the lanes to Eversleigh, Guy told himself it was up to him to take their relationship on to the next level, to dig underneath the passion and the novelty for something more solid and sensible. He felt certain he would be reassured by what he found. And, he reminded himself, if it all went pear-shaped he could always bail out. They were only engaged, after all, and engagements could be broken off. It wasn’t as if they were getting married tomorrow.

  While Madeleine and Guy went out for lunch, Richenda took the opportunity to wander round the house safe in the knowledge that she could explore for at least an hour before they got back. Not that she wanted to snoop, exactly. After all, she’d spent the best part of six months at Eversleigh. But it had been always teeming with cast and crew, lit by ferocious lights, crammed with cameras and cables and wires, its walls resounding with shouts and instructions. Panic and turmoil had reigned. Now a gracious calm had settled upon it, and apart from the few members of the production team who were restoring it to its former glory, and the men taking down the marquee, she had the place to herself. She wanted to revel in the wonder of its thick walls and take in the glorious fact that soon she would belong here. She would be Mrs Guy Portias, of Eversleigh Manor.

  Loads of stars were buying up mansions in the Cotswolds. Elizabeth Hurley and Kate Winslet had already succumbed; even Kate Moss was rumoured to be looking for a place in the country. But there was a world of difference between buying a stately home and actually having the right to be there. The Portias family had inhabited Eversleigh Manor for five generations. Their coat of arms was set in stone over the front entrance.

  There was no doubt that as houses went, Eversleigh was deliciously perfect, which was why it had made such an ideal location for Lady Jane Investigates. It was nestled smack bang in the middle of the village, next to the church, hidden by ancient trees and a crumbling, moss-covered stone wall. A pair of wrought-iron gates hung on two stout pillars, leading into a semicircular gravelled area in front of the porticoed entrance, though no one parked here – a drive led off round the side of the house to the garages and stable block. The house itself was symmetrical: each eave, each chimney pot, each mullion was perfectly reflected. The windows were leaded with squares rather than diamonds, which lent an air of elegance rather than chocolate-box tweeness. Everything was ancient and aged, smothered in moss and verdigris and lichen. The only hint of the twenty-first century was a small blue box tucked under one of the eaves that housed the necessary burglar alarm.

  The huge oak front door led into a wood-panelled entrance hall that was large enough to hold a cocktail party, yet felt welcoming rather than cavernous. There was a stone fireplace big enough for a man to stand in, and a sweeping staircase that rose then split into two, leading back on itself to either side of the house. The flagstone floor was scattered with faded and worn Oriental rugs; a round mahogany table in the middle held a Chinese vase. There were three doors: one to the drawing room on the left, one to the dining room on the right and one to a corridor that ran the width of the back of the house leading to the library, the small sitting room and the kitchen.

  Richenda wandered through each room in turn, reflecting with interest that the house was so gracious, so quietly authoritative, that there was no real need to decorate as such. Its features set the tone, so it was merely a question of choosing paints and fabrics that enhanced the atmosphere, rather than trying to impose one’s own style. And Richenda couldn’t deny that Madeleine had an excellent eye in what she had chosen.

  The drawing room was painted soft ochre, with three large cream Knole sofas grouped around the fireplace. Conveniendy placed occasional tables were home to pieces of silver and glass. Several landscapes adorned the walls. Richenda decided that this room, perfect though it was, was a little too formal for her liking. It was a room for polite conversation, not relaxing.

  The dining room was more dramatic, its walls a peacock bluey-green of s
tartling depth, set off by the golden Cotswold stone fireplace and mullioned windows. The curtains were a rusty red silk with a wide velvet self-stripe; a huge Persian rug under the table picked up the blues and the reds, while an enormous ormolu mirror over the fireplace reflected the entire room. The overall effect was dramatic, but not overpowering; a room that showed itself to best effect by candlelight.

  Her favourite room of all was the small sitting room. Fifteen foot square and south-facing, with doors that opened out on to the garden, its walls were painted powder blue, and it contained two high-backed sofas smothered in cushions, a coffee table, a pretty little writing desk and a dainty piano. There was a bookcase crammed with paperbacks; everything you should ever read, from Daphne du Maurier to Wilbur Smith via George Orwell and Virginia Woolf. It was incredibly feminine; perfect for reading or writing letters, or kicking off your shoes and curling up with a magazine.

  There were logs laid in the fire ready, and Richenda bent down to pick up a spill. It might only be early October, but there was a tiny chill in the air. Carefully, she lit the spill and thrust the flame into the centre of the kindling. She knew all about lighting fires. Once upon a time, it had been one of her many menial tasks. As the flames took hold, she smiled in satisfaction. The press might never know it, but her story was as close to Cinderella as it was possible to get.

  Richenda’s mother had had her as an act of rebellion. As the youngest daughter of elderly parents, living in a modest house on a quiet estate on the outskirts of Woking, Sally Collins had seen giving birth as a romantic gesture, a ticket out of her stifling existence, totally missing the point that a baby was a living, breathing ball and chain with twenty-four-hour needs. By the time that penny had dropped, the baby’s father had done a bunk and the eighteen-year-old Sally was left stranded in a freezing caravan struggling on a mishmash of benefits. The bitter words of recrimination that she’d hurled at her bewildered parents, who would in fact have done anything to help her, precluded her from going back home. Besides, better a freezing caravan and the freedom to light up a joint if she fancied it than the claustrophobic, wallpapered walls of suburbia.

  Sally looked like a Russian doll, with her sweet round face, her black eyes, pink cheeks and rosebud lips, her long hennaed hair parted in the middle. Sartorially she was hovering in limbo somewhere between a hippy and a punk: a lost soul when it came to style, in fringed skirts, fishnet tights and Doctor Martens, with tight crushed velvet tops and masses of silver jewellery – rings and bangles and earrings. But although she might look sweet and doll-like, she was actually selfish, lazy and not very bright, lurching from one disaster to the next, ill-equipped to think on her feet and always eager to take the easy way out, preferably at someone else’s expense.

  Living with her was an emotional rollercoaster. Sometimes she would hug her daughter fiercely, tell her it was just the two of them against the rest of the world, that she was all that mattered, and the little girl would go to sleep snuggled up against her mother’s warmth. Until the next man came along. Then Sally would be besotted, and would make it clear that Richenda was no more than a nuisance. Richenda would stand her ground stoically, knowing from experience that Sally’s relationships rarely lasted more than three months, and it soon would be the two of them again. But in the meantime she would be expelled from her mother’s bed, left to shiver in some makeshift pile of blankets in the corner of whatever squat or bedsit or rented room her latest lover occupied.

  Of course, in those days she wasn’t known as Richenda. Sally had named her Rowan at birth, but by the time she was three she was cruelly known as Missy, short for Mistake, a tag that had been bestowed on her by one of Sally’s many other mistakes, and it had stuck.

  For ten long years the two of them struggled to survive. Occasionally, Sally would relent when things got really tough and would go back to her parents. Richenda loved these sojourns, for it meant proper food, a warm bed, regular bedtimes, the chance to watch telly. But it would only be a matter of days before a row broke out and Sally would have one of her tantrums, and their few belongings would be swept up into a holdall and off they would go again, to throw themselves on the mercy of one or other of Sally’s friends. Richenda dreamed that her grandparents would one day have the strength to stand up to Sally and demand to keep her, but they never did. She would look back at them waving rather disconsolately and helplessly through the kitchen window, and as she grew older she came to despise them for their ineffectuality.

  By the time Richenda was twelve, they were living in a damp flat in a house overlooking the railway line in North London. Sally supplemented her benefits by knitting jumpers that she sold at Camden Market – brightly coloured jumpers with cannabis leaves or Dennis the Menace or peace signs emblazoned on the front. She could knit without a pattern, weaving the colours in to create pictures with an expert eye, and the jumpers were very popular. It was Richenda’s job to scour jumble sales and charity shops for old knitwear that could be unravelled and reused. She loved pulling the threads and watching the garments disappear before her very eyes, before winding the wool up carefully into neat balls which she stacked in colour-coordinated rows in orange boxes. One day Sally promised to knit her a jumper of her own, with the Jungle Book characters on it. Together they drew out a design, of Baloo with Mowgli, and Richenda watched in excitement as the figures emerged hanging from the needles. She couldn’t wait for the day it was finished. Somehow this jumper represented the fact that their life was settling down, that Sally had got over her resentment of her daughter, that they were almost normal.

  But before the jumper was finished, Sally met Mick…

  Mick also had a stall at Camden Market, where he was selling bongs and pipes and all manner of smoking paraphernalia, and doing a roaring trade. The first day Sally met him she came home with a silly grin on her face. The second day she didn’t come home until the next morning. Sally had repeatedly told Richenda she was old enough to stay in the flat on her own, and often left her alone in the evenings when she went to the pub, but all night was a different matter. Richenda had been worried sick, imagining that she had got drunk and fallen under a tube train. Sally had laughed, high on lack of sleep and too much sex and Mick’s Lebanese red, and told her not to worry – they were moving to Mick’s place. With a heavy heart, Richenda packed up her things, a strong sense of foreboding telling her that this move was not in her interests.

  Mick’s place was known as ‘The Farm’. Not that anyone did anything remotely agricultural on it, unless you counted the spiky green leaves of the cannabis plants in the greenhouse. The farmhouse was built in unforgiving flint, and sat in an exposed position on the Berkshire Downs, ill-protected from the winter winds. It was a sort of idealistic post-punk commune full of middle-class twits in dreadlocks and combat trousers, trying to deny their origins and live their dream while picking up the dole, and in the meantime composing anarchic songs and trying to get gigs. The main room stank of cider, dope, garlic and stale sweat. Though Richenda could never understand why it smelled of sweat, for the house was freezing: there was a wood-burning stove that was constantly going out, as no one could be bothered to chop wood, and icy-cold flagstone floors and a howling gale that whipped through the windows. Now, more than anything, Richenda remembered the cold, and the unforgiving itchy lumps that came up on her fingers as a result.

  The Farm also housed Mick’s harem, a collection of adoring females who came and went, ebbing and flowing in tune with some mysterious tide, bringing with them a stream of runny-nosed, unkempt offspring whom they proceeded to ignore as they sat round in stoned admiration, hanging off his every word. Richenda couldn’t understand what they saw in him, with his matted dreadlocks and dozens of earrings in each ear. To her, his eyes were cold and dead. But he wove some sort of magic over these women, and her own mother was the latest to be under his spell. For two whole years Sally was queen bee, and shared his bed.

  Richenda, being the oldest, was put in charge of the chil
dren. She wasn’t sure how many of them were actually Mick’s, but she found she quite liked looking after them. It gave her something to do. She commandeered the attic, a long, low room that ran the entire length of the house, and tried to turn it into a nursery for the children. None of them seemed to have any toys, so she went to the village jumble sale. There was a large box of toys left over at the end that nobody wanted. Richenda had looked round to make sure nobody was looking, then picked up the box and walked out. At least the kids had something to play with now.

  She was surprised none of them were allowed to go to school, as that would have ensured they were out from under their mothers’ feet five days a week, but the effort of getting them up and dressed, packing them a lunch-box, taking them to school and then picking them up was, apparently, too great. Much easier to leave them in Richenda’s care.

  She longed to go to school herself, but her mother had told her she didn’t need to go – she was being educated at home. Richenda realized the irony, that most kids would jump for joy at being let off, but she longed for a crisp navy uniform with a white blouse and tights and proper shoes. Not hand-me-down jumpers that had shrunk in the wash, and tie-dyed skirts and ugly old boots. Under this drab uniform no one seemed to notice that she was turning into a woman. She never had the fun of experimenting with clothes and make-up and hairdos, because there was little point.