An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  Travis got it just right.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ exclaimed Henty when he asked her to taste it. ‘The agency didn’t tell me you were a demon cook.’

  ‘I’m not really. But my mum trained us well,’ he explained. ‘I’ve got five brothers and sisters and she made sure we could all cook and wash and iron. Otherwise she says her life would have been hell.’

  A bit like mine, thought Henty, deciding that she was going to start getting tough. Her husband and her kids were thoroughly spoilt. Whenever she asked them to do anything there was such a protest, it was painful. Take Thea and Lily. She’d asked them to lay the table earlier and they’d pleaded homework, but now they were sitting at the kitchen table drooling over Travis. They both had hideous shiny strawberry-scented lip gloss on and piles of eyeliner that made their eyes look tiny. Henty had been tempted to put on make-up too, but Charles would have spotted it immediately and passed some sort of sarcastic comment that would have made her squirm with embarrassment.

  Lily insisted on putting Christina Aguilera on the CD player and turning it up, full volume. Charles turned it off and put on Dido.

  ‘Yaaawn,’ pronounced Thea, disgusted.

  ‘Isn’t there something we all like?’ pleaded Henty.

  ‘Which do you prefer, Travis?’ asked Lily sweetly.

  ‘We don’t have music at the dinner table back home,’ he said. ‘We prefer to talk.’

  What an angel, thought Henty, as he winked at her and the girls tossed their shiny hair in disgust.

  Charles opened a bottle of wine.

  ‘Not South African, I’m afraid,’ he apologized. ‘I’m a bit of an Old World traditionalist when it comes to wine.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t care where it comes from,’ replied Travis, pointing to the little stubby Henty had given him earlier. ‘I’ll stick with the beer, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Charles, fetching him another out of the fridge.

  ‘Can we have one?’ chorused the girls.

  ‘No,’ chorused Henty and Charles.

  ‘So what’s brought you to England?’ Charles swirled his wine round in the glass and sniffed appreciatively, whilst not taking his eyes off his new employee.

  Travis leaned back against the work surface, one long leg crossed over the other, and took a swig from his beer.

  ‘Mum’s English, so I’ve got an English passport. I want to go to uni here, but I’ve got to save up some money first. I spent the summer exercising polo ponies for some family friends in Warwickshire, but the season’s over now.’

  ‘And what are you going to study?’

  ‘Equine science.’

  ‘That’s what I want to do!’ squeaked Thea.

  ‘Since when?’ said Charles, turning to her with a supercilious eyebrow. ‘I thought you wanted to go to drama school.’

  ‘No way. I never said that.’

  ‘You did!’ exclaimed Lily. ‘You want to be an actress! You were hanging round Eversleigh Manor all summer hoping to be spotted.’

  ‘I was not!’

  ‘They’ve just finished filming a television series in the village,’ Henty explained to Travis. ‘It’s been chaos. I don’t know why, but the sight of a camera crew turns everyone into gibbering idiots.’

  ‘Everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame,’ said Charles. Including Fleur Gibson, he thought, feeling a mild flutter of panic that the day he had been dreading and looking forward to in equal parts was so near.

  Henty opened the oven door to get out the jacket potatoes.

  ‘Golly, it’s hot in here,’ said Thea, and ostentatiously pulled off her top. Underneath she had on a tiny white singlet, and underneath that a bright pink bra. Charles nearly spat out his Shiraz. Since when had his fourteen-year-old daughter had a cleavage? Instinctively, his eyes turned to Travis. He was dicing peppers for the top of the salad, seemingly oblivious.

  ‘Thea. Put your top back on. Now.’ Charles muttered urgently under his breath, hoping his daughter would get the message and Travis wouldn’t look up.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy. Did you say something?’

  Charles gestured wildly with his hands for her to cover herself up. She stared back at him in puzzlement. Travis caught sight of the exchange and picked up Thea’s top from the back of her chair.

  ‘I think your dad wants you decent at the dinner table. And when you’ve done that give your mum a hand with the plates.’

  He turned away without giving Thea’s chest so much as a second glance. Thea looked outraged and put her top back on without a word. Lily smirked. Henty concentrated hard on cutting crosses in the tops of the potatoes, once again trying not to smile. Life was definitely going to be interesting.

  After supper, Charles and Travis shared a whisky at the kitchen table while Henty frogmarched the girls upstairs to bed.

  ‘We might as well have this conversation now,’ said Charles, rather pompously. ‘Just so we start off on the right foot. But if you lay a finger on either of my daughters, you’ll find one of your balls at Land’s End and the other at John o’Groats. And just in case your geography’s not up to much,’ he added, ‘they are a long way apart.’

  Travis didn’t look remotely offended.

  ‘Hey, listen, you’ve got nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘I’m not into teenage girls. I’ve always gone for the more mature woman.’ He smiled at Charles. ‘If you need to warn me off anybody, it’s your wife.’

  Charles laughed.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, then,’ he said. ‘As long as we both know where we stand.’

  He drained his glass, chuckling to himself at the thought of Travis giving Henty so much as a second glance.

  Honor sat up late that evening finishing off the bottle of wine that Johnny had opened. Now she was alone, she could think clearly and weigh up exactly what had happened.

  She began by reminding herself of all the reasons she’d wanted to keep him at arm’s length. The times he’d stood her up. The times she’d watched him flirt with another woman across a room. The times he’d got disgustingly drunk with his mates watching rugby on a Saturday afternoon, and been incapable of attending whatever social occasion they had arranged for that evening. The time he’d forgotten her birthday. The times he’d borrowed money and not given it back. The times his credit card had bounced in a restaurant and she’d had to bail him out. The times she’d gone to his place for the evening and been disgusted by the state – the unmade bed with the sheets that hadn’t been changed for weeks, the washing-up piled in the sink, the takeaway cartons in the living room. The times he’d lost money at the races and pretended he hadn’t. The times he’d won money at the races and drunk the lot.

  What on earth could a girl find attractive in that? Nothing, surely?

  So why, then, had her heart skipped a beat when he leaned in towards her to say goodbye? Why had she been so disappointed when he merely touched his cheek to hers as one might a maiden aunt? Even though only moments before she had been flinging bitter accusations at him?

  Because she knew the flip side of the coin. The Johnny that was passionate, loving, caring – the one that had been there this very evening. The one who used to look into her eyes with such fierce intensity when they made love, who’d reached right out and touched the soul she didn’t really know she had. And once you’d had that passion, it was very hard to settle for anything less. Which was why Honor hadn’t bothered looking. She’d rather be on her own than settle for the mundane and the ordinary.

  Could she now go back? Could she steel herself for the chaos and the thrills, the constant turmoil offset by spine-tingling ecstasy? Would it be fair on Ted for her to be in a constant state of uncertainty, not sure whether she was going to spend the evening in disappointment, exasperation or exhausting, mind-blowing sex? Because that’s the way it always was with Johnny. He was Mister Unpredictable. He might be putting on a good act for the time being, but his fickle, maverick nature ran deep.

  Honor poured out the
last trickle of wine, knowing that it was going to give her a thick head, but needing the security of being half pissed because that was so much better than facing cold reality. She could confront that in the morning. She sighed. If only she hadn’t bumped into Johnny. Stop it, she chided herself. There was no point in saying if only. How far did you go back? If only she’d never gone to the ball? If only she’d never got pregnant? If only she’d never met Johnny in the first place…? She leaned her head back on the sofa cushions. She just needed to be calm, cool and in control. Keep her distance. Businesslike, that was the key.

  Honor gave a hollow laugh. Businesslike? Who was she trying to kid? How could she remain businesslike, when she knew all she really wanted was for Johnny to throw her on the floor, rip her clothes off and fuck what was left of her brains out? Bugger sex. She’d gone without it for nearly seven years, and now it was all she could think about.

  12

  Travis had been at Fulford Farm less than twenty-four hours before Henty decided that he had been sent from heaven. By seven thirty on Thursday morning, he’d fed the horses, let them into the top paddock, mucked them out, and had an in-depth conversation with Charles about their exercise regime whilst simultaneously making a huge saucepan of porridge for all the children. Which he then proceeded to make them eat, even Thea and Lily.

  ‘All the top models eat porridge,’ he’d assured them, and they’d scoffed a bowl each.

  By eight o’clock he had taught Walter to tie his laces, a battle that Henty had lost on a daily basis and had given up all hope of ever winning, then left in the battered old Golf to drop Charles at the station and Thea and Lily at their pick-up point.

  When Henty came back from dropping off Walter and Robin at half past nine, Travis was pulling on a pair of battered suede chaps over his Levis. Henty looked round the kitchen in disbelief. There wasn’t a dirty plate or cup to be seen. Even the porridge pan had been scoured. Usually she spent at least half an hour clearing up after breakfast.

  ‘I’m going to go and lick those horses into shape,’ he explained, tightening up the buckles. ‘Why don’t you treat yourself to a day off?’

  ‘A day off? But I don’t work.’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? That family of yours don’t exactly do much to help. Go and have your hair done or something.’

  Henty put her hands up instinctively to her nest of wild curls.

  ‘I know it’s awful.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. You need pampering.’ He grinned as he picked up his baseball cap and clamped it over his own curls. ‘Isn’t that why I’m here? So you can have a life?’

  He sauntered out of the kitchen, whistling merrily, the soft, supple suede of his chaps moving with him, the faded blue denim of his jeans peeping out underneath. Henty smiled to herself. She bet it wouldn’t be long before Charles rushed out to get himself a pair, but she doubted it would have the same effect. The leather would be stiff, giving him a stilted walk. And whilst Charles was trim, his legs weren’t as long, his bum wasn’t as…

  Henty shook herself back into reality. What on earth was she doing, leering at Travis’s bottom and taking the mickey out of her own husband for something he hadn’t actually done yet? Instead, she stood still for a moment, and enjoyed the sensation of having nothing to do. The kitchen was immaculate; the beastly horses had been seen to. A gentle whirring from the utility room told her that a load of washing had already been put on.

  She supposed there were things she could do. But nothing that wouldn’t wait. Travis was right. She was going to put herself first for a change. She grabbed the phone to make herself an appointment at the hairdresser’s in Eldenbury. There was a choice of two – one rather old-fashioned establishment that was always full of old ladies having a shampoo and set, and a sleek, new salon, Gianni, that a lot of the mums at school raved about. Incredibly, she got an appointment straight away with Gianni himself, as there had been a cancellation.

  Half an hour later she found herself sitting nervously in the chair as Gianni came up behind her. He was slight, in his late twenties, with a tight T-shirt tucked into designer jeans; good-looking in a stereotypically swarthy, Mediterranean way. From the moment he picked up her hair, she could tell he wasn’t gay – his touch sent a tingle through her as he lifted the strands to see how they fell, pushed her parting from one side to the other, examined the ends, ruffled it up with his fingers to gauge its texture.

  ‘It’s beautiful hair,’ he pronounced in an accent that still spoke of Sicilian lemon groves. ‘But it’s a mess. I need to take at least two inches off the bottom, and thin it right out.’

  ‘I don’t want thin hair!’

  ‘It won’t look thin – it will fall better. At the moment the weight is dragging it down. It’s just doing nothing. If we slice into it, we give it body. Movement.’

  ‘OK.’ Henty was only half convinced.

  ‘And we need to give it some colour. Some lowlights.’ He pulled out a large folder. Inside were little swatches of hair in all the colours imaginable. ‘You just want some subtle flashes – some nice autumn colours to make it rich.’

  ‘And cover up the grey,’ Henty laughed nervously.

  For three-quarters of an hour she sat while a colourist applied squares of tinfoil to her head, daubing on dubious-smelling gunk. Another half hour and Gianni inspected and seemed pleased with the results. He ushered her over to the sink.

  His strong fingers were massaging her scalp and she closed her eyes, enjoying the luxury. To her amazement she was completely relaxed – a strange and not unattractive man was touching her, and it felt natural. As she sat there she let her imagination wander – what might happen if there was no one else in the salon, if the lights were down low, the music soft…

  ‘Hey – wake up. I’m finished.’

  He was laughing down at her, and she opened her eyes in alarm. Something about the way he was looking at her told her he knew what she’d been fantasizing. Blushing furiously, she lifted her head obediently so he could tuck the towel round her neck, and as his fingers touched her skin again she jumped. She managed to compose herself as she walked back to the chair in front of the mirror and settled herself. What on earth had come over her? She never normally had erotic daytime fantasies about other men. Had the freedom gone to her head already?

  Gianni was combing through her wet locks. She could see the colours, the copper and the bronze amongst her natural dark brown, and her heart beat in excitement. She felt already as if she was going to be a different person when she left.

  Gianni picked up his scissors and began to snip with what Henty felt sure was gay abandon, but eventually she realized there was a rhythm in his work, that what he took off one side he went to take off the other, pulling out strands to make quite sure they were even. Then he swivelled her chair round so she was facing him. She gazed at his crotch, trying hard not to giggle, while he sliced into the hair at the front, giving her a soft, feathery fringe to frame her face. She panicked as she looked down at the floor and saw how much he had cut off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he ordered, reading her mind and picking up his hairdryer.

  Ten minutes later, she stared back at the mirror in disbelief. She looked ten years younger, but fifteen times more glamorous. The cut framed her face perfectly; her eyes peeped out from underneath the unfamiliar fringe, the ends fell to just above her shoulders, swinging jauntily as she moved.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ Gianni nodded in approval. ‘When you came in, you looked like a middle-aged housewife.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s what I am.’

  ‘No. You’re very sexy.’ There wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice. He was totally matter of fact. He put both of his hands on her shoulders and she felt herself melt as he leaned forward. His warm lips brushed her ear. ‘You need to go and have fun now with this hair.’

  He gave her a wink – cheeky, not lascivious – and a moment later he was gone. Feeling like a million dollars, Henty floa
ted over to the receptionist, and didn’t blanch at the hefty bill – well over a hundred pounds. She’d have paid ten times that to feel like this. From behind his next client, Gianni smiled in approval. It was his job to make women feel like goddesses, to give them back their confidence. He loved that moment the best, standing behind them in the mirror as they surveyed their new appearance in wonderment.

  Henty left the salon and stood on the pavement in a daze. From where she was standing, she could see her reflection in the shop window and she still found it hard to believe it was really her. With this haircut, she could be anything, do anything she wanted. It gave her the confidence to put her plan into action; the plan she had been nurturing for months without doing anything about it.

  She went along to the cashpoint and punched in the number of her private little account, the one Charles didn’t take any notice of. The one her royalties from Chelsea Virgin still went into, even though they were fewer and farther between nowadays. And the family allowance. It added up to a nice little nest egg. She smiled, satisfied. There should be enough in there for what she wanted.

  When Henty had put her electronic Olivetti typewriter away in the cupboard all those years ago, it had been the machine of the moment. Now it was a museum piece. And she didn’t have a clue how to use a computer. She knew there were some writers who still bashed away on an old-fashioned hunt and peck, but she secretly thought that was probably a bit of PR spin. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she’d have to get to grips with word-processing. And the Internet. At the moment, if Henty wanted to look something up she always got Thea or Robin to do it on the playroom computer.

  There was a computer shop at the bottom end of the high street. She strode along the street purposefully, pushed open the door and marched in. There was a young lad in a white shirt and tie lolling against the counter, playing a lurid game. He stood to attention rather halfheartedly as she came in.