An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  ‘She didn’t come on to you, though, did she?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Rowan. I bet she never even looked at you twice. You… forced yourself on her, didn’t you?’

  She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘rape’. It was too ugly. Mick just laughed.

  ‘I gave her what she wanted. And she loved it, let me tell you.’

  For a moment Sally was tempted to hit him, to pull back her arm and give him as hard a clout as she could manage. She resisted the temptation, though, because on the couple of other occasions she’d tried it, she’d come off far worse. Mick had no compunction about hitting a woman. Instead, she looked down at him in contempt, and he gazed up at her with his cold, dead eyes.

  ‘You total fucking bastard,’ she spat. ‘To think I’ve wasted my whole life on you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual.’

  ‘I lost my daughter because of you.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You never gave a toss about her in the first place.’

  ‘How do you know? You’ve got no idea what I felt.’

  Looking back, she’d suppressed any feelings she’d had after Rowan had left with as many drugs and as much drink as she could lay her hands on. She’d become a zombie; an emotion-free zone. Now, however, nearly ten years later, something clicked, and everything came flooding to the surface: rage, guilt, sorrow and loathing, both of herself and the monstrous man in front of her. And suddenly she felt strong enough to face the truth. The apparent success of Richenda Fox didn’t absolve her from any guilt, but she felt empowered by the knowledge that her daughter had risen above what had happened and made something of herself. Sally knew she couldn’t take the credit for any of that, but nevertheless she felt proud of her daughter. It gave her the courage to fight for once. She wasn’t going to roll over and accept what Mick had done; let him perpetrate the myth he had created. It might be ten years too late, but she was going to atone for what had happened.

  Mick had gone quiet. His head was drooping on to his chest; his roll-up had gone out in his fingers. Booze always made him conk out; he’d be snoring on the sofa for hours. She thought about setting fire to it while he was asleep. There was no doubt it would go up in seconds – if he wasn’t burnt he’d soon choke to death on the fumes. And it would look like an accident; a careless cigarette. But she couldn’t be bothered. If she killed him, there would be enquiries, questions, things to deal with – a funeral. She wasn’t going to waste a second more of her time on him.

  She went to his jacket and rifled through the pockets. There was a small wad of notes, courtesy no doubt of whichever rag he’d sold his lies to. She stood still for a moment, staring at the money, wondering how it had come to this: him betraying her, her stealing from him. They were scum, really. Could their life together ever have been different? Could one tiny little change in their fate have meant a fulfilling, loving relationship? She didn’t think so. The truth was they were both losers. Wouldn’t know an opportunity if it was presented to them gift-wrapped with a gold ribbon round it. She stuffed the notes quickly into her bag and left, closing the door quietly so he wouldn’t wake up and follow her.

  By two o’clock, Madeleine was starting to feel nervous. Guy had gone into Eldenbury with the final menus to see his friend Felix the wine merchant, to pick up the appropriate vintages for the guests to drink with their meal. Madeleine hoped he wouldn’t spend too long sampling the wares. She needed Guy on his toes. He was, after all, front of house. He was going to do the meeting and greeting. Madeleine was old-fashioned and felt it was a job done so much better by a man – to be welcomed by one’s host gave a sense of occasion.

  To calm her nerves, she went into the drawing room to double – check it for the fiftieth time, and decided it had never looked so welcoming. The new upholstery had given it a long – needed lift. Marilyn had polished everything to within an inch of its life, and the scent of beeswax mingled with the magnificent flower arrangements that had been ordered from Twig – at huge expense, but there was no doubt that they looked the part. The effect was extravagant but relaxed: cream and orange lilies crammed into glass vases on the windowsills; a row of square pillar candles with a trio of wicks on the mantelpiece, each surrounded by a tangle of moss studded with coral-tinged roses.

  For a moment Madeleine wondered wistfully what Tony would have made of the upheaval. He would have been slightly bemused but thoroughly enthusiastic and utterly unhelpful – not through want of trying, but because he would be incapable of keeping his mind on the task in hand, much to everyone’s exasperation. Madeleine smiled fondly at his memory, then felt hateful tears brimming up. She blinked them back furiously. She didn’t allow herself to cry any more. This was a new start, a new challenge, and she was throwing herself into it with all her heart and soul.

  Someone pushed open the door and Madeleine hastily brushed away the remnants of her tears. It was Honor.

  ‘I was going to do sandwiches for us all in the kitchen…’ she said, and then peered at Madeleine, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s just…’Bugger. The tears were coming back uninvited. ‘I was just thinking… my husband…’

  Honor came straight over and enveloped Madeleine in a big hug.

  ‘I know. It must be horrid. But I’m sure he’d be very proud of you. You’ve done a magnificent job, and it’s going to be a huge success.’

  Madeleine nodded, sniffing, and tried to smile.

  ‘Sandwiches,’ she said bravely. ‘That sounds perfect. Let’s all have a break and a glass of bubbly. I think we deserve a treat.’

  It was a motley crew who gathered in the kitchen twenty minutes later. Malachi, his quiff wilting from the exertion of being a horticultural perfectionist, had stripped off to the waist and was flopped in a chair, displaying his magnificently tattooed torso. Marilyn was pink-faced from scrubbing, her peroxide hair wrapped up in a headscarf with a knot on top. Honor was covered in buckwheat flour from mixing up the batter for pre-dinner blinis. Guy had managed to extricate himself from Felix’s clutches, and handed out champagne flutes to everyone. Madeleine composed herself, clearing her throat to gain the attention of the room.

  ‘I want to thank each of you for putting your heart and soul into this venture,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t have entertained it without your support. So this really is a toast from me to all of you.’ She smiled. ‘To my team.’

  There was a collective clinking of glasses, and much hugging and kissing. Guy gave Honor a particularly grateful squeeze.

  ‘You’ve done a fantastic job of keeping Mum’s feet on the ground. Thank you.’

  She smiled up at him.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed every minute.’

  Just as he bent his head to give her a kiss on the cheek, the door opened and Richenda stepped into the kitchen, immaculately groomed and fresh-faced. She smiled brightly round at them.

  ‘I thought you’d all be busy, so I got a taxi from the station.’ There was a rather awkward silence and Honor stepped away from Guy. ‘How’s it all going? Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Everyone tried not to look pointedly at her white cashmere sweater and wide-legged wool trousers.

  ‘I think everything’s under control,’ said Madeleine coolly. ‘In fact, I think we’d be in trouble if it wasn’t.’ She looked at her watch. ‘The guests are due to arrive in just over an hour.’

  Everyone suddenly sprang into action.

  ‘Will I light the fire in the drawing room, Mrs Portias?’ asked Malachi.

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  Honor looked down at her grubby sweatshirt.

  ‘I’m going to go home and make myself look more presentable. I’m filthy’

  ‘You don’t need to be here if you don’t want. It’s tomorrow night I’ll need you.’ Madeleine rounded up the empty glasses.

  ‘Don’t be silly – I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Ted’s going to tea at Henty’s, so you’ll have an extra pair
of hands. I’ll see you later.’

  Richenda stood awkwardly on the periphery as everyone melted away, thinking it would have been better if she hadn’t come. She was quite obviously superfluous. Guy gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek then moved her gently out of the way.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, darling. But I’ve got to dash. I need to go and make myself look like the gracious host.’

  ‘Are you wearing a jacket and tie?’ asked Madeleine, casually but hopefully.

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ said Guy. ‘A clean shirt and cords is my final offer.’

  Moments later the kitchen was empty. Richenda looked warily at the kettle. She wasn’t going to risk making a fool of herself with the bloody Aga again. She picked up the bottle of champagne from the kitchen table. It was empty. Sadly, she put it back down again, feeling thoroughly crest-fallen. She thought about going up to the bedroom to see Guy while he changed, but something about his half-hearted greeting stopped her. She didn’t think she could bear it if he hustled her out of the way again.

  She looked outside. It was going to be dark within the hour. Too late to go for a bracing walk. She couldn’t go and sit in the drawing room, or the small sitting room –they’d been put aside for the paying guests. She felt a burst of indignation. This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t be made to feel like an intruder in what was virtually her own house. Once again she asked herself why Guy was putting himself through this. The two of them should be making preparations to have their own friends down for the weekend; their own bloody house party. She thought how wonderful it would be: choosing the food with him, laying the table and making it look pretty, deciding who was going to sleep where. They should be upstairs together now, sharing a bath before getting dressed, having a quick sneaky bonk so that their eyes would be sparkling when the doorbell rang –

  Richenda strode out of the kitchen, along the corridor, through the hall and up the stairs to the master bedroom, where she threw open the door, about to confront Guy. But the room was empty. The jeans and sweater he had been wearing were on the floor in a crumpled heap. She walked over to the window and looked down.

  He was outside already, smartly dressed as promised. Richenda thought how gorgeous he looked, master of his own home, opening the front gates with Malachi, the two of them laughing and joking. Feeling thoroughly deflated, she sat down on the bed. She’d lost her courage. She couldn’t tackle him in front of the others. She didn’t want to look shrewish. Maybe later, when they were in bed. She always managed to get Guy’s full attention when they were between the sheets.

  *

  At half past four, a cream stretch limo with glittering fairy lights in the back window drew into the drive of Ever-sleigh Manor and pulled up in front of the house.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Madeleine faindy.

  ‘I’ll tell them we’ve double-booked,’ said Guy.

  ‘No!’ said Honor. ‘Get out there and charm the pants off them.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ said Guy.

  ‘Think of the money’ Honor put a hand in the small of his back and pushed him firmly out into the hallway. He gave a despairing look over his shoulder, stood at the front door, bracing himself, then pulled it open with a huge, welcoming smile as three forty-something bottle blondes fell out of the limo clutching monogrammed handbags. Madeleine looked on in horror as they tottered over the Cotswold chippings of the drive in their high heels. One was in three square inches of mock shredded Chanel tweed, another in a halterneck and jeans under an electric-blue bomber jacket, the third almost understated in a beige trouser suit – until she turned around to reveal a keyhole cut out of the back and naked flesh underneath. They were followed by three balding men in what seemed to be matching black polo necks and single-breasted leather jackets.

  Guy stood at the top of the steps and gave an Oscar-winning smile.

  ‘Guy Portias. Welcome to Eversleigh Manor.’

  The host of the party stepped forward and gripped his hand firmly.

  ‘Terry Spittle. We never knew Wolverhampton was so convenient for the Cotswolds. It took the limo driver less than an hour down the M5.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Just long enough to sink a few bottles of bubbly.’

  That would explain the high spirits and the lack of balance, thought Guy. He suffered two more bone-crushing handshakes, then stepped aside as the women clacked past him into the hall. The ceilings rang with their high-pitched, sing-song accents.

  ‘Wow – this is amayzing.’

  ‘Look at the toiles, Ken. These are like the ones I wanted for our conservatory.’

  ‘Mega stairs, look. You could do a real Scarlett O’ Hara down those stairs.’

  ‘How much does this place cost to heat?’ the shortest of the men asked in awe.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Guy, bewildered that anyone should think to ask.

  ‘You want to get underfloor heating. It’s much more cost-effective. That’s what I’ve got in moy place.’

  Guy nodded politely. Shredded Tweed clawed at his arm.

  ‘You’ve got a really beautiful home,’ she gushed. ‘I don’t know how you can bear to share it.’

  Guy managed heroically to bite back a retort.

  ‘I love that picture,’ said Tasteless Trouser Suit. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It’s been in the family ever since I can remember.’

  ‘It’s not for sale, then?’

  ‘Er – no.’

  ‘Only sometimes when you go to these posh hotels everything’s for sale.’

  ‘Well, nothing’s for sale here, I’m afraid,’ said Guy firmly.

  Trouser Suit’s husband nudged him in the ribs.

  ‘You’ll have to watch Trudy. She’s terrible when she sees something she wants. She’ll have it in her handbag.’

  The woman laughed at the look of horror on Guy’s face.

  ‘You’re all right. I’m not a klepto.’

  ‘More of a nympho.’

  The entire group collapsed into giggles. Guy took a deep breath and picked up two suitcases from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’

  The three blondes surged forward eagerly and started up the stairs, twittering and giggling excitedly. A noxious cloud of their suffocating scents, all fighting for supremacy, engulfed Guy as he followed them. He showed them the three bedrooms, to exclamations of delight, and decided to let the six of them sort out who was sleeping where. As they were all virtually identical, he didn’t suppose it mattered much, but they might have preferences.

  ‘Right.’ The man who was obviously the ringleader clapped his hands together decisively. ‘I expect the girls would all like a bath before dinner.’

  ‘Girls?’ Guy looked round wildly. Had they brought their children? Then he realized that he was referring to the wives, who were protesting.

  ‘We can’t have baths. Not till tomorrow.’

  ‘We all had a St Tropez before we got here.’

  What was that? Guy wondered. A cocktail? Or rhyming slang for something obscene? He shuddered to think. He started backing obsequiously down the corridor.

  ‘We’ll be serving drinks in the small sitting room at half six.’

  ‘Small sitting room? I wouldn’t have thought a place like this had a small room.’

  ‘It’s a relative term,’ said Guy kindly, and made his escape. Not before he was called back by the tallest and stockiest of the men, who looked uncomfortably like a retired boxer, with huge shoulders and a squashed nose. He put an avuncular arm around Guy’s shoulder.

  ‘Now listen. It’s my Gaynor’s fortieth birthday treat, this is. I want everything to go perfect for her. Whatever she asks for, just get it – all right? And add it to the bill.’

  ‘Within reason,’ said Guy.

  ‘And by the way, she only drinks champagne. Krug. Is that a problem?’

  Ten minutes later Guy was pacing up and down the kitchen with the telephone clamped to his ear.


  ‘Felix – get up here now with a case of Krug. I’ve got some mad Brummies with a raging thirst on and they won’t drink anything else. Cheers, mate. You are a life-saver. I owe you one.’ He chucked the phone down on the kitchen table. ‘It’s a fucking travesty. I bet if I served them up bloody Asti Spumanti they wouldn’t know the difference.’

  Honor was putting the finishing touches to the blinis, which she’d topped with oak-smoked salmon, crème fraiche, finely-chopped egg and white onion, then arranged on a huge white plate.

  ‘Look – it’s money for doing nothing. Stick thirty quid on the price of each bottle they drink.’

  ‘They won’t pay that, surely?’

  ‘They certainly will,’ said Honor. ‘Guy – those are the customers you want. You keep them happy and they’ll pay you. And they’ll give you a whopping tip. Cash. So be nice.’

  ‘I will be the personification of charm itself’.

  Madeleine was looking shell-shocked. Honor grinned.

  ‘Don’t worry. They might be loud and brash, but they’ll behave themselves. Only people who’ve been to public school know how to behave really badly’

  Richenda sat in her bedroom feeling sadly neglected. She wanted desperately to help, but it was obvious she wasn’t needed. And she was absolutely starving, but she didn’t dare go down to the kitchen and make herself some toast. Perhaps she should just slip out later and go down the road to the pub for something to eat? No one here would care. But then she realized her days of melting into the background were long gone. It would probably be plastered all over the papers the next day: Lady Jane on her own in the pub, nursing a glass of white wine and scampi in a basket. She was trapped.

  She should have stayed in London. One of the other cast members was having a party that evening. It wasn’t really her cup of tea, but at least she’d feel one of the gang, as if she belonged. Here she was neither one of the household nor a guest.

  She got out her copy of Wild Swans and lay down on the bed to read. From down the corridor she heard a raucous cackle from one of the guests. She was glad someone was having fun.