An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  At half nine, Richenda couldn’t ignore her hunger any longer.

  She’d stayed out of the way during the day. It seemed the most tactful thing to do, so she’d taken a cab into Cheltenham and consoled herself by buying some extremely expensive nightwear. Guy wouldn’t be up all night seeing to his guests’ needs – at least she hoped not – so when he came off duty she could see to his. But in the meantime, the party still seemed to be in full swing. The last time she had peered down the stairs over the banisters she’d seen Guy racing through the hall bearing a perfectly hideous cake on a silver tray.

  If they’d reached the cake stage, she thought things might have calmed down in the kitchen by now, and there might be something left over that she could have. She was slipping down the stairs, hoping not to be noticed, when a vision in coral-pink stretchy lace and four-inch perspex sandals, en route to the loo, caught sight of her.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she shrieked, clasping her hands to her chest. ‘It’s Lady Jane!’

  Richenda smiled as graciously as she could. There was no point in denying it.

  ‘Oh please. Will you come and say happy birthday to Gaynor? It’ll make her day, it really will.’

  Richenda hesitated, not really wanting to be drawn into a public appearance situation – she hadn’t put any makeup on. But what was the alternative? Being in the way in the kitchen, or going back to the bedroom on her own? She smiled.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Her reception in the dining room was very gratifying. They all made a fuss of her, but in such a warm and welcoming way that she couldn’t begrudge them her presence. Terry pulled her up a chair and gave her a glass of champagne, and Gaynor insisted on cutting her a piece of cake.

  ‘Though I bet you never eat cake. Look at you.’

  Richenda was actually starving, so she ended up eating two pieces and nibbling at the remnants of the cheese-board. In the meantime, the three women regaled her with the intimate details of their sex lives, bank accounts and cosmetic surgery, much to their husbands’ excruciating embarrassment. They were an absolute scream.

  ‘After three kids I had no pelvic floor left,’ Gaynor was saying. ‘But then I discovered these little weights. They’re fantastic, honestly. I’ve got a grip like a vice now. Haven’t I, Terry?’

  Terry was mortified, not knowing where to look. The women collapsed with laughter, and Richenda with them.

  ‘He can pretend not to know what I’m talking about,’ screeched Gaynor, ‘but he calls me the Gin Trap.’

  ‘That’s because of your drinking habits,’ quipped Terry drily. ‘Nothing to do with your performance in the bedroom.’

  Richenda wiped her eyes. She hadn’t laughed so much for years. Or enjoyed herself so much. On the surface, she wouldn’t have thought these people were her type at all, but they were warm, funny, raucous and obviously had a deep sense of loyalty to each other. Their marriages, she guessed, were as strong as a rock, even though she’d heard some of the most outrageous sexual anecdotes. She wished she could take a leaf out of their book, relax and let herself go a bit. But then all her grown life she’d been putting on a performance, both on and off camera. Or had she – was this the real her? She supposed that by now it was. She’d created who she was: the image of perfection who could do no wrong. She had absolutely everything that the public craved for themselves: beauty, celebrity, talent, true love… everything the media told them repeatedly was important and was to be striven for. But was it enough?

  Or perhaps it was too much? Perhaps she’d be better off with only one of those things, like these people. They obviously had a bit of money and they had love… but not a modicum of talent or fame. Or beauty. Yet they were clearly happy.

  It was at this point that it struck Richenda that she wasn’t. Not really. There was something deep inside her that felt unsettled. Whenever she thought of the future – even though on paper it held so much promise – she had a strong sense of foreboding.

  ‘Are you all right, bab?’ Gaynor was looking at her anxiously.

  ‘I’m fine. Sorry – I just drifted off for a second.’

  ‘Give her some more champagne, Terry’

  Terry jumped and did her bidding, topping up her glass with a flourish in a camp imitation of the most obsequious maître d’. Out of the corner of her eye, Richenda saw Guy enter the room with a tray of liqueurs. He did a double take when he saw her.

  ‘We found her in the hall,’ said Gaynor. ‘She was bored, poor kid. You shouldn’t keep her locked away like that.’

  Guy wasn’t at all sure what to say.

  ‘I know,’ said Trudy. ‘Let’s have a toast to their engagement. We saw those fantastic photos in the Daily Post last Saturday. You looked beautiful.’

  Richenda smiled her thanks as the six of them raised their glasses.

  ‘To Guy and Richenda,’ proposed Terry. ‘May you be as happy together as we all are.’

  Henty was really struggling to enjoy herself. The bitter irony about your spouse losing their licence was that they proceeded to be chauffeured around for the next twelve months getting as pissed as they liked. Where was the justice in that? It was no punishment at all.

  This, however, was hell. Sipping Malvern Water and watching Fleur and Charles get more and more drunk and more and more outrageous. Robert was sweet, but dangerously dull. Frankly, she didn’t know how he put up with Fleur’s blatant flirtation. Or would he remonstrate with her later in the privacy of their bedroom? Would he put her over his knee, pull up that ridiculous little skirt and give her a good spanking with the back of her hairbrush? One that she would no doubt enjoy –

  ‘Henty? Are you with us?’

  The rest of the table was looking at her. Henty realized that she’d drifted off into a rather warped little fantasy, and blushed furiously What on earth was happening to her? This was becoming a bit of a habit.

  ‘Do you want pudding?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said stoutly. If she couldn’t drink, then she certainly wasn’t going to deprive herself of the house speciality ‘I’ll have the chocolate trio.’

  Fleur took in a sharp breath through her teeth.

  ‘Calorie city’

  ‘So?’ said Henty. ‘I’m not drinking.’

  She looked pointedly at the two empty wine bottles upturned in the ice bucket next to their table. Charles frowned.

  ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘I’m not being rude,’ said Henty. ‘I’m just pointing out that a bottle of Chablis is easily worth a dollop of chocolate mousse.’

  She wasn’t going to pull her punches any more. She hadn’t missed Fleur’s patronizing little smirks throughout the meal; or the conspiratorial smiles she’d flashed at Charles when she thought no one was looking. The more Henty thought about it, the more convinced she was that this evening had been a set-up. That Charles and Fleur had cooked it up between them. Henty and Robert were just pawns in their sordid little game. Well, she’d play along for the time being and act dumb. Fleur obviously thought she didn’t have a clue, by the way she was behaving.

  By ten o’clock, her instructions obeyed to the last letter, Honor’s duties were over. Madeleine urged her to go home, but there was a little bit of her that felt rather deflated. Instinct told her to see the evening through – at the hotel she wouldn’t have been happy until the last of the guests was safely tucked up – but that wasn’t what she was being paid for at Eversleigh. Reluctantly she left them all to it, missing the kitchen camaraderie that came after service, the wind-down, the debrief, the banter.

  On the way back home, she became filled with a sudden panic. She’d meant to phone halfway through the evening and make sure everything was all right, but there hadn’t been a moment. All sorts of hideous eventualities involving spontaneous combustion and anaphylactic shock flashed through her mind as she raced up the road and burst in through the front door, breathless and panting, wild-eyed with alarm. Johnny was stretched out on the sofa, hands behind his head. He
jumped up immediately.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is Ted all right?’

  ‘Of course he is. He went to bed at half eight, as good as gold. I haven’t heard a squeak out of him since.’

  ‘But you’ve checked him?’

  ‘Of course. He’s fine.’

  ‘Thank God!’

  ‘What the hell did you think was going to happen?’

  ‘I don’t know’ Honor collapsed on the sofa. ‘I just panicked, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Sit down there and I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘Thank you. Sorry’ Honor wriggled out of her coat and flopped back with a sigh.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fantastic. As far as I know. They’re all still hard at it.’

  ‘Good.’ Johnny nodded his approval. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  Honor looked at him askance.

  ‘I’d quite like a glass of wine, actually. I think there’s some left in the fridge.’

  She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her composure, while Johnny went into the kitchen and emerged with a glass of white wine.

  ‘There you go.’

  Honor accepted it gratefully.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have one with me?’

  Johnny looked at his watch.

  ‘Actually, I better go. I’ve got rugby first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Anyway, you must be exhausted.’

  ‘Not really. I think I’m overwound.’

  ‘Why don’t you take yourself upstairs and have a nice, warm bath? You’ll fall asleep before you know it.’

  To Honor’s chagrin, Johnny started picking up his keys and his mobile. She really felt like sharing the rest of the bottle of wine, chatting over the evening’s events. But no – he was standing in front of her, putting on his coat. He really was going.

  He bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Don’t worry about seeing me out. How about I see you Wednesday?’

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Thai chicken curry, remember?’

  ‘Um… I’m not sure.’

  Wednesday seemed too soon, somehow. She longed for the chance to take stock, maybe talk to someone, get an objective opinion on her situation. She could never think straight when Johnny was around.

  ‘Come on,’ he cajoled. ‘It’ll do you good to have someone cook for you. You spend your whole life cooking for other people after all.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed reluctantly.

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  And a moment later he was gone.

  As soon as she heard the front door click shut, Honor felt desolate. She looked at the clock. It was only just past ten, for heaven’s sake. When had Johnny ever left anywhere at ten because he had to be up the next morning? He had ridiculous stamina. He could go to work on two hours’sleep.

  Then the penny dropped. He had somewhere else to go to. Of course. If he put his foot down – which he would – he’d be back in Bath within an hour. Just in time to slip into the pub before closing time and get the low-down on where the party was happening. There’d be a pretty girl who would have spent the evening looking at her watch, wondering if he’d keep his promise, whose face would light up as he walked in through the door…

  She sat on the floor of the living room with her arms round her knees, sipping the rest of her wine even though she didn’t really want it, but hoping it would make her sleep.

  She was at his mercy. She was trying to call the shots, set the pace, but every time Johnny took the upper hand. She didn’t want him to come on Wednesday. It felt suspiciously as if he was trying to set a routine – subtly insinuating himself into her life with a rhythm she would come to find comforting until she couldn’t do without him.

  And as much as she didn’t want him to come on Wednesday, she hadn’t wanted him to go tonight. Honor felt infuriated with herself. How could she expect to call the shots when she wasn’t consistent? She shivered. The woodburner had gone out. She was usually in bed by now. Reluctantly, she double-locked the front door, switched off the lights and made her way up the stairs, somewhat dreading her empty bed.

  All the time she’d lived here on her own with Ted, she’d never felt lonely. But tonight she did.

  During pudding, Charles felt someone drop something discreetly in his lap underneath the tablecloth. He waited for a suitable moment to discern what it was.

  He looked at the scrap of fabric in his hand. It was a tiny little triangle of black lace held together with silk ribbons that had been untied.

  Jesus, he thought. He’d got Fleur’s knickers in his lap. What the hell was he supposed to do with them? If he dropped them on the floor, someone might see. He looked over at her with a question in his eyes, but she just gazed innocently back at him. He stuffed them hastily in his pocket, feeling a slight sense of rising panic. He thought he was losing control of the situation. He was, both literally and metaphorically, no longer in the driving seat.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Guy later, when he’d managed to extricate Richenda from the dining room. They were sitting in the kitchen finishing the remains of a bottle of Krug that had been left after pre-dinner drinks. ‘I won’t let anything like that happen again. You’re not supposed to be on public display. This is your home. I would have thought they’d have respected that.’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s not a problem,’ said Richenda, biting back the urge to retort that it was actually the most attention she’d had all weekend. And at least they’d bloody fed her. She was trying very hard not to behave like a spoilt princess. Guy had, after all, been working his socks off.

  ‘Show me what you bought this afternoon.’Guy, who sensed a certain frostiness in the air, knew that most women were mollified if you showed an interest in their retail activities.

  Richenda held out her hand.

  ‘Come upstairs.’

  Guy followed her out into the hallway, where they were greeted by the sight of Gaynor sliding naked down the banisters wearing nothing but a diamanté G-string and her high heels.

  ‘Sorry,’ she giggled. ‘We’re playing Truth Dare Kiss or Promise.’

  She looked at them, eyelashes batting furiously.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to come and play?’ she asked, then collapsed in a drunken heap at their feet.

  15

  At midday on Sunday, sthes limo arrived to take the somewhat subdued house guests home again. They said their farewells, with many pleas to come and stay both in the Black Country and their timeshare in Majorca.

  ‘I became almost fond of them, in a funny way,’ said Guy, as the tail lights disappeared through the gates.

  ‘I think we can certainly call the weekend a success,’ countered Madeleine, who didn’t quite feel the same, but was willing to concede that they had shown their own brand of courtesy.

  They walked back into the hall and shut the door. Madeleine pulled open a drawer in the table that held the post.

  ‘By the way, I forgot. This arrived for Richenda yesterday – a bit of fan mail, I think.’

  Guy took it absently. He was going to have to make it up to Richenda now. The poor thing had looked so forlorn all weekend, and then last night’s fiasco had only added insult to injury – he shuddered as he remembered having to give Gaynor a fireman’s lift back to bed. Now hopefully they had the whole day together. They’d go for lunch at the Honeycote Arms. They needed a bit of time on their own. Quickly he phoned Barney and booked a secluded table, then ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

  Richenda was drying her hair. He plonked the letter on the dressing table in front of her.

  ‘Lunch at the Honeycote Arms at one. That arrived for you yesterday – Mum forgot to give it to you in all the uproar.’ He planted a big kiss on her cheek. ‘You get ready. I’m just going to go and add up what we’ve made over the weekend.’

  He
rubbed his hands together in mock glee, and Richenda giggled.

  ‘You old Scrooge,’ she teased.

  ‘Don’t knock it. Lunch is on me.’

  The next moment he’d gone. Richenda smoothed some serum on to her hair, absently picking up the envelope. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the name on it. Richenda Fox. Then, in brackets next to it, Rowan.

  She slid her finger under the flap, her hands shaking slightly, and drew out a piece of blue notepaper. Both sides were covered in the awkward scrawl of one who rarely put pen to paper but was trying to be neat. And without looking at a signature, she knew who it was from.

  Dear Rowan

  I saw your picture in the Daily Post last week. I can’t describe my feelings. Relief, mostly, that you were all right. And guilt – again. There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t wondered where you are and what you are doing. Now I know you are a star! Of all the things I imagined might have appened to you, this was beyond my wildest dreams.

  I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, or care how I feel but I need to warn you – Mick’s sold his story to the papers. I don’t know what he’s told them, exactly, but if I know him ifs not going to be nice. And that’s the last thing I want I don’t have a clue how these things work, but I want to make it right for you. And if that means telling my side of the story then I will. I’m ashamed of what happened, more than you can ever know, but I’m not afraid to admit it. So I want to do whatever I can to help.

  I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry for years. But I never knew where to find you. If nothing else comes of this at least I know now that you are all right. More than all right! Not that I deserve peace of mind.

  I’ve put my mobile number at the top of this letter. Ring me. I want to help. Though I understand if you want nothing to do with me.

  Sally (Mum)