All in all, he felt rather foolish, especially when he considered all his resolutions on the journey up – his determination to make up for his neglect over the past few days, even though that had been out of his control. And she had repaid his goodwill by betraying him. Not that he thought she’d deliberately set out to con him. But he did feel aggrieved that she obviously didn’t feel she could trust him. And he still had a sneaking suspicion that if she could have kept her secret for a little longer, if not for ever, then she would have. That really wasn’t great grounds for a marriage.
Sighing, Guy picked up a bar of soap. Maybe he shouldn’t judge her too harshly. He’d known all along that they needed to get to know each other better. He had to give her the benefit of the doubt. And he certainly wasn’t going to spoil her evening. He was too much of a gentle-man to do that.
Charles sat bolt upright in the back of the taxi feeling thoroughly sick. He wasn’t sure whether it was the surfeit of champagne, the smell of Fleur’s scent that his own skin seemed to have absorbed as if by osmosis, or the thought of what he had allowed her to do to him and what that meant. Shit! He had been so perfectly in control of their relationship. He had only meant it as a minor diversion – a little flirtation to boost his ego.
He’d been feeling rather depressed lately, as if he’d reached a point in his life where that was it – no more excitement, no more achievements. The heady rushes that went with love and success belonged to the next generation; it was his turn to bow out gracefully. Charles certainly hadn’t felt ready for slippers and gardening and Radio Four. He was only forty-one. Fleur had made him feel young and attractive and successful again. Giving her the prospect of fame had turned him on, even though he knew it had been a long shot. But he’d decided to play on it in the meantime: it gave him the chance for a few clandestine encounters that had given him the frisson he yearned for, even though he’d had no intention of letting it go anywhere.
Now it had gone way too far and he was panicking. He must have been mad! He didn’t trust Fleur one little bit. She was, he knew instinctively, the type to cause trouble if she felt like it. And what made him feel even sicker was the fact that she had known exactly what she was doing all along. He’d played right into her hands. Or rather, her breasts. Basically, he’d jeopardized his marriage for thirty seconds of semi-pornographic self-gratification, and now he was panicking.
The incident only served to remind him just how much he loved Henty. Of course he did. It was just that the magic had gone out of their marriage. The spontaneity. The romance. Which wasn’t surprising with four demanding children. He remembered why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. Her guilelessness, her naivety, her humour, her gung-ho attitude to life. Of course four children and nearly fifteen years hadn’t been kind to her, but Henty wasn’t the type to freak over it. Not for her the facial peels and brow-smoothing injections that Fleur obviously relied upon. But so what if she looked a little plump, a little worn round the edges; if her sloppy sweatshirts and down-at-heel loafers weren’t cutting edge? Henty, his lovable squidgy Henty, was real. And he’d neglected her, kicked her to one side. He was a vain, self-centred monster. What right did he have to think the world owed him an endless injection of self-indulgence and thrills? Which, if this afternoon’s encounter was anything to go by, made you feel hollow and empty.
For a moment, he compared the two women.
Fleur: artificial, grasping, manipulative… that just about summed her up.
Henty: loving, giving, patient, kind, tolerant, happy-go-lucky, undemanding… the list went ever on.
As the taxi slewed heavily round a corner, Charles groaned. It was all very well him realizing he should appreciate what he’d got. It might just be too late.
The driver was looking at him in alarm.
‘You’re not going to chuck, are you, mate? Only, if you are, you can get out here.’
Guy sat on the sofa dressed and ready, sipping from a bottle of St Miguel he’d taken out of the fridge, wondering what on earth all those people were doing. He estimated that it had taken him approximately fifteen minutes to get ready. Richenda had been ensconced in her room for over an hour and a half with no less than three minions.
Finally she emerged. And he had to admit that now he could see what had taken the time. She looked absolutely breathtaking. Her dress was very simple, cut on the bias in pale grey-green silk chiffon shot through with silver, so that it shimmered like a moonbeam. Her skin reflected the milky glow of the three-strand pearl choker round her throat; her hair was smoothed back into a knot tied loosely at the nape of her neck, with just a couple of strands falling free. She looked like an ethereal apparition that had sprung from some legend – a mermaid princess.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Guy, and he meant it.
Her responding smile lit up her features, doing more for her than any make-up artist. She took his arm in hers, and he breathed in the scent of ripe figs. He had, for the time being, forgiven her.
‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘The limo’s waiting.’
Charles stumbled up the drive to Fulford Farm filled with resolve. He was going to take the day off tomorrow. He’d take Henty shopping, treat her to whatever she wanted, then they’d go somewhere for lunch. Stratford. He thought Stratford would be nice. They could even try and get tickets for a matinee at the RSC. They hadn’t done that for years.
Delighted with his plan, too drunk to realize that it was the plan of a guilty man and that Henty might think it was strange, he slipped in through the front door, deposited his camcorder in the study so as not to arouse suspicion, then made his way to the kitchen.
The atmosphere hit him at once. Sultry Latin jazz was oozing out of the sound system. Henty was sitting on one of the kitchen units with a glass of white wine in one hand, swinging her legs. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks slightly flushed, and she was giggling at something Travis was saying. He was sprawled carelessly in a chair, nursing a bottle of beer and looking very much at home.
‘Hi, Charles,’ Henty said, matter-of-factly, no hint of warmth in her voice. ‘We started without you, I’m afraid.’
Charles swayed slightly, blinking, trying to assess the situation.
‘Looks like he’s started already,’ drawled Travis, and the two of them burst into laughter. It rang mockingly in his ears, and he started to protest, but his words came out slurred. He must be drunker than he thought – he had a dim memory of Fleur topping his glass up more often than her own.
‘Another one of your boozy media lunches?’ asked Henty lightly, and the words sliced through him like a knife. It was true – he often came home half cut from schmoozing. But there was no need for her to be so disparaging. It was part of the job. Ninety per cent of deals were done over a restaurant table.
It was just a pity he hadn’t managed to pull one off lately.
Fear turned the champagne in his system to acid, burning through the walls of his stomach and seeping into his bowels. He couldn’t bring himself to burst in through the bubble Henty and Travis had drawn around themselves. They’d been having fun before he arrived, he told himself. Now they looked wary, unsure how to accommodate the intruder.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he managed to mumble, turned on his heel and shut the door.
19
Just as Honor had known he would, Johnny forgot the ingredients for the Thai chicken curry that evening.
Or didn’t forget, exactly. He’d been held up tending to a horse with a tendon injury. He could have stopped off at the supermarket for all the stuff, but then he would have been late. Or even later than he already was.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll run into Eldenbury for a takeaway.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Honor, resigned. ‘I’ve got plenty of stuff in the fridge.’
How had she known that the promised meal wouldn’t materialize? Because she knew Johnny only too well. This was familiar territory. Promises, promises. Followed by excuses. The eternal l
et-down. It was almost as if, once he’d made a vow, he had to break it. Oh well, she told herself. If you didn’t expect anything from Johnny, then you weren’t disappointed.
He had, however, brought a DVD player together with a load of pirated movies he’d got from one of his clients.
‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Honor asked.
‘Yes,’ said Johnny, but before she could protest Ted had spied a copy of the latest Disney movie and she’d had to give in. They were sprawled on the sofa together now, laughing uproariously at the animated antics. Their mirth was infectious: Honor found herself smiling as she whisked up the batter for toad-in-the-hole and poured it carefully over the sizzling sausages in the baking dish, taking care not to let the hot fat sputter up on her skin. She slid the dish back into the oven, then selected two round onions from the string hanging off one of the butcher’s hooks in the ceiling and sliced them thinly for the onion gravy.
Minutes later the onions were browning nicely, well on their way to becoming caramelized, and Honor leaned back on the kitchen cabinets to draw breath for a moment. She picked up the glass of wine Johnny had poured her and sipped it contemplatively, looking at Ted. He was sitting with his legs crossed, his head on Johnny’s shoulder, trying to fight off the fact that he was tired, for he knew the minute he showed signs of fatigue he’d be packed off to bed. Her heart constricted inside her. Ted was so like Johnny. Surely he looked at him and saw himself? How much longer could she keep up this pretence?
She saw the little boy’s lashes finally give in and fall on to his cheeks. It always amazed her how he could be laughing one minute and fast asleep the next. Honor went to scoop him up and carry him up the stairs, but Johnny nudged her gently out of the way.
‘I’ll take him.’
He lifted him up effortlessly – Honor had to admit that it was becoming more and more difficult for her to lift him – and in his sleep Ted put his arms round his father’s neck and his head flopped on to his shoulders. Her heart was in her mouth as Johnny reached the door.
‘Johnny –’ she began.
He turned.
‘He… hasn’t brushed his teeth,’ she finished lamely.
Johnny grinned.
‘I’m sure it won’t hurt just this once. He can do them twice in the morning.’
He disappeared through the door, her one-time lover, carrying their son. She took another big slurp of wine, hoping to dispel the questions and doubts that were whirling round in her mind.
I’m not a celebrity, get me out of here.
Guy was hating every minute of the evening but trying desperately not to show it. From the moment their limo had arrived at the hotel and they’d walked in through the entrance, past the roped-off area that held back the straggle of paparazzi, he’d been squirming in discomfort. It was all so fake; a tawdry attempt by the newspaper to emulate the glitter of the more prestigious award ceremonies in order to boost its circulation. And the tragic thing was that the actors and actresses and presenters that it was purporting to celebrate went along with it happily despite the fact that it was a total set-up and the winners were bound to be rigged. The lure of column inches, it seemed, was a strong one. They were more important than talent in this day and age. Celebrity and notoriety could fast forward a career; no one with any ambition turned down the opportunity to be in the public eye. So the place was packed out with wannabes, has-beens and the faces of the moment, all of whom had spent at least the last week planning what to wear and being groomed for the occasion.
Inside, the hotel’s ballroom was crammed with hundreds of tables barely twelve inches apart. The place mats were miniature versions of the Daily Post, printed with copies of their most famous headlines over the past ten years. At each place was a shiny bag stuffed with goodies. Guy was astonished to find a silk tie, a badger shaving brush and a leather-bound notebook in his, as well as a selection of luxury male-grooming products. This was obviously big business; the suppliers were banking on celebrity endorsements. Either that or they were getting rid of old stock…
Comely waitresses were circling the room with trays full of some filthy, lurid cocktail. Guy took one sip and gagged. Sickly, oversweet and artificial. Nobody else seemed bothered, presumably because the cocktails were free. If you wanted something else, you had to pay for it. He found another waitress and sidled up to her with a winning smile and a twenty-pound note.
‘Do you think you could possibly get me a bottle of beer?’ he asked politely. ‘I’m seriously allergic to what-ever’s in that.’
The waitress nodded eagerly, obviously mistaking him for some big-time, small-screen star, and rushed off to do his bidding. Happy that he would at least have something decent to drink, Guy looked around him. Through the crowds, he could see Richenda talking to the executive producer of the company who made Lady Jane. The simplicity of her outfit and her natural make-up were, he realized now, an act of considerable cunning, for next to her every other woman in the room looked overdressed and obvious. Fake tans, false hair and elaborate scaffolding abounded. There were unnecessary acres of exposed flesh – some firm, some flabby. In this day of stylists and personal shoppers, there really was no excuse for fashion blunders. But in the battle for attention, most actresses made the mistake of revealing as much as they could to ensure they were the focus of every camera. Richenda had done quite the opposite, and as a result all eyes were upon her. Of course, you had to be stunning to pull that trick off in the first place, but she had been canny to resist showing off either cleavage or leg. She glided amongst them all with an aura of serenity and class. How ironic, thought Guy.
He wandered amongst the guests, realizing how few of these so-called celebrities he actually recognized, sickened at the thought that the nation was riveted week after week by their fictionalized antics or their ability to redecorate a house in twenty minutes. A few of them managed to do some good, no doubt, as their agents or managers would ensure they did a quick stint in some war-torn third-world country to plump up their image. But on the whole they were superficial and self-absorbed, unable to handle the attention or the money that went with meteoric rises that weren’t underpinned by any particular talent. Guy felt a shudder of revulsion at the forced camaraderie, the shallow air-kissing, the false shrieks of greeting that ill-disguised the underlying rivalry. He wondered about moving through the glazed expressions and pinprick pupils to reach Richenda, but decided she would be able to work the room better without him standing like a lemon at her side. Not that he wasn’t supportive, but no one was really interested in him. After all, he had no influence over the outcome of tonight’s awards. Nor could he offer anyone a plum role in a forthcoming production, or write them a glowing review. He was just arm candy.
If he’d known it was going to be this ghastly, he’d have found an excuse not to come. There were a million and one things that needed doing at Eversleigh: they had a party of twelve coming this weekend, who’d emailed an endless list of dietary requests and peculiarities. He really could have done with going over it all with Honor – these were going to be difficult clients, and it was vital to get everything right at this early stage while they were establishing their reputation.
Slugging back his beer, he wondered if he was being sanctimonious and a bit of an old fogey. Who was he to look down on these people? What right had he to scoff at their success, just because it didn’t fit in with his view of the world? After all, he came from a world of privilege and what had he actually achieved? Running a bed and breakfast wasn’t something most people aspired to. He shouldn’t be so smug and judgemental: if he wasn’t careful, he could end up losing Eversleigh and it would more than likely end up in the hands of one of the people here tonight. As his mother had pointed out, they were the new aristocracy. They represented the nation’s values.
And to be fair to Richenda, she handled her celebrity status with aplomb, or so it seemed to him so far. She didn’t fall over herself to court publicity or exploit situations. She’d made as little fuss
as possible over the engagement; the photo session hadn’t been that much of an ordeal. And even though he’d been unsettled by her revelations earlier that day, Guy felt confident that Richenda would handle the knock-on discreetly. He resolved not to be petulant and self-righteous. He mustn’t let this blip spoil their relationship. There were bound to be pressures all the way through their marriage. If he fell at the first fence, what hope did they have? She needed his support, not his judgement.
Resolved, he pushed his way through the jostling throngs until he reached her side. The way her face lit up when she saw him was reward in itself.
‘Hello, darling,’ he murmured.
After Ted had been tucked up safely in bed, Honor served supper. She realized it was years since she had done this: sat down at the table with another adult, enjoyed a simple meal and idly chatted about their respective days. Johnny was on top form, thoroughly appreciative of her cooking.
‘This is way better than my curry would have been.’
‘I still think it’s a myth. I think you forgot accidentally on purpose. I don’t think you’ve got a clue what’s in it.’
‘Ginger, coconut milk, lemongrass…’ Johnny started reciting the ingredients indignantly, then ran out of steam.
‘Chicken?’ suggested Honor helpfully.
Johnny thumped her arm.
‘I’ll prove it to you Saturday. Definitely. Tell you what, why don’t you ask some friends round? We could have a supper party.’
Honor didn’t reply for a moment. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t actually mentioned Johnny to any of her friends yet. She’d been on the verge of telling Henty, but even then something was still holding her back. Like the fact that as soon as she publicly acknowledged his presence in her life she’d have to start making decisions.
An Eligible Bachelor Page 29
