Guy walked past a table on his way to the bar and spotted the girl who had donated the cake he had bid for. She was sipping her wine, gazing at the dance floor –rather wistfully, he thought. She was a striking creature, with her short, dark hair and huge brown eyes. Elfin, he decided. Though tall for an elf. At least five eight. Fab legs. Coltish.
An elfin colt. Or a coltish elf.
Guy touched her on the arm. She looked up at him, startled out of her reverie.
‘I bought your cake,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, and her whole face lit up. ‘You paid far more than it’s worth. But I’m really pleased. I could never have afforded to make a donation like that otherwise.’
‘We’re going to have it as our wedding cake.’
‘I’m very flattered,’ said Honor. ‘But if you change your mind I won’t be in the least offended. I’m not professional. It’s just a hobby, really. Pocket money’
Pocket money was an equivocation. More than once the money from her cakes had meant the difference between beans on toast or a proper Sunday lunch.
‘I’m delighted. I’ll send Richenda to talk to you about it – she’s in charge of all the wedding plans.’
Honor swallowed.
‘Great. It would be… an honour.’
God – she’d start tugging her forelock or curtsying any moment. But there was something about Guy that made you feel deferential. An air of owning the place. He was very definitely in charge, but relaxed with it. Top of the pecking order but didn’t put it about. Incredibly attractive. Honor realized that she was staring at him. And that he was staring back.
‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked suddenly.
Honor couldn’t think of anything she’d like to do more. But at that moment she saw Richenda descending upon them.
‘This is Honor, who’s doing our wedding cake,’ said Guy.
‘Lovely,’ said Richenda politely, looking straight through her, and guiding him away firmly by the elbow.
Honor was left feeling as if she was standing in her underwear, which to all intents and purposes she was.
‘Isn’t he just totally edible?’ breathed Henty in her ear.
‘I think he’s slightly spoken for,’ said Honor ruefully, as Guy took Richenda in his arms on the dance floor.
‘I don’t know. There’s plenty of time for it to go horribly wrong. Personally, I don’t think she looks his type at all.’ Henty analysed the happy couple critically. ‘She’s far too uptight.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Honor. What would most men go for? A rich, famous and beautiful actress? Or a struggling single mother?’
‘You’re ten times prettier than her,’ protested Henty. ‘And he was dying to get his hands on you. You could see it a mile off.’
Honor just shrugged and smiled.
‘Come on. Let’s go and dance.’
Ten minutes later, Honor made her way back to their table in search of mineral water. It was boiling hot in the marquee – a relatively mild night combined with the heaters and vigorous activity on the dance floor had caused a mini greenhouse effect.
There was a particularly raucous table by the bar. Lots of extremely attractive blonde women in expensive black evening gowns, tanned and coolly confident. The men were equally complacent, their chairs pushed back, jackets off, bow ties undone. Honor’s eyes flickered round the table. They weren’t really her cup of tea – success stories who despite their charm she knew would have a ruthless streak – but they were interesting to look at. Honor loved people watching.
As she looked at the foot of the table, her heart skipped a beat. She had to blink twice to make sure, but yes – it was definitely him. He was leaning in to talk to one of the women, whose head was bent towards his. She was smiling in delight at what he was saying, and Honor could just imagine the innuendo, the flattery, the compliments, the suggestiveness that could relieve a woman of her knickers within minutes…
Johnny Flynn.
Johnny Flynn, with his thick, dark red hair that stuck up like a fox’s brush no matter how hard he tried to stick it down, and his exquisite bone structure covered in perfect, porcelain skin.
Johnny Flynn, whose amber eyes burnt right through you, turning your defences to cinders and your resolutions to ashes.
Johnny Flynn, with his lilting Kerry brogue that had mockery and poetry in equal parts.
Like Cinderella, Honor turned to flee. She wasn’t sure where she would go: she didn’t have the number of a taxi on her. She could hijack a car but she was too drunk to drive. It was a three-mile walk to Fulford Farm, and she hadn’t a coat. But she knew she had to get away as quickly as possible, before he saw her. The moment he clapped eyes on her, she knew she’d be lost. She was surprised she hadn’t spotted him before. Or him her – her name had been read out by the auctioneer, she’d stood up to take a bow. Hadn’t he seen her then? Though knowing Johnny, he was probably out the back groping someone else’s wife during the auction.
She started to push her way back through the bodies heaving on the dance floor. She felt a sweaty paw clutching at her arm.
‘Come and dance,’ commanded Charles, his hand like a vice on her upper arm.
Johnny was close. He only had to turn his head forty-five degrees to the left and she’d be spotted. She turned and practically threw herself into Charles’s arms, to his surprise burying her head in his shoulder and pressing her body up against his.
She could feel Charles’s hand in the small of her back, feel him slide his little finger just inside the shawl round her waist in a gesture that was so subtly intrusive she wanted to give him the slap he deserved. But she daren’t move. Charles took her lack of resistance for compliance, enjoyment even, pressing his pelvis into hers. Oh God – what if Henty saw them and thought she was trying to get off with her husband? Honor peeped over Charles’s shoulder; Johnny was looking away. If she made a run for it now –
‘Excuse me – I need the loo.’
She pulled herself out of Charles’s grasp before he could protest, and bolted through the back of the marquee.
She scampered up the steps to the loos. There were several mothers inside, indescribably pissed and dishevelled, swapping lipsticks and horror stories. Honor gave them a smile and rushed into the nearest available cubicle, where she put the lid down on the seat and collapsed into a heap with her head in her hands. Her head was spinning slightly, from unaccustomed alcohol and shock. Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ reverberated cheerily and inappropriately around the walls as she took stock of her situation.
Outside, the trickle of inane chatter disappeared out into the night air. She’d wait until someone else came to the loos, ask them to pass a message on to Henty telling her she didn’t feel well and had gone home. Then she’d slip into the hotel and get the receptionist to call a taxi, praying that there would be one available. She could plead an emergency.
She slid back the bolt and stepped out of the cubicle. She ran some cold water to splash on to her face. She looked back at her reflection: pale, despite the alcohol.
As she put out her hand to grasp the rail and negotiate the steps in her unfamiliarly high heels, a soft voice greeted her.
‘I thought it was you.’
Shit. Johnny was leaning against the rail at the bottom of the steps, rolling an unlit cigarette in his fingers.
‘Don’t you go running off now’
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ said Honor primly.
He grabbed her wrist.
‘Fuck the taxi.’ He pulled her towards him and raked his eyes up and down her. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I’m with friends…’
Johnny’s eyes were burning a hole through her, so intense was his gaze.
‘You’re too thin.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘You look like shite.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Jaysus, Honor – whoever he is, he’s not making you happy’
&nb
sp; She couldn’t answer. All she could muster was a bitter laugh at the irony.
Are you married to one of these wankers? Show him to me.’
‘He’s not here.’ She found her voice, pulled her hand out of his. And I’ve got to go.’
A figure approached, weaving slightly.
‘Having trouble, Honor?’
Oh God. No. It was Charles.
‘No.’
‘Is this him?’ asked Johnny.
‘No…’ said Honor desperately.
‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ said Charles in a rather threatening tone, marking his territory.
‘I was just asking Honor which was her husband,’ replied Johnny.
Charles laughed smoothly.
‘As far as I know she hasn’t got one. Or so she’d have us believe.’
As the flame from Johnny’s lighter lit up his features, Charles peered more closely at him.
‘Bloody hell,’ he declared.
‘What?’ asked Johnny, rather belligerently, as was his wont when drunk.
‘You’re the spit of Ted.’
‘Who the fuck’s Ted?’ demanded Johnny.
There was a silence.
Johnny looked at Charles. Charles looked at Honor. Honor looked at the stars. For seven years, this was the moment she had been dreading.
‘Ted is my son,’ she said. ‘My son,’ she repeated more defiantly, before turning on her heel and marching towards the marquee without a backward glance.
5
Honor whirled back through the marquee as if the hounds of hell were after her. The band were well into their stride, the dance floor was crammed and drunken guests dodged out of her path as she looked wildly round for Henty. She finally spotted her leaning up against one of the tent poles, slightly the worse for wear, her up-do now more of a down-do. Honor grabbed her arm urgently.
‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Will Ted be all right with you tonight? I’ll come and get him first thing…’
Henty struggled to focus on her friend.
‘Of course. What on earth’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘A skeleton, more like,’ said Honor grimly. ‘I’ll explain everything tomorrow. I’ve really got to go.’
She felt guilty, leaving Henty without an explanation. But there wasn’t time. She had to make her escape. She hurried through the canvas tunnel that led from the marquee back to the hotel, and scurried through the corridors until she found her way to the reception desk.
‘I need a taxi. As soon as possible. Please.’
She prayed that the receptionist was the cooperative type. The girl beamed at her.
‘You’re in luck. Someone booked a cab for midnight but decided they didn’t want to leave. He should be waiting outside…’
Honor needed no second telling. She flashed a smile of thanks, pushed her way through the double doors and wrenched open the passenger door of the waiting minicab.
‘Eversleigh, please. The high street. As quickly as you can.’
‘Sure.’ The driver started up the engine as she leaped in. ‘What’s the matter? Your house on fire or something?’
‘Or something,’ replied Honor, looking nervously over her shoulder. No one had followed her out. As the cab sped down the tree-lined drive that led to the hotel, Honor leaned back in her seat with a sigh of relief. With any luck, he wouldn’t have a clue where to find her. Unlike Cinderella, she’d left no clues behind. She just prayed Charles would keep his trap shut. If he breathed a word, she’d kill him.
Inside the marquee, Henty was watching her husband on the dance floor again, this time clutching Fleur Gibson, his hands wandering freely over her bottom, which was like two hard-boiled quail’s eggs wrapped in white satin. To her astonishment, Fleur didn’t seem to mind. She was smiling up at him, tossing back her blonde bob, pressing her chest against his. Charles bent down to whisper something in Fleur’s ear, and got a simpering giggle and a suggestive thrusting of the hips in return. Henty felt sick. How could her husband behave like that in public? He didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk, because he was driving. And the thing that was most repellent was his choice of partner. She could have coped, could have excused, could even have laughed off this behaviour with most people. But for him to have chosen Fleur Gibson, so obviously the antithesis of Henty herself… a little golden sprite in contrast to a heffalump. They were both the same height, about five two, but Fleur must only weigh around seven stone, while Henty was ten and a half. Which was the equivalent of Walter. She was a whole six-year-old bigger than Fleur.
Miserable, she wished that Honor were still at the ball, because Honor could always be guaranteed to bring a smile to her face and restore her confidence. With one witty rejoinder she would dismiss Fleur, remove the threat, and Henty would feel reassured. She hated herself for needing constant bolstering, but over the years her self-esteem had slipped further and further until it was somewhere down by her ankles. Her fat ankles.
Fleur’s ankles were tiny. On one, just visible through the thigh-length split on her dress, she was sporting a chain with a diamond-encrusted padlock. Henty knew Honor would say ankle chains only meant one thing, and that it proved everything they’d ever suspected about Fleur, but Henty thought miserably that she would love to wear one, given half the chance. She picked up an unattended glass of wine from a nearby table. No one was keeping tabs on their drinks any more and Henty didn’t care what she drank, as long as it obliterated her misery. As she swigged it back, one of the mums from school walked past her and gave her a smile of sympathy. She’d obviously seen what was going on. Henty felt her cheeks burning: she didn’t want to be an object of pity. More to the point, she didn’t want everyone saying ‘Let’s be honest, who would you choose?’
Bolstered by the half glass of wine she’d sunk, she marched up to Charles and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘I’d like to go home, Charles.’
Charles’s smile was rather fixed.
‘Don’t be silly, darling. We can’t go yet.’
‘I’m not feeling very well.’
‘Go and sit down and have a glass of water.’
He hadn’t even taken his arms from round Fleur’s neck. Throughout the exchange, Fleur clung to his lapel, smiling patiently as she waited for his conversation with his wife to finish so they could resume where they had left off.
‘I want to go,’ repeated Henty patiently.
She saw Fleur and Charles roll their eyes at each other over her head. They obviously thought she was too pissed to notice. Charles fished about in his pocket and tossed her the keys.
‘Go and wait in the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll be out in a minute when I’ve said my goodbyes.’
Stuck your tongue down Fleur’s throat, more like, thought Henty miserably as she picked her way across the field that was serving as a car park. She sat shivering in the Discovery for twenty minutes, until Charles finally emerged.
‘Happy now?’
He slammed the door rather too hard and Henty winced.
‘I can’t help it if I feel ill,’ she protested.
‘You just can’t bear anyone else enjoying themselves, can you?’ he snarled, turning on the engine and spinning the wheels in the mud before roaring off.
This last remark was so patently unfair that it didn’t even merit an answer. Henty looked out of the window, chewing her finger, and wondered where on earth Honor had gone. Then a hideous thought occurred to her. Perhaps Charles had made a pass at her! They’d both been on the dance floor, then disappeared outside. Charles had reappeared just after Honor had made her hasty exit.
‘Do you know what happened to Honor?’ Henty blurted, rather belligerently for her.
‘Ah. Honor.’ Charles raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘The born-again virgin? She spotted a blast from the past. Couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. She’s a dark horse, if you ask me.’
He looked sideways at Henty, smirking, and for a moment the car drifted a
cross the road.
‘Charles!’
‘Shit!’ Hastily he corrected the steering, just in time to avoid a figure stepping out in front of them.
‘Wanker!’ he shouted.
‘Charles, it’s a policeman.’
Charles slammed on the brakes. There was a police car parked up in a gateway ahead.
‘Fuck.’
‘I thought you said you were all right to drive?’
‘I am all right to drive. I’m just not all right to be breathalysed.’
‘For God’s sake…’
‘Shut up. I’ll deal with this.’
Charles wound down his window as the officer approached.
‘Evening, officer.’ He gave him his hundred-watt smile, the charm school special.
The officer nodded, and indicated his bow tie. ‘I’d guess you’re on the way back from the ball?’
‘Yes. I drew the short straw tonight, I’m afraid. But you can still have fun without a drink. Oh yes.’
The officer nodded sagely in agreement.
‘So you won’t have had a drink, then?’
Charles faltered, not quite daring to lie.
‘Ooh – just a glass of bubbly early on in the evening. To be sociable.’
‘In that case, you won’t mind blowing into this.’
Henty closed her eyes. That was all she bloody needed. Charles without a driving licence for the next twelve months. Where was she supposed to fit chauffeuring him around into her schedule?
The taxi drew up outside Honor’s little house just after one o’clock. The village street was eerily dark, lit only by the occasional outside light from another house. Shivering, she dug inside her evening bag, praying that she had enough to pay him. The fare was thirteen pounds. She found a tenner and scraped up the rest of her change. There was just enough left over to give him a fifty-pence tip. She wasn’t sure if that was insulting or not. In the old days she’d have given him a twenty and told him to keep the change.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t got any more,’ she apologized. ‘I didn’t bring much money with me. I didn’t think I was going to be taking a cab.’
An Eligible Bachelor Page 7
