An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  Charles nearly fainted when she told him the price.

  ‘They are out of season.’

  ‘No – that’s fine.’ He handed over his credit card. While they waited for the machine to do its thing, he cleared his throat.

  ‘You know, watching you… you make it look so easy. And it’s got me thinking: there aren’t any flower-arranging programmes on telly.’

  Fleur raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I can’t imagine it would make gripping viewing.’

  ‘I don’t know – with the right person. Everyone’s looking for the new big thing. Let’s face it, cooking and houses have been done to death. Likewise gardens. And antiques. They’re now reduced to making programmes about the best way to clean out your lavatory. I think it would be a winner. Everybody loves flowers and everybody thinks they can’t do a thing with them. Give a woman a bunch of flowers and she panics.’ Charles said it as if he thrust bouquets at Henty all the time. ‘We should talk.’

  Fleur looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘I thought you just did books.’

  ‘Well, primarily, but everything’s very fluid these days. Books feed TV and vice versa. I’ve got contacts,’ Charles assured her airily. ‘And obviously we’d do a book to accompany the series.’

  ‘There’s masses of books on flower arranging.’

  ‘I think there’d already been a few cookery books before Nigella came along. Hasn’t affected her sales figures.’

  ‘Nigella?’ Fleur looked at him, amused. ‘You’re not comparing me to her, surely?’

  ‘Same concept. Men want you, women want to be you.’

  A less vain woman would have given Charles a slap at this point. But Fleur was rather warming to his idea.

  ‘I was actually thinking about opening a flower-arranging school here. But a TV show would be much more exciting.’

  ‘Let me draft a proposal for a format. Can you make a lunch in town to talk it over?’

  Fleur thought about it.

  ‘I could leave the shop with my assistant.’

  ‘What about Thursday? I’ll show you what I’ve come up with and you can add your ideas. Then we can think about a screen test. Get the whole package together.’

  Fleur was looking a little shell-shocked, but Charles had gone into kick-ass mode. He could talk the talk when he wanted to; he made it hard to say no. Which she had no intention of doing.

  ‘That sounds great,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor of excitement out of her voice. The credit-card machine finally spewed out his receipt. Charles signed it with a flourish.

  ‘See you Thursday. Oh – and best not to breathe a word to anybody. There’s bound to be people still crawling round from Lady Jane. You don’t want somebody else jumping on the bandwagon and getting in first with the idea.’

  Fleur watched Charles go, feeling a little fizz in the pit of her stomach.

  She was dangerously bored. She’d bagged her wealthy husband ten years ago, a dear little country solicitor with bright brown eyes and a gentle nature. She’d had her two children, one of each, immaculately turned out and well-behaved and now both at school. She’d started her own business to stop her going insane with boredom, and now it was turning out to be such a success with, it seemed, the minimum of input from her (for Fleur was nothing if not the mistress of delegation), she was ready for the next challenge.

  Charles Beresford intrigued her. Half of her knew he was a bit of a knob, self-satisfied. But there was no doubt he was attractive, with those heavy-lidded eyes. And Robert, bless him, wasn’t up to much in the bedroom stakes. If she put on underwear with strategic bits missing, he nearly had a heart attack. At thirty-six, Fleur knew she was at her sexual peak, and she wanted someone to peak with. Charles Beresford would definitely be up for it.

  And if what he was saying about a TV programme was true, then so much the better. Fleur was shallow and, like most shallow people, craved fame. She’d been in agony throughout the filming of Lady Jane, wanting desperately to mix with the famous faces that passed through Eversleigh, but they’d looked straight through her when they passed her on the high street. She was a nobody, a Cotswold housewife with a flower shop. As the provider of flowers she’d hoped to be invited to the wrap party, but no invitation had materialized and it had stuck in her craw.

  For a moment she indulged herself in a little fantasy. Her programme was a resounding success, propelling her, as Charles had hinted, to Nigella-like proportions (though not literally; Fleur would never allow herself to go an ounce over eight and a half stone). There would be a chain of Twigs across the country; perhaps even concessions in Sainsbury’s or Tesco. No – Waitrose: that was the profile she was after. She would have as much influence on gerberas and lilies as Delia had once had on limes and cranberries. Buying flowers would become a weekly ritual for everyone. A necessary luxury. A luxurious necessity. You were judged no longer by what you wore or drove, but by what you had in your vase – as dictated by Fleur Gibson. Her book would be as de rigueur on the middle-class shelf as Jamie Oliver or the River Café.

  She ran with the fantasy for a moment, imagining herself in a white, five-storey house in Notting Hill, with a driver who steered her from chat show to personal appearance to spa appointment. Robert would still be bobbing about in the background in a kindly way – she would never be so heartless as to get rid of him – but she would have her fair share of admirers who she would pick and choose for the occasional sinful fling…

  Immersed in her dreams, Fleur happily counted the day’s takings, tidied up the counter and switched off the lights, then mentally went through her wardrobe wondering what would be the best thing to wear for Thursday’s lunch.

  Bloody hell, thought Charles, as he sat in the back of the minicab he’d called from his mobile. That hadn’t been his plan at all. He’d been so determined to wipe the slate clean and make it up to Henty. Now here he was with an arrangement to meet Fleur for lunch.

  It was business, he told himself, looking down at the elaborate bouquet. He couldn’t help it if inspiration had struck when it had. And it was an utterly brilliant idea. Of course, he wouldn’t mention it to Henty, because she would be instantly suspicious. But he would keep his meetings with Fleur on a businesslike level. No funny stuff. If the idea came to nothing, then no harm would be done. And if it was a success, then he could think of some clever way of bringing it all out into the open that wouldn’t rouse Henty’s suspicions.

  Henty thought the flowers were very nice, but wasn’t quite as appreciative as Charles had hoped given the amount they’d cost. She plonked them in a vase and put them on the kitchen windowsill.

  ‘Why don’t you put them in the hall?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s the point of that? I spend most of my time in the kitchen. I’ll be able to appreciate them in here.’

  He looked at her sharply, wondering just how pointed her remark was, but she was busy grating Parmesan.

  ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘I managed to sort out someone to come and help us. It was only a stroke of luck. I just happened to phone at the right moment.’

  ‘Experienced with horses?’ Charles asked sharply.

  ‘Very. Grown up with them. Plays polo back in South Africa.’

  ‘Fantastic’ An image of a tanned, leggy blonde popped into Charles’s head. ‘Driver?’

  ‘Yes. Obviously. That being the main criteria.’ Henty’s tone was sharp. Charles flinched. He hoped this newfound acidity was going to wear off soon. No doubt when the nanny arrived and smoothed things over…

  ‘Great with kids, too. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear.’

  There it was again, that incipient sarcasm.

  ‘Well, of course, that goes without saying, darling,’ he replied soothingly. ‘I know that’s the first thing you’ll have checked. When does she start?’

  Henty stopped grating and looked up at him.

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, she doesn’t?’

  �
��She doesn’t start. Because it’s a he.’ Henty flashed him a triumphant smile. ‘Our new nanny-groom is called Travis, and he’s arriving on Wednesday on the five-eighteen.’

  10

  At five to six that evening, having removed the traces of fish finger and baked beans from around Ted’s mouth and forced him into a clean jumper, Honor led him down the road to Eversleigh Manor. It hadn’t taken her long to decide to take Madeleine up on her offer. Never mind the economics, it was bound to be more interesting than catering for the coachloads of pensioners that pitched up at the craft centre. Honor had been itching for a challenge ever since Ted had started at school the previous September, but had been wary of taking on something with too much commitment. This was ideal; almost tailor-made. She’d popped in to see the manageress of the craft centre after lunch, and tentatively given her a week’s notice – there had never been any formal arrangement between them, and she felt they often exploited her good nature, so she didn’t feel too guilty. Then she’d spent the afternoon drawing up menu suggestions, until she had enough ideas for an entire year of house parties.

  As they walked through the gates and crunched over the gravel, Ted looked up in awe at the sprawling manor. Uplighters in the flower beds illuminated the edifice; the golden stone was bathed in a soft glow. It looked warm and welcoming, and Honor felt reassured. She lifted Ted up so he could tug on the iron bell-pull, and they heard it ring deep inside the house.

  Madeleine opened the door with a warm smile, and actually gave Honor a hug when she delivered her verdict.

  ‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am,’ she gushed. ‘Come on in. Come and see the kitchen. A lot of it’s out of the ark, I’m afraid. But if there’s anything you need, I’m sure the budget can run to it. I’ve spent a fortune already, so it won’t make much difference.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Honor. ‘I’m not really into modern technology.’

  She realized minutes later that Madeleine hadn’t been exaggerating. In relation to the grander reception rooms at the front of the house, the kitchen at Eversleigh was rather neglected. It was tucked away down a long corridor at the back of the house, and although it was cavernous – as big as the entire ground floor of Honor’s little house – it hadn’t undergone a revamp courtesy of the production company and was looking a little tired. The limed oak units screamed eighties, with their barley twist pilasters, leaded glass doors and integral spice racks, now with half the spice jars missing. The tiles were sprinkled with sheaves of corn and poppies; mug hooks and plate racks abounded behind decorative cornicing.

  ‘It was the in thing at the time,’ apologized Madeleine. ‘But I haven’t got thirty thousand to do it out again.’

  ‘Don’t apologize,’ said Honor. ‘It’s a lovely room. It’s bright and airy, and anyway, if you wait long enough all this will come back in again.’

  In fact, the kitchen was so huge that you almost didn’t notice the dated units and the rather dodgy cushioned flooring. The Aga was comfortingly enormous, and there was a long table in the middle covered in a Laura Ashley vinyl tablecloth, then two squashy old armchairs and a telly at the far end. And off the kitchen were various utility rooms and larders and cold stores, stuffed with all sorts of intriguing kitchen paraphernalia that had been part of the household for generations: jelly moulds and jam kettles and pie dishes; copper saucepans and mincers and mixing bowls large enough to bath a baby in. All of which Honor was itching to incorporate into her recipe ideas – it was like Mrs Beeton come to life.

  Before long they had Honor’s cuttings spread out on the kitchen table while Ted sat watching Cartoon Network.

  ‘I’ve had to do the unthinkable and have satellite connected,’ admitted Madeleine ruefully. ‘It’s what people expect these days. But I have to admit I’ve become rather addicted to the old reruns on UK Gold.’

  ‘Ted would sit there till midnight, given half the chance,’ admitted Honor. ‘I keep thinking the poor child’s deprived because he doesn’t have Sky or a Playstation.’

  ‘He has your attention, though,’ said Madeleine. ‘Which is more than most children get these days.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Honor warily, who didn’t like discussing her parenting skills, even when she was being complimented, and so changed the subject. ‘What were you thinking of doing for the main meal on the Saturday? If we decide that then we can work backwards round it.’

  ‘I was going to do fillet of local beef with wild mushrooms in a red wine sauce,’ suggested Madeleine. ‘I’ve done it a million times, but they aren’t to know that. And at least I know it works. If we’re going to have any teething problems, I don’t want to be worrying about the food.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Honor. ‘Let’s keep it as simple as we can. How about pan-fried scallops with crispy bacon to start? You can’t really mess it up but it is absolutely delicious. And plum tart with home-made ice cream to finish. I can do little individual ones – they look gorgeous.’

  ‘Perfect,’ agreed Madeleine, who for the first time in her life felt excited about food. Not that she was going to be eating any of this, but she was delighted that the menu was falling into place and that Honor seemed as enthusiastic as she. How had she ever imagined she could cope with all this on her own?

  ‘How about a glass of wine to toast our success?’ she suggested, and Honor accepted eagerly. She’d thought at first that Madeleine was going to be a tricky customer –demanding and nitpicking – but she was pleasantly surprised.

  They were just clinking glasses when Guy walked in.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Perfect timing. Hello,’ he said to Honor, frowning politely. He recognized but couldn’t quite place her.

  ‘You bid for my cake. On Saturday night.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The smile of recognition lit up his whole face.

  ‘Honor’s going to help me out with the food,’ said Madeleine. ‘She’s had some quite brilliant ideas.’

  ‘Ah – so you were Mother’s brainwave. Well, I hope you’re going to take some of the pressure off. It’s a bloody madhouse here.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Honor. ‘That’s the idea, anyway.’

  Guy poured himself a glass of wine.

  ‘So you live in the village?’ he asked. ‘Sorry not to have a clue but I haven’t been back home for long. I haven’t caught up with who’s who yet.’

  ‘I live in one of the cottages at the other end of the high street. With Ted.’ She nodded over to her son with a smile: he was totally absorbed in something lurid and fast moving, his hand dipping in and out of a bowl of crisps Madeleine had given him. Guy just nodded. He didn’t raise an eyebrow or quiz her about her marital status.

  ‘So when do you start?’

  Honor looked to Madeleine.

  ‘We hadn’t got round to discussing it.’

  Madeleine bit her lip anxiously.

  ‘I was hoping you could start straight away,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’ll have to give the craft centre a week’s notice,’ Honor replied cautiously, not giving away the fact that she’d already done it. She didn’t want to look too keen. ‘But I suppose I could manage both for a few days.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome to use the kitchen here. There’s stacks of freezer space and masses of storage in the larder.’

  ‘It would be easier than running up and down the road with batches of cheese straws,’ agreed Honor. ‘Have you got basic ingredients, or do I have to start from scratch?’

  Guy and Madeleine looked at each other. Honor grinned.

  ‘How about if I did a big supermarket shop for all the staples? Or better still, I’ve got a card for the cash and carry in Evesham.’

  ‘Why don’t you go with her?’ Madeleine suggested to Guy. ‘Then you can stock up on cleaning stuff and loo rolls. I’ve got Marilyn lined up to do a big clean from top to bottom on Thursday.’

  ‘What about Wednesday morning?’

  Honor mentally calculated that would give her the next day to bake whatever
was needed for the craft centre for the rest of the week – she could bung most of it in the freezer. It was going to be hard work, but she could manage. She nodded her agreement.

  ‘I’ll come round to you as soon as I’ve dropped Ted at school.’

  ‘No, I’ll pick you up,’ offered Guy. ‘Say half nine?’

  ‘There’s so much to think about.’ Madeleine sounded slightly panic-stricken, as she referred to her sheaf of lists. ‘How many sorts of jam do you think we should serve at breakfast?’

  ‘I think choice of jam’s pretty low down on our list of priorities,’ protested Guy.

  ‘No, it’s important. It’s exactly the sort of thing that matters.’

  ‘I quite agree. And the answer’s three,’ said Honor definitely. ‘Marmalade, apricot and something fancy like loganberry. And a local honey.’

  Guy gave a mock sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank God – I can sleep at night now,’ he said, then caught his mother’s eye. ‘Seriously, it’s fantastic to have someone around who seems to know what they’re doing,’ he went on. ‘Mother did rush into this somewhat.’

  ‘I did not,’ said Madeleine stoutly. ‘I’ve got it all under control, in my own way.’

  ‘There’s no need to panic,’ soothed Honor. ‘It’s only Monday You’ve got four whole days before they arrive.’

  ‘How can you be so calm?’ asked Guy curiously.

  ‘I used to run a hotel in Bath,’ she admitted.

  ‘I can feel a promotion coming on already,’ said Guy. ‘Forget being head of cheese straws. I think we should make you manageress.’

  ‘You don’t need a manageress. This place should run itself. All it’s going to take is a lot of hard work.’

  ‘Any time off for good behaviour?’

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Honor, rather enjoying the banter, as Guy picked up the bottle of wine and filled up their glasses again.

  ‘Why don’t you stay for some supper?’ said Madeleine. ‘We can go through everything. I’m sure there’s a hundred things I’ve forgotten. We can make a list –’