‘Looks like me,’ said Bridge.
‘Ha! She’s far less scary than you.’
Bridge’s turn to smile. ‘Versace? Very nice.’
Luke’s smile widened to his customary grin. ‘Who’d have thought one day we’d be sporting Chanel and Versace.’
‘If it doesn’t sound too patronising, I’m really proud of you, Luke.’
‘So you should be, I’m your best work.’
Bridge grinned now.
‘And I’m proud of you,’ said Luke. His dear familiar eyes held her hazel ones and Bridge thought, ‘I’m okay. I don’t feel the loss of him any more.’ It was a wonderful, blessed relief.
‘So, how’s having Mary in the company working out?’ he asked.
‘She’s brilliant,’ said Bridge, without any hesitation. ‘In fact, she’s too good. She’s wasted running my diary.’
Luke was puzzled because her regretful tone didn’t match her complimentary words. But Bridge was about to explain that.
‘Luke, I would have made a vacancy for someone like Mary in the company, but I never expected her to take up my offer. I gambled on Jack being man enough to stop her.’
Enlightenment. ‘Ah.’
‘But, as you know, sometimes your gambles don’t work out.’
‘You of all people should know never to say never,’ said Luke, looking towards the door.
* * *
In the toilet, Mary stood in front of the mirror, ready to retouch her make-up. A stupid flurry of tears had caught her unawares. She was annoyed with herself. Annoyed that her stupid idiot heart had been expecting to see Jack today. He should have come to pay his respects to Charlie; she obviously didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. Of course she would have been lying to herself had she not wanted him to be here for another reason: to see the Mary that Bridge had helped to build, to style, her gorgeous new hair, to show him how she had started to bloom and grow in an environment where she was valued as a woman armed with the momentum to reach her full potential.
She opened the flap of her Chanel bag and then realised she was opening up the flap of a Chanel bag And it was hers. Given to her by someone who thought she deserved it, who had exacted a promise from her that she should carry it with bold self-assurance; it would, after all, be an insult to the bag, to Madame Chanel herself, and more importantly to Charlie, to carry it any other way.
She repaired her face, fluffed up her hair, straightened her back and walked back into the reception room where Bridge and Luke were standing with Robin. And Jack.
Chapter 40
‘Oh, my darling Mary,’ said Robin, his arms wide open to receive her in a bone-crushing hug. ‘What a joyous joy of joys it is to see you.’ He whispered into her ear, ‘And Chanel of course. You’re a perfect pairing.’ He pushed her to his arm’s length and then hugged her once more. ‘You look beautiful, the same but not the same. Whatever you are doing, keep doing it because it’s working.’
‘Hello Mary,’ said Jack. For a moment she thought he was going to hold out his hand for her to shake, but he bent, kissed her cheek and she was enveloped by his intoxicating, familiar, masculine cologne. Her brain sighed; she could have slapped it.
‘Jack went with Robin up to the crematorium,’ Bridge explained to Mary.
‘Against Charlie’s express orders. He wrote in his will that he didn’t want anyone travelling with him,’ said Robin. ‘But I couldn’t let him go there alone. So he’ll be cross but I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘I got held up in traffic,’ Jack added. ‘I just made it to the church, but I had to squeeze in at the back, so I was last in and first out.’
‘Bridge,’ said Robin, ‘I really must introduce you to Charlie’s nephew Reuben at some point. I’ve told him all about you and he’s just desperate to say hello. He’s tall, blond, extremely good-looking, he’s wearing an Armani suit and handmade shoes. He’s also rich, clever, lovely, witty and very single. Am I selling him to you?’
‘God, Charlie, you’re selling him to me, never mind Bridge,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s go and look for this man immediately.’ He crooked his arm for Bridge to take.
‘We’ll be back shortly,’ said Bridge. She and Luke were on the same page – for once. Give Jack and Mary some time and just hope that absence had made the posh twit’s heart grow fonder.
* * *
Jack smiled nervously. This was Mary whom he’d known for years standing in front of him, but he felt as awkward as if they had only just been introduced. She looked the same, but not the same, as Robin put it. She looked beautiful, she smelled beautiful, like a garden of flowers.
‘So… how is everything?’ he asked her. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
‘Wonderful,’ she replied. But it’s not Butterly’s. ‘How… how is everything at Butterly’s?’
‘Normal,’ said Jack, with a head-shake that said otherwise. It’s not the same. ‘How’s it working out with Bridge?’
‘She’s great.’ She’s not you and I miss you. ‘I’m really settling in.’
‘Nice bag.’
‘A present,’ she said, stroking it fondly. She would never get tired of knowing it was hers. ‘From Charlie.’
‘Oh. Nice.’
‘Yes, it’s gorgeous.’ And so are you. His suit oozed style and class. He oozed style and class.
‘Charlie sent me something as well,’ said Jack.
‘Oh, what?’
‘A scarf. With knights in shining armour all over it.’
‘That sounds smart.’
‘And an instruction to read Persuasion.’
‘What?’
‘He—’
Jack was interrupted as the noise level in the room rose; people were being drawn to the windows and then started to pour out of the French doors into the grounds.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Mary. Her first thought was a fire, or some other sort of an emergency. She saw Luke and Bridge ahead waving them forward so she and Jack joined the throng, moved outside onto the terrace and straight into a blizzard of snow.
The flakes were the size of feathers, drifting down to the ground, defying the sun to melt them; the air was full of them dancing like tiny ballerinas from Swan Lake. Robin’s joyful yell sounded from nearby. ‘I knew it. I knew he’d show up to his own funeral. He said he would.’ Robin turned a slow full circle, his mouth a deep, blissful curve of wonderment, his arms out, hands open, catching them as they fell.
Charlie. The Figgy Hollow Six were all here, present and correct.
Jack placed a gentle finger on Mary’s chin, turned her to face him. He swallowed, kept a picture of that Burberry knight forefront in his mind.
‘You pierce my soul, Mary Holly Clementine Padgett. I am half-agony, half-hope. Tell me not that I am too late. If you had any feelings for me, have they gone forever? I offer myself to you.’
He saw Mary’s mouth drop open, her soft, full lips painted a dark rose pink that he really really wanted to kiss.
‘It’s misquoted to fit,’ Jack went on. ‘I’m no Captain Wentworth, I’m a posh cowardly twit but you are every bit Anne Elliot: proper, capable, worthy, a blossom. I read the book cover to cover. It was lovely. You are lovely. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman because I can’t get you out of my head. Am I too late?’
Snow was landing on her long dark eyelashes, her cheeks, her hair. He was sure he could hear the beat of her heart, or maybe it was his own beating loudly enough for two, galloping like the steed of a knight. His hands came up to cup her face and his head bent. He tasted snowflakes on her lips.
* * *
Luke and Bridge stood with the others, in awe and delight, the snow falling now as heavily as if someone in the sky had split a giant pillow and was shaking goose down onto them.
Luke turned around for a second then gave Bridge a nudging alert.
‘I think you just might have lost your new PA,’ he said.
Bridge looked behind her, saw Jack and Mary
in a tight embrace, bodies pressed together, snogging like teenagers, oblivious to everything except their magical snowy world of two.
‘Halle-bloody-lujah,’ she said.
The Following Christmas
Epilogue
Mary peeled off a first-class stamp and stuck it in the corner of the envelope containing Robin’s Christmas card. She hoped he would be okay, this first Christmas without Charlie. They rang each other a lot to talk and he was doing well, considering. But then Robin had a fantastic circle of friends who looked out for him and cared for him. He was spending Christmas Day with Charlie’s nephew Reuben, who was, according to Robin, a virtuoso in the kitchen. Reuben would be chef-ing to impress, as he would be cooking for Bridge too.
She and Reuben had been seeing each other since they first met at Charlie’s funeral. ‘Love at first sight,’ Bridge had said, something about as expected as the freak blizzard. She had been a swooning mess of dribble for days afterwards, not to mention insecurity, but that was what new love did to people, made them live through that knife-edge uncertainty, sleep-robbing anticipation, trying to second-guess what the other was thinking. A rite of passage; and when the ship did steady, ironically that was the heady phase people hankered for again. As Anne Elliot in Persuasion so masterfully put it, When pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.
Mary knew this first hand, because she’d had it with Jack for too long, but then it was his turn. For once, she’d been the one holding the cards. She knew she was in love with him, he conveniently didn’t know that she’d been mooning over him for four years; it had been his time to work for it and worry that she felt the same, to stress over the uncertainty and parity.
She thought Bridge might have been annoyed with her for messing her about and leaving so soon after she’d moved down to work for her, but Bridge couldn’t have been nicer about it. Although she made Mary promise that she would not return to work for Jack as his PA. So she rejoined Butterly’s as ‘executive office director’, which was a newly created position with a wishy-washy job description because she had carte blanche to make it what she wanted. Her first duty was to spend some serious money on updating the offices: new desks, paint, carpet, blinds, flooring. There was an upgraded canteen too with smart tables and chairs, though Edna refused to relinquish the command post of her hatch but did allow the addition of a dishwasher to her den. Now when Mary sat in meetings, someone else took down the minutes and served the tea. Kimberley decided her talents were best served elsewhere and gave in her notice.
Robin was coming up to bring the new year in with them, and so was Bridge. And if Bridge came, Reuben would be there too, because they couldn’t keep away from each other and they were a perfect match: she made him laugh loads, he turned her to a total love-mush. Ben was asked but couldn’t join them, as he was off cruising in the Bahamas with a bunch of Midnight Moon author pals. Jack had invited Luke and Carmen over too, but they wanted a quiet one at home with Jorge Felipe Palfreyman, the world’s most gorgeous baby. He had Carmen’s olive skin and Luke’s pale-blond hair and the bluest, brightest eyes. They saw quite a lot of Luke as Plant Boy had commissioned a range of their vegan fruit scones. Plans were afoot for vegan cheese scones (red cheese not white) and other flavours to be decided. What with the Plant Boy orders and Mrs Anmitsu doubling her order, Butterly’s production output was now pushing two and a quarter million scones every day. And, thanks to some nifty negotiations via video conference, they now had four distributors in the US and two in Australia as well. Mary had brokered half of those deals.
Mary had moved in with Jack last month. Her family really liked him, they liked the respectful way he treated her. Sean couldn’t believe she’d managed to make the posh Boy from Ipanema not only stop from walking by, but sit down with her on the beach towel, rub in some factor twenty on her back and buy her ice-cream. Jack smiled a lot these days and Mary didn’t deny herself the credit that she’d put that smile there. She made sure these days that any due glory was hers for the taking.
She had been defeated in the one duty she wanted to fulfil before she left Bridge though and that was to find who owned Figgy Hollow, because Bridge wanted to make an offer for it. The Diocese of York said that English Heritage owned it, English Heritage said it was the Church. No one seemed to know. She’d tried the Land Registry, but they took their time even with straightforward queries, never mind one this complicated. So Bridge made a trip up there to ask around in person. She’d hoped that local Hollybury Farm, which supplied the inn with foodstuffs, might have been able to shine some light on the issue, but to her confusion she learned that it had been demolished years ago and a well-established housing estate now stood on the land.
Bridge had told her that when she’d gone back to Figgy Hollow, she’d found it unrecognisable, to the extent that it would have been impossible for them to hole up in the place now. The inn was completely derelict, the church forlorn and roofless, the cottages mere stones held together by luck and fair wind, the bridge over the stream collapsed; all too far gone to renovate without spending a small fortune, and nowhere near the picturesque spot she’d remembered it to be. She’d given up trying to find who it belonged to after that; it was as if it didn’t want to be bought, she said. Besides, her energies had been otherwise engaged this year.
So much had happened that last Christmas seemed like a lifetime ago. They had all changed so much for being trapped in an old inn with a bunch of strangers. Robin’s landscape was wholly different now and he was taking tentative steps into a new life. Bridge and Luke were in a relaxed state of armistice; she’d given him a great deal on some land so that he could set up another factory and she didn’t need to pretend she had a fake fiancé any more because she had a real one. Reuben had surprised her with a ring on her birthday, a belter of a genuine diamond – Charlie would definitely have approved. And, if what Mary had discovered by accident hiding in Jack’s ensuite was hers, she wouldn’t have a naked third-finger left hand for much longer herself. She’d been practising her best surprised face. It was certainly an improvement on jellied fruits.
Mary Padgett thought that her dad would be extra-proud of her as he looked down on the person she had become, once the family baby, but always a daddy’s girl. She was no longer a young lass tossed helplessly in a sea of unrequited love, because it was very much requited these days. She would always be so proper and so capable, one of life’s Anne Elliots, but now she was the woman at the end of the book, united with her dashing Captain Wentworth, her heart content. And together they had cast off anchor, sailed their ship away from safe harbour and were on course to find everything they had ever hoped to find.
Never grow up so much that you stop believing in magic…
CHARLIE GLASER
Rules of Life by a Man who Lived Well
Acknowledgements
You will forgive me for a couple of fallacies in this book. Firstly, there is no Oxycophine drug – it’s totally made up. I remember reading how Stephen King had invented Novril in Misery, and if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. And also I might have mucked about with some weather history. And there is no A7501 (which is sort of ‘lost’ backwards)
Sir Colin of Castle Street doesn’t exist, but he was inspired by the very funny Count Arthur Strong, who pulled me back to the joy of radio shows. And House of Quill doesn’t exist either. Their diaries are too expensive anyway.
Apologies to lovers of jellied fruits. If we could invent our own planets, mine would be totally lacking in these monstrosities and marzipan.
So to the ‘thank you’s for this book. Where do you start with so many people who deserve top billing? I have always been blessed with good editors who help to make the silk purse out of the sow’s ear. My copyeditor Sally Partington goes a shade greyer every time I work with her, but so far has never declined to work with me and I’m beyond thankful for that. I have to butter her up with either gin or craft beer for the next time, so I’m so gla
d that method works. My editor at Simon & Schuster Clare Hey directed me to where the story was lacking, where it was strong and I trust her direction implicitly – thank you so much you two belters.
The team at my publishers are so talented and devoted and hard-working. They come up with the goods every time, the marketing, the distribution, the posters, the graphics, the covers. Thank you to Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Hayley McMullan, Sara-Jade Virtue (she also makes gin – stay on the right side of her, I will!), Rich, Gill, Joe, Jess, Dom, Pip and the so capable Alice Rodgers who never misses a trick. I appreciate you so much, one and all, and I hope I haven’t missed anyone.
Thank you to Emma Draude and Annabelle Wright at ED PR. You are so amazing to work with and like magic fairies adding sparkle and glitter. Never leave me.
Thank to you my kick-ass super-agent Lizzy Kremer, who is the woman you always need in your corner, and the crew at David Higham Associates, especially Maddalena Cavaciuti, who should be cloned. And Brian, obvs, who dishes the dosh.
Thank you to Gallery Books over there in the US: Molly and Kate, and Christine, who does a sterling job of trying to translate Yorkshire into American. The editorial notes are fascinating and so funny sometimes. I’m learning a whole new language. And, I suspect, so are they.
Thank you to Stu Gibbins my web designer. Possibly one of the most talented blokes who ever existed and someone I’m glad to call my friend.
Thank you David Gordon of www.dcgbusinessplus.co.uk, my go-to knowledgeable bloke about legal stuff, in this case what to do if you’ve been stuck in a divorce impasse for over five years (shudders!). As always full of practical common sense. And obviously to Mary Smith there too, who is every bit as lovely and indispensable as Mary Padgett.
Thank you to my ever-patient family who are the reason I breathe (give or take my lungs). I would never have found a way into this business without having my sons as they were the key to the door. And my other half Pete keeps those coffees rolling in. And occasionally French Fancies. Mum keeps me supplied with the best one-liners and I hope Dad is up there watching us all and keeping us safe.
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