An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  ‘I’d like to buy a laptop,’ she announced. ‘And I need someone to show me how to use it.’

  ‘It’s simple,’ said the boy. ‘You just turn it on and go.’

  ‘But I’m a total idiot. I can type, but I don’t know what a Window is. Or how to send an email.’

  He grinned at her.

  ‘I’ll show you the basics. And we do telephone support if you get stuck.’

  ‘Perfect. Right. What have you got?’

  He took her over to a shelf of laptops, lids up, screens glowing. She pointed to the one on the end, sleek and silver, wafer thin.

  ‘That’s the most expensive,’ the boy informed her solemnly.

  ‘I’ll have it,’ said Henty.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what it does?’

  ‘There’s no point in telling me,’ she said happily. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue what you were on about. But I like the colour.’

  The boy nodded, a little warily, wondering if she’d indulged in a spot of lunchtime drinking, then reasoned that if she had he’d better take advantage of it while the going was good.

  ‘What else do you need?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  The boy didn’t need any second telling. Mentally, he calculated his commission as he sold her a printer, a scanner, an ergonomic mouse, a mouse mat, some CDs, a CD case, a little vacuum cleaner for the keyboard, some anti-virus software – and a case to carry it all in.

  ‘What are you going to be using it for?’ he asked, as he booted up the software for her. ‘Do you need spreadsheets? Graphics? Or what?’

  ‘I’m going to write a book,’ said Henty decisively. ‘A big, fat, blockbusting, multimillion-pound bestseller.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, deciding that she was definitely pissed.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Gary,’ said Gary nervously.

  ‘If you’re very good, Gary,’ she said, leaning in to him confidentially, ‘and promise not to laugh every time I phone you for help, I’ll put you in the acknowledgements.’

  Ever since he’d made the lunch arrangement with Fleur on Monday, Charles had been battling with his conscience. Umpteen times he went to pick up the phone and cancel, but each time he told himself not to be silly, that this could be the one idea that turned his fortunes round. By the time Thursday arrived, any twinge of guilt had been thoroughly eradicated. It was a bona fide business lunch. He’d booked Chez Gerard in Charlotte Street. The food and the wine list were irreproachable, and the booths were nicely private. Perfect for discussing a programme proposal without fear of eavesdroppers.

  At half twelve he descended the wooden stairs from his top-floor office in Brewer Street, and stopped in the cloakroom on the next floor that he shared with the rest of the occupants of the building. The mirror was speckled with age, but he was satisfied with his appearance. He had on a fine grey John Smedley jumper, a black jacket and jeans. He smoothed back his hair, touched each wrist with a droplet of Amateus and had a quick gargle with the mouthwash he kept for masking the scent of drink if he had an important afternoon meeting. Then he made his way out of the building and sauntered through Soho with a spring in his step.

  He had two Kir Royales waiting at the table as Fleur walked in. She looked fantastic, in a beautifully cut cream trouser suit, enticingly low at the front. She slid on to the banquette opposite him and picked up her glass without question or protest. They chatted politely for five minutes, and ordered steak-frites and salad.

  ‘Right,’ said Charles. ‘Let’s get down to business.’

  He unzipped his crocodile leather document wallet and slid the proposal across the table to her. He’d done a good job on it. He’d spent hours sourcing a stylish bouquet of flowers from the picture library up the road for the cover, which he’d then had laminated and spiral bound. But then Charles was very good at that – dressing things up to look like something when they weren’t.

  ‘By Arrangement?’ she smiled. ‘Great title.’

  He shrugged modestly, then leaned forward, too impatient for her to read the document.

  ‘Basically, the idea is you go into a celebrity home every week and do them an arrangement to suit some imminent social occasion. Or indeed several. Then deconstruct them for the viewers at home, making it look piss easy. So what we end up with is a bit of behind-the-scenes snooping – the Hello! magazine factor: check out the chintz – whilst giving the viewer the impression that they can recreate it for themselves at home.’

  ‘Very clever.’ Fleur nodded her approval as the food arrived, together with a bottle of Charles’s favourite Barolo. For the next half hour, they chatted round the idea whilst enjoying their steaks. Fleur refused dessert, as Charles guessed she might, but she enjoyed a glass of champagne while he finished off the last of the red with a plate of cheese.

  ‘So…’ Fleur picked up the proposal and put it in front of her, tapping the cover with, given her job, a surprisingly well-manicured finger. ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘We need to see how you look on camera. There’s two options here. We go to a proper studio – fork out a good couple of grand for them to run us up a pilot we can show round. Or we do it ourselves.’

  ‘Ourselves?’

  ‘The home equipment you can get nowadays is as good as professional. I’ve got a digital video camera and an edit suite on my computer. And I’ve been around enough TV sets and studio sets in my time to know this sort of thing isn’t rocket science. I reckon we could do a pretty good job.’

  ‘We could do it at the shop. Or even better, in my conservatory at home.’ She grinned. ‘Like Delia.’

  ‘If we do it, we can take our time; get it right without the meter ticking. The important thing is you are relaxed and confident. It’s you we’re trying to sell, after all.’

  ‘I’ll start getting ideas together,’ said Fleur, thinking she’d get Millie on the case straight away. Something wild and autumnal; a dramatic centrepiece.

  Charles looked at his watch and simultaneously gestured to the waiter for the bill.

  ‘I’m so sorry – I’d better go. I’m expecting a call. One of my clients is up to ghost an autobiography.’ He named a famous racing driver, and Fleur raised her eyebrows, impressed. ‘They said they’d let me know at three. Let’s keep in touch, OK? I’ve got your mobile number. We’ll speak.’

  He put a hand on each shoulder and gave her a kiss on each cheek – a media kiss, a kiss that signified nothing. And as he strode back to his office, he felt filled with pride. Pride that he had exercised such self-control, and had managed to keep things formal. That must be a sign of real maturity, he decided. Two people who undoubtedly found each other attractive, being able to resist temptation and work together. He was a true professional.

  On his way back into the office, he passed Gavin, the young producer from the production company on the floor below.

  ‘Gav – I’ve got a seriously hot project for you.’

  Gav sighed.

  ‘If I had a penny for every time someone said that.’

  ‘No, really. I’m going to let you have a show-reel and a proposal in the next couple of weeks.’

  Gav nodded, stuck his thumb up and carried on down the stairs. He had fifteen proposals a day, all as crappy and ill-thought-out as the next. He wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  Rozzi Sharpe was exactly that – so sharp she’d cut herself one day.

  She looked at the dishevelled man in front of her with distaste. It was amazing the maggots that came crawling out of the woodwork when there was a sniff of celebrity. People quite happy to dish the dirt for a measly few hundred quid, about bedroom habits or childhood bullying. Slimy little Judases, the lot of them. It was strange, she thought. She might spend virtually all her waking hours digging for dirt on the rich and the famous, but she’d never dob anyone in it herself. She didn’t mind exposing the people she wrote about: she owed them no loyalty. But it never failed to astonish her how happy people
were to besmirch an otherwise unsullied reputation. No doubt jealousy was the prime motivation. Rozzi suspected that most people enjoyed the sweet taste of some warped revenge more than the tainted cash she gave them: the money her paper paid was handsome, but not life-changing.

  Mind you, it might be in Mick Spencer’s case. He was a particularly rancid specimen, but the story he had was good – if it was true. She had to stand it up, of course, but that was the same with any story: double-check the facts, make sure every accusation and insinuation was utterly watertight, get the legal boys to go through it all with a fine-tooth comb. Then you could make the splash.

  ‘Got any photos? Pictures?’ she asked him.

  ‘Fraid not.’ His lip curled unattractively. ‘We weren’t that sort of a family.’

  ‘And you’re still with her mother? Would you be able to get together for a photoshoot?’

  ‘Well…’ Mick hesitated.

  ‘Is there a problem? There isn’t much of a story without her participation. We need her side of it: the mother betrayed by her own daughter.’

  ‘I’m sure I can talk her into it,’ he smiled, showing yellow teeth that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a donkey. Tor the right price.’

  Rozzi tried not to roll her eyes. Greedy fucker. She looked down at her notebook. She often smiled as she thought how much the pad would be worth in the wrong hands. That was why she’d devised her own version of shorthand, intelligible to no one but herself.

  ‘OK. I’m going to get all this checked out. Then it’s just a question of deciding the best time to spring the story – give it maximum impact. In the meantime, you keep schtum. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me – or even that you’ve told me. Someone could easily run a spoiler if they got a hint, then we’re all up shit creek. And you don’t get paid.’

  ‘I need a little bit of it upfront,’ he whined.

  Rozzi sighed and counted him out a hundred pounds cash. He looked at it in outrage.

  ‘You could be lying to me,’ she said. ‘This could be the drug-induced ramblings of a psychotic maniac who’s never gone anywhere near Richenda Fox.’

  ‘But how do I know you’ll pay me?’

  ‘Ah, well –’ she gave him a mocking glance from behind her heavy-rimmed glasses – ‘there has to be an element of trust in all of this.’

  Rozzi opened the window as soon as Mick had gone. The smell of sour sweat, old tobacco and patchouli oil had turned her stomach. She flipped back through her notes, underlining in red all the details she needed to check, then got out the file of press cuttings she already had and combed through them carefully, making more notes. If Richenda Fox had all these skeletons in her cupboard, then the chances were there were more to come. It wouldn’t hurt to do a bit more sniffing around. Blowing apart fairy tales was what Rozzi was best at: once she got her pen out, there was no happy ever after.

  When she got home from her spending spree, Henty decided that the boxroom where she did the ironing was perfect for her new project. After all, she thought wryly, no one else ever went in there, except in absolute extremis to search for an urgently needed item of clothing. It was only about eight-foot square, but there was a nice window that looked out on to the stable yard, and being next to the airing cupboard it was as warm as toast.

  She spent half an hour mucking the room out. As well as an ironing room it had turned into a dumping ground for things that were no longer needed but hadn’t quite made it to the dustbin. She ended up with three bin bags of clothes that no one wore any more, two old Hoovers, a cardboard box full of old Christmas decorations, an ancient high chair and three potties. She deposited them all in the utility room downstairs; Charles could take them to the tip at the weekend. Then she dragged the old table that had held her sewing machine underneath the window, and covered it with a length of chintzy fabric she’d once bought with the intention of making some curtains. She added a Lloyd Loom chair from the spare bedroom, a huge cork notice-board that Robin never used and a soft rug from the landing to go under her feet. As a finishing touch, she lined up a dictionary, a thesaurus and her book of baby names on the windowsill. On the table, she laid a pad of A4 lined paper, a pile of index cards and a selection of coloured pens and highlighters.

  She stood back and sighed with satisfaction. The room was light and airy – the perfect working environment. She didn’t put up any pictures or photos, or add any ornaments. She wanted absolutely no distractions. The only thing that was likely to cause her attention to wander was the sight of Travis schooling Thea’s pony: she could just see him in the top paddock, moving the mare from walk to trot to canter and back again with an imperceptible squeeze from his inner thighs… Henty gulped, then grinned. He wasn’t a distraction, she corrected herself. He was a source of inspiration.

  Then she got out her purchases. Her fingers were all thumbs as she wrestled with the leads and the cables, working out which plug went in which socket. But it was all quite logical in the end. With trepidation, she pressed the shiny silver button and waited.

  Moments later the screen was up in front of her, with the daisy-strewn Screensaver she’d chosen in the shop.

  She telephoned Gary.

  ‘Gary – it works!’ she squealed excitedly.

  ‘Of course it does, you pilchard,’ he replied irreverently, and hung up.

  With trembling fingers, she clicked on New Document. The blank screen came up in front of her. She smiled, bit her lip, and began to type the title: The Diary of a Cotswold Housewife…

  13

  Friday morning dawned with a crisp, autumnal perfection that made Madeleine smile with satisfaction as she drank her first cup of tea. Eversleigh Manor stood out in stark relief against the bright blue sky; it was cold enough to merit a roaring log fire in the entrance hall, but not unpleasantly chilly or damp. She felt calm. She and Marilyn had spent the previous day cleaning the house from top to bottom, and had made the beds up with beautifully crisp sheets spritzed with rosewater. Meanwhile, mouth-watering smells had wafted along the corridor from the kitchen, where Honor was baking like a demon. There was no doubt that the girl was a real find. She had brought a sense of calm to the proceedings with her quiet efficiency. The shelves in the larder were neatly stacked with Tupperware boxes and tins and plates full of the food they would need over the next few days, and she’d pinned lists of exactly what to do on the wall. She’d even drawn a picture of how to plate up the food, down to the very last sprig of flat-leaf parsley.

  The sound of raised voices wafted up from the driveway outside. She looked out of the window to see Malachi remonstrating angrily with the milkman. Madeleine hurried outside to adjudicate.

  ‘I’ve raked the leaves up three times this morning, and smoothed over the chippings.’ Malachi was red-faced with indignation. ‘Then he comes in and leaves his tyre tracks all over the drive. I’ve told him, tradesmen round the back from now on.’

  The milkman looked in bewilderment at Madeleine for confirmation.

  ‘I appreciate your high standards, Malachi, but we have got to live,’ she chided gently. ‘Of course Roger doesn’t have to go round the back.’

  Milkman mollified and Malachi muttering under his breath, Madeleine went to look for Guy. It was no good being complacent: there was still masses to be done, and she was going to have to deal with first-night nerves. In the kitchen she found Honor kneading the dough for bread rolls and Marilyn ironing a pile of starched white napkins, while Radio Two buzzed in the background. Madeleine felt a surge of warmth. It felt as if the house had come to life again, after being in limbo over the past four years. And even if taking in paying guests wasn’t quite the same as having a proper family utilizing it as a home, she hoped that would be rectified one day soon.

  Mick was lying stretched out on the hideous brown sofa that was one of the few items of furniture left in the bedsit – one of the few things they hadn’t sold, because nobody in their right mind would have bought it, stained as it was with sweat and spilla
ges. He was slurping from a can of Woodpecker cider, wiggling his toes with excitement. The nails were long and yellow, and he sported a toe ring, the skin underneath black with tarnish.

  Sally paced up and down in front of the gas fire, desperate to know what was going on in his nasty little mind. He’d been infuriatingly smug since they’d read that article in the paper. He’d disappeared off somewhere the day before and come back very full of himself. The only thing she could be sure of was that he would be the only one to benefit from his scurrilous plan. Whatever it was.

  ‘What have you done, exactly? Blackmailed her or something?’

  Mick gave an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction, and tucked his hands behind his head, smiling cheesily.

  ‘I’ve sold my story. The truth behind the real Lady Jane.’

  ‘You haven’t!’

  ‘Why not? The silly cow’s been lying about her past. The public deserve to know the truth.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  His bloodshot eyes swivelled round to meet hers.

  ‘I gave them lots of juicy details. About what a little prick-tease she was. About how she wouldn’t take no for an answer. How could a red-blooded male resist, when she was flashing it in front of him twenty-four seven?’

  Sally had heard the story so many times before. It was true, if someone repeated something often enough, you believed them. Especially if the other person wasn’t around to defend themselves. But somehow, this time, his tone was so mocking, so sarcastic, so gleeful, that she knew it was a lie.

  Suddenly, she found herself saying the words she’d never had the courage to say, all these years. Voicing the fear she had pushed to the back of her mind time and time again, because it was so much easier not to face the truth.