An Eligible Bachelor

by Veronica Henry

  Again, Richenda felt the hot lump rise in her throat. She smoothed her hand over her throat to swallow it down. Cool. Calm. Serene. She repeated the words to herself over and over until she felt composed, fixed her brightest smile on to her face and went out to her waiting mother.

  *

  An hour later, they sat one either side of the marble-topped breakfast bar, each with a steaming bowl of tortellini and a glass full to the brim with white wine. For the first few minutes, as they ate their meal, they kept the conversation light and trivial, skirting round the deeper issues that would inevitably be touched upon. But for the moment they needed to eat.

  ‘So what have you been doing?’

  ‘Working in a pub,’ admitted Sally. ‘Just behind the bar. But it’s all right.’ She made a face. ‘I’ve screwed that up, though. I should be there now. But I can’t go back, because I don’t want Mick to find me…’

  ‘What’s he been doing?’

  ‘Still dealing. Smalltime. Not that I see much of that – he drinks most of it.’ She took a swig of wine. ‘Not that it matters now. With any luck I won’t see him ever again.’

  Richenda picked up her glass and took a sip to give her courage.

  ‘You know I didn’t…’ she faltered. ‘I didn’t…’

  She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Vocalizing what had happened would make it real. Even now she could feel his heaving, sweaty body on her, smell his sour odour, taste his rank breath. She’d never spoken of it to another human being, because that way she could pretend it had never happened. But didn’t that mean Mick had won? By burying the memory, she had allowed him to get away with it. She had to speak the truth.

  She looked Sally in the eye.

  ‘Mick raped me,’ she said, unable to believe, now she had made the decision, how easy those three little words were to say. Three little words that would hopefully change her life.

  Sally put her fork down. She looked at her half-eaten tortellini as two big fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I think I always knew. I just never wanted to admit it. It was too horrible to believe. It was much easier to tell myself it was you…’

  Richenda slid off her stool and ran round to Sally’s side. She put her arms round her neck.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t our fault. It was Mick’s. He had total control over us both. But it’s OK. We’re going to show the bastard…’

  17

  On Monday morning, Henty had to force herself to address her household chores before disappearing into her boxroom. Travis had seen to the breakfast things and was going to drive into Eldenbury to the feed merchant’s to get some supplements for the horses that he thought would enhance their performance. He was also going to call in at the supermarket to pick up a few things, like coffee, milk and jam. He was a godsend, thought Henty. If it wasn’t for him she’d be tied up with household dross all morning, quite unable to hit the keyboard. Looking forward to the prospect of unleashing the torrent of words that was waiting to escape via her fingers, she hurried through the few things she had left to do. It was incredible, she thought, how much better she felt now she had a purpose.

  It was only when she went downstairs with the laundry basket that it all went wrong. She was doing a jeans wash, and going through everyone’s pockets, which she now did religiously, having laundered several irreplaceable and apparently vitally important bits of paper over the years – though to her mind it was other people’s responsibility to check their own pockets before they put their clothes in the dirty-washing basket. She was rummaging through Charles’s Levis when her hand came across something soft, bunched up in his left-hand pocket. Expecting a handkerchief, she drew out a little scrap of black ribboned silk. She held it aloft, frowning. It took her some moments to realize that what she was holding was a pair of knickers, and immediately she dropped them on to the floor with a little squeal of revulsion.

  There was only one person these could belong to. Only one person who would sport such a minimal, impractical and screamingly expensive item on her nether regions. How the hell had they found their way into Charles’s pocket? Panic made her phone the only person who would provide the cool, calm voice of reason that she needed.

  ‘Honor!’ she gasped. ‘I need you to tell me I’m not going mad.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Come for coffee and I’ll show you,’ said Henty dramatically.

  Honor needed no second telling. Five minutes later she was pulling up to the front of Fulford Farm, to be greeted by a wild-eyed Henty, who dragged her into the scullery to inspect the evidence still lying in a scrumpled heap in the middle of the flagstone floor.

  ‘Are you sure they’re knickers?’ queried Honor, not convinced.

  ‘Yes!’ said Henty. ‘You tie the ribbony bits up at the side.’ She pointed distastefully at the tiny triangle in the centre. ‘I presume that’s the gusset.’

  ‘And they were in Charles’s pocket?’

  Henty burst into tears.

  ‘They’re bloody Fleur’s, I know they are,’ she wailed. ‘We went out for supper on Saturday and the Gibsons were there. I’m sure Charles and Fleur set it up. It wasn’t just a coincidence. And you should have seen them slavering over each other all evening. Honestly, it was disgusting. She practically ate him alive!’

  She knew she was exaggerating, and overreacting, but she had to get how she felt off her chest.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Honor. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘What – the fact he’s got her pants in his pocket?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him what he was doing with them?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know the answer.’ Henty was gloomy. ‘Anyway, he’ll only deny it.’

  ‘How can he?’

  ‘You know Charles. He can talk his way out of anything. He’ll just say he hasn’t a clue how they got there. And then I’ll end up looking stupid. Suspicious and parochial.’

  The two of them stared down at the incriminating garment.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ grinned Honor.

  Ten minutes later, mollified by the wicked simplicity of Honor’s plan, Henty made a big pot of coffee and got out a packet of chocolate digestives.

  ‘I suppose it’s his mid-life crisis thing,’ she announced, dunking her biscuit in her coffee just long enough for it to become slightly soggy. ‘I know he’s panicking because his hair’s starting to recede and he’s put on a bit of weight. And he’d deny it till he’s blue in the face, but I know he feels a prat about losing his licence. So I suppose having Fleur thrusting her tits in his face makes him feel better about himself. It’s a bit of an ego boost.’

  ‘I’m quite sure if she did anything about it he’d run a mile,’ Honor reassured her.

  ‘I know, but it’s still humiliating, watching him drool over her.’ Henty wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘How would he like it if I came on to Travis over the breakfast table?’

  ‘It’s no wonder Charles is behaving badly. He’s obviously threatened.’

  ‘He’s got no need to worry. I wouldn’t humiliate myself by throwing myself at Travis. He’d run a mile.’

  ‘He might not, you know’ Honor hated the way Henty always put herself down. She obviously had no idea how attractive she was; she exuded warmth, voluptuousness and mischief, a pretty irresistible combination where most men were concerned. Far more attractive, in fact, than Fleur’s rather contrived and clichéd attributes. But it would take more time than Honor had got to convince Henty of that.

  ‘Anyway, enough about me. I’ve hardly seen you at all since you started at the big house,’ Henty complained. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s been fantastic. The first weekend was a huge success,’ said Honor. ‘At least I think so. I’m due for lunch with Madeleine for a debrief.’

  ‘Madeleine, is it?’ said Henty, impressed. ‘And what’s Guy like? From all accounts he’s an absolute dreamboat.’
>
  ‘Very charming,’ agreed Honor. ‘And,’ she added as Henty’s eyes lit up, ‘very devoted to his fiancée.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said Henty. ‘I could see you ensconced in the big house, popping out heirs and running the village fête.’

  ‘I’m afraid the position’s already been filled,’ said Honor with a grin, pulling another chocolate digestive out of the packet. It was half an hour until she had to go to the manor. Just long enough to explain to Henty the reappearance of Johnny in her life. She was, after all, Honor’s best friend, and if she was prepared to air her own dirty linen – quite literally – it was the least Honor could do to reciprocate. And she was so unsure about what path to take. She knew Henty would be sympathetic and she longed for some guidance, or at the very least some reassurance.

  Honor knew the day was drawing nearer when she would have to make a decision about when to tell Ted the truth. It wasn’t fair on him or Johnny to allow them to build up a relationship based on a false premise. But once Ted knew, it meant the presence of Johnny in her life was cemented, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She needed to establish some ground rules, a clear framework within which to operate. But until she could be sure of her feelings, that was impossible.

  Sometimes she felt a surge of affection for Johnny, beguiled by his charms, and then she would remind herself that that was his speciality, casting a spell that made you blind to his faults. That was when she tried to step back and be objective, counting his many failings, chief of which was his conviction that the world revolved about him. And Honor knew that attitude did not make for good parenting. She didn’t care if he let her down, messed her about, but it could be only a matter of time before he did it to Ted. And that was when the trouble would start…

  In the meantime, it would be nice to have someone else’s opinion. She opened her mouth to spill the beans when Henty leaned across the table, eyes shining.

  ‘Can I let you into a secret?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I can’t keep it to myself any longer, but you must promise not to tell anyone. Especially Charles.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word.’

  Henty took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m writing another book.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘It’s fallen into place all of a sudden. I’ve had the idea for ages but I haven’t done anything about it. But now I’m ready. I want to prove that I’m not just a wishy-washy overweight housewife –’

  ‘Nobody thinks that of you!’ protested Honor.

  ‘Want to bet? That’s exactly what Fleur thinks.’

  ‘Well, don’t do it for her benefit.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m doing it for me.’

  ‘So what’s it about?’ Honor was genuinely curious. She’d read and loved Chelsea Virgin.

  ‘It’s sort of semi-autobiography mixed with fantasy’

  ‘Whose?’

  Honor grinned.

  ‘That would be telling. But I’m having quite good fun with the research.’

  Richenda had never believed in miracles until today. But the transformation that had taken place in front of her very eyes was almost on a par with turning water into wine.

  Cindy Marks had arrived promptly at nine o’clock, whereupon Richenda had swifdy and efficiently given her the version of events that she wished her viewing public to read. It wasn’t far from the truth – there was little point in lying. But to give it a satisfying twist they focused on Richenda and Sally at long last being able to rekindle their relationship, having been kept apart by a controlling monster all of these years. A monster who had rebuffed their individual attempts to make contact with each other (this was exaggerated, but impossible for Mick to deny); a monster who had at long last been put to rest. That way any attempt at a backlash from Mick would just look like the spiteful revenge of a man whose wicked plan had been foiled.

  By eleven o’clock they had concocted a masterpiece between them: a thoroughly heart-warming fable of reconciliation. Richenda was at pains to ensure that Sally was happy with the content, because the last thing she wanted was for her mother to start retracting statements and making denials. After all, it wasn’t impossible that Mick might get her back into his clutches. Unlikely, but not impossible.

  Cindy, meanwhile, was ecstatic. She arranged a photo-shoot for five o’clock that afternoon, and gave Richenda a substantial budget for a total make-over. By midday, a rather dazed Sally was in the chair at Richenda’s favourite hairdresser in Beauchamp Place, who had strict instructions to take off at least six inches and as many years. The hairdresser put a rich chocolate brown vegetable dye over the hennaed grey, then, despite Sally’s alarmed squeaks of protest, lopped off half her straggly mop. The end result was a glossy, layered shoulder-length bob with a long, sexy fringe falling over one eye.

  ‘Steady on,’ murmured Richenda sotto voce as she paid the hefty bill. ‘I don’t want her looking too good.’

  They galloped up the road to the boutique where she bought her more casual clothes. The rails were stuffed with beaded cardigans, customized jeans, silk tops, luxurious sweaters and the most mouth-watering array of accessories from earrings like crystal chandeliers to dainty pearl bracelets: a veritable dressing-up box for grownups. Sally’s eyes widened when she looked at the price tags, wondering if perhaps the nought was in the wrong place. She picked up a mohair sweater, fine as a cobweb. It was four hundred pounds.

  ‘Jesus. I could knit that in half a day,’ she whispered, scandalized.

  ‘Ssh – don’t worry about it. The Post are paying,’ chided Richenda. ‘Right – let’s decide what look we want to go for. I’m thinking rock chic, rather than rock chick. I know Lulu can carry it off, but you don’t want to look like Chrissie Hynde on a bad day.’

  She knew she was being blunt, but the pictures were going to be vital. And the look that Sally favoured was rather harsh – black leather was unforgiving. The idea was to retain her image – Richenda didn’t want to turn her mother into something she wasn’t; that would be humiliating – but soften the look up to make it more flattering. And Sally seemed excited by the idea, exclaiming with delight over the clothes, eager to try on whatever Richenda suggested. In the end, they chose a dark-red silk chiffon top with wide sleeves that looked perfect over a white T-shirt and jeans, teamed with a pair of high, pointed suede boots, some strands of amber beads and an armful of bracelets.

  Sally stood slightly self-consciously in the middle of the boutique for everyone’s approval. It was incredible to think that this was the same woman who had appeared on Richenda’s doorstep the day before. That Sally had been faded, drawn, dated, a ghostly apparition of times past. Now she looked bohemian but glamorous. And the thing that did most to enhance her appearance was her smile; all day long she beamed with happiness and excitement.

  ‘Right,’ said Richenda, looking at her watch. ‘We’ve got just over an hour before we need to get to Kensington. Nail bar, then make-up. Hold on to your hat!’

  Outside St Joseph’s, the crowd of mothers was gradually expanding as half past three came closer. Henty stood on the periphery, unnaturally quiet, trying to suppress the bubble of mischief inside her. Every time she thought about what she was going to do, she wanted to laugh. But she needed a deadpan expression if she was going to pull it off. Not that it was really that funny, when you thought about it. Charles’s behaviour was disgraceful, but he was a weak, vain and silly middle-aged man insecure about being the wrong side of forty. Fleur, meanwhile, was a traitor to the female of the species. They both needed teaching a lesson, before things got out of hand. Henty could just about handle the situation as it stood at the moment, but she knew if it got any more serious she’d be devastated. Which was why Honor’s idea was so perfect – it would bring them to their senses, and make them realize how ridiculous their behaviour was.

  Honor was by the gate. Henty didn’t dare catch her eye or she knew she would collapse, so she stuffed her hands deep into her B
arbour pockets and kept her head down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fleur arrive at the gate, her hair immaculate, her expression supercilious. She gave her a smile, and strolled over to her.

  ‘Hi. Great evening on Saturday. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘Yes. Me too.’ Fleur was cautious, aware that people were listening, curious as to what they might have been up to. ‘I love the Honeycote Arms.’

  ‘By the way, I think you might have dropped these while you were there.’

  Henty held the knickers aloft by one of the ribbons. A dozen pairs of eyes widened as they realized what they were.

  ‘They certainly aren’t mine. They wouldn’t fit me,’ continued Henty sweetly.

  Fleur turned white, and then bright red.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. They’re not mine either.’

  ‘Well, they must be Charles’s then. I found them in his pocket. I never knew he was into women’s underwear.’

  The pants dangled in mid air between the two women. Eventually Henty tossed them into the wastepaper bin outside the school gates that usually held drinks cartons and sweet wrappers.

  ‘Pity. They must have cost a fortune.’

  The rest of the mothers turned away, smiling and exchanging scandalized glances. Fleur turned on her heel, her jaw set, her lips tight, clearly furious but unable to admit it.

  Honor sidled up to Henty.

  ‘If that doesn’t warn her off, nothing will,’ she murmured. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of public humiliation to put the likes of Fleur in her place.’