‘I don’t think we’d better. They’ve got a big party at Eversleigh this weekend – they might need me till quite late. Why don’t we wait till I’ve got a weekend free?’
Johnny looked a bit crestfallen. There was nothing he liked better than a party.
‘I can hold the fort till you get back. Everyone will understand. And I can get to know your mates.’
She definitely wasn’t letting Johnny loose without supervision. That was asking for trouble.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s too early, Johnny. I think you should be spending the time with Ted, not showing off your culinary prowess.’
Johnny stuck out his bottom lip.
‘I’d forgotten what a bloody school marm you can be,’ he complained.
‘I thought that’s what you liked,’ she flashed back with a mischievous grin, then stopped herself. Don’t flirt, don’t tease. That was dangerous ground.
Even though the hotel boasted four stars, dinner was far from impressive: chicken with a parmesan and polenta crust that tasted as if it had been picked up at the local KFC two hours before, then a raspberry mousse that resembled Instant Whip with a drop of créme de fram-boises mixed in. However, no one seemed bothered. Most of the guests didn’t eat anyway as their outfits didn’t allow it, and they were more intent on a liquid intake. When the time came for the awards to be presented the atmosphere was decidedly relaxed. Make-up was fading, guards were dropping, hairdos were drooping. Guy was relieved to see that Richenda was still as fresh as a daisy. Apart from a glass of champagne on arrival, she had wisely been sipping mineral water throughout the evening.
The ceremony began. It seemed tediously slow and repetitive to Guy, but everyone seemed to be on the edge of their seats as the Best Television Makeover Show or the Best Celebrity Chef was revealed. And the ritual really tested everyone’s acting abilities: the agonizing expectation, the bitter disappointment, the delight, the fixed smiles, the false congratulations, the forced tears, the gushing. By the time the award for Best Actress arrived, Guy was thoroughly nauseated. Yet he still felt a flurry of nerves for Richenda. Of course it would be wonderful if she won. Not to mention awful if she lost. He squeezed her hand under the table and crossed his fingers secretly. She sat, straight backed and serene, the only sign of any tension the tightness of her fingers on the stem of her glass as the nominees were announced.
The award was to be presented by a young comedian whose filthy innuendo had made him a celebrity almost overnight. He bounced on to the stage in a dinner jacket, worn with leopardskin winkle-pickers and matching dickie bow. Which bit of black tie did these people not understand? wondered Guy.
‘I have to admit, I was feeling a right tit earlier,’ he said, then trailed off. ‘Thirty-six double D,’ he added helpfully, waiting for the audience to get the joke. Then he picked up the gold envelope.
‘No point beating about the bush, is there? Anyway, I’m sure all the ladies here have had Brazilian waxes…’
The audience laughed again.
‘’ Scuse me – I’m just fumbling with the flap… As usual…’
Another slightly nervous laugh. His jokes were getting a bit too close to the bone. Being a professional, he sensed this.
‘And the winner of the Best Television Actress Award, as voted by the readers of the Daily Post, is…’
Everyone held their breath as he drew out a thick card.
‘… the fox herself. Richenda. Richenda Fox, ladies and gentlemen. Congratulations, my darling…’
Richenda had a look of utter amazement on her face. She seemed slightly dazed. Guy leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She turned to him with a smile, shaking her head in bewilderment, then accepted a kiss from the delighted producer on her other side. Then she stood, gathered up her skirts and picked her way through the tables as daintily as a milkmaid picking her way through a field of buttercups. She ran lightly up the stairs on to the stage, accepted a congratulatory hug from the comedian, then took her place behind the microphone. She waited for a few moments before speaking, while she composed herself. Then she looked round the huge audience with a dazzling smile.
‘Every little girl likes to dream. When we’re dreaming those dreams, I don’t think we expect them to come true. I invented many wonderful scenarios for myself as a child, but this is beyond my wildest imaginings. So thank you.’
She paused and a smattering of applause began, but she put her hand up to show she hadn’t finished. The clapping abated obediently.
‘So… this is the fairy-tale ending. But what you don’t know is that the beginning of the story is rather different from what you’ve been led to believe. The readers of the Daily Post gave me this award, so in return, I’m going to give them the truth. Tomorrow you can read all about my reunion with my estranged mother, and I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for the past I invented for myself. I’m sure when you read what happened you’ll understand why I felt the need to pretend for so long.’
She paused for a moment, the smile never leaving her face, while the audience digested this information, murmuring speculatively and exchanging surprised glances. Then she cleared her throat, to indicate that she wasn’t finished. She carried smoothly on, before they’d really had time to digest the shock revelations, thanking the cast and production team of Lady Jane, name-checking the minions as well as the producer and directors.
‘Finally, there’s one person I’d like to thank in particular, without whose support I wouldn’t be standing here, and that is my wonderful, big-hearted, generous-spirited fiancé, Guy Portias. Thank you a thousand times, my darling.’
A collective, heartfelt ‘Aaah’ swept the room at these words. Heads swivelled as she blew Guy a kiss, then rapturous applause broke out and hundreds of flashbulbs popped. She had the entire audience in the palm of her hand. She paused for a few more moments to ensure that every photographer had had their fill of her radiance, then she glided back down the steps and made her way back to the table, stopping en route to shake hands and receive kisses of congratulation with gracious modesty.
Guy felt slightly sick. How could he have misjudged Richenda like that? He had assumed that she would try and make as little as possible of the forthcoming revelations about her past. Instead, she had used her victory to blow it out of all proportion. Admittedly, it was a bloody masterstroke in how to manipulate the media. In one fell swoop she had ensured that the photographers would be falling over themselves to snap her: she wouldn’t feature just in the Daily Post, but all the papers. The entire episode had been contrived and calculated – she had engineered the situation to bring her maximum publicity. Worse than that, she had used him; capitalized on their recent engagement with that nauseating name-check. He cringed as he remembered all those grinning heads swivelling round to look at him. Did she have any idea how that had made him feel? He thought not.
Guy topped up his glass, realizing that he was the only one left at the table. Everyone else was circulating. Richenda was surrounded by a huge crowd of sycophants. He watched as she embraced Cindy Marks from the Daily Post, and his stomach turned over. Was he imagining it, or did the two of them share a conspiratorial smile? Had the whole thing been conceived and engineered between the two of them from the very beginning? He remembered them directing him during the photoshoot a fortnight ago – at the time, he’d gone along with it with good-natured grumbling. Now he wondered if he’d been naive; if he was in fact part of a more sinister plan; an extra in a piece of theatre they had been rehearsing for weeks.
It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the entire engagement had been a publicity stunt. But no – Richenda couldn’t have engineered that. He’d proposed to her voluntarily, if a little rashly. Guy told himself now he was being paranoid.
Nevertheless, the entire incident was making him question everything that had happened between them. He urgently felt the need to escape. He couldn’t go back to her apartment tonight. He didn’t trust himself not to have a huge c
onfrontation with her; a confrontation that would question her values and her motives. And in the mood he was in, he didn’t think their relationship would survive. He needed to get away and think before he made his next move.
Resolved, he moved through the adoring throngs and reached her side.
‘Listen, darling – I’m going to slip off and leave you to it.’
She looked startled.
‘What? But we’re going on somewhere to celebrate. You can’t leave.’
‘Honestly – I’ve got to be up early in the morning. We’ve got a huge party this weekend and I haven’t done a thing yet. If I go out partying with you I’ll be in deep trouble.’
‘I want you with me.’
Her eyes were beseeching him. He had to be firm.
‘I know it’s a bore but it can’t be helped.’
‘But I wanted you to meet my mother. She’s coming round in the morning.’
‘I think it would be far better if I left you two alone. If it’s all coming out in the paper tomorrow you won’t want any distractions. Much better if we have a get-together when everything’s calmed down. Maybe… bring her down for Sunday lunch or something?’
Richenda looked slightly mollified by this suggestion, though Guy could see she wasn’t happy at being abandoned. But she couldn’t protest, not in front of her adoring entourage. The press would pick up on any discord straight away. Well, she’d made her own bloody bed. She could lie in it.
Guy gave her a lingering kiss for the benefit of her onlookers.
‘Well done, darling. I’m so proud of you. And we’ll celebrate as soon as I’ve got this weekend out of the way. Have a lovely evening.’
He squeezed both of her hands in an affectionate gesture of farewell, and walked away swiftly. It was all he could do not to bolt for the exit as soon as her back was turned. He came out of the hotel, ran down the steps and breathed in the crispness of the cold night air, so refreshing after the smell of a hundred different perfumes, the lingering traces of cooking and the million cigarettes that were being smoked one after the other. A cab appeared around the corner with its orange light on. Guy stuck up his hand, leaped into the back and flopped on to the seat with a relieved sigh.
‘Paddington Station, please. As quick as you can.’
*
When Johnny and Honor had finished supper, she plonked the dishes in the sink, then brought over the bottle of wine to top up Johnny’s glass. To her surprise he put his hand over the top.
‘I’d better get going. It’s going to take me over an hour to get home.’
Honor knew that disappointment was spreading itself over her face.
‘You could always stay,’ she said softly. ‘On the sofa,’ she added hastily.
Johnny looked up and gave her his familiar lopsided smile.
‘If I have another drink, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
‘Oh dear. Well, we can’t have that.’
She smiled down at him teasingly. He put a hand either side of her waist, his thumb massaging her hip bone. She could feel the warmth from his fingers diffuse right into her bones, melting her. All of a sudden she felt rather weak.
‘What are we going to do, Honor?’
He was looking up at her, suddenly serious.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered, as he stood up and folded her in his arms. She leaned back slightly, panicking inwardly. ‘I don’t know…’
The evening had been perfect. Delightful. Easy. How fantastic if they could just repeat that formula day after day. Him getting in from work at about seven, getting quality time with Ted for half an hour. Then the two of them enjoying a relaxed meal. Honor sighed. If only she had a copper-bottomed guarantee that was how it would be, she’d suggest making a go of it again. But she was wary; very wary.
‘I need time,’ she told him.
‘Of course you do. It’s still early days.’
She looked at him, surprised. She was expecting pressure for a decision.
‘It’s totally up to you, you know that. And when you make up your mind what you want to do, I’ll go with it. Because I know you’ll make the right choice.’
She nodded her agreement, distracted by his hand massaging the small of her back, wanting him to explore further but knowing she should move away. Instead, to her horror, she found herself winding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. She told herself it was because she wanted the comfort of human contact, the reassurance. But the tiny little tornado of white heat she felt deep inside made a mockery of this. It was all she could think of. She could hear Johnny talking to her, reassuring her, in the special voice he used when he was comforting an animal in pain. She wasn’t listening to him, though. All she could focus on was the incredible sensations, long forgotten, seeping through her.
She turned her face to kiss him. As long as she only kissed him, that was OK. A kiss didn’t mean anything, especially to the likes of Johnny. She brushed her lips against his, once, then twice, then once more; random little pecks of affection. That was fine. Nothing too compromising. But the next kiss became lingering, sensual. She shivered as she felt his tongue against hers, told herself this was the moment she should pull back, then chastised herself as she responded and their tongues entwined slowly and languorously. She found herself coming to life inside as the flicker of warmth ignited into full flame and charged through her, as if her veins were filled with petrol and the fire was dancing along them, unstoppable. She felt his muscles through the soft cotton of his shirt and longed to feel his skin on hers. For a moment, she wondered if he’d slipped something into her wine. She’d heard about people using horse tranquilizers in nightclubs: maybe he’d got hold of something that turned women into sex fiends. Because she felt desperate. After years of celibacy, she craved abandonment.
Before she knew it, his hands were inside her jeans. She moaned as he made contact, then rubbed herself against his fingers as satisfaction became the only thing important to her. Nothing would make her turn back now. As she came, she hugged him to her, racked by the ferocity of the first orgasm to have been effected by another person for more than seven years. He brushed his fingers against her lips, then he kissed her again, and they shared the taste of her in a gesture that was incredibly intimate.
She laid her head on his shoulder for a moment, trying to recover her poise, then he disengaged her gently.
‘I really had better go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got to be at work at half seven tomorrow morning.’
He drew away from her. She looked up. If he smirked, she’d slap him. But he didn’t. He picked up their wine-glasses and took them into the kitchen, washing them carefully under the tap and wiping them with a cloth and putting them on the draining board. Honor busied herself putting away the salt and pepper; pushing the cork back into the wine bottle. She could barely look him in the eye as he picked up his keys. He kissed her again, lightly, affectionately, just on the side of her mouth.
‘I’l see you at the weekend.’
She nodded.
‘Bye…’
As soon as he’d gone she sank down on to the sofa with her head in her hands. What on earth had she been thinking of? It was almost worse than sleeping with him, letting him get her off like that. It had been for her satisfaction alone. Her behaviour had been… well, wanton was the only word she could think of. And now he had the moral high ground, the smug satisfaction of knowing that she had been desperate while he’d exercised total self-control. Her cheeks rosy with shame, she reflected that she’d gone from cosy and contented to orgasmic to desolate in the space of one evening.
Then she remembered – that was life with Johnny. The bloody emotional rollercoaster, never knowing where you were. It hadn’t been her at all – he’d engineered the whole thing. Ruthlessly exploited her weak spot. Literally.
Bastard. Bastard bastard bastard. He’d known exactly what he was doing, and she’d fallen into his trap. She could imagine him now, smirking at the wheel of his car
, convinced he was well on his way to winning her round. Having given her all that blarney about the future being her choice. Well, bugger him. She wasn’t going to be manipulated any more.
By the time she got to bed, she was freezing. She struggled to get to sleep, as guilt and self-reproach and indecision did nothing to warm her. Chilled to the bone, she searched in vain for a solution to this dilemma that wasn’t going to cause one of them pain.
Rozzi Sharpe was incandescent with rage as she looked at the early edition of the Daily Post. A photograph of Richenda delivering her acceptance speech was emblazoned across the front, along with the headline ‘Mother and child reunion: see full story inside’. Mick Spencer’s story wasn’t worth wiping her arse on now. Stupid, blithering drunken fool. It would have been a fantastic story –much better than the simpering, saccharine-sweet reunion plastered all over the Daily Post. People loved nasty stories much more than they liked happy endings – schadenfreude kept the British media afloat.
She wasn’t even going to bother contacting Mick. His accusations were unfounded without the mother’s backup; it would just look like petty sour grapes on the part of her paper. She’d find a better story. There was absolutely bound to be one. She wouldn’t bother with Richenda: her guard would be up now. Rozzi knew exactly where she was going to concentrate her investigations – in deepest Gloucestershire, where the handsome prince was residing in his castle. She wasn’t really bothered what came out of the woodwork: accusations of drug abuse, homosexuality or a family history of hideous war crimes. But she’d find something.
She phoned up her favourite reporter, a tenacious little terrier who she saved for the really juicy jobs. He always got results, but he made her pay.
‘Guy Portias. Get me some shit. And make it stick.’
Bill Weeks’s evil chuckle was all she needed to satisfy her that she’d have a big steaming mound of it before too many days had passed.
An Eligible Bachelor Page 30
