Marrying Up

by Wendy Holden

  As Barney snored away, Alexa lay awake, looking out of the net-covered window aperture at the great spread of Orion wheeling across the sky. Remembering vaguely that he was the Hunter, she hoped he would grant her a happy hunting day tomorrow.

  After the torrential rain of the night before, the day of the auction dawned bright and fresh. The route from the campsite passed Highcastle Hall, an enchanting medieval sprawl of golden stone, turrets and towers and higgledy-piggledy mullioned windows. Alexa sighed. She had known the son and heir, Percy Highcastle, in better days and remembered with a pang how his party piece had been to swallow-dive on to a table of glasses of Krug.

  She felt better, however, as Barney pointed out the row of helicopters parked beside the series of larger, white marquees. ‘Serious money.’ He winked at her. ‘We may be in luck yet.’

  There was a queue inside the marquee to register. ‘We need a paddle before we can bid,’ Barney explained. ‘Then we look round at the stuff and come back this afternoon when the auction kicks off.’

  Behind the registration desk a row of auction-house girls presided, clear-varnished nails and understated rings poised over their computer keys. Alexa’s eye swept over them worriedly; all dewy eyes, aristocratic high colour and racehorse limbs, they represented serious competition. ‘All thick as two short planks,’ Barney whispered at her side. ‘They entirely lack your killer instinct.’

  But where has my killer instinct got me exactly? Alexa wondered, as the queue moved up and the red-faced wreck in the battered tweed suit in front of them planted a pair of huge purple hands on the registration table. ‘I’m up shit creek anyway,’ he barked to the astonished assistant. ‘You may as well give me a paddle.’ A wave of fellow feeling broke over Alexa.

  ‘Never say die,’ Barney added, nudging her. ‘Or should that be dye?’ he added as a pair of superannuated coxcombs in tight jeans and tweed jackets stalked by, hair emphatically dark and lustrous, wattled necks safely hidden by cravats stuffed into their checked shirts.

  Alexa’s heart was sinking. Almost everyone she could see was a brick-faced old soak or a fearsome old trout in a gilet with Chanel sunglasses rammed into her dyed platinum hair.

  Where were the minor lords Barney had promised?

  In possession of a paddle, a large piece of card bearing a printed number, Barney and Alexa wandered into the viewing room. This was an enormous marquee whose plastic windows looked out over a grassy area providing a display site for various experienced-looking statues and a couple of collapsed vintage cars.

  Alexa stopped to admire a dining table huge enough to fill the entire street outside Barney’s house. Beside it was a bucket of Victorian truncheons bearing a royal monogram but also some serious woodworm. The asking price was several hundred. Alexa wondered what possible use they could be to anyone not remaking the Keystone Kops.

  ‘Let’s put in a bid for that,’ Barney hissed as a beautiful blond young man in a velvet-collared coat paused to examine a battered Georgian hatbox.

  ‘Oh no, the hammer’s already come down,’ he murmured a moment later as a hard-faced brunette in long boots and a short knitted dress planted a proprietorial kiss on the man’s cheek.

  Barney steered Alexa towards some enormous William and Mary door frames. ‘Stay here. Anyone seriously interested in these either has a house that can fit them in or knows someone who does,’ he told her. ‘I’m just nipping out for a fag, by the way.’

  Alexa turned in surprise. ‘But you don’t smoke!’

  Barney rolled his protuberant blue eyes in the direction of a tall and chinless youth who had paused by the outside doors and was looking back in their direction. ‘Why should it just be you who scores?’ he admonished Alexa before mincing off with a wave.

  Two antiques dealers in brogues and red corduroy trousers strolled by, flicking through their thick auction catalogue. ‘Couple of Georgian crappers coming up later,’ one said to the other.

  ‘I hear the bottom’s fallen out of the night commode market, though,’ answered the other.

  Alexa now noticed a handsome man in jeans and tweed jacket with a sensuous face and centre-parted dark hair that curled over his collar. He was examining the truncheons and there was something about the way he was caressing the tip of them that excited her interest. She sidled over. ‘Going to put in a bid?’

  He looked her up and down; his eyes – sharp, grey and with a sprinkling of gold at the centre – looked laughingly into hers. ‘Might do.’ He grinned. ‘How much are you asking?’

  Alexa felt a thrill of pleasure. It was a long time since she had been chatted up simply for fun. Social climbing was bloody hard work, and the foothills, where she was currently stuck, were the hardest work of all.

  ‘You couldn’t afford me,’ she said roguishly, turning, wiggling her bottom and sashaying away.

  ‘I always appreciate a good stuffing, don’t you?’ he muttered, hot on her heels as she passed the taxidermy.

  She was thrilled to find herself pursued into the restaurant marquee. ‘I’m Ralph,’ he said, plonking himself thrillingly close to her. ‘Ralph de Vere Coningsby. Care for a glass of champagne?’

  Champagne! She hadn’t had it for weeks, and now positively craved the taste of bubbles popping on her tongue, the thrilling rush as the alcohol hit her empty stomach.

  She had never heard of Ralph de Vere Coningsby, but that was no cause for alarm. He was doubtless a member of Barney’s minor aristocracy with medium-sized country estate.

  And he had other assets. He was lounging in a chair, legs wide apart, in a manner designed to reveal what looked like a very well-stuffed crotch. Alexa swallowed. With his wolfish handsomeness, broad shoulders and slim hips, he was one hundred per cent testosterone, pure sex. And it had been a long time since she had had anything decent in that department. She ran her tongue around her lips.

  Ralph grinned naughtily at her and rose to his feet. ‘Don’t go away now, beautiful,’ he growled, loping over to the bar.

  You bet, Alexa thought. Wild horses wouldn’t make her, unless they were on Ralph’s estate, of course. Was it in the New Forest? she wondered. She was about to burst with lust and excitement quite without the aid of alcohol.

  Ralph came back, shrugging. ‘No champagne, can you believe it?’

  ‘Oh no.’ On the other hand, Alexa thought, perhaps it was no bad thing.

  ‘But I’ve got some Bolly in the Defender,’ Ralph added. ‘Auction’s not going to start for hours. Why not come and have a drink?’

  Why not? Alexa thought. Barney, after all, was having his own fun. And her target had been achieved anyway; within a short time of arriving she had been approached by Ralph de Vere Coningsby, provincial lord of the manor. He might be a small fish in a large pool, but he was big enough where it mattered. She hurried out of the marquee after him and tried to avoid the puddles as they crossed the grass to where the cars were parked.

  Ralph’s Land Rover was big and green and very dirty inside. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he apologised, spreading an even dirtier piece of oilcloth across the filthy space inside the open back door. ‘Come in and sit down while I open the booze.’

  Sitting, legs swinging out of the back of the Land Rover, Alexa imagined herself living the life of a country gentlewoman. Did Ralph hunt? She imagined herself in a tight red jacket, fully made up, hair bound in a net, magically transformed from indifferent to skilled rider, wheeling an elegant stallion on the lawn at the Boxing Day meet.

  There was a grunt, and the familiar, reassuring pop of a cork from the front. As he sloshed the foam into a plastic cup and handed it to her, Ralph’s eyes crinkled with sensual promise.

  By the end of the second plastic cupful, his tongue was exploring her mouth and his hand was up her skirt.

  He looked at her, his grey eyes gleaming with a blend of wonder and amusement. ‘Jesus, baby. How long’s it been?’

  ‘Oh God! Now!’ she panted, feeling her pelvis was about to explode.

  His p
enis, as it sprang from his flies, was more than a rival for the truncheons, and completely free of woodworm.

  Sex in the open air had an edge she had never suspected. It felt primeval, urgent, naughty, and the breeze on her most sensitive regions only added to the thrill. Her cries of fulfilment were masked by some timely bellowing from a group of nearby cows, just as well given that an elderly couple in metal-framed deckchairs were enjoying tea from a flask just a couple of cars away.

  That it was over in minutes was the only disappointment.

  ‘Is that it?’ she said, as he swung open the back door, which had been closed during their lovemaking. If one could give it such a leisurely name; it had been more like the frenzied coupling of two animals on heat.

  Ralph, bundling his manhood back into his jeans, looked at her affrontedly. ‘You seemed happy enough at the time.’ Something now fell out of his pocket and clanked on the vehicle’s metal floor. He picked it up hastily, but not before she saw it was a ring. A wedding ring by the look of it.

  Alexa stared at him. ‘You’re married!’

  ‘That’s right.’ Ralph buckled his belt casually.

  ‘But . . .’ Alexa was speechless. Her effort has been entirely wasted. She had been deceived.

  ‘And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going,’ Ralph said briskly.

  ‘Get going?’ Alexa gasped indignantly. ‘Get going where?’

  ‘School run.’ Ralph glanced matter-of-factly at his watch. ‘It’s my turn to pick the kids up today.’

  Chapter 32

  Many times he had been on the verge of writing, but just as often he had put down the pen.

  Perhaps, Max was starting to think now, it was better to let Polly assume that he had simply left her. As he had no idea when he could return to her, especially given that his passport, as well as his mobile, had now mysteriously disappeared, the noble thing to do was to let her go. Let her think the worst. The less she thought of him, the easier it would be for her. If she could bring herself to hate him, it would be easiest of all.

  The only positive aspect of the situation was that no new prospective bride had yet been produced. Max’s hopes were rising that no one suitable existed, but he also knew that, given his father’s determination, it was probably only a matter of time.

  With thoughts as gloomy as this in his mind, Max had been pleased, on a rare mooch around Sedona, to encounter the small, neat form of Etienne de Crecy, the local vet, with whom he had done work experience before university. He had been quick to offer his services again; a few hours now and again in Etienne’s surgery would be a lifeline. The Sedona vet’s stock in trade had never been the large farm animals Max especially loved, but the many small, nervous pedigree dogs that comprised most of the animal population of Sedona, and their even more nervous pedigree owners. But that was better than nothing. Max was glad to accompany Etienne to the surgery.

  A rude shock awaited him, however. Dog indulgence had gone off the scale in the relatively short period of time he had been away; Etienne had turned it into an industry. Never slow at spotting a potential income stream, he had gone into partnership with a self-styled canine beautician. The result was that a spa for dogs was now part of the surgery. The facilities of ‘Canine Chic’ included a gym where underexercised pooches worked out on a treadmill, guided by a personal trainer. ‘It’s crazy,’ Max muttered, as his friend showed him round the premises, all sparkling pink and white, festooned with fairy lights.

  Etienne, lightly tanned with neat brown hair, flashed Max a glance through his polished hi-tech spectacles. ‘Au contraire, my friend. It’s the future. In Sedona, at any rate.’

  A giant white poodle was having his fur teased in the treatment rooms. Full body grooming, reiki healing and a thalassotherapy mud bath were also available. ‘Dogs shouldn’t need to come to a spa for a mud bath,’ Max muttered, thinking of the way Napoleon rolled in dirt at any opportunity, and Beano too, in his younger days.

  Etienne showed Max the spa shop, complete with chewy Vuitton handbag-shaped cushions, gold lamé Roberto Cavalli coats, pet-friendly nail varnish and designer Perspex dog beds.

  ‘And this is beauty therapy,’ he announced, leading Max on through a corridor where wooden saloon-style doors painted a pastel pink led into small treatment rooms with mirrors on the walls. ‘We do olive oil baths for tortoises, hydrating strawberry and vanilla facials for hamsters, milk thistle paw soaks for guinea pigs and one-to-one consultations for kittens.’

  ‘Consultations?’ exclaimed Max. ‘Kittens?’

  Etienne inclined his head. ‘Some kittens have issues with their owners, my friend.’

  Max, looking round, felt he had issues with all of it. Where did people with real animals go? He thought longingly of the magnificent beasts the British farmers bred, the shorthorns, the Jerseys, the Galloways with their distinctive wide belts, the shaggy, long-horned Highland cattle. ‘What happens with the farm livestock?’

  Etienne shrugged his elegant designer-suited shoulders. ‘There are other vets. We rarely get called out for those any more.’ He pulled a face. ‘Thank goodness.’

  Max left before Etienne could explain about the pet patisserie he was thinking of opening next; centrepiece iced pupcakes. He walked back to the chateau with bowed head.

  Stalking through the lofty entrance hall with its painted ceiling and ancestral portraits the size of doors, he encountered Giacomo. ‘News!’ exclaimed the younger prince.

  ‘What news?’ Max asked resignedly. It was, after all, unlikely to be the news he wanted, that his passport and mobile were being returned to him and he was being sent back to England with his parents’ blessing.

  ‘Gorgeous bird, mate.’ Giacomo loped over the black and white marble floor and give him a high five.

  ‘What bird?’ the Crown Prince asked sharply.

  ‘This Swedish countess the parentals have got lined up for you.’

  ‘Great tits,’ Giacomo added enthusiastically. Max rubbed his eyes. So they had found someone else after all. He would have to go through the whole ghastly process again.

  Max didn’t care about the countess’s tits, or even how Giacomo knew about them. It was a fact that Giacomo knew about great tits from one end of Europe to the other. ‘Anything else interesting about her?’ he asked ironically.

  Giacomo grinned lasciviously. ‘Buns of steel.’

  Max put both hands to his forehead and groaned. Did he want great tits and buns of steel?

  Chapter 33

  Not wanting to face the dewy-eyed girls on the front desk, Alexa returned to the auction via the back entrance. As she staggered past, obviously rumpled, the boys on Collections, a raffish lot in dark blue polo shirts embroidered with the auction house logo, turned from manoeuvring a vast and ugly carved fireplace to give her an appreciative stare.

  The enormous main marquee was fuller than before. Rows and rows of bidders and observers were arranged theatre audience style, divided by an aisle in front of the elegant cream-painted rostrum on which stood the auctioneer. Large flat-screen televisions by the rostrum and at the back of the tent illustrated the lot currently up for sale. At the moment it was a piece of furniture, and the auctioneer had just made a crack about Her Grace’s drawers.

  A small red-faced figure glided up to her.

  ‘Where the hell,’ Barney hissed, ‘have you been?’

  ‘Hello, pot, meet kettle,’ Alexa retaliated, but without conviction. ‘You were heading straight for the men’s loos when I last saw you.’

  Barney waved a dismissive hand. ‘False alarm. He wanted to talk, would you believe? So I spent most of the time lining up candidates for you.’

  ‘One stuffed mongoose,’ called the auctioneer, a pleasant patrician type with a grey mullet.

  ‘I had Sir Everard Bream good to go,’ Barney told her crossly. ‘Chatted him up for ages, not the easiest of things as he has the most God-awful stammer. He’s not married, and he’s desperate for a little woman to bring his manor
up to date and maybe help convert some old stable block into a boutique hotel. He had your name all over him. All over him!’

  Barney drove a frustrated red fist into a matching red palm. ‘But now he’s gone home with a collection of slightly chipped Victorian milking pails.’

  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds I’m bid for this stuffed mongoose. Thank you sir, over there. Gentleman on the aisle. One hundred and seventy pounds, the bid’s in the room. Oh, an online bid, one hundred and eighty. Any advance on one hundred and eighty for this magnificent stuffed mongoose?’

  Alexa hung her head, feeling not unlike a stuffed mongoose herself. She raised miserable eyes to Barney.

  ‘I saw you talking to Ralph de Vere Coningsby,’ Barney said accusingly. ‘He’s a notorious shagger. Comes to places like this just to pick up women. I hope you . . .?’

  As Alexa’s tragic gaze met his in affirmation, Barney slapped his pink forehead so hard his eyes watered. ‘God, no. Tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. I thought he was available.’

  ‘Stuffed mongoose going for one hundred and eighty, then.

  All done at one hundred and eighty.’ As the mallet clacked down, Alexa felt she was all done too.

  ‘Come on, Barney,’ she begged. ‘Can’t we find someone else? I’m here now.’

  ‘Yes, and look at you,’ he fulminated, his voice acid with anger and his blue eyes emitting electric sparks of fury. ‘Covered in mud and your hair all over the place. Where did he shag you, the back of his filthy Land Rover?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. That old trick!’

  There was nothing like sustained attack to revive Alexa’s fighting spirit. ‘Well if he’s so notorious, why didn’t you warn me? I’d never heard of him.’

  Barney’s lips were drawn back over his teeth. ‘I didn’t warn you,’ he growled, ‘because I never in a million years dreamt I would need to. I thought it would be obvious what he was up to. I can’t imagine what you were thinking of.’