The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner

by Veronica Henry

  ‘You’ve got to think big, babe. You could get a lodger.’

  ‘I do not want a lodger. I’ve got enough to worry about.’

  ‘You never know, you might get some hot young guy.’

  ‘I don’t have time for a guy, hot or otherwise.’

  Bruce looked at her thoughtfully.

  ‘You need to get back on the horse before it’s too late. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Bruce – I’ve had enough of Cathy trying to match me up every morning. Why can’t you both accept I’m quite happy as I am?’

  ‘How long’s it been?’

  She looked at him. ‘How long’s what been?’

  ‘You know.’

  Belinda rolled her eyes and refused to answer his question.

  ‘You’re obsessed.’

  Bruce sighed. ‘I’m not talking about sex.’ He lifted a strand of her hair. ‘I’m talking about you having someone who cares about you. You’re a gorgeous, amazing girl, Belinda.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re hot, babe.’ Bruce could never understand why she was single. ‘You’ve got that sort of naughty netball captain thing going on.’

  Belinda rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve never played netball in my life.’ Bruce was so un-PC. And he called her babe without a trace of irony. But somehow he got away with it, and secretly she was flattered, because Bruce didn’t dish out compliments unless he meant it. ‘If I wanted a boyfriend, I’d go and find one.’

  ‘I think you’re scared. I think you’re scared of being hurt again.’

  ‘Who says I’ve been hurt? You’re just making assumptions.’

  ‘You have. I can tell. Why else would you lead the life of a nun? But you know, not all men are bastards . . .’

  ‘I know. But I haven’t got time.’

  ‘You have to make time!’ His voice was low, caring. ‘I think it’s a waste, that’s all. You deserve to have someone to look after you and worship you. And just because somebody hurt you once—’

  ‘Please, Bruce. Pack it in.’ Belinda was starting to get agitated and she knew why – because Bruce was right. ‘I don’t go banging on about you being unattached.’

  Bruce chuckled. ‘No one would have me, darling. I’m bloody impossible. We know this.’

  ‘You could choose not to be. You could make a lovely husband. You’re kind, funny, fun. Quite nice-looking.’

  ‘Quite?’ Bruce feigned hurt.

  ‘OK – very. There’s loads of fifty-something divorcees and widows out there who would leap at the chance.’

  Belinda couldn’t help laughing at Bruce’s expression. He was looking very disgruntled. He could dish it out but he couldn’t take it.

  ‘It’s way too late for me. I’m set in my terrible ways.’

  ‘Well, there you go. You and me both. Let’s agree to differ.’

  Even when he was scowling, he was handsome, she thought. If he wasn’t such a reprobate, if he wasn’t so much older than her, if they didn’t work together, she might be tempted.

  She was glad she’d dodged the bullet, though. If she told him the truth, Bruce wouldn’t let it drop, and she didn’t have the strength or the heart to revisit what had happened. Some things were best left in the past.

  ‘Are we finished here?’ she asked. ‘Because we need to crack on.’

  Twenty minutes later, as they turned off the main road and into the lane that led to Hunter’s Moon, she grinned at Bruce. She felt excited by the thought of his reaction.

  ‘Prepare to be dazzled.’

  Bruce gave a low whistle as they turned the corner and he saw the house for the first time. ‘Wow. My father always said it was the most beautiful house he’d ever been in, but this is something else.’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it gorgeous?’

  ‘Oh, man – they’ll be falling over themselves.’ He scrambled out of the car and grabbed his camera bag. ‘Look at it! Look at the fountain! Can you imagine what fun you could have in that?’

  Belinda could only imagine what he was imagining: six supermodels and a bottle of Fairy Liquid, probably.

  ‘Calm down, Bruce. We’re keeping it classy, OK?’

  Bruce nodded, slightly in awe of the view in front of him. ‘I’ll have no problem. This is perfect. Oh God, I hope you find someone nice to buy it. I mean, what would you change? Nothing.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘It would break your heart, moving from here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Belinda softly. ‘I think that’s exactly what’s happened. So I want to make the whole thing as painless as possible.’

  Bruce looked at her, a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Most people would be rubbing their hands together with glee thinking about the commission.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll get my commission. It doesn’t mean I can’t look after my clients. Their peace of mind is more important to me than my percentage.’

  ‘You’re a softie really, aren’t you?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She crunched across the gravel towards the front door, just as a tall, slender man emerged.

  ‘You must be Belinda.’ He smiled, and she was struck by how attractive he was, although he must be in his seventies. Dark, arresting eyes and swept-back grey hair. ‘I’m Alexander Willoughby. My wife tells me we are in very safe hands.’

  ‘I hope so. This is my photographer, Bruce. We’ll try not to intrude.’

  Bruce held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. My old dad used to come to parties here when he was a youngster.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Alexander gave an impish grin. ‘Did he survive to tell the tale?’

  ‘He was head over heels in love with your mum.’

  Belinda cringed. Bruce was being his usual indiscreet self. Alexander didn’t seem to mind, though.

  ‘Who wasn’t?’ He indicated the house and grounds with a sweep of his hand. ‘Anyway, help yourselves. Sally’s out, but she’ll be back soon so don’t go without saying goodbye. Come and have a coffee in the kitchen.’

  He walked back inside.

  ‘What a legend,’ said Bruce admiringly. ‘I hope I wear as well as him.’

  All Belinda could think was: what a wonderful man and how terribly sad.

  *

  Usually Bruce’s time was spent trying to make houses look more enticing than they really were, with filters and wide angles. He needed no such trickery for Hunter’s Moon. The difficulty was narrowing the pictures down: they were spoilt for choice, between the fountain and the lily ponds and the swimming pool; the clock tower, the walled garden – and that was before they even went inside.

  When Sally saw the pictures, they made her cry. Bruce loaded the best shots on to her iPad and she and Alexander scrolled through them in the kitchen.

  ‘They’re like something out of a magazine,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve contacted everyone on my books who’s after a property like this,’ said Belinda. ‘There’s been a lot of interest. We’ve got several bookings for the open house already.’

  They had agreed a Saturday in a fortnight’s time. Belinda felt it was important to create a sense of urgency, to instil in potential buyers a fear of missing out.

  ‘I think it’s probably best if Alexander and I aren’t here,’ said Sally.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Alexander. ‘We’ll go away for the day.’

  Belinda felt relieved. It would be awkward for the Willoughbys, watching prospective purchasers crawl over their beloved home. She had done her best to make sure there weren’t any property tourists – it was surprising how many people spent the weekends viewing houses they could never afford to buy – but people were naturally curious.

  ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after your house, don’t worry. I can report back the next day. We should have got a fairly good idea of interest levels.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Oh, and it might be best if you took Teddy with you too. I’m
sure whoever buys Hunter’s Moon will be a dog lover, but it might be less disruptive on the day.’

  Sally bent down and ruffled the dog’s head. ‘There’s no way I’d leave Teddy here – he’d take great delight in causing as much chaos as he possibly could.’

  Later that evening Alexander scrolled through the photos again. It was strange, seeing all the settings without any people in them. The pool, so still and silent: he could imagine the heat of summer and all of them lounging around, himself and Phoebe and Annie and their friends, revelling in the luxurious torpor of nothing to do. The drawing room, crowded with people at Christmas, logs snapping in the grate. And he didn’t think he had ever seen the kitchen as empty as it was in the photo Bruce had taken – though he had artfully positioned Teddy in front of the Aga. The photos were stunning but somehow lifeless.

  He tried to imagine who might be buying the house, but stopped. It was too painful.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ Sally came up behind him and ran a caring hand over his shoulder. ‘They’re wonderful, aren’t they?’

  He took in a deep breath. He wasn’t going to drag Sally down with him. He knew she found it as hard as he did. That she was fighting to make this part of their journey together as painless as possible. She was smiling down at him and he thought: she looks just like she did the first night I met her. He might have been drunk, but he could remember the care and concern in her eyes as she looked down at him. And how utterly adorable she’d been, with those kitten ears, her mascara smudged, her lips still sugary pink.

  He could remember it as if it was yesterday, the night he’d fallen in love with Sally. It had frightened him. He’d never been frightened by a girl before. Frightened of the feelings she unleashed in him that he didn’t know quite what to do with.

  He’d fallen in love that night, but it had taken him a long time to admit it to himself, over that summer. It had taken him even longer to admit it to her.

  14

  1967

  ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’ asked Margot. ‘I mean, it’s quite a tricky colour.’

  She was standing still, with her arms out, while Phoebe adjusted the hem of the dress she had made for her. It was in burnt-orange chiffon with bell sleeves, and was dangerously short, finishing halfway up her thighs. Luckily Margot had good legs, and she had teamed it with her patent Roger Vivier shoes with the silver buckles.

  ‘Well, nobody else will be wearing it.’ Dai was surveying his wife with the look of a man who didn’t understand fashion and never would.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ said Sally. ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  ‘Is my hair OK? That hairdresser in Peasebrook is out of the ark. I gave her a picture but I don’t think she even looked at it.’

  Her hair was piled up in an elaborate bouffant of curls.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Phoebe. She grabbed a comb and gently teased out some strands of hair with the tail. ‘That’s better. It’s a bit less of a helmet.’

  Margot went to stand in front of the mirror Phoebe had propped up. She looked happy with the result.

  ‘Darling, you are a genius. Every woman should have a Phoebe.’

  ‘Every woman will have soon – if I play our cards right,’ said Alexander. ‘I’m showing her winter collection next week.’

  ‘Winter?’ said Dai. ‘But it’s only March.’

  ‘We work two seasons ahead in fashion, Dad.’ Phoebe ruffled her father’s hair. ‘And I know you know. Why do you pretend you don’t?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dai. ‘I’m bored, I suppose.’

  ‘Only boring people get bored,’ said Margot crisply. ‘And I have offered. It’s not too late for you to go and have a bath and come with me.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It would take me too long.’

  Margot sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘Girls, never marry a man who won’t take you to a party. It’s too tedious for words.’

  Sally winced. She had noticed that Margot could be cruel. She didn’t think she meant to be – it was just her manner, to be tart. But she felt sorry for Dai. It must be difficult living in Margot’s shadow. She was so glittery and certain and sure of herself.

  Actually, Margot wasn’t as sure of herself as everyone thought.

  She might earn more money for Niggle than most of his clients, and was probably his best known, but she couldn’t help feeling that a lot of them looked down on her for it. So she found his parties quite difficult. She made up for it by endeavouring to be the most glamorous person there, but perhaps that only proved what she feared people were thinking: that she was rather superficial.

  She was also feeling a little unsettled by Sally. She thought her wonderful, and what she had already done, in just a few days, was marvellous, but she rather showed up how useless Margot was. She scolded herself for being insecure. She couldn’t do everything. She couldn’t be a doting wife and mother and run a house and write bestselling novels.

  Only she wasn’t doing any of those things at the moment . . .

  She wasn’t going to let her doubts spoil the evening.

  If her agent did one thing well, it was give excellent parties. Nigel (or Niggle as his clients called him) Rathbone knew the job of a writer was a lonely one, and that most, if not all, writers liked a drink, so he threw open the doors of his Fitzrovia office several times a year, shipped in vats of booze, got a girl in to do cheese and pineapple on sticks and stood back. It was always a Rabelaisian affair. Over the years, the parties had ended in three marriages, two divorces, a birth and a lot of lunches – some clandestine, others lucrative, as he invited publishers and producers too. He was unusual as he represented both novelists and screenwriters, but his argument was that it was all storytelling, so what did it matter?

  Margot had skittered around all the people she knew, kissed them and exchanged pleasantries. Including the hideous Edith, Dai’s bête noir, who wrote abstruse feminist diatribes – which Margot couldn’t get through to save her life.

  ‘Is your charming husband not here?’ Edith raked the room with her good eye.

  ‘He’s in the country,’ said Margot. ‘Excuse me – there’s someone I must say hello to.’

  She’d spotted a newcomer. Terence Miller was a recent client. He’d famously fallen out with his old agent – it had actually got to fisticuffs in the bar of a hotel late one night – and Niggle was reticent about taking him on because he was a bit of a firebrand and a hellraiser, being a champagne socialist.

  ‘Only there’s always more champagne than socialism with Terence,’ Niggle confided in her. ‘Except when it comes to his scripts, which are brutal. But brilliant. Which is why I’m taking the risk. I can always sack him if he gets out of control.’

  Miller also had a reputation for being arrogant, and a womaniser. Margot wasn’t intimidated by either trait. She was used to brooding, acerbic, principled Dai, and she radiated under the attention of men, being a natural flirt. She considered Miller fair game.

  She saw him meet her gaze and he assessed and dismissed her in one second before he turned away. It was all she could do not to let her mouth fall open. No one ever dismissed her, especially not men. Even in middle age, she was still catnip; still irresistible. And while she never did anything about it, she revelled in the attention.

  She was not going to be ignored.

  She got one of the waiters to freshen up her brandy and soda and cornered Miller by the food table. He was examining a plate of prunes wrapped in bacon with a worried expression.

  ‘Welcome to the Rathbone Agency,’ she told him. ‘I loved The Runaway. I cried from start to finish.’

  He gazed at her with pale grey eyes, paler than the moon.

  ‘What are these?’ He pointed at the plate.

  ‘Devils on horseback,’ Margot told him. ‘Standard party fare.’

  ‘I don’t see the point of this sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Waste of bloody money. But Nigel told me he would only take me on if I came.’

&n
bsp; ‘Niggle likes everyone to mix and share ideas and collaborate,’ said Margot.

  ‘Collaborate?’ He managed to fill the word with innuendo. He had a flat Nottinghamshire accent that came and went to suit the occasion and the company.

  ‘Yes,’ twinkled Margot. ‘Lots of us have worked together on projects. Well, not me, because, well . . . no one wants to collaborate with me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He raked his eyes up and down her. ‘Nice dress.’

  She was slightly taken aback that he would notice. ‘My daughter made it.’

  He put a hand out to feel the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers. She pulled away as if she’d been burned. He put his hands up in apology.

  ‘My mother was a lacemaker. I was brought up to appreciate beautiful fabric.’

  Margot smoothed the dress down as if to wipe away his touch.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in something so superficial.’

  ‘Why not? You can have a social conscience and still appreciate beauty or talent or quality.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘So who are you? You obviously know who I am.’

  Margot looked at him suspiciously. Was he goading her? If he had joined Niggle’s agency he would know who she was, because she was the star turn. The man on the street might not recognise her face, but they would know her name. She wasn’t going to play his game.

  ‘Oh, I’m Margot,’ she said. ‘I’ve been with Niggle yonks.’

  ‘Margot who?’

  She blinked. There was only one Margot.

  ‘Willoughby,’ she managed finally.

  He turned the corners of his mouth down and shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard of you.’

  ‘Well, to be fair, you wouldn’t be my target reader.’

  ‘What do you write?’

  ‘Historical romance.’

  ‘Ah. More cleavage than historical accuracy?’

  She tried not to bristle. ‘My readers enjoy them very much.’