As he idly ran through various possibilities he felt something brush itself against his leg. Without opening his eyes, he moved slightly, not wanting to embarrass whoever had inadvertently rubbed against him. Moments later, he felt it again, more insistent. Someone was running their foot up the inside of his trousers! This time he looked up with an indignant glare. Sitting on the other side of the table, fixing him with a sweet, innocent smile, was Fleur.
‘Hello, Charles,’ she said. ‘Fancy us being on the same train. I’ve been up to town to do some shopping.’ She indicated a clutch of carrier bags to prove her statement. ‘I was just going to go and get a hot chocolate from the buffet car when I spotted you.’
Charles could only manage a strangled greeting from the back of his throat.
‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ She leaned forward. ‘We might as well take the opportunity to talk about our… project’
Charles’s eyes flicked wildly round the carriage. There could be any number of people on board that he knew. He didn’t see anyone he recognized in the immediate vicinity, but he knew from experience that people listened in keenly to other people’s conversations.
‘Not here,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘Not in here.’
With his eyes, he indicated behind him to the toilets. The sign luckily read vacant. Fleur nodded her understanding, got up and made her way down the aisle, then disappeared through the sliding door. Charles looked at his watch. They were at least half an hour from Eldenbury, or he might have done a runner. Instead, he gave it two minutes, then followed her, tapping on the door. She opened it up and let him inside, grinning mischievously. No sooner was the door closed than she pressed herself urgently up against him.
‘Hold on, hold on!’ he squawked in alarm, pushing her away. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘We’ve got unfinished business.’
‘I’m a happily married man.’
‘And I’m a happily married woman. That doesn’t stop us, does it? I don’t want to marry you. I just want to fuck you.’
She leaned back against the sink matter-of-factly, thrusting out her chest. Charles looked aghast.
‘Not in here. I couldn’t.’
‘You don’t want to join the 125 club?’
‘No.’
Fleur surveyed him, a little smile playing on her lips, as if debating whether to pursue the issue, then relented.
‘So – how’s the pilot looking?’
The rushes were still sitting in Charles’s study. He couldn’t bear to look at them. In fact, he’d been meaning to erase them, destroy the evidence. He didn’t want the tape getting into the wrong hands. There’d be a lot of explaining to do. He scolded himself. He really must learn to be more careful. What with the knickers, and the tape… he really was too careless for this infidelity lark. Not that he had any intention of taking it any further. Though he thought Fleur had other ideas.
He feigned a nod of enthusiasm, for the time being.
‘It’s looking good. There’s still a lot of work to do, of course.’
‘Can we have a private viewing? When it’s ready?’
‘Of course. Good idea.’ Bad idea. Very bad idea. He looked at his watch. ‘Hey look – we better get back to our seats. We’re nearly at Eldenbury.’
Fleur went to unbolt the door.
‘Oh dear,’ she said after a moment. ‘The lock seems to be stuck.’
Looking back on it afterwards, Guy was sure he had only been gone two minutes. But then, on reflection, you didn’t leave six-year-old boys alone for even one minute. Especially not if there was an old tree house right in front of their eyes. Even if you had said don’t go near it till we make sure it’s safe. He’d gone to fetch a hammer and nails, and when he got back Ted was lying on the ground, perfectly still and as white as a sheet.
As he looked down at the little boy, Guy realized he had never felt fear before.
It had been quite possibly the most humiliating experience of Charles’s life. He’d managed to stop Fleur pulling the communication cord. She’d insisted that otherwise they’d end up in Hereford, but Charles imagined everyone lining up on the platform to see what the emergency was, and the two of them filing out. Instead he had to stick his head out of the window at Eldenbury and call the guard’s attention.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ he’d explained in a stage whisper. ‘I’m locked in the lavatory.’
Behind him he could feel Fleur convulsed with giggles.
‘Oh dear, what can the matter be?’ she sang.
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘It’s not funny!’
‘Where’s your sense of humour?’
The guard had done something magical with his penknife and the lock slid back. He looked a little taken aback when two people instead of one emerged from the cubicle, but by then it was too late to attract anyone else’s attention to the situation and Charles barely thanked him before bolting off down the platform and mingling in with everyone else.
He hid in the waiting room until he saw Fleur climb into her Merc and drive off. Even now he wasn’t convinced that her appearance on the train had been a coincidence. Charles remembered mentioning that he always got the three-eighteen on a Friday. His heart pounded. This was getting a bit spooky. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have got himself his very own stalker.
Honor sat in the ambulance at Ted’s side, utterly transfixed with terror. Her whole world was imploding; her mind whirling with random thoughts and images. Nothing was coherent because nothing was certain. The only thing that gave her any vague reassurance was the thought of Guy following behind the ambulance. Somehow that gave her a crumb of comfort, knowing he would be at her side throughout the ordeal. The ambulance men were kind, but refused to give any prognosis. She supposed they had to stay on the fence. They couldn’t say Ted was going to be all right, because he might not be.
He was just so very still. She had never seen him so still. Even in his sleep he gave off a certain energy, his limbs occasionally twitching. He was a wriggler. There was no hint of wriggling now. Whatever state of consciousness he was in, there were no signals being transmitted. Her stomach churned. Her mouth was dry. And, strangely, her eyes. There were no tears yet. Presumably because she didn’t know yet what to cry for. Without a diagnosis, you couldn’t prescribe the amount or quality of tears needed.
She could feel the ambulance slow, feel it encounter the speed bumps on the hospital drive, and her heart began to pound. The agonizing limbo was at an end; the expertise and machines that would ascertain Ted’s future were only minutes away now. The doors of the ambulance were opened and she climbed out to wait on the pavement, knowing that hanging over Ted would impede the work of the paramedics. She felt a strong arm round her shoulder. Without looking, she knew it was Guy, and she allowed herself to fall against his chest for a moment to draw some strength.
The stretcher went past. For a moment she had a flash forward to the future: a tiny coffin being held aloft by pallbearers. Then she told herself not to be stupid. He was still breathing. Where there was life there was hope. This was the twenty-first century. She grasped Guy’s hand and hurried inside the hospital, trying to ignore the sympathetic glances of passers-by. Again she had the sense of mourners at a funeral, pouring sympathy on the grieving mother.
Once inside, protocol took over. The form-filling was interminable; the questions tedious and confusing – or was that just her state of mind? They mistook Guy for the father; she had to explain over and over again. At one point they asked her if she wanted to phone anyone and she said no, even though a small voice told her she should contact Johnny. Finally they were left to wait, on hard orange plastic chairs, in a small cubicle, listening to the mayhem of the accident and emergency unit: the barked orders, the complaints of the patients, the ringing phones, the two of them still and quiet amidst the chaos. Guy gripped her hand tightly but neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.
At
last, the curtain was drawn back by an authoritative hand. The swish was so certain, so definite, that Honor knew the perpetrator was the bearer of the verdict. She shut her eyes, not sure if she could bear it, and felt Guy’s protective arm around her once more.
The consultant spoke, in the smooth modulated voice of one who couldn’t be contradicted.
‘I’ve got a little boy out here who wants his mummy.’
Honor slumped against Guy with a low moan. The joy that flooded through her made her feel sick. She could barely stand up. She took in several juddering breaths to steady herself.
‘Is he going to be OK?’
The consultant nodded kindly.
‘We’re going to have to take him up to X-ray shortly – I think he may have cracked his collarbone. And we’ll have to keep him in tonight for observation. But I think he’s going to be fine.’
Henty stood in the queue at the post office in Eldenbury, clutching a large brown padded envelope to her chest. As she arrived at the window, she slid it carefully under the partition.
‘Special delivery, please.’
She couldn’t risk this getting lost. Ten thousand carefully chosen words. Words that had tumbled out of her mind in a glittering cascade, falling exactly where she had wanted them. She had reached a natural turning point in her story: before she poured her heart and soul into completing it, she needed to know if anyone would want to read on. Or was it meaningless, mindless drivel?
Harry Jenkins was her old editor, who’d steered her through the first two novels and had tried to coax a third out of her, who had been so patient and supportive and, in the end, when she had become thoroughly frustrated and miserable, had gently suggested she have a break. At the time she didn’t think he’d meant fifteen years – he’d kept in touch every few months for the first two, but then his letters had trailed off. After ten years his Christmas cards stopped, though she suspected it was his assistant who had culled her from the list, not Harry himself. But she knew he’d be pleased to hear from her. He was an absolute sweetheart. Better still, he wouldn’t be afraid to tell her it was absolute crap. He’d told her to throw her first attempts at a third novel straight in the bin. He didn’t believe in writers torturing themselves to produce something they didn’t believe in.
Henty had believed in what she was writing this time. It was why it had been so easy. The question was, would anyone else be interested? She didn’t know the market any more. What she’d written wasn’t exactly chick-lit – she was too old to be a chick. But it was fun. And there was a message underneath that she thought a lot of women would identify with. It was the tale of a Cotswold housewife who, devastated when her husband leaves her, embarks on a trail of sexual reawakening courtesy of a young garage mechanic. It was bitter-sweet, semi-pornographic but ultimately optimistic. Henty had a feeling in her gut that it would be a success: there must be hundreds of women out there who could relate to what her heroine was going through. She knew Harry would give her an honest appraisal. He’d always understood her work completely; the way she twinned naivety with naughtiness, then added an unexpected twist to the tale to show that what she’d been writing wasn’t just superficial froth.
She’d printed out the opening chapters that morning, admiring the way the jet black letters covered the page so authoritatively, each word perfect in itself; so different from her earlier manuscripts, which had been covered in sticky blobs of Tippex. And although she knew she shouldn’t, because it was unspeakably naff, she tied it up with a big pink ribbon, then added a label, writing on it with a thick fountain pen: ‘To Harry – Part One. Only fifteen years overdue – love Henty.’
Resisting the urge to kiss the parcel for good luck –nearly as naff as the ribbon – she paid the cashier and left, retrieving Thea and Lily from the magazine rack, where they were drooling over photos of boy bands, and hoicking Walter and Robin away from the sweet counter.
When she got back, Charles was already home, sitting in the kitchen in his jeans. He looked very pleased with himself.
‘What is it?’ asked Henty, intrigued.
‘I’ve decided you deserve a treat.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean, bugger it, if you can’t spoil your wife every now and again, then what’s the point? And if you can’t really afford it, so what? It’s only money’
‘Goodness,’ said Henty.
‘We can go out and choose it tomorrow. Whatever colour you like, whatever extras – it’s a big investment so I want you to have exactly what you want.’
Henty’s eyes were shining with excitement. Charles felt hugely gratified.
‘Is it what I think it is?’ she asked.
Charles nodded.
‘It’s long overdue, but I think it’s time. We’ll go round the showrooms tomorrow.’ He beamed. ‘Like I said, whatever you want. It’s your treat. A brand new, state-of-the-art kitchen.’
Henty’s face fell.
‘Kitchen?’ she echoed. ‘I thought you meant a sports car.’
Charles looked perplexed.
‘Sports car? What on earth would be the point of that? It’s totally impractical.’
‘I kind of thought that was the point.’
‘I thought you wanted a new kitchen?’
‘Yes – but not for me. Not as a treat. Because we need it.’
Charles looked thoroughly crestfallen.
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Well, I suppose I am… pleased. But it’s not something I can get excited about.’
‘Forget it, then. I’m not forking out twenty grand if you’re not interested.’
He pulled open a drawer sulkily to find the corkscrew. Henty sighed.
‘Of course I’m interested. I’m sorry. I just got the wrong end of the stick, that’s all.’
She didn’t want Charles in a strop. Charles in a strop all weekend was hard work. Travis ambled in, and Henty tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Hey, Travis. Guess what? Charles is going to buy me a new kitchen.’
The expression on Travis’s face said it all.
*
Honor was going to spend the night at the hospital. Guy drove her back home to get her night things and the toy monkey that Ted couldn’t sleep without. He felt rather subdued. The incident had shaken him. How could he ever have forgiven himself if Ted hadn’t been all right?
He pulled up outside Honor’s house. He had to speak.
‘Honor – I’m just… so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
She smiled at him wearily.
‘It was an accident.’
She spoke automatically. It was probably easy for her to say, now she knew Ted was all right. But what would she have said if he’d been killed? He could have been. Fifteen feet… Guy put his arms on the steering wheel and leaned his head on them for a moment, overwhelmed now it was all over.
‘Hey…’
He felt her soft breath on his cheek, her arm slide round his shoulder. He felt something wet on his cheeks, and realized they were his tears. They were being brushed away gently.
‘It’s OK,’ came the reassuring whisper, and as he turned his head and opened his eyes, their lips met. The kiss was intense, a moment of healing and forgiveness and relief that soothed both their hearts, wiping out the trauma. Shakily, they parted, and looked at each other.
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ said Guy. ‘I’m sorry – it was just the relief…’
‘I shouldn’t either,’ said Honor, flushed with embarrassment. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of. It must have been the shock.’ She opened the car door hastily. ‘I’ll go and get my stuff. Don’t worry –I can drive myself back to the hospital.’
‘No – you’re in no fit state to drive.’
‘I’ll be fine. Honestly. You’ve got guests to see to. I can drive myself back in the morning.’
She insisted, and Guy had to accept that perhaps she didn’t want him in the vicinity, not if he was going to pou
nce on her at every opportunity. Cursing his weakness, he drove off down the road, unable to believe what a complete and utter prat he’d made of himself. He should know better at his age.
Honor barely slept a wink that night at the hospital. She was on a deeply uncomfortable camp bed next to Ted’s. Apart from feeling the need to check he was all right every fifteen minutes every time she shut her eyes she remembered kissing Guy, and cringed inwardly. He must think she was absolutely sex-starved, especially when she’d admitted getting embroiled with Johnny only the day before. Even now she didn’t know what had got into her.
She fled the hospital as soon as she could on Saturday morning, once she was happy that Ted was a hundred per cent and had been discharged by the doctor. The atmosphere in there reminded her all too grimly of what might have been. She wanted to get the pair of them home, into a hot bath each, into their comfort clothes, in front of the telly.
At eleven o’clock the doorbell rang and she answered the door sheepishly, praying it wasn’t Guy, even though she was fairly sure he would steer clear of her after her wanton behaviour. To her relief it was Marilyn, who’d come up to fetch a few things from her freezer.
‘Madeleine says you’re not to worry. She’s cheated by buying a load of stuff in from the deli in Eldenbury, and Suzanna from the Honeycote Arms has sent over some puddings. She thinks we’ll get away with it.’
‘I’m so sorry to leave you in the lurch.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t leave Ted.’
‘Actually, he’s fine. He wants to go and play football with Walter. I’m the one that feels a bit shaky,’ admitted Honor.
‘You don’t feel as bad as Guy, I can tell you,’ said Marilyn knowingly.
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ insisted Honor.
‘I know, but you know what a lovely bloke he is. I can tell he’s gutted.’
Honor didn’t reply. She didn’t want to talk about Guy. In fact, the sooner all the events of yesterday were eradicated from her memory bank, the better. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing him again on Monday. Maybe she should resign? But perhaps that was making too much of it. No, she’d just keep her head down and keep out of his way. Keep things on a businesslike level.
An Eligible Bachelor Page 33
