by Katie Fforde
She had barely had time to plump up the cushions and throw the dead flowers into the fireplace before she heard Henry's car drive up.
‘The map worked OK, then?'
‘Very well.' He kissed her cheek. `Mm. You smell gorgeous.'
‘You smell quite nice yourself. Shall we go?' She picked up her pashmina and her house keys, called 'Goodbye' to Imelda and they left the house. Henry's car was an old Jaguar XK120. 'Mm. Nice car,' she murmured, thinking that it was exactly the sort of car she'd thought Henry would own.
‘A bit of a cliché, I'm afraid. I bought it in a fit of rebellion after Natasha left, taking most of my worldly goods with her. This represents most of what was left. Fifteenth-hand, of course.' He opened the passenger door and Flora slid in.
Grantly Manor was everything its name and reputation promised - a venerable old house set back from the road and arrived at via a carriage sweep. A good-looking young man arrived to park the car. Flora was impressed.
Henry was investing quite a lot of what he didn't spend on the car to show her a good time. Good for Henry!
‘It would be better if they drove you home again afterwards,' he said, relinquishing his keys, 'but I suppose that would be rather expensive.'
‘I could drive, if you like. That's a very nice car.'
‘Not that I don't trust you, Flora, but it's only insured for me to drive.' His grin became rakish. 'Besides, this way, I can ply you with alcohol and stay perfectly sober myself.'
‘Not that I don't trust you, Henry, but I won't drink too much, I don't think.’
He laughed, and ushered her into a panelled bar furnished with comfortable-looking sofas and small tables. Although it was summer, and not cold, a small log fire smouldered in the huge grate.
‘This is gorgeous!' said Flora. 'I love having fires in summer. It's so decadent, somehow.'
‘They do pay attention to detail. I think that's the secret of a really good hotel or restaurant. So, what can I get you? A glass of champagne?'
‘Mm, that would be lovely.' Flora smiled and settled back into the cushions.
Henry brought menus with the drinks. Flora took hers. 'Why don't you have the oysters?' suggested Henry. She looked at him over the top of her menu. 'I don't think I want an aphrodisiac.’
He laughed. 'I thought they only affected men.'
‘I think I'll have the smoked salmon, as I don't want to leave room for pudding.' She regarded him. 'My mother has an old recipe book that says "Never trust a man who refuses apple dumplings".'
‘I never do. Are they on the menu?'
‘No, so I can't test you. I heard someone else say, "Never trust a man who owns a picnic set". Do you?'
‘I don't think so.' Henry feigned anxiety. 'There may be one in the attic. I'm not sure.'
‘Oh, if there is, put it in a sale. They sometimes go quite well if they've got all their fittings. My colleague Geoffrey was telling me the other day.'
‘I didn't bring you here to talk about work, Flora. Think what you want to eat.'
‘Guinea fowl sound interesting.'
‘They don't, actually, they just make a quite boring clucking sound.'
‘I meant to eat! Now don't get distracted. The girl will be back in a minute. It's such a bore when guests don't make up their minds because they're chatting. I've been a waitress,' she added, 'so I know.’
When they had eventually chosen, the waitress, who looked as if she was moonlighting from her day job as a model, so long were her legs and so short was her skirt, asked them if they'd like to sit outside. 'We've set a few tables at the end of the garden. It's very pretty.'
‘It sounds lovely,' said Flora. 'What do you think, Henry?'
‘If you'd like that, we'll eat there.’
They were led to a table by the French doors that opened on to the lawn that led down to the river. It was a glorious summer evening. The air was scented with jasmine and philadelphus, and peacocks strutted about, adding their raucous cry to the murmurings of people enjoying themselves.
Henry had ordered more champagne. 'I only want one glass, so it might as well be the best. Here's to you.’
His eyes glittered down into hers as Flora raised her glass to his. He really was very attractive, in a rakish, obvious way, and, still determined to make an effort, she flicked back her hair with a slanting smile.
They were halfway through their starters when Charles and Annabelle drew to a halt just by them. Flora had her elbows on the table and was explaining to Henry how exciting working for an auction house was. She was very animated and slightly flushed, and the strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder.
‘Oh,' said Charles. 'Hello, Flora.’
Annabelle, slightly behind Charles, said, 'Surprise! We were so jealous to think of you both here, on this lovely summer evening, that we thought we'd treat ourselves. It was Charles's idea.'
‘Oh really,' said Flora dryly, not at all pleased to see them. 'You just had a sudden urge to come here, Charles?'
‘That's right,' he said rather woodenly.
‘Tonight?'
‘Yes, tonight.' He had the grace to look slightly self-conscious; he clearly knew she knew that he was there to keep an eye on his cousin and the philanderer he thought she needed protection from. Really, thought Flora, irritated, what century did he think he was living in? Henry had already got to his feet and Flora leapt to hers, losing a shoe in the process. 'Fine. What a . . . er . . . surprise. Let me introduce you to Henry. Henry Burnet, Charles Stanza.'
‘Actually, we have met,' said Charles, crushing Henry's hand in a trial of strength.
‘Henry, this is Annabelle, Charles's fiancée,' said Flora, trusting that Annabelle would be more friendly.
‘We know each other too, Henry.' Annabelle had followed Flora's instructions as to her appearance and was looking almost glamorous. 'We met at the Williams Ellises - remember?'
‘How could I forget?' Henry bowed over Annabelle's hand. Then he looked at Flora. 'Didn't you trust me?'
‘Of course!' How embarrassing! 'Annabelle, I didn't ask you to come, did I?'
‘Dear me, no! As I said, we just thought it was a perfect night for this place, and when we phoned on the off-chance they had a table.' She addressed Henry. 'I expect they had a large cancellation.'
‘I expect so,' Henry agreed resignedly.
‘Do you mind if we join you?' suggested Charles. 'You've only got as far as your starters.'
‘Ooh, that would be fun!' said Annabelle, either oblivious to Flora's dirty looks or choosing to ignore them. 'It's quite dull going out when it's just the two of you, isn't it?' She pulled up a chair.
‘Yes,' said Charles. 'After all, we know it's not a first date, so you won't mind.'
‘Won't we?' said Henry.
Flora shrugged.
Seeing that he couldn't save the situation now, Henry said, 'You can join us on the firm understanding that next time Flora and I dine, it'll be on our own.' He smiled. 'She's a very difficult girl to get to go out with.'
‘Is she?' said Charles blandly. 'That's reassuring.’
The waitress appeared. 'We could order another bottle of champagne,' said Henry, 'or would you rather not?'
‘I don't want to drink too much,' murmured Flora.
‘Oh, go on,' said Annabelle. 'Relax! Have another glass of champagne.' She leant in and whispered, 'If these two are going to be like dogs about to fight, we might as well get drunk and enjoy ourselves.’
Flora couldn't decide if having Charles to annoy would enhance the evening or not, but she silently agreed that a second glass of champagne might help things along a bit. 'Oh, OK. It's Sunday tomorrow. As long as Geoffrey doesn't make me go to a car-boot sale.'
‘What?' asked the others in unison.
‘Never mind. Here's to us all!’
Chapter Twenty
As she lowered her glass, Flora remembered her resolution to enjoy herself, and smiled warmly at Henry. His evening had been thoroughly mucked up - a
nd her resolution to develop a crush on him wasn't exactly helped by Charles and Annabelle's presence.
‘Well, Charles, are you the director of the firm where Flora works?' asked Henry, good-naturedly.
‘The firm that Flora half owns, yes,' said Charles.
Henry frowned at Flora. 'You half own it? Why didn't you tell me? And why on earth couldn't you agree a lower percentage with me?' He turned to Charles. 'I wanted her to give me a special rate - a lower commission - and she said she couldn't.'
‘I did say I was an apprentice,' Flora pointed out. 'That sort of decision is entirely up to Charles. And as it isn't his choir who wants to go and sing at Burnet House, he probably isn't open to offers.'
‘Well?' demanded Henry, in a way that made Flora like him a little less.
‘Oh, let's not talk about business,' said Annabelle, smiling at Henry. 'We're here to have a break from work. I'm part of Stanza and Stanza, too,' she added.
‘Quite right,' said Flora. 'It's Saturday night. We're all in this lovely place - the food is wonderful, by the way- we shouldn't sully the occasion with mere commerce.' She took rather a large gulp of champagne.
‘That's fine by me,' said Charles.
‘So, Henry,' said Flora, touching his hand with her finger. 'How was your day?’
Flora found herself tuning out while Henry regaled the company with horror stories about viruses and worms and other IT disasters. She noticed quite a lot of it involved Henry saving various companies millions, but quite how he did it passed her by.
‘Jolly interesting,' said Annabelle gamely. 'Now tell us about your car?’
That filled the conversational gap until Annabelle and Charles's food came, but as the evening went on, Flora began to wonder how much in common she actually had with Henry. He was very amusing, he told quite good, if slightly off-colour, jokes, but she couldn't help feeling that his conversation was rather vapid. Not that philosophy was exactly flowing out of her, it had to be said. Charles, on the other hand, was much more interesting. He'd travelled, to quite unusual places, and was widely read. Henry was a man who didn't read much unless he was on a plane.
The alcohol flowed, mostly between Flora and Annabelle, and there was never a ghastly silence, but Flora found herself faintly bored. She had really wanted to hear about Charles's experiences in Mongolia, but Henry seemed keener on telling stories about spotting stars at Cap Ferrat.
Eventually, it was time for pudding.
‘Now, what would you girls like to drink with it?' said Henry.
Unusually for her, Flora found herself objecting to being referred to as a girl. She didn't say anything, though. 'I think I've probably had quite enough to drink, thank you.'
‘Oh, go on, don't be a wuss. I'm sure Annabelle will have a glass of Monbazillac or something.'
‘Oh, OK,' said Annabelle. 'I've drunk loads of water, after all. It's why I've kept going to the Ladies'.’
Flora had noticed that she'd popped out rather a lot. 'I still won't have any more to drink, thank you. Although I'd love some peppermint tea.'
‘Peppermint tea it is,' said Henry, looking at her in a way which told her he was looking forward to the next part of the evening.
‘Yes. I've got a bit of a headache,' she replied, suddenly deciding, rather recklessly, in view of the latest bank statement that she was definitely going to split the bill with Henry rather than let him pay for her. 'It's frightfully good for that.’
Henry behaved very well, considering, thought Flora, as she let herself into the cottage. He'd been expecting a dinner a deux, and possibly a little light lovemaking afterwards, and he got Charles and Annabelle and only the briefest kiss in the car afterwards. It was not unreasonable of him to expect to be asked in for coffee, she had led him on a bit even though her insistence on paying her half of the bill had made her caution clear, but the headache was now real, and she didn't want any more wet kisses.
She rang him the next morning feeling a bit guilty, and asked him if he wanted to go for a walk that afternoon.
‘I'm sorry Flora, I'd love to, but I'm afraid I'm going out to lunch with some friends.' He did sound sorry, and Flora realised she really had to make her feelings clear to him. She liked him, he was good company most of the time, but hard as she'd tried to fancy him last night, the spark clearly wasn't there.
‘Well, I'm glad I caught you,' she started. 'I wanted to . . .' God, this was awkward. How to put it? 'I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed last night, the place and everything, and that I value our friendship.' Oh dear, that sounded horribly formal. 'But—'
‘But you don't want anything more than that?' Henry interrupted.
‘No, I'm sorry. I just . . .' She paused to collect her thoughts, 'I'm just not in the right frame of mind, really. I don't know how long I'll be in Bishopsbridge anyway, and I'm so involved with Stanza and Stanza and learning about the business that I'm not sure I've got the energy for a proper relationship.’
`Yes,' he said dryly. 'I had noticed that you were .. . how should I put it? Distracted?'
‘I'm sorry, Henry. I do want to be friends.’
`Me too.' He softened. 'But don't worry, I always knew your mind at least was elsewhere. It's been ridiculously hard even to organise a drink in the pub, so I was under no illusions about your priorities.'
‘I really am sorry.'
‘There's no harm done,' he said lightly. 'I do like you, Flora, but I'm not falling in love with you if that's what you're worried about.' It was, rather. 'So if you want to be friends, then we'll be friends. I might not give up trying to persuade you,' he added flirtatiously, 'but you know I might well be selling up and leaving the area as well, so it doesn't make sense for either of us to get involved in anything terribly serious.'
‘Thank you, Henry. It's good of you to be so nice about it.'
‘I'm a nice man,' he replied with a smile in his voice, and then dashed off to his lunch.
Instead of a walk with Henry, Flora made rock cakes in a fit of domesticity and ate most of them herself, talking to Imelda, wondering why the little black kitten allowed Charles to pick him up, but still shied away from her.
*
Just under two weeks later, Flora was making up the spare room for her mother. She was so excited, and longing to see her. In many ways her life was perfect, but something was missing. She was fine when she was at work. She still found it all fascinating, and absorbed every scrap about the job that either Charles or Geoffrey let slip, but at home, she found she missed William. Or something. She still went out with Henry from time to time, but although she tried very hard, she didn't find him quite as fascinating as he seemed to find himself.
Her mother would know what was wrong. She was an excellent agony aunt - and also an excellent cook. Flora was looking forward to being looked after and cosseted, something her mother did particularly well.
Almost every hour had been accounted for since the bizarre evening at Grantly Manor. They had at last got the website going, and the date for the next sale was booked for early September. It was going to take one and a half days, and Henry's books, declared by Geoffreyto be sufficiently interesting to get a few collectors along, were going to start the sale. At work, everyone was buzzing with excitement and busyness, and even Annabelle had become more enthusiastic about life -not necessarily about work, but she was generally more skippy and happy.
The concert, the excuse for Flora's mother's visit, was tomorrow. Flora was beside herself with nerves, in spite of having had several private practice sessions with Moira, the unofficial head girl of the choir.
‘If I mess up,' she explained to Moira, who had patiently bashed out the tunes of all the music on the piano until Flora knew them backwards, 'I'll ruin it for everyone.'
‘You won't mess up,' Moira had said, sounding a little bored with having to repeat herself. 'You know the music, just concentrate, keep looking at James - he's the conductor, you know - and you'll be fine.'
‘I think I just about kno
w who James is.'
‘Then you'll be fine! Enough panicking!’
*
Now Flora went into the garden to pick flowers for her mother's bedroom. She was driving down from London that evening and Flora wanted everything to be perfect for her. She had already found roses, lady's-mantle and mauve geraniums for the sitting room and bathroom. Now she wanted something extra sweet and tiny for the little mantelpiece in the bedroom.
‘You're jolly lucky I'm not making you all wear bows round your necks,' she said to the kittens, who had grown up enormously and were tearing round the house like motorbikes out of control. Flora wasn't looking forward to explaining to Annabelle about the curtains. They were definitely taking on a hooked appearance from being swarmed up and down so often. Could she convince Annabelle that the curtains had always had that uncut-moquette look? The sofa she had protected with throws - a little too late, but she could leave the throws and Annabelle might never take them off.
She waded through the kittens to get to the garden. 'I'll have to find homes for you soon, those two of you who aren't going to live with Uncle Geoffrey and Auntie Edie. I might keep one.' She sighed. Charles had said he wanted the little black one, but he hadn't said anything about it recently.
As she climbed over the barricade she had erected to stop them getting outside, she wondered if talking aloud to kittens was on a par with talking to oneself on the guide-to-madness scale. Definitely not, she decided, kittens were animate. Mind you, so was she.
Having constructed the most perfect tiny posy, using forget-me-nots, tiny branches of yellow lady's-mantle and white ground elder, borage flowers, and a couple of spires of purple linaria, she came back inside. She had been tempted to add the little white flowers of the goose-grass which was currently weaving a net over the garden like something out of a sci-fi movie, but had decided she hated the weed too much. Early that morning, Flora had attacked it with a fork, winding it round and round the tines like spaghetti, but in parts of the garden it was still threatening to pin everything to the ground.
Now, she put the posy in the milk jug from a doll's tea set. She had bought the set from a recent car-boot jaunt. It wasn't complete, but it had only cost a couple of pounds; it was perfect for this purpose. Her mother would love it; she had a passion for tiny things.
