Honor and Henty’s friendship had been cemented by an intense hatred of Fleur.
‘She shouldn’t stand too close to fire,’ murmured Henty, ‘Or she might melt.’
Honor and Fleur waited in awkward silence until a bigger crowd had accrued outside the gates and the atmosphere became more relaxed. It was only when Fleur was happy that she had a large and appreciative audience that she dropped her bombshell.
‘Guess what? I delivered a bouquet up to the manor this morning. It seems congratulations are in order.’
Everyone looked at her, waiting for the revelation.
‘Guy and Richenda.’ Fleur held up her ring finger and rubbed it. ‘Wedding bells…’ she hinted, and waited for the reaction. There were gasps of amazement.
‘Seriously?’
‘Wow!’
‘Oh my God!’
Honor frowned.
‘Don’t florists have a Hippocratic oath?’
Fleur looked at Honor blankly.
‘What?’
‘Shouldn’t you keep your clients’ details a secret? Like doctors? I mean, if people know you’re going to blab, they’re hardly going to order a bunch of flowers to send to a secret lover. Are they?’
There was a shocked silence. Fleur smiled frostily.
‘I imagine, as the flowers were sent from the Daily Post, that it will be common knowledge soon enough. But thank you for your concern.’
She turned her back pointedly.
‘Now. Only three days to go, girls. Have you all got your outfits?’ This said with the smugness of one with a white silk Armani frock hanging in the wardrobe.
The crowd of mothers closed in around Fleur, managing to exclude both Honor and Henty from their circle. Somehow the word ‘ball’ turned the most sensible female into a gibbering wreck. Nearly everyone from St Joseph’s was going. For the past few weeks, there’d been debates over the best crash diet as they all battled in vain to drop a dress size. The local gym saw its subscription rate flourish; the lanes were littered with joggers. The day spa at Barton Court was fully booked for inch-losing seaweed wraps and St Tropez tans.
Honor knew that she was, as usual, going to have to make do. She thought back with irony to all the dresses that used to hang in her wardrobe: some barely worn, one or two never worn, all carefully wrapped in dry-cleaning bags and hung in length order. She’d sold them all to a ‘dress exchange’ in Bath. It was scandalous really, what she had received in return – the full amount wouldn’t have covered the price of one of the outfits. But to a jobless, homeless girl about to give birth, it was the deposit she needed to rent the tiny cottage she’d found in Eversleigh.
She looked down to see that Henty’s little face was wrinkled in anxiety.
‘I still haven’t found a dress,’ she confessed. ‘Charles was supposed to take me to Liberty to choose something but he hasn’t had time.’
Honor frowned. From what she knew of Charles, she was quite sure he had plenty of time. He just wasn’t interested in his wife, which was verging on the criminal, as Henty was quite the squidgiest, funniest, most adorable little creature that walked the earth and Charles was a smug, self-satisfied pig. She didn’t say that to Henty, though.
‘Let’s have a look through what you’ve got.’
‘Nothing! Absolutely nothing!’ squeaked Henty.
‘You’d be amazed. You just need an objective eye and a bit of imagination.’
Henty didn’t look convinced, but she needed no excuse for a bit of girly fun and the opportunity for someone to share a glass of white wine with. Ted and Walter were also delighted to have an impromptu play together, and piled into the back seat of Henty’s Discovery. Honor leaped into the front, and Henty put on Thea’s Pink CD. All the way back to the Beresfords’ farm they sang ‘Get This Party Started’.
There was one long plain black velvet dress in Henty’s wardrobe that fitted.
‘But it’s so boring,’ she wailed. ‘I want to look sexy, not as if I’ve just buried my husband.’
Honor managed to stop herself from saying that really would be something to celebrate.
‘Pass me the scissors,’ she commanded, then proceeded to hack at the skirt until the hemline hung asymmetrically from mid thigh to ankle. Then she marched across the corridor to the bedroom that Thea and her younger sister, twelve-year-old Lily, shared. It was a treasure trove of pink girliness. The girls lay on their beds texting and glaring at Honor balefully as she rummaged around.
Eventually she pulled out a hot-pink feather boa from under Lily’s bed.
‘Hey!’ chorused the girls in protest.
‘Can you honestly, honestly tell me that you wear this?’ demanded Honor, and neither of the girls had the nerve to say they did.
Quarter of an hour later, the boa was stitched round the hem.
‘Are you sure I don’t look like Lisa Riley?’ asked Henty anxiously.
‘You look gorgeous,’ assured Honor. ‘Go into Cheltenham tomorrow. Get yourself some killer strappy shoes and some long black evening gloves. And book yourself an up-do at the hairdresser’s.’
Henty threw her arms round her.
‘You’re a life-saver,’ she cried. ‘We need a massive glass of wine. And why don’t you stay for supper?’
When Charles walked in at seven o’clock, he found Henty, Honor, Thea and Lily practising dance moves in the kitchen, Ted and Walter taking the piss out of them behind their backs, and his oldest son Robin slugging the wine out of the second bottle that had been opened. And the potatoes stuck to the bottom of the saucepan.
‘The potatoes are burnt,’ he complained.
‘Shut up, you old fart,’ sang Henty, who was trying to do the splits but ended up falling in the dog’s basket.
When Honor got home that evening, she put Ted to bed, keenly aware that they hadn’t done his spellings but promising herself that they could squeeze it in if she got him up ten minutes earlier. Then she sat on her bed, immersed in the gloom that comes from having a drink too early in the evening and not carrying on. Which is always worse if you find yourself on your own.
‘Be positive,’ she told herself, and pulled back the chintzy curtain that hung in front of the rail she’d in-expertly put up in an alcove to house what remained of her clothes. Underneath were neatly stacked old shoe-boxes that she’d covered in pretty wrapping paper, which held her accessories. Taking a deep breath, she started to rifle through.
Half an hour later, she appraised herself in the mirror and decided that, although she needed to double-check her appearance in the cold light of day and when she was sober, she hadn’t done a bad job.
She’d unearthed a naughty black silk corset, tied with ribbons up the back, that she’d bought from an exquisite underwear shop in Paris at great expense. She’d kept it because she could hardly flog off her underwear, and of all the items in her wardrobe she loved this the most – the tiny, handsewn buttonholes, the discreet wiring and boning that gave her a minute waist and an impressive cleavage.
Round her waist she draped a black and white silk shawl. It had belonged to her grandmother, so once again she hadn’t been able to part with it. She knotted it on one hip like a pareo, and the heavily tasselled silk hung beautifully. Then she slung on half a dozen pearl necklaces that she’d harboured from various charity shops: all different lengths and sizes. All she would have to buy was some cobwebby tights and false eyelashes. With some dramatic eye make-up and her short dark hair spiked, she’d look…
Well, different.
The one thing she wouldn’t have to worry about was someone else turning up in the same outfit.
4
‘Oh my God!’ breathed Henty on Saturday night when Honor and Ted turned up. ‘You look amazing! Like a punk princess.’
‘You look beautiful too.’ Honor gave her a hug.
Henty did indeed look stunning. The hairdresser had piled her dark curls on top of her head in an elegant updo, and she’d added some of Thea’s dangly earrings and
some deep red lipstick.
Charles was draped languidly in a chair in the sitting room in his dinner shirt and braces, smoking a cigarette. He looked up as the girls trooped in.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘You look fantastic. You see,’ he added to Henty, ‘look what you can achieve when you make a bit of an effort. There’s no reason to let yourself go.’
Honor saw Henty’s little face cloud over at Charles’s implied criticism. Why couldn’t he just have told her she looked gorgeous and leave it at that?
She’d noticed that Charles always managed to burst Henty’s bubble. She thought he was probably a bit of a bully. Henty had told her once that Charles wouldn’t buy her a tumble-dryer because he liked his clothes line-dried. Honor had been horrified. With four children, two of them girls who changed their outfits at the blink of an eye, Henty did not need to be lugging baskets of washing outside only to have them rained on. But she didn’t seem to be able to stand up to Charles.
He was shrugging on his dinner jacket now. Honor supposed he was good-looking in an oily sort of way, with his dark hair slicked back and his hooded hazel eyes. But didn’t he know it. She’d put her life on him having wandering hand trouble.
‘Who’s going to drive?’ asked Henty. ‘We should have booked a taxi.’
‘I’ll drive,’ said Charles magnanimously, wanting to look generous in front of Honor. He sometimes felt uncomfortable with the way she looked at him. Honor made him nervous, made him behave badly and say things he didn’t mean because what he really wanted to do was flirt with her but he didn’t quite dare. Henty had told him one night, rather aghast, that Honor had gone for nearly seven years without sex, and Charles had become rather obsessed with the information. Though he wasn’t quite sure if he believed it. He suspected it was a myth Honor had built up around herself, to make sure other women weren’t threatened by the fact that she was both single and incredibly attractive. He followed the girls out of the living room, running his eyes over the little buttons that ran down Honor’s back, wondering how long they would take to undo.
In your dreams, mate, he thought wryly.
The ball was in an enormous marquee in the grounds of a nearby country hotel. The committee knew from experience that there was no point in knocking themselves out to decorate, as the guests were notoriously hardened drinkers and wouldn’t notice their surroundings after about an hour. And the less that was spent on fripperies the more money would be raised for the hospice, which was, after all, the point. Half decent food, a decent band and plenty of booze was all that was needed to make the evening a success.
And tonight they had a bonus novelty which would make everyone feel they’d had their money’s worth. Guy Portias had brought along Richenda Fox. Their engagement had been splashed all over the Daily Post that morning. The Post was one of those papers that no one admitted to reading but secretly did, full as it was of celebrity gossip and right-wing mantras. As long as you took their editorial with a pinch of salt it was a jolly good read.
Everyone had slavered over the pictures in the paper over their Saturday morning croissants. It was a typical Hello!-magazine style spread, with Richenda in sumptuous designer outfits posed in various different parts of Eversleigh Manor, while Guy hovered next to her in his jeans and a dark blue linen shirt, rumpled and bemused. Those who knew him well smiled inwardly, knowing he would have hated the attention. Guy was as popular locally as his father had been; both of them affable, charming, unaffected. Madeleine, of course, was a different story. She had an edge, though many of the wives locally protested that she had to stand her ground, as the Portias men were laws unto themselves. Utterly impossible in the nicest possible way.
Having had their fill of the tabloid gossip that morning and duly exchanged notes over the telephone, none of the guests at the ball were star-struck by Richenda’s presence. They’d been used to having stars in their midst for the past six months with the film crew, after all, and anyway they were all far too well brought up to gawp. They all agreed, however, that the two of them made an absolutely stunning couple. Richenda was in a shimmering pale gold sheath; Guy looked as ever as if he had pulled on the first thing he could find when he got out of bed, in this case his dinner jacket. But they both looked incredibly happy, and couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
Guy had indeed found the photoshoot a trial. He had resolutely refused to put on any of the clothes that had been brought along for him to wear.
‘I’m not a bloody footballer,’ he’d protested, chucking the cream satin shirt with the pointy cuffs back at the stylist, who’d winced.
‘That’s five hundred quid’s worth of shirt!’ she shot back, replacing it hastily on the hanger before it got creased.
‘Says who?’ said Guy amiably. ‘Something’s only worth what someone will pay for it and personally I wouldn’t give you tuppence for it.’
In the end, Richenda had intervened, picking out the most understated shirt and agreeing he could wear his jeans.
‘I’m not changing for every picture,’ he warned. ‘I never change! I wear the same clothes for weeks on end.’
‘I had noticed,’ said Richenda drily. ‘And that’s fine. You look gorgeous. Just smile.’
She kissed him on the nose as a hairdresser descended once again to smooth down her already immaculate locks. Satisfied with her handiwork, the hairdresser turned to Guy, wielding her scissors.
‘Could I just chip in to a few of your ends, give you a few layers, then put in some sculpting mousse?’
‘Definitely not,’ grinned Guy, running his hands through his curls. ‘I’ve given it a good wash with some Vosene this morning.’
The hairdresser narrowed her eyes, not sure if she was being wound up.
‘Leave him,’ said Richenda, who was having eyelash extensions put on. ‘I don’t want him looking like David Dickinson. Anyway, the public might as well know the horrible truth.’
Guy had trailed round with long-suffering good humour, as the photographer ushered them excitedly from fireplace to sweeping staircase to gazebo.
‘I’ve never sat in this bloody gazebo in my life,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s a bloody charade.’
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ murmured his fiancée, ‘but this is the price you have to pay for asking me to marry you.’
‘He’s got ten more minutes then I’m going for a pint,’ said Guy, squinting into the glaring October sunshine.
Now, the two were enjoying their first outing as an officially engaged couple. The first hour had been taken up with congratulatory kisses and handshakes and back-slapping from people Guy had known all his life, and Richenda had been introduced to all of them. Now, however, everyone had forgotten the novelty and the two of them were regarded as just another pair of guests whose duty it was to have as good a time as possible. Dinner had been eaten, jackets were off and cigars were being lit, and the chairman of the committee was auctioning off the many items donated by local businesses in order to swell the money raised to renovate the kitchens at the hospice.
Guy had already unsuccessfully bid for a free pint every night for a year at any of the Honeycote Ales pubs. He’d drunk a bottle of Merlot and was itching to bid for something else. The mood amongst the bidders was of spirited competition, with everyone eager to outdo each other – not out of ostentation, but because the chairman was good at his job.
‘The next lot,’ announced the chairman, ‘is a bespoke cake, decorated to your requirements. Donated by our very own domestic goddess, Honor McLean –’
At this point there was a resounding cheer from Honor’s table and she had to stand up and take a bow.
‘– who, I’m reliably informed, also does freezer fills – whatever they are, sounds rather uncomfortable – and dinner-party puddings. So, those of you who have an imminent celebration – birthday, anniversary, wedding…’
This last he said meaningfully, with an arch look over to Guy, and another resounding cheer went up. Guy grinned, and turned to Richenda.
‘I’ll have to bid for this now. We are going to need a wedding cake.’
Richenda opened her mouth to protest. She’d already decided on the cake she wanted, a towering concoction of white chocolate cherubs and rose leaves, hideously expensive but quite, quite stunning. But now was not the time to argue. Guy was obviously keen to bid for something. Hopefully he’d forget about it in the run-up. Or she could pretend she had forgotten. They’d be able to use the cake for something else – if he bid successfully.
Three minutes later, the cake was his.
‘Three hundred and seventy quid!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’ll be the most expensive wedding cake ever.’
Richenda didn’t tell him that the one she had her eye on was over a thousand. The important thing was that the money had gone to a good cause. And she’d already decided that the most gracious thing to do would be to donate the cake to the hospice when they had the ceremonial opening of their refurbished kitchen. It would look lovely in the photos in the local paper.
The auction was soon over, and the chairman, smoke steaming from his calculator, announced delightedly that they had raised over fourteen thousand pounds and that the band was about to start. Chairs were pushed back and people hurled themselves on to the dance floor as the strains of ‘Let Me Entertain You’ urged them to their feet.
An Eligible Bachelor Page 6
