‘For example?’ she ventured, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
Charles’s suspicion that the morning’s work would be something of a travesty was not unfounded. Fleur was wooden and forced, and she couldn’t talk and arrange flowers at the same time. She kept dropping her secateurs and fluffing her lines. And when she wasn’t fluffing, she was hamming it up with exaggerated facial expressions and innuendo. He wasn’t even going to look at what they’d recorded, let alone try and edit it. It was totally cringe-worthy. By two o’clock he was squirming inwardly with embarrassment and panic. How the hell had he got into this situation, and how was he going to get out of it? He’d promised her fame and fortune – or at least that’s what she seemed to understand. And he’d totally compromised himself by coming here furtively. Why hadn’t he been open and honest with Henty: told her up front that he was shooting a pilot with Fleur?
Because she’d suspect that he was trying to get something else out of it, that’s why. And he had to admit that he had enjoyed the game so far, playing the Svengali, lapping up Fleur’s attention, telling himself he could have her if he wanted her…
And now here he was, with Fleur convinced she was hovering on the brink of stardom. How was he going to persuade her otherwise? People like Fleur didn’t take kindly to rejection or criticism.
‘So,’ she said as he put away his camcorder. ‘What do you think?’
Charles took a deep breath. He might as well get it out of the way now. Nip it in the bud.
‘I’ll have to have a proper look when I get back,’ he said carefully. ‘But I think…’
The look on her face was so full of expectation. He swallowed. Be cruel to be kind, he thought. There’s no point in stringing her along. It’s not fair.
‘I think there’s a lot of promise,’ he finished lamely. For God’s sake, man. Put the knife in. You’re not supposed to be giving her hope. ‘But if I do a good editing job, and we get some decent music and graphics…’
Fleur flushed with delight.
‘You really think we’re in with a chance?’
‘Um –’ Had he actually said that?
‘I thought you were going to say it was awful! I thought I was really wooden… I certainly felt it. But didn’t it come across?’
Charles’s mouth hung open for a moment. She’d given him an open invitation to say what he really thought.
‘Well, obviously it’s your first go, so there’s room for polish…’
‘But you think it was OK?’
‘Well, obviously, it’s not down to what I think.’
‘No. But you think it was good enough to put forward?’
‘Yes, yes. Absolutely. No question.’
You fucking twat, thought Charles desperately, as a beaming Fleur pulled another bucket from under the table. It was filled with ice, and on it was perched a bottle of champagne.
‘Well, I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?’
Charles nodded. He wasn’t sure about a celebration, but he could certainly do with a drink.
Guy had forgotten how completely frustrating London was when you were in a hurry. He usually wasn’t – he only came up to town when he wanted a new suit, or to have lunch with a friend or see an exhibition, so time was generally on his side and he could enjoy the metropolis, feel charged by the energy that buzzed through the streets and fantasize for a moment about city living. He’d flirted with the idea once or twice – there were people who’d wanted him to go in with them on business ideas, and he’d nearly convinced himself that London was for him.
But today, when he was late, he thanked God he hadn’t succumbed. He’d queued for fifteen minutes for a cab at Paddington, and now it was crawling through the traffic – every time the driver dived down a side street to take a short cut he came across a delivery lorry blocking the route, or roadworks. Several times Guy was tempted to jump out of the taxi and walk, but then they would be on the move again. It was no good for his heart, he decided, as he watched the long hand speed round his Tag.
It was lucky he’d made the train at all. It was only this morning that it occurred to him to check out his dinner jacket, which he found hastily flung on to a hanger in his wardrobe where he’d stuffed it unceremoniously after the charity ball the other week. His mother had been horrified by its crumpled appearance.
‘You can’t be seen in public like that. I’ll take it to my cleaners – they do an emergency service.’
His dress shirt was unlaundered too, but the saintly Marilyn put it on a quick wash, tumble-dried it and ironed it beautifully in just over an hour. He managed to polish his shoes himself, and hunt down his bow tie, which was under the bed.
‘Honestly, Guy,’ tutted Madeleine. ‘You’re worse than your father.’
‘I can’t think of anything more boring than being the sort of man who sends his suit straight to the dry-cleaners the morning after a ball. Where’s the adrenalin rush in that?’ Guy retorted, scooping up a pair of wafer-thin gold cufflinks from his dressing table and shoving them in his pocket. ‘Anyway, isn’t that what a wife is for? I’ll have one of those soon.’
He accompanied his deliberately sexist comment with a cheeky grin. Madeleine raised an eyebrow.
‘I hardly think Richenda’s going to have time to tend to your laundry, what with shooting schedules and award ceremonies,’ she remarked.
Guy didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to give his mother the benefit of seeing her slurs sting. Madeleine did, after all, belong to another age, when women didn’t really have careers and put their husbands and children first. Guy knew better than to expect that in the twenty-first century. Theirs would be the most modern of marriages, not least because her earning power would dwarf his. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t find a way of being happy.
He was looking forward to talking all this through with Richenda. He realized that tonight was the first time they would be together away from Eversleigh; the first time he had been to her flat. They could spend the next twenty-four hours pleasing themselves – Guy had wangled himself the day off, confident that his mother and Honor could hold the fort, and he was determined to spoil Richenda. He’d spoken to her a couple of times on the phone since she’d flown the coop on Sunday, and she’d seemed extraordinarily distracted. He wanted to reassure her that everything was going to be all right.
At last he could see Harrods up ahead of him. Richenda’s apartment was only round the corner. He debated jumping out and buying her some flowers, but decided against it. Besides, if she won an award tonight she would be inundated with blooms far more elaborate than anything he could afford.
She came to the door in a silk dressing gown, a toweling turban round her wet hair, ready for the attentions of her minions. Guy noticed she looked rather pale and subdued as he gave her a kiss.
‘Darling – there’s no need to be nervous. If you don’t win, you don’t win.’
‘It’s not that.’ Richenda drew him inside and looked at him with large, troubled eyes. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
It was amazing, thought Charles, just how quickly two people could demolish a bottle of champagne and find themselves halfway through a second. By which time it was far too late to put a sensible head on. He’d protested mildly at half three when Fleur had produced another bottle, wondering if she had to go and collect the children. But they were, apparently, going to friends for tea.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve blocked off the whole day. They won’t be back till seven – Robert’s picking them up on his way home. So we’ve got hours yet.’
A little voice told Charles that he should call a cab now. But he’d just slid into that delicious state that only champagne can bring, the bubble-fuelled sense of total relaxation combined with the hint of sexual promise. Now she’d taken off her apron, Fleur’s breasts were spilling precariously over the tightly ruched neckline of her peasant dress.
As she leaned over and topped up his glass, she smiled at him provocativ
ely.
‘After all, we’ve worked hard all day. I think we deserve a little reward, don’t you?’
*
Initially, Guy made light of Richenda’s revelation. She’d looked so full of dread when she answered the door that he thought her news was going to be of some life-threatening illness or financial ruin. So hearing that the mother he’d thought was in Australia was actually up the road in the Capital Hotel was something of a relief. But as further details came out, his face darkened.
‘What I really don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me any of this before?’
She was nervous. He could see that by the way she was rolling the silk sash of her dressing gown between her fingers.
‘There… never seemed to be a right time. Things have happened so fast between us. You… swept me away. I didn’t have time to stop and think.’
‘We’ve been engaged for over a fortnight.’Guy’s voice was icy. ‘Presumably you were going to mention it before the actual wedding?’
‘Yes…’ Her reply was a little too slow to be convincing.
‘Or were you going to wait till we were on our way to Heathrow? For our trip to Australia? To see your imaginary family?’ His tone dripped bitterness and sarcasm.
‘Stop it! Of course I was going to tell you.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t think it was that important.’
‘Important? Of course your past’s important. And don’t tell me you never had an opportunity to set the record straight. Am I that unapproachable? Don’t you trust me?’
‘You don’t understand, do you?’
‘Frankly, no.’
Richenda jumped off the arm of the sofa where she had been perched.
‘It’s all right for you, brought up in the manor house. With your gracious mother, and your father everyone thought the world of –’
‘Hang on a moment. Dad wasn’t perfect. And I’m sure my mother’s not either. Nobody is. And some of my ancestors behaved like absolute fiends.’
‘It’s not quite the same, is it? It’s not seedy and squalid. You weren’t brought up by a load of drunken drop-outs in a disgusting squat. If I didn’t tell you about them, it’s because I wanted to put it all behind me. Do you begrudge me that? Or do you want me to be reminded of just how awful it all was? All I wanted to do was forget!’
Her voice trailed off in a desolate wail. Guy looked thoughtful.
‘Well, maybe that’s what we should do. Forget the whole thing.’
‘What?’ Richenda looked dumbfounded. This wasn’t the reaction she was expecting.
‘Why not? You obviously can’t think much of me. Marriage is about trust and respect and having a bloody sense of honour. I wouldn’t have thought any less of you because of your upbringing. I’m not that judgemental.’ He paced up and down the apartment, furious, while Richenda looked on helplessly. ‘And now I don’t know what to think. I mean, what else haven’t you told me about? My imagination’s doing overtime here –’
‘Stop it! I’m still the same person. Nothing’s changed except… a load of stuff that happened years ago that wasn’t my fault. And that I wanted to forget. Is there anything wrong with that?’
Yes. I don’t ‘appreciate being lied to.’
Guy knew he was being harsh, but Richenda had to understand how strongly he felt. If she couldn’t understand that, then there was no hope for the two of them. He looked at her. She was standing with her fingers pressed to her temples, as if she was trying to clear her head of all the accusations that had been flung at her. Finally she looked up, white with distress.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t say any more than that. I’m really sorry. But if you must know, I was ashamed. And I thought once you knew the truth, you might break off the engagement. That I wouldn’t be good enough for you.’
Guy looked at her in astonishment.
‘What on earth was there to be ashamed of? You can’t help your background any more than I can help mine. It’s an accident of birth. And I don’t take kindly to being thought of as that shallow.’
‘Please don’t shout.’
He hadn’t actually realized he was, but Richenda was shrinking back from him almost in fear. Appalled by the anger the incident had provoked in him, he took a deep breath and gathered himself together.
‘Look, you’ve got a big night ahead of you. I don’t want to spoil it. We can talk about it later.’
‘I don’t want you to come to the ceremony if you’re still angry. I couldn’t bear it.’
There were tears shimmering on the end of her lashes. Shit, thought Guy. He didn’t want to be responsible for her turning up all red-eyed and blotchy.
‘I’m not angry, OK? I’m just a bit… shocked. I haven’t had time to take it in. I’ll be fine.’ He managed a glimmer of a reassuring smile that he didn’t mean. ‘Can I use the shower?’
She nodded, her bottom lip trembling, then bursting into tears she threw her arms round his neck.
‘I love you so much. I’m sorry…’
He patted her awkwardly on the back as she sobbed against his chest.
‘OK. It’s OK. You’re forgiven, all right? Now dry your tears – you don’t want to look all piggy for the cameras.’
She gave a shaky little laugh as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe her eyes, just as the buzzer went. Richenda slid away from him.
‘That’ll be my hairdresser.’
Guy watched in amazement as she swiftly composed herself, injecting a smile into her voice as she answered the entryphone.
‘Hello, Michelle. Come on up.’
Pretty rapid recovery, he thought wryly to himself as he made his way into the bathroom.
‘I can’t do this,’ Charles was protesting weakly. ‘I’ve never cheated on Henty.’
Fleur had kissed him. Just to say thank you, she’d said, and it would have been churlish to refuse. Not to mention impossible. It had been quite a delicious experience. Kissing was so intimate, so tantalizing – one could inject so much passion and promise into a kiss without actually incriminating oneself. It was a pastiche of the love act itself – possibly even more enjoyable. Sex could, after all, be something of a disappointment by the time your mind and body had worked themselves up into a frenzy of anticipation. With a mere kiss, you could always imagine that it would have been perfect.
But Fleur didn’t seem inclined to stop there. One minute they were snogging on the sofa, the next she’d managed to wriggle herself out of her dress – she seemed to specialize in clothes that were easy to get out of. She stood in front of him in a strapless bra and another scrap of lace masquerading as knickers.
‘Seriously,’ said Charles, a wobble in his voice. ‘I think we should leave it at that.’
Fleur ignored him and unfastened her bra, revealing the breasts he’d been slavering over since the day he’d met her. They were incredible, even more magnificent than he’d imagined: perfectly round, plump but firm, with dainty coral-tipped nipples placed exactly in the centre, they seemed to defy gravity. They truly were a master-piece. Charles wasn’t naive enough to believe they were real, but who cared? Real meant floppy, saggy, wrinkled. These were like ripening peaches ready to be plucked from the tree: sweet, delicious, soft-skinned, irresistible.
She knelt in front of him and unzipped his trousers, then carefully extricated his penis over the waistband of his Hom briefs. The delicate touch of her fingers caused it to swell in front of their eyes, unfurling itself slowly and deliberately until it stood upright in all its magnificence. Looking down in awe, Charles felt relief and a hint of pride, then watched in amazement, hardly daring to breathe, as Fleur wrapped each breast either side of his cock until it was nestling in the deliciously warm, soft cradle of her cleavage.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘This doesn’t count. Officially you haven’t been unfaithful.’
Charles wasn’t entirely convinced. Wanking yourself
off between a woman’s tits was about as intimate as it got. Suddenly he imagined Henty’s dear, sweet, shocked expression: what if she could see him now?
‘I can’t do this!’ he insisted, pulling away.
‘Oops!’ said Fleur. ‘Too late…’
In a steaming hot shower, Guy had a chance to wash off the grime from his journey and go over what had happened. He thought he had every right to be angry. Bloody furious, in fact.
The whole thing unsettled him. Not so much her murky past – he’d said himself she couldn’t help that – but her lies. And the fact she’d obviously only come clean to him because she’d been found out. And he hadn’t liked the way she’d dealt with it subsequently; her behaviour had turned his stomach slightly. He wondered about the tears. Were they real, or just for effect? In fact, he felt wary about her whole performance. She’d made him feel unreasonable, almost a monster, then wheedled forgiveness, albeit reluctant, out of him. Was this going to be a pattern in their marriage? Her using subtle emotional blackmail on him to get what she wanted, with her wily, actressy ways?
Pumping a generous handful of her shampoo into his hand, Guy scolded himself for being too hard. It was pretty normal female behaviour, he supposed, to manipulate men. They started young by working on their daddies: he remembered seeing his own sisters at work on his father, and being amazed at what they could con out of him – and even more amazed that he didn’t see through them. Now he realized that of course he had seen through them – it was just so much easier to give in. Guy had capitulated as his father had before him. He hadn’t had the strength or the energy to withstand Richenda, and she had won.
In the past, he’d never gone for the manipulative type. His preference was for straightforward girls with a bit of spirit. No nonsense. Richenda had been something of a departure in that she was an unknown entity, but he had been entranced. Bewitched and intrigued. Besotted, even. He’d fallen for her head over heels, but perhaps he’d been mistaken to let things move along so quickly.
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