The Secret Life of Lady Gabriella

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Rosemary.’

  They both reached for the same plant. His hand closed over hers. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘Don’t!’ They both looked up at the same time. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Ben. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. It was me.’

  ‘You? What did you do?’

  ‘I threw myself at you. Just as well you stopped at a trowel. If you’d bought the border spade who knows what I’d have done?’ She tried to laugh, but the resulting sound was closer to a strangulated hiccup.

  He lifted her chin, forced her to face him. ‘I wasn’t apologising for kissing you, Ellie. Or for anything else I had on my mind. I was apologising for the fact that you were subjected to Natasha’s…’ He seemed lost for a word. Or maybe he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  ‘She came back expecting to find you pining for her,’ Ellie said, rescuing him. ‘It must have been something of a shock to find you in flagrante in the potting shed.’ Especially with the ‘help’. Then, because she couldn’t help it, had to know, ‘Why did she come?’

  Even as she asked the question the answer was obvious, even to an idiot like her. Why would she stay away? Let go a man like Ben Faulkner, who was not only her match in looks, in brains, but was kind to small children, animals and even to stupid girls like her?

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘I turned down a job I was offered last week with UNESCO. To head up a project to catalogue, research ancient languages. She was hoping to change my mind.’

  ‘She flew from New York for that?’

  He might be some kind of genius, but if he believed that he was also the dumbest man in the world.

  ‘I had a personal call from the Director-General. Apparently Natasha put my name forward. I imagine she was a touch irritated that I wasn’t sufficiently flattered to leap at the chance.’

  A touch irritated he hadn’t leapt to change his mind, more like.

  ‘I can see why she might be a little put out. It sounds perfect.’ Certainly dealt with the question of him trailing in her wake.

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ He took the plant from her hand, stood up, lifted her to her feet. ‘Jetting all over the world, a tax-free salary, prestige coming out of my ears, Natasha’s New York loft apartment when we manage to connect for a day or two. She couldn’t understand why I’d turn it down.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘I don’t get off on that kind of power trip, Ellie.’ He looked at the plant he was holding, then at her. ‘This is my home. This is where I want to be.’

  ‘She still isn’t interested?’

  ‘I didn’t offer her the option. In fact I didn’t offer her anything other than to call her a taxi. She wanted me to join her for dinner, but when I explained that I had unfinished business with the “help” I finally got through to her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Then, ‘I was right, then. You can’t have it all. I almost feel sorry for her.’

  ‘Only almost? That’s harsh, coming from the softest heart in Melchester.’

  ‘That “help” crack is going to take a while…’

  He replaced the plant in its tray.

  ‘I think we’ve done enough here. Do you want to get the hose, give these plants some water, while I put the tools away?’ Then, ‘I thought we might avoid cooking and give the Italian round the corner a try. If you like Italian food?’

  ‘Love it,’ she said, although it probably wouldn’t have mattered what he’d suggested. Thai, French, Japanese, a hot dog from the caravan in the lay-by on the ring road…

  She fetched the hose from where it was lying on the path near the bonfire. Tried the trigger mechanism, but nothing happened. ‘How does this thing work?’

  ‘It’s locked. You have to click the smaller trigger first,’ Ben said, passing her with the fork and a rake in one hand, the trowels in the other.

  She turned it over for a closer look. ‘Like this?’

  The water shot out of the spray like a power shower. A freezing cold power shower. Ben made the mistake of laughing, and she turned it on him without a second thought. He caught his breath, too shocked to speak and too hampered by the tools he was carrying to do anything to stop her.

  Then he dropped the tools, grabbed the hose and chased her round the garden with it, while she screamed helplessly with laughter until he caught her, brought her down on top of him.

  ‘I surrender,’ she shrieked, as he rolled her onto her back and pinned her against the soft grass beneath his dripping body. Then, as she saw the naked desire in his eyes, the laughter died on her lips, and for a moment all they did was look as they caught at their breath.

  Then, when she thought she might die if he didn’t kiss her, might die if he did, Ben Faulkner’s mouth descended with the abrupt, hungry insistence of a starving man who’d found himself unexpectedly offered a feast.

  It had been so long. Maybe she’d forgotten the intensity of the feelings, the need, the urgency. Maybe it was just the newness, the strangeness. Or maybe it was none of those things, but something more. Whatever it was, she wanted it. Wanted it all.

  Ben finally raised his head, looked at her with eyes that were more black than blue, and despite the icy drenching there was no doubt that his hunger, his need, was as immediate as hers.

  ‘Ellie?’ Her name was a soft question, not a demand. He was giving her a choice. A chance to think again. But she didn’t want to think…

  ‘As I’m your p-prisoner-’ she began. Her voice died on her. This was all new to her. With Sean there had been none of this hesitation, none of this uncertainty, not knowing what the other person was thinking. Even if it was obvious what he was feeling.

  There had been no need to flirt, play games, tease. She didn’t know how to do this, and Ben wasn’t helping. It was like taking a step into the dark when she’d been clinging to a light. Dim, flickering, but safe. She felt as if she’d been running for the last three years. Making a new life. But all she’d been doing was running on the spot. Or maybe around in circles…

  And Ben recognized that, needed her to take the step on her own, as he had done. Not to cling to something that was over, gone, but to let it go, turn and walk towards a future that was entirely hers.

  She cleared her throat, tried again.

  ‘As I’m your prisoner,’ she said thickly, ‘it’s your duty to get me out of these wet things. Before I catch my death of cold.’

  ‘You appear to be losing your voice. Maybe you should take a hot shower as well?’ Then, with a slow smile, ‘Under the closest supervision.’

  She didn’t need hot water when she had his smile to warm her. ‘You think I might try to escape?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to take the risk.’

  ‘We’d better use your shower, then. It’s, um, bigger.’

  ‘The smaller the shower,’ he said, ‘the closer the supervision…’

  ‘We could try both.’

  The phone was ringing as they reached the house. They ignored it, shedding wet clothes as they made their way through the kitchen, across the hall. The answering machine clicked in as they reached the stairs.

  Ben’s voice said, ‘You’ve reached Ben Faulkner and Ellie March. Leave a message for either of us after the bleep.’

  Startled, Ellie stopped, looked at him. ‘When did you record that?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Yes, weirdly, it did. But before she could work out why, the caller’s voice cut in.

  ‘Ellie, it’s Becky Thomas. The hospital has just called to say I’ve got a kidney match. My mother’s in California, visiting my sister. Jack’s gone to Scotland for a meeting, and he can’t get back until tomorrow morning-’

  Ben reached over the banister, picked up the phone, said, ‘We’ll be right there, Becky.’

  ‘Ben…’ The word was an unspoken apology, a plea for understanding.

  ‘It’s okay, Ellie.’ His kiss, long and sweet, was a promise. ‘This will keep.’

  The wee
kend was over before life returned to anything like normal. Ellie had stayed with Daisy, leaving her father to spend as much time as possible at the hospital with his wife, and allowing him to leave in the middle of the night in case of emergency.

  In response to her appeal Ben had brought her laptop, so that she could at least get on with her column. Had stayed to share lunch. Spaghetti hoops on toast.

  ‘It’s the nearest to Italian we’re going to get this week,’ she said, as she saw him to the door, then blushed at her boldness.

  ‘Anticipation is half the pleasure, or so they say.’

  ‘It’s going to be that good?’

  ‘You are a joy and torment,’he said as he touched her cheek, curling his fingers back into his hand as if even that contact was too much temptation.

  ‘You’ll have the wedding to take your mind off it. You will go?’

  ‘I have no choice. But I’ll be sure to tell everyone that my girl is too busy being an angel of mercy to come.’

  His girl…

  She had finished Lady G’s column, weaving in the renovation of the herb garden. Then, instead of sending it, she’d written a long letter to Jennifer Cochrane, explaining why she would not be able to continue with it after the initial six-month contract.

  It had taken four attempts to get it right.

  She was so used to writing ‘in character’ that it was hard to break out of it, be herself, but she’d finally managed to set down the plain, unvarnished truth. No excuses about family pressures or the children needing her.

  It was time to confront reality. The future.

  Her future.

  It was all there. Who she really was, what she did. How the first column had come to be written just to prove to the rest of the writing group that she could do it. How, instead of owning up straight away, she’d stupidly clung to her character at the interview. How, even though she’d known what she was doing was wrong, she hadn’t been able to turn down such an unexpected opportunity.

  Finally, she apologised unreservedly to Mrs Cochrane and her readers, offering to return the fees she’d been paid.

  She had e-mailed it before she could change her mind and then, once it was gone, all bridges burned, she’d begun to search the net for an art college that might be prepared to take a mature student.

  It was another three days before Becky’s mother, who’d jetted back from California as soon as she could get a flight, recovered sufficiently to take care of Daisy so that Ellie could go home.

  Ben had told her to call him, that he would pick her up, but she needed a walk, half an hour on her own, so that she could get everything straight in her head.

  Daisy’s dad said he’d drop her things off on his way to the hospital, and she took the long way home, sitting for a while on a bench by the river.

  Clearing the decks with Mrs Cochrane was just the beginning. She had other people to talk to. Her parents. Sue. The writing group. But most of all Ben. There were things he had to know about her, things he had a right to know before he made any kind of commitment. Even one as small as dinner for two at an Italian restaurant…

  A car was parked in front of the house when she finally turned in to the drive, and her stomach, already churning with nerves, sank to her knees. It had been hard enough to work herself up to this point. Now she was going to have to wait.

  She let herself in the back door and was practically bowled over by a half-grown dog, leaping from a basket and hurling itself at her. A mass of soft red fur, long quivering legs, a whirling feathery tail.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous,’ she said, wrapping her arms around him in an effort to hold him still. ‘What’s your name?’

  He just grinned.

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  No answer to that one, either.

  She straightened, expecting to see Ben in the doorway, regarding her with a slightly rueful smile. The door was, unusually, closed. Presumably to keep the dog from bounding through the house and causing total mayhem. ‘Okay, boy, back to your basket.’ He rolled over, tongue lolling, a stupid look on his face. ‘Basket!’ she said, in her firmest voice.

  He immediately leapt into it, looking pleased with himself, then leapt out again. Right. She eased herself backwards into the hall, pushing him back when he bounded after her so that she could close the door.

  Laughing, she headed for Ben’s study to let him know she was home, stopped by the hall table, planning to flick through the post, then did a double take as she saw her pastel drawing of the house, beautifully framed, hanging above the table at eye level.

  She reached up, touched the frame, incredibly moved. He’d liked it that much?

  She heard the drawing room door open behind her and turned, heart in mouth.

  ‘Ben…’ she began.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor, Ellie.’ His face was blank, giving nothing away, just the way it had been when he’d first come home. When he hadn’t smiled. When he’d wanted her gone. ‘Jennifer Cochrane?’

  It was a question. Like, do you really know this woman? Is what she’s saying true?

  She covered her mouth with her hand to stop the cry of anguish. She had been going to tell him. Explain. She’d hoped to make him laugh. See the funny side of it. But she’d lost that moment.

  Jennifer Cochrane was standing by the window, looking out at the garden, but she turned as Ellie opened the door. Smiled, oblivious of any tension. At least Ben hadn’t thrown her out. Hadn’t threatened to sue.

  She turned back to the garden, waved at the huge oak, barely visible from the French windows and said, ‘I imagine that’s where Oliver’s treehouse was supposed to be?’

  She swallowed. ‘Yes…’ Her mouth opened but no sound emerged. She tried again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe we could build one?’

  She knew Ben had followed her, but she didn’t dare look at him. ‘Build one?’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I explained to Ben that we were hoping to run a special feature in the August edition. A children’s party. I thought we’d use some of those sweet play tents your friend makes. Have the children playing old-fashioned games.’ What? ‘Our cookery editor will rustle up some traditional recipes.’

  ‘But there are no children,’ Ellie said. ‘No husband,’ she forced out, aware of Ben at her shoulder. ‘Didn’t you get my letter? Don’t you understand? I wrote to you, explained everything…’

  ‘My dear Gabriella, I may not be young, but I’m not stupid. I realised from the moment you floundered so helplessly over the question of your title that it was no more than a nom de plume.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I’m as familiar with Debrett’s as I am with my own copy. If you’d been the daughter of any peer I would have been able to recite your family tree.’

  ‘Then why-?’

  ‘Why didn’t I say something?’ She gave a ladylike shrug. ‘I thought it would work with our readers, and I was right. They love it. On the other hand, if it had been a disaster I could have used your deception to pull the column and cancel your contract without having to pay you a penny. Publishing is a hard business. You should not have offered to repay me for the three columns I’ve already published, Gabriella. If I’d been unscrupulous-’

  ‘If!’It was Ben’s disgusted response that removed the smile from her perfectly painted lips.

  ‘If I’d been unscrupulous and your column hadn’t been such a success, I might have accepted.’

  ‘Take your money. I don’t want it!’

  For a moment Mrs Cochrane actually looked uncomfortable. But she rallied, said, ‘You know, Ellie-I hope I can call you Ellie?-we both deal in fantasy. In your case, the perfect family, living in a charming home with a charming menagerie of pets. That it’s fiction doesn’t matter. Your writing has enough zap to it to feel like the truth. As I explained to Ben,’ she said, ‘your column has revitalised the magazine. Readers’ letters are pouring in. Ben has shown me the work you’re doing on the herb garden. If you’re planning to use
that we’ll run an offer for a herb collection alongside it. The fern offer was a huge success.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘I had intended to phone you, make an appointment to look at the garden-assuming it actually existed-to decide whether it would do for the children’s party photo-shoot. After I received your e-mail, I decided it might be helpful to call and talk to you. I’m hoping to persuade you to reconsider your decision not to renew your contract.’

  ‘Ellie will need time to think about it, Mrs Cochrane,’ Ben said, stepping in before she could answer. ‘As I told you, she’s been helping out a sick friend for the last few days.’

  ‘Of course. But in the meantime can I go ahead and arrange everything with the photographer? Call the model agency to book the children? Some well-behaved dogs?’

  Ellie frowned. ‘Models?’

  She gave a small shrug. ‘Even if the children hadn’t been fictitious, there’s the privacy issue. We wouldn’t have used them.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Ben said. Then, with a resigned gesture, ‘Just let me know in plenty of time so that I can cut the grass.’

  ‘Actually, it might be better left. A lawn full of daisies would be perfect. The children could make daisy chains.’

  ‘I’d better hold off with the weed-and-feed, then.’

  ‘Excellent. And I’ll arrange for someone to come and look at the tree, see if we can do something about the treehouse.’ She picked up her briefcase, nodded. ‘Your next column is due at the end of the week, Ellie.’ Then, ‘We do have a contract.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure you have it in time.’

  Ellie left Ben to see her to the door. Heard him say goodbye. The crunch of the wheels on the gravel. Collapsed onto the sofa as she heard him return to confront her.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said, before he could say a word.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I just have to perform for you, is that it? Turn on the smile and I’ll pull rabbits out of a hat for you. Provide copy. Even restore my mother’s garden so that you’ll have something to show an agent. Make your name. Help you sell your damned book.’

  ‘No!’ How had she ever let it get to this? ‘No, Ben. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t using you. This all started before you got home. It was the house I used-that inspired me.’ There was a copy of the latest issue of Milady on the coffee table. Clearly Mrs Cochrane had shown it to him. ‘You’ve seen my drawing?’ she said, as if that somehow proved it.