A couple of hours went past. The room was a hive of activity. Nancy had a constant stream of couples; Grace had plenty of brides and mothers-of-the-bride, plus six texts from Gideon demanding to know how she was getting on.
Fabulously, she replied, to each and every one of them.
At lunchtime, she had the shock of her life.
‘Hello, Grace.’
Oh God, it was Greg. He was standing in the doorway in jeans and a white polo shirt, smiling and looking absolutely gorgeous. His hair had seen a bit of gel and it looked like he had new shoes on. What the hell was he doing here? She’d mentioned she was doing this today, when they’d chatted by text last night, but why on earth had he turned up?
She blushed crimson down to her toes.
‘What are you doing here, Greg?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was in the area. I’ve been to see a mate. I thought I’d call in and see how you were doing.’ She blushed even more. It was so clearly a lie, he so wasn’t just in the area! He’d just wanted to see her, hadn’t he? She beamed at him, feeling monumentally excited. He really liked her. He just wanted to see her! Nancy glanced over from showing an eager couple some save-the-date cards and raised a pierced eyebrow.
‘Well, I’m doing very well, thank you,’ said Grace.
‘Great, great. Glad to hear it.’ Greg went over to one of the shelves. He picked up a peach cloche and, grinning at her, plonked it on the top of his head. He put it down again and reached for a fascinator dripping with pearls and jet black beads. ‘So, Grace –’
‘Ah, here are those fabulous hats I’ve been hearing all about!’
Oh my God. It was Frankie, dressed up like character from an Oscar Wilde play. She had about four scarves draped round her neck, was dangling the handbag she usually thrust over her shoulder on the end of an extended wrist and had half her face obscured by huge, fashion magazine editor sunglasses. She took off the glasses, winked theatrically at Grace, then flew over to a hat stand to examine a white trilby with silver ribbon. ‘Beautiful hats!’ she exclaimed, in an over-loud voice. Grace, horrified, tried frantically to shoot a warning glance at Greg, but he had the fascinator on and was checking out his reflection in one of the dozen mirrors Grace had propped up. He didn’t notice her exaggerated head flicks and darting, warning eyes. Nancy did. She was obviously trying hard to conceal a laugh.
‘I think this is really me, Grace,’ said Greg, turning round.
Frankie’s head also shot round, at lightning speed. One of her scarves – butterfly-printed chiffon – whacked her in the face. She stared at Greg. Greg froze. Grace froze. Even the couple at Nancy’s table froze. Nancy had a very mischievous look on her face.
‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for, Frankie?’ stammered Grace.
‘Aw, you’re not supposed to know my name!’ said Frankie, her high, silly voice abandoned. ‘How can I be your mystery shopper and big you up if you say you know me! Don’t blow my cover! Who’s this?’ She was still looking directly at Greg.
‘This is Michael, one of our suppliers,’ said Grace quickly.
‘Yes, hello, I’m Michael,’ said Greg. ‘I supply…er…pearls. From the Indian Ocean.’
‘That’s right,’ said Grace. ‘Michael was just popping in to see how his fascinators are selling.’
‘Yes,’ said Greg, ‘my fascinating fascinators. They’re…marvellous.’
‘Pearls from the Indian Ocean, eh?’ said Frankie. ‘Very flash.’
‘We try our best,’ said Greg.
‘Right, Michael, so you said you had your next appointment to get to…?’ said Grace.
‘Yes, absolutely, better get going. People to see, pearls to…erm…sell.’
And Greg removed the fascinator, gave a short bow and left the room.
‘Blimey,’ said Frankie, her eyes flashing. ‘He’s gorgeous!’
‘Michael? Yes, he’s not bad.’
‘Not bad! He’s an absolute dreamboat. Is he single? Why don’t you ask him out? Can I ask him out?’
‘I’m single, remember. For a whole year. Just like you.’ Frankie looked momentarily sheepish. ‘We’re not supposed to be asking anyone out. And he’s probably gay.’
‘He doesn’t look gay.’
‘How would you know? Your gaydar’s absolutely rubbish.’
‘True,’ Frankie nodded. ‘But, wow. You should definitely find out if he is or not, next time he comes calling, with his pearls.’
‘I’m single for a year,’ said Grace. ‘Don’t deter me from my path.’
Frankie stayed for the next couple of hours and had great fun flitting in and out, and squealing at hats when there were customers around, and generally being quite annoying. Grace sent her packing fifteen minutes before the end of the day and she and Nancy started packing up their stalls.
‘See,’ said Nancy, putting paper and envelopes into her lidded box. ‘You did it. You did it on your own.’
‘Yes, I did,’ replied Grace, carefully placing hats back into boxes, using fresh tissue paper. She was very happy with the way the day had gone.
‘That was quite a performance, by the way,’ said Nancy. ‘Before. That your bloke?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace. She didn’t bother to try and hide the pride in her voice.
‘Your friend’s right,’ said Nancy. ‘He’s really good-looking. Why are you keeping him a secret? Is he married?’
‘No,’ said Grace. ‘It’s complicated. But as you may have heard, I’m supposed to be single.’
‘Clear as mud,’ said Nancy, shrugging. ‘Well, none of my business.’
There’s a first, thought Grace.
‘I must say, though, he looks almost too good to be true.’
‘Well, he’s not,’ said Grace firmly. ‘He is true.’ Thank goodness it was the end of the day. She’d had quite enough of this awful Nancy and her unsolicited comments. Still, nothing, not this annoying woman, or even the near miss with Frankie, could dent her fabulous mood. Greg had turned up out of the blue on the flimsiest of excuses. She hadn’t paid him; there was no business transaction. He’d simply wanted to see her. Grace sighed happily and felt a tingle up and down her body. He must like her. Really like her! And this could work – if she could just persuade him to give up the escorting. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? He’d already taken the first step.
After Nancy had left the room, saying she hoped to see Grace again, which Grace pretended to agree with, she went to the sash window. A young couple, their arms round each other, giggled in the car park and got into their car, and Grace twisted her wedding ring then slowly eased it off her finger. Yes, she could make it on her own. She’d proved that today. But she was so glad she didn’t have to.
She smiled as she wrapped her ring in a square of pale pink tissue paper and put it in her bag. It was time to take things to the next level with Greg. And Ascot was where she would make it happen.
Chapter Nineteen: Imogen
It was windy and not quite warm enough. Dresses were blowing up. Fascinators were hurled off heads and into puddles. Pashminas were turned into billowing kites. There were goose-bumped arms and legs. Bright, dry lips smacked together. False eyelashes flapping in the gale. Red soles, real and fake. Tottering. Tittering. Skittering.
A lot of women looked under-dressed and over-done, but some looked amazing, elegant in beautiful dresses and show-stopping heels, and with the most sensational hats Imogen had ever seen. She must take a few surreptitious photos later, so she could show Grace.
Imogen hoped she matched up to the best of the bunch. She felt pretty amazing herself, as she walked through the coach car park at Ascot, with Richard. The new shoes, a buffed bod, an exquisite tight-fitting cream silky dress. She’d barely eaten all week. She knew it was wrong, and today she’d eat like one of Ascot’s champion thoroughbreds, but she wanted to look sensational.
Huge coaches were rolling in from Brighton, from Essex, from Surrey, from Kent. Screec
hing women in glamorous dresses were clambering out of them. The sharp edge of an enormous hat nearly caught Imogen’s eye and Richard took her hand. She could tell women were looking at him. He didn’t look stupid in the top hat and tails. He didn’t resemble the fat controller in any shape or form. He looked like he was born to wear such a get-up. He was majestic. A woman in peach headgear shaped like a Babybel was gawping, her mouth open like a guppy’s. If Richard had uttered anything at that moment, in that rumbling American accent of his, she probably would have dissolved into a peach polyester heap.
Mitts off, thought Imogen. He’s mine.
Her resolve had crumbled as soon as she’d got his text. It felt like a minor miracle and you don’t ignore minor miracles He wasn’t giving up on her. He didn’t care that she’d ignored him and hadn’t taken his calls. He wanted to see her and she didn’t want to be a woman who was frightened. It was time to put fear to one side and take a very deep breath. He wouldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let him, would he? It was a just a day. One day out. He was gorgeous, she was single and fabulous; she was going to Ascot and she was bloody well going to enjoy herself.
She grinned unashamedly as they walked through the entry gate and into the main concourse of the Grandstand. They were greeted by umbrella-canopied bars, hordes of wandering people dressed to the nines, chatting and laughing, and understated officials in smart suits strategically placed to direct people where they needed to go. One approached Richard, and chatting politely, led them to some very posh silver grey lifts. Imogen called out, ‘Thank you!’ with unconcealed delight, as the lift door closed on them. She was effusive, full of it, brimming with fun and possibility. Fear had been put in its place.
‘Excited?’ said Richard, in his lovely voice, as they glided to the fourth floor.
‘Thrilled!’ replied Imogen.
He’d picked her up from outside her office. It was a bit of a pain pretending she had to go into London for an early Saturday morning meeting, and going up on the train and getting changed and ready there, but there was no way Richard could collect her from home, for obvious reasons. He’d pulled up, with Nigel at the wheel of a long black limo, complete with champagne. She’d almost jumped up and down with excitement. And when Richard had swung open the door for her like he had before, she’d almost swooned. In his Ascot suit he was divine. She was pretty much powerless.
She’d grabbed the champagne greedily; it would give her something to do with her hands – she wanted to jump on Richard and put them all over his body. They’d kept doing that thing, where two people who fancy the pants off each keep grinning at each other. It made the journey fly. Every time he grinned, it made her knickers leap. Glorious.
He’d started telling her who else was in his box at Ascot. Imogen was the only ‘friend’ he’d invited – she’d been asked to save his sanity, apparently – the rest were ‘corporate folks’. He reeled off a list of very boring-sounding people, casually giving the names at the bottom of the list as Phil and Carolyn Boot.
Oh. My. God.
‘Carolyn Boot! You know her?’ she asked Richard, startled.
‘Yes, I do business with her husband. Do you? By the horror on your face I’d say you do!’
‘I used to work with her. For her.’ She grimaced. ‘I gave her a piece of my mind when I left the company,’ said Imogen. ‘I don’t think she’ll relish spending any time in mine.’
‘Oh, really? Will you be okay?’
‘I’ll brazen it out and rise above,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She was bricking it, slightly, but yes, she could brazen it out. Nothing, not even Carolyn Boot, was going to spoil this day.
The lift opened. Richard took Imogen’s hand and together they walked along the plush corridor and into Box 356.
It was wonderful. Hugely smart and very, very corporate. There was a large table with white linen, on which coffee and tea pots and interesting-looking biscuits were displayed. A bar. A huge television up on the wall. And a corner balcony outside with full vista of the track and all the hordes of well-dressed people below. When she’d been to Ascot before it had all been quite posh but not like this. The acting and directing circle she moved in didn’t run to boxes.
‘Amazing…’ she said, looking round her.
The word died on her lips but she kept her smile going – Carolyn Boot was walking into the box. She was trailed by a tall thin man – her husband, Imogen presumed – who looked like a much uglier Richard E. Grant. He’d always been a bit of a crush of Imogen’s. What was it with these Richards? She wouldn’t have said no to a bit of Branson, either, once upon a time… Even a Madeley was not an unattractive proposition. God, was she on heat?
Carolyn turned a laser-like stare on Imogen and raised her eyebrows. She had obviously not been forewarned, like Imogen had.
‘Abigail, is it?’ said Carolyn, alarmingly coming over.
‘Imogen,’ said Imogen. Richard had temporarily deserted her. A man with a goatee had commandeered him and he was over by the floor to ceiling windows. She knows damn well what my name is, Imogen thought.
‘Right.’ Carolyn held out a claw for her to shake. ‘And your connection is?’
‘To?’ Imogen knew she sounded insolent, but she didn’t care.
‘Richard Stoughton.’
‘Oh, we’re dating.’
‘Really?’ said Carolyn, looking incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I think he may be in love with me,’ said Imogen. There. That told the old bag.
‘I find that very doubtful,’ said Carolyn, with a sneer. She looked about to say more, then her face closed down to a blank glare. ‘Excuse me, I need to get some champagne…’ She started looking round her and clicking fingers at the substandard E. Grant. He made to take her pashmina.
‘No, no, not that, darling,’ she said, brusquely. ‘Champagne. Get me champagne.’
The poor man practically ran to the bar to grab a glass of champagne off a waiting tray.
Imogen stepped away. So Carolyn was going to be imperious and icily friendly, she thought. She could handle that. At least there’d been no mention of her terrible departure from Yes! Productions. Perhaps it would come later. Carolyn’s revenge. She couldn’t imagine Carolyn was the type of woman not to execute it.
Fortification. That would help. Imogen went to the bar and got two glasses of champagne, one for herself, one for Richard.
‘Cheers,’ she said, walking over and handing it to him.
‘Bottoms up, me old mucker.’ He grinned.
‘Uh-oh, Bert’s back,’ said Imogen. Richard laughed.
They bumped glasses and each took a sip. That fizzing sip of champagne held all the promise of the day. Fun, frivolity, slight inebriation, excitement. She could take Richard on. One day at a time.
Several more people entered the box. A horsey couple – she couldn’t decide whether the man or the woman looked more like a thoroughbred showjumper – a big American lady in a straw hat and an embroidered tent, and two or three indistinguishable city types who already looked well-oiled and were braying like donkeys about the FTSE 100. They were the type she used to go for, until she knew better.
A smiley, very posh bloke came in to talk about the horses and to give tips on the bets. It was almost like a stand-up comedian’s routine, all his asides and in-jokes seemed well rehearsed. Imogen listened as intently as everyone else and laughed in all the right places. She didn’t have a clue. She wasn’t a horsey person and had never bet on anything in her life. Carolyn was earnestly marking things down on a piece of paper and circling things in her programme. She knew what she was doing – of course she did.
Out on the balcony it was blowing a gale. They all had to troop out there for the first race. It was real hold on to your hats weather, and like a welcome vacuum when you swooshed back inside. Imogen was happier in the warmth of the box, hovering around the buffet table or chatting randomly to the characters in there. She only braved the balcony again when t
he Queen rumbled down the track in her carriage. Imogen, buoyed by champagne, gave her a wave, clutching her pashmina to her with her free arm. The Queen didn’t wave back.
When she was suctioned back into the room, a spread was laid out on the table replacing the tea, coffee and biscuits. There were salads, flans and quiches, cheeses and breads, smoked salmon – all delicious-looking. Imogen knew she was going to eat loads; champagne always gave her the munchies.
‘Everything okay?’ said Richard, coming to stand by her side as she finished her plateful. She hadn’t wanted to shadow him; he had people to schmooze. She’d pretty much done her own thing since she’d been in that box. She’d chatted to people, been friendly to the women (the Boot excepted) and acceptably flirty with the men, had eaten and drank…and had watched Richard from the corner of her eye as he worked the room.
He was so good at it. He was charming, disarming, friendly, all-inclusive and all-encompassing. He had the large American lady laughing like a drain. Even Carolyn, in his current circle, appeared to be tittering, slightly. Simpering. She almost looked girlish. She had one foot hooked behind the other, the toe of her sandal rubbing the back of her calf as though she were playing footsie with herself. It amused Imogen no end. The ice lady melteth in the hands of the right man, clearly. Did her husband know?
Imogen wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to put herself in Richard’s hands. Naked, preferably. Perhaps tonight she would find out. She hoped so.
‘Everything’s great, thanks.’
He whispered in her ear. ‘There’s something about you.’
‘That’s a Level 42 song.’
‘Level who?’
God, he was sexy. His eyes glinted, like the bubbles in her champagne. His lips looked warm and inviting. ‘Do you want to take a stroll down to the Royal Enclosure with me?’
Year of Being Single Page 19