‘We’re not stony broke,’ said Sally. ‘But we do need to release some capital. We will need help eventually.’
‘So that’s why we want to sell the house. We’ve seen somewhere we want to buy. Well, a bungalow—’
‘A bungalow?’ Leo looked horrified.
‘That makes it sound awful. It’s not a bungalow in the conventional sense, though it is all one level – very open plan – but it’s very nice. They call it ranch-style, I think.’
‘Ranch-style? In the Cotswolds?’ Leo frowned. ‘It is around here, right? You’re not moving somewhere else?’
‘It’s on the Digby Hall estate – just the other side of Peasebrook. I can show you the brochure . . .’ Sally jumped up. Leo could see how hard his mum was trying to make everything sound OK. That was so very much his mum. Alexander was being matter of fact and trying not to show how scared he was.
Leo didn’t know how to react. He was devastated. Of course he was. Who wouldn’t be? His smart, funny, clever, kind father. And his sunny, caring, beautiful mum. He had to find a way through this. To be as supportive as he could. To enjoy them as long as he could. To make their lives less terrifying and difficult and miserable. He couldn’t even think about what this disease meant to them all.
‘Have you told anyone else? Annie? Or Phoebe?’
‘No. No . . . We wanted to sort things out before we told anyone else.’
‘But they’re family, Dad. They’ll all want to help. That’s what families are for. They must know.’
Alexander looked distraught. ‘But as soon as everyone knows . . . That’s when everything changes. Nothing will ever be the same.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
Leo jumped up and went to hug his father. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged him like that. They were a perfectly affectionate family – but this embrace was different. This embrace said everything. How much he loved his father. How he was going to do everything in his power to help him. And how he never wanted to let him go.
Or Hunter’s Moon. The Willoughbys were Hunter’s Moon. Hunter’s Moon was the Willoughbys. It was a member of the family, as much as Alexander and Sally and Leo and Jess. And Annie and Phoebe.
Hunter’s Moon belonged to them and no one else.
19
As Bruce had instructed, Belinda ran herself a deep bath after the open house and lay wallowing up to her neck in Badedas. She was exhausted. It was tiring enough talking to prospective buyers, let alone the horror of Charlie turning up.
Although somehow that horror had been overshadowed by Leo’s arrival. Belinda had been so anguished by his predicament. And frustrated by the fact she could do nothing to help him, for he was going to find out the truth about Alexander. She imagined them all together, curled up in the living room by the fire.
The Willoughbys were good people. They would be kind to their son, and he to them. The house would hold them tight, she thought. Hunter’s Moon was a safe place.
Oh God. But not for much longer. And over her dead body would Charlie get it. How did he manage it, she thought? How did he worm his way into the hearts of girls who could get him what he wanted?
She’d fallen for it, she reminded herself. To be fair, she didn’t suppose it was premeditated. Charlie wasn’t together enough to have an actual plan. But when an opportunity presented itself, he clung on with both mitts, squeezing as much out of the situation for himself as he could, and leaving nothing for anyone else.
She had been that girl. She had been where Natasha was now. Charmed, enchanted, beguiled – and totally taken in. She sank a little deeper into the water as she remembered.
Their eyes had met not across a crowded room but a crowded marquee.
One of the things Belinda had introduced when she’d worked for Mortlake Bassett in Maybury was arranging promotional events. She’d organised for them to have a hospitality tent at the Peasebrook May Day Hill Climb.
The event attracted thousands of spectators happy to spend their bank holiday watching vintage cars whizz up Peasebrook Hill in the shortest possible time. Some of the cars were glorified bathtubs, battered and worn, others were gleaming and in concourse condition, but they were all beloved of their proud owners. The racetrack ran up the steep winding hill, and beside that was a path behind a safety fence so spectators could choose their position: some liked to watch the start, some gravitated towards the finish line, others hovered in between. It was a typically English, slightly eccentric pastime.
The Mortlake Bassett marquee was positioned halfway up the hill. They had a champagne bar and served deliciously sticky sausages in floury rolls to their clients, old, new and potential. Belinda was in charge of the invitation list, advised by the boss Richard Mortlake, Giles’s father, who had a vast network of influential friends and acquaintances around Maybury. Most guests were either people who had bought or sold their houses through them, or people they had done business with, or local faces. Belinda had notified the local press and made sure there would be pictures in the weekly paper and the county magazine. People loved to be seen at this sort of thing.
Her role on the day was hostess, discreetly checking everyone had an invitation and making sure everyone mingled and took home a goodie bag with a chocolate racing car, a Mortlake Bassett key ring and the all-important brochure outlining their services. Although she and Giles had technically the same job description, and even though the event had been her brainwave, it seemed that because he was a man (and presumably because he was Richard’s son) he didn’t have any duties on the day other than to schmooze. Belinda was becoming used to these discrepancies, and recognised she had to grin and bear it.
There were two couples coming in through the marquee entrance, looking a bit sheepish. Belinda recognised the look – it was the classic gatecrasher expression. They looked nice enough, and the right kind of client – well dressed in city-does-country clothing: smart jeans and tweedy jackets and un-muddy boots – so she probably wouldn’t quibble. She went over to greet them.
‘Hello,’ said one of the blokes. ‘Charlie said to drop in for a glass of fizz.’
‘Charlie Fox?’ said his girlfriend. ‘Or as we like to call him, Charlie Bar.’
Charlie Fox was indeed running the bar. He had recently opened the Peasebrook Wine Company, but it was as if he had been in the little town for generations, as he integrated himself so well. He had a mop of blonde hair, twinkling eyes and a winning way with customers. With his pale cords, brogues and checked shirt, his clothes sat well on him and he had a raffish air that set him apart from the usual hunting/shooting/fishing brigade. There was a rumour of some sort of wrongdoing in the City – insider dealing? – but nobody much cared. Charlie Fox fitted into Peasebrook very nicely, and Belinda had thought him the ideal choice to supply the wine.
‘No problem,’ she told them. ‘There’s champagne and hot dogs and—’ she lowered her voice ‘—we’ve got a very posh Portaloo round the back.’
She grinned at the girls. Decent loos were gold dust at events like this.
Charlie came over with a bottle of champagne to greet his friends.
‘Guys! Hi. You made it.’ He turned to Belinda. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be charging this one out. But be nice – these chaps are looking to move out of the big smoke.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly. Have the champagne on us.’
‘You’ll have a glass, yeah?’
Charlie brandished the bottle at her.
Belinda never drank while she was on duty, though everyone else was necking as much free booze as they could. She liked a clear head and to keep her tongue firmly tied. She knew only too well that gossip and speculation were rife once a few glasses had been down, and idle chatter could be fatal to her business. Discretion was her watchword.
It mystified Charlie, though, that he couldn’t persuade her to have a glass of the champagne he had sourced himself on his last buying trip to France.
‘Come on. Just the one! It’s glorious – as good
as Dom Perignon and a fraction of the price. Heaven in a glass.’
‘Elderflower cordial for me,’ she insisted, knowing she sounded prim. ‘I have to keep a clear head. And I don’t want my tongue loosened. You know what they say, careless talk costs lives. Or in this case, house sales.’
He looked at her, bemused, and gave a little sigh. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But promise me you’ll have a glass with me when this is over.’
He looked at her so winningly she couldn’t refuse. His charm was infectious and under his gaze she felt like a more interesting person. For some reason he seemed drawn to her, though she would have had him down as fancying the leggy young girls he employed as waitresses. She wasn’t used to the attention. She rather liked it.
Since leaving her parents’ house on the RAF base the minute she left school, Belinda had found being single by far the easiest route to survival. She took her career very seriously. She wanted to be independent and autonomous: it was the first time she’d had control over her own life. She had a ten-year plan: five years to get herself on to the property ladder and ten to open her own agency. Once she had her own house and was her own boss, then she could think about her love life.
She had started making proper friends, though, for the first time, because she was growing in confidence.
‘You’re so driven,’ they would complain. ‘You do nothing but work.’
She just laughed. ‘I love my job,’ she explained. ‘So it makes perfect sense. Once I’m established I can drop down a gear if I want to.’
They rolled their eyes but they still asked her out when they went to the movies in Oxford or had Sunday lunch at the pub or organised weekends away, and if she could make it she did. They were different, though – they lived for the weekends and their holidays and were obsessed with finding The One. Belinda went on the occasional date, but no one really lit her up from the inside. She was too exhausted to be much fun in the evenings, and she worked most weekends, so she didn’t consider herself to be a particularly enticing option.
So it was unlike her to feel drawn to someone. There was a sparkle and levity to Charlie that she liked. Something about him that felt easy and relaxed. She didn’t feel hunted, like she did with some men.
She was conscious of his gaze on her all afternoon in the marquee. She was wearing a pink Harris tweed jacket with a velvet collar, nipped in at the waist and tightly buttoned, over a black pencil skirt and suede ankle boots. She knew she looked good. She blushed when she caught Charlie’s eye more than once – she never blushed! – and when the last of the guests had gone, and he was supervising the waitresses putting the glasses back into boxes for him to take back to the shop, she wasn’t sure what to do; how to keep herself casually busy until there were so few people left they could no longer ignore each other and she could go and say thank you.
She was just rehearsing what to say to him when he came over.
‘Would you do me the most enormous favour? Have you got a car with you?’
‘Yes.’ She looked wary.
‘I haven’t got enough room in mine for all the boxes. A friend dropped them off for me this morning but he’s buggered off for the weekend. Would you take a few boxes back to the shop? I would be eternally grateful.’
She could hardly refuse. She would have to drive through Peasebrook on the way back home. Besides, she didn’t want to refuse. She knew perfectly well it was a trap.
She drove into Peasebrook and pulled up on the pavement outside the shop. Until recently it had sold knitting wool, but Charlie had transformed it with burgundy paintwork and two giant urns with box spirals outside the door, and where once there had been balls of gaudy wool and patterns for Fair Isle jumpers in the window, now there were tempting bottles of Chablis and Sancerre and Meursault. She carried the boxes inside: the interior was warm and rustic, all wooden floors, copper lights hanging from the ceiling, and chunky oak poseur tables to sit at while you tried your wine.
‘You have to have a drink now, so I can thank you.’ He took the boxes from her with a smile.
She didn’t even pretend to protest. She knew she would have to drive home, so she would drink just enough to take away her nerves and give her the courage to flirt with him.
He produced a long slender bottle. ‘This is a really gorgeous light Australian Riesling. It won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.’
He poured the merest inch into a pristine, long-stemmed glass and handed it to her.
‘Taste this. I love it. You’ll get grapefruit and lime-blossom.’
It was crisp and cold and delicious. As Belinda rolled it round her tongue, she realised there was a whole world she didn’t know about. She was used to flaccid, acidic pub wine at best.
‘Please, stop me if I ever start boring you,’ said Charlie. ‘But I’m passionate about wine. I couldn’t live without it.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve got a passion,’ said Belinda, suddenly realising that apart from work, she had no interests.
‘That,’ said Charlie, ‘is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Surely you have? All girls have. Shoes? Books? Frank Sinatra? Vintage teapots?’
Belinda thought about it. ‘I quite like a lot of things, but there’s nothing I couldn’t live without.’
‘We need to find you one, immediately. I shall make it my mission.’
‘Houses,’ said Belinda. ‘I love houses. I could spend all day looking at them. Dreaming about them. Imagining they are mine. Fantasising about how I would decorate them.’
‘Well, there you go, you see.’ Charlie clinked his glass against hers. ‘Everyone has a passion. You just have to dig deep to find it sometimes.’
It felt so right, the two of them sitting in the middle of the shop on high stools. Charlie brought out a slab of Taleggio cheese he’d bought at the cheesemonger, and they ate it with a couple of ripe pears. And before she knew it, they had finished the wine.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I can’t drive home yet. I’ve probably only had two glasses but it’s not worth the risk.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Charlie. ‘Well, you’d better come up to my flat and watch telly while it wears off. You can’t afford to lose your license.’
‘No, I can’t,’ she said, following him up the steep winding staircase.
They didn’t even get as far as putting the television on.
She found herself letting him unbutton the bone buttons on her jacket. He drew in a long breath when he saw that all she had on underneath was a pink silk push-up bra. Like houses, Belinda knew how important foundations were. She didn’t expect anyone to see, necessarily, but she always wore perfectly fitting matching underwear.
And she liked his appreciation, as he ran his fingers over the silk, gently brushing against the skin underneath. She shut her eyes and let him put his lips to her breasts, relishing their warmth, the butterfly gentleness of his kisses.
And before she knew it he had peeled away the rest of her clothes, and pulled her hair out of the velvet ribbon that held it back, and she was lying on the floor of his flat, on a rug, her limbs entwined with his, and it felt perfect.
Afterwards they lay tangled up in each other. She could hear music playing in the background, and she felt as if she was in a film. He was looking at her, a mischievous grin on his face.
‘That was a bit wow,’ he said.
She wasn’t sure what to say. Agreeing felt contractual, as if they were going to be bonded in something. But she could hardly say it hadn’t been.
‘Yeah – it was pretty good,’ she said, gathering up her clothes.
‘Pretty good?’ he looked affronted. ‘That was more than pretty good. That was . . . special.’
She smiled as she did up her bra, then slid on her jacket and started to do up the buttons.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I really don’t. Where are you going?’
‘Home. I think I’ve sobered up now. All that exertion.’
He grabbed her by the arms. ‘Stay with me. Stay the night. I want to hold you in bed. I want to wake up next to you.’
She shook her head. He looked really upset.
‘That’s never happened to me before.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. It felt . . . different.’
Belinda laughed. ‘Maybe you’ve just never had great sex before.’ She reached out and tousled his already messed up hair. She’d gone further than she meant to. She never slept with people she hardly knew, but there was a spark between them that had made her behave out of character. Now she was having to backtrack. She didn’t like giving too much of herself away.
She zipped up her skirt and slid her feet into her boots. In some ways it would have been nice to tumble into his bed, but it indicated a level of commitment she wasn’t prepared to give.
She picked up her bag and moved towards the door. He stood behind her, then hooked his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She felt all the little hairs ripple, but she put her hand on the latch.
‘When can I see you?’
‘I’ve got a very busy diary.’ She was going to play hard to get if it killed her.
‘Surely you have to eat?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Can I call you? I’ve got your mobile number because it was on the information sheet for the Hill Climb.’
‘Stalker.’
‘Yes. Probably.’
She laughed and shut the door behind her. Then shut her eyes and did a silent scream. She couldn’t even blame the wine. He’d drunk most of it.
*
She was distracted at work all the next day. Images of Charlie’s smiling face flashed up in her mind. She could feel his hands on her. She drifted off at the memory in the middle of conversations.
The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner Page 15
