An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

It was the word ‘Mum’ in brackets that creased her.

  She’d denied herself the memories for so long. Even though Sally had been dreadful at times, she was still her mother. All her young life, her mother had veered between aggression and affection, sometimes smothering her and sometimes seeming to fight her off. But they had had moments of incredible closeness – usually when there wasn’t a man in her life – when they’d snuggled up in bed together, Sally hugging her from behind, scooping her up in her arms, and they’d sleep in a lovely warm ball. Then she’d felt cosy and cared for and warm and safe. She used to wake first in the morning and watch her mother sleeping, praying that they could stay like this for ever. There was no other feeling like it in the world, and Richenda had long come to terms with knowing she would never feel it again.

  Looking back on it, she realized she’d blocked out all the good memories of Sally in order to cope. She’d erased any trace of a mother’s love, the delicious warmth that came from being nurtured and cared for, until she was entirely self-sufficient; an emotional island.

  Not that she was incapable of loving. The feeling she had for Guy, and the love she got from him, was different. Their relationship was a partnership, a balancing act, fuelled by the sweet, all-invasive power of sex. It bore no resemblance to the unconditional love she’d shared with her mother until things had got totally out of hand. When she was small, she’d forgiven her cruelty and unkindness, the little acts of spite and thoughtlessness. But that final betrayal had been the last straw. She’d lost the power to forgive; the scales had fallen away from her eyes and she’d seen her mother for what she really was.

  Reading the letter now, she wondered if perhaps she’d been too harsh. Her mother was fallible, human, she made mistakes. As a little girl, she wouldn’t have had the wisdom to realize it, but now Richenda was older she saw how difficult it must have been for the easily-led and insecure Sally, who’d been a mere eighteen when she’d had her baby. Maybe it wasn’t surprising that the pressure became unbearable and she took it out on the person closest to her. That was human nature.

  Instinctively, Richenda knew that somehow this letter held the key to her disquiet. That all the time she had been lying, both to the public and to herself. And that really all she wanted was to be small again, to have Sally’s arms around her, feel the total reassurance that only a mother can give. But surely the chance for that was long gone? She was nearly twenty-five; Sally must be forty-three. Too much time had passed for them to resurrect that relationship.

  But perhaps the time had come to forgive…

  She was hastily flinging the few things she’d brought down for the weekend back into her bag as Guy came into the room.

  ‘The good news is I can afford to buy you roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve… got to go and do a press conference thingy. They just texted me. I can’t get out of it. It’s for the American launch – some big magazine…’

  She was improvising wildly and improbably, but Guy didn’t seem to notice. He just looked thoroughly crestfallen.

  ‘Well – shall I drive you to the station? Better still, why don’t I drive you up to town? You can do your thing and ‘I can take you out to dinner afterwards.’

  ‘No – it’s going to drag on. I’ve no idea what time we’ll finish. Just take me to the station.’ Richenda looked at her watch. ‘If we hurry I can get the one-eighteen.’

  ‘Well, I’ll buy you a KitKat for the journey. And I’ll see you Wednesday. We’ll do something special then.’

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘The award ceremony? You do still want me to come, don’t you?’

  Richenda smiled weakly.

  ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten. Yes, of course I want you to come.’

  She couldn’t bear to think about that at the moment. God knows what sort of shit would have hit the fan by the time Wednesday came around.

  As they drove to the station, Guy realized that Richenda was very quiet. She seemed preoccupied with something. Or perhaps she was sulking? He thought he’d already apologized for neglecting her somewhat over the weekend, but maybe that wasn’t enough. He knew there were girls who made you suffer indefinitely if something displeased them. His younger sister had been a sulker, capable of the silent treatment for days on end if things didn’t go her way. But he didn’t think Richenda was that type.

  Anxious to mollify her, he squeezed her leg affectionately.

  ‘Listen, it’s not always going to be like this. The first weekend was bound to be chaos. We’ll settle into a routine soon, and I’ll be able to delegate a bit more.’

  She hardly seemed to be listening.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This weekend. I’m really sorry it was so boring for you.’

  ‘It was fine. Don’t worry’

  She looked out of the window and chewed the side of her finger. Guy frowned while he decided on a different tack, then gave up. He couldn’t think of one. He’d find a way of making it up to her. Wednesday night, the award ceremony, was going to be her night – he’d make sure she felt like a total princess. She’d have his full undivided attention.

  He pulled up by the ticket office.

  ‘You go and get a ticket. I’ll find a parking space.’

  ‘Don’t bother. You don’t need to wait. The train will be here any second.’

  Richenda jumped out of the car and went to slam the door.

  ‘Hey! Don’t I get a kiss?’

  She tapped her head in mock forgetfulness, then leaned in through the door. Their cheeks just managed to touch over the gearstick.

  ‘I’ve got to rush.’ She put her hand over his in a momentary gesture of affection, and Guy saw the ruby ring glint in the autumn sunshine. ‘I’m really sorry. Bloody career women.’

  Her rueful smile as she shut the door and waved made him realize that she hadn’t been sulking at all. She was probably just stressed about work; psyching herself up for her press conference. It must be hell, being on public display, he mused. Watching your every move, thinking about your appearance, your behaviour, hoping you weren’t ever misconstrued or taken out of context. Richenda always seemed so calm, it was easy to forget she must be under constant pressure. Her world was so alien to him, and it occurred to Guy that it was going to take him a bit of time to get used to being part of it. When they were together, having fun, making love, it was as if she was a normal person, not a superstar. But that stardom wasn’t going to vanish. It was part of the package. Just as Eversleigh was part of his package, he supposed. They were going to have to work hard to incorporate their respective responsibilities into their relationship.

  He drove back home, wondering what on earth to do with the rest of the afternoon. He ought to be knackered, after all the running around, but he felt full of energy. Restless. There wasn’t really any clearing up to do. Malachi and Marilyn had arrived at eleven and done a sterling job. The beds were all stripped, the rooms vacuumed, the glasses and crockery were gleaming and in their proper place.

  It was his mother who finally came up with a suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t you take some of these flowers up to Honor? There’s too many here for just us to enjoy, and they’re still perfect. She might as well get some pleasure out of them. They won’t last till next weekend – I’ll have to get more.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Guy didn’t suppose Honor had fresh flowers very often – not ones as elaborate as these at any rate. And she wasn’t the type to be offended by hand-me-downs; this past week had shown him she was a practical and down-to-earth girl. He had to admit to a sneaking admiration for the way she managed her life. She didn’t seem phased by anything. Yet somehow she managed to evade being Girl Guidy or prefecty. She still retained a slight air of mystery; as if you were only getting part of the story. Guy was intrigued. Taking the flowers up to her would give him a chance to peep behind the scenes. Not that he wanted to snoop, but there was noth
ing else to do and it would fill the afternoon.

  Guy felt a bit of a plonker walking down the high street with an enormous vase of lilies, but it was worth it for the look on Honor’s face when she opened the door.

  ‘Oh my God. They’re completely divine. Are you sure I can have them? Come in! It’s chaos, I’m afraid. Ted and I are doing fairy cakes for tea and he’s absolutely insisted on black icing. Don’t worry – we won’t be offended if you don’t eat one.’

  Guy came into the warm fug of her kitchen to find a dozen fairy cakes cooling on a rack and Ted stirring a bowl full of something suspiciously grey and unappetizing.

  ‘Don’t you ever stop? I’d have thought you’d have your feet up, exhausted, after the past couple of days.’

  ‘You can’t, with children. Don’t you know that?’ She grinned at him impishly. ‘I can collapse tomorrow, when he’s at school.’

  ‘No, you can’t. Mum’s asked you up for lunch. Though you don’t have to come, of course. I expect you’re sick of the sight of us.’

  ‘No. It would be fun to have a post-mortem.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Isn’t Richenda still here?’

  ‘She had to go back to London. Press conference or something.’

  ‘Oh. Poor thing. I suppose she’s always at their beck and call.’ Honor plonked a yellow liquorice allsort in the middle of a fairy cake. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  Guy took one politely and bit in.

  ‘Delicious.’

  Manfully, Guy managed to swallow the whole of the fairy cake. Ted solemnly offered him another one.

  Honor giggled.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea to take the taste away.’

  Guy leaned back in the kitchen chair and surveyed his surroundings as subtly as he could, looking for clues to Honor and what made her tick. She had a rapier-sharp brain and huge amounts of talent which she’d obviously sacrificed for Ted’s benefit, and he admired her for that. It was probably far harder than succumbing to a demanding career and depending on others for childcare. Yet it was obvious that the child benefited from his mother being around: Guy didn’t have much contact with kids, but Ted was utterly charming without being precocious.

  Presumably the biggest downside of not working was financial. Yet Honor’s surroundings had more flair and imagination than most of the grand houses Guy had been inside over the years. The kitchen was a necessary mix of Ikea and junk shop: brightly coloured mismatched crockery, mugs and glasses, shelves she had painted herself in a rainbow of colours using sample pots, a long Shaker peg rail along one wall where everyday items from brollies to shoe-bags were hung. There was an aura of organized chaos – Guy felt sure Honor could put her hand on whatever was next needed amidst the muddle and spontaneity.

  He watched as she piled the mixing bowl and the baking tins into the sink. She must be worn out, he thought, but she still looked fresh-faced, with a sparkle in her eye. And that was without a scrap of make-up on. There was no doubt about it, she was quite beautiful, with those large, dark eyes and that enviable bone structure. He wondered if she ever went out on dates. He didn’t remember seeing her with anyone particular at the ball.

  His question was answered a little while later, when Honor was pouring tea into two spotted mugs. Ted came running into the room with an olive-green ribbed scarf, clearly alarmed.

  ‘Mum – Johnny left this! It was under the cushion on the sofa.’

  Honor took it from him absently and hung it on one of the pegs.

  ‘Never mind. We can give it back to him on Wednesday’

  That answered that, thought Guy. Whoever Johnny was, he had good taste in accessories and his feet under the table. He told himself he was pleased. Honor deserved the love of a decent man. He just hoped this Johnny knew how lucky he was – Honor was definitely a very special person.

  When Guy got back to Eversleigh later, Madeleine was jubilant.

  ‘The Spittles have just phoned. They had such a fantastic time they want to know if we can do New Year’s Eve for them. They want to bring some friends – ten altogether.’ Madeleine raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders tentatively. ‘What do you think? It could be lucrative. They seem to expect to be charged double.’

  ‘Why not?’ replied Guy cheerfully. ‘I know we said we wouldn’t do Christmas, but I loathe New Year’s Eve. Might as well make some money out of it.’

  ‘I’ll phone them back and say yes, then. If you’re sure we can manage.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll be old hands by then.’

  It was only later, as he drifted off to sleep, that he realized if things went according to plan, on New Year’s Eve he should still be on his honeymoon. How on earth could he have forgotten that?

  16

  In the living area of her luxury Knightsbridge apartment, Richenda paced up and down on the maple floors until she couldn’t stand the sound of her heels on the wood any longer. Why the hell hadn’t she insisted on carpet? The brochure had boasted of the ultimate in urban relaxation, but she didn’t think she’d relaxed for as much as a moment in this room. She flopped back on to the white leather ‘seating module’, wincing at the cold, and thought longingly for a moment of the cushion-strewn sofas in Eversleigh and the roaring log fire. She could turn up the flames in her fire if she wanted, but as usual she couldn’t find the remote.

  For the hundredth time that afternoon, she smoothed out the letter from Sally and read it again, wondering if perhaps it was a trap; if some clever journalist somewhere was trying to smoke her out. It was inevitable that she’d be found out sooner or later. Someone only needed to start rummaging about for facts prior to drama school to find out that the glib back story she had invented for herself had no founding; that it was a thinly-veiled smokescreen with no substance. It was obvious that her marriage to Guy was going to create huge media interest, and there would be some sleazy reporter out there who had her in their sights.

  Yes, she decided. It was definitely best to come clean now, before the stakes got too high. Assuming this letter was from Sally – and she thought it was genuine; the writing was faindy familiar – then they could work something out together.

  She looked at the number on the top of the letter, wondering what Sally was doing, where she was. Was she sitting somewhere now, waiting for the phone to ring, anxious, excited? Was she filled with trepidation, expectation, hopeful of a long-awaited reunion with her glamorous daughter? For a moment Richenda hesitated. Wasn’t this classic – people coming out of the woodwork at the first hint of success? Would her mother be so keen to get in touch if she was an assistant in Top Shop?

  She couldn’t think like that. Paranoia drove you mad in the end. And either way, she had to address the issue. The problem wasn’t going to go away. Mick had set the pace by going to the press already. The bomb was ticking. Only by contacting her mother did she have the chance to defuse it – or at least control when it went off and how much damage it did.

  She took a deep breath, picked up the handset and dialled, withholding her number just in case.

  It was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  She would have recognized her voice anywhere. The Home Counties drop-out accent; the wariness.

  ‘It’s –’

  Who was it? Rowan? Richenda? What should she say?

  ‘It’s me,’ she said simply.

  There was a pause, then a sigh.

  ‘Rowan…’

  ‘Yes. I got your letter.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Obviously’

  ‘Oh God.’ Sally sounded totally overwhelmed. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now I don’t know what to say’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘It’s just so weird…’

  There was silence for a moment as both of them floundered for what to say next.

  ‘I… think we should meet.’ Richenda decided she had to be businesslike. She didn’t want to descend into an emotional free-for-all. And the situation was so sensitive; it needed to be dealt wit
h face to face, not over the phone. Besides, now she’d heard Sally’s voice, she wanted to see her.

  ‘Sure. OK. Where? Whereabouts are you?’

  ‘I’m in Knightsbridge.’ Richenda realized how snotty she sounded. She hadn’t meant to. But what else could she say? Just off the Cromwell Road?

  ‘Right. Well, I’m in Uxbridge. Staying at a mate’s. So I’m not that far.’ There was a note of amusement in Sally’s voice. ‘Shall we meet somewhere in the middle?’

  Geographically or socially? Richenda wondered.

  ‘Why don’t you come to me? I’ll make us something to eat.’

  ‘OK.’ Sally sounded slightly unsure. ‘When?’

  Richenda thought for a moment. Time wasn’t really on her side.

  ‘As soon as you can, I suppose.’

  ‘I reckon it’ll take me about an hour.’

  ‘OK…’

  She gave Sally instructions on how to get to her apartment, then put the phone down.

  This was totally surreal. In less than an hour’s time she was going to come face to face with her mother again. She wondered if she’d done the right thing, having the reunion in her apartment, but she preferred to stay on home territory. She had security here – no one else could get in. And she knew there were no hidden cameras or microphones. Yet again she chastised herself for being overcautious, but then she could only trust herself to act in her own best interests.

  She rushed to examine her appearance. She didn’t want to look too intimidating. She wasn’t going to play the big star. She changed out of her wool trousers and into a pair of jeans, adding a red polo-neck sweater, then tied her hair back in a low ponytail. She didn’t have time to rush out and buy food, so she inspected the contents of her freezer. There was a packet of tortellini and a tub of arrabiata sauce. And some mango sorbet. That would do as a makeshift supper for the two of them. Sally had never been big on food, as far as Richenda could remember. And they could always order a takeaway. She took a bottle of wine out of the wine rack and stuck it in the fridge, wondering if she should have a glass before Sally arrived – she was amazed at how nervous she felt.