The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Looking down at her, he smiled and said gruffly, ‘I can climb up there when I’m under attack. Lock myself away.’

  ‘Are you often under attack?’ Flora heard herself ask, in a voice that was not quite her own.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Was it Flora’s imagination, or did his hands just tighten around her hips?

  ‘Well. It will be somewhere to retreat to, then. Every home should have a retreat,’ she replied briskly, doing her best to sound professional.

  ‘I never retreat.’

  Henry’s upper lip curled arrogantly, the same way it had the day Flora first met him. She’d loathed his arrogance then. Now she felt something else, something thoroughly disconcerting. ‘But it’ll be the perfect space to plan my counter-attack.’

  Smiling, he released her, and walked around to the other side of the desk.

  What just happened? thought Flora. Had they been talking about her new library? Or something else entirely?

  Gathering up her plans, she left, the disconcerting feeling still hovering unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach.

  About two weeks after Flora’s encounter with Henry in the study, Graydon James decided to pay an impromptu site visit to Hanborough. Eva, back from her latest Sports Illustrated shoot in Australia, insisted that Graydon stay at the castle as their guest.

  ‘That way you can spend a few days and really get a sense of what Flora’s been achieving here. Henry and I both just love her,’ she’d added loyally, winking at Flora, who wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

  They were all in the formal drawing room at Hanborough. ‘All’ being the operative word. Henry, still in tennis whites after an early morning game with Richard Smart, was nursing a large gin and tonic by the window, looking less than thrilled by Graydon James’s unannounced and typically flamboyant arrival. Graydon, now on his third Bellini, had shown up in an open-topped pink Porsche 911, wearing a preposterous 1930s golfing outfit consisting of plus fours and a peach sweater, teamed with a dreadful Sherlock Holmes cap. Eva was there, boho chic in a bright orange cotton kaftan that would have looked like a curtain on anyone else, while Flora was looking pale and tired in boyfriend jeans and an old shirt of Mason’s tied at the waist that she basically lived in these days. George Savile, minus her dreary husband this time, had just ‘dropped in’, again, for lunch, looking typically chic in a Stella McCartney jumpsuit and sky-high heels. She greeted Graydon with a screech of delight and the sort of ecstatic hug usually reserved for a husband returning from war.

  ‘Graydon! Thank goodness you’re here to liven things up a bit,’ George trilled, linking arms possessively with the great designer in a clear message to Flora that the two of them were great friends, and that she’d better watch her back.

  Flora had arrived for lunch tired, and now felt utterly exhausted. Graydon’s guest appearance was absolutely the last thing she needed. Clearly Eva thought she was doing Flora a favour by inviting Graydon to stay at the castle, and telling him how much they loved Flora’s work. She wasn’t to know how pathologically jealous Graydon was of other designers, even his own staff, and how paranoid of having his thunder stolen. Especially by Flora.

  ‘Well,’ Graydon beamed, first at George and then at Eva. ‘I must say it’s nice to be made so welcome. If you’re really sure it’s no imposition, I’d love to stay a couple of nights. I loathe the drive back to London, and The Dorchester’s become so corporate these days, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, dreadful,’ George agreed with a shudder. ‘I wouldn’t put my gardener up there. The place is alive with Russians.’

  ‘There’s a perfectly good pub in Fittlescombe. They’ve got rooms,’ Henry muttered, too quietly for Graydon to hear but loudly enough to earn himself a reproachful look from Eva.

  ‘It’s no imposition at all. We’d be delighted to have you.’

  ‘In that case, I think I might stay too,’ said George. ‘Make a house party of it. If that’s all right?’ She fluttered her eyelashes innocently at Eva.

  ‘Not really,’ thundered Henry.

  ‘Of course it’s all right,’ said Eva, simultaneously. She’d never warmed to George. She’d tried, many times, but Henry’s business partner always had a knowing, sour look on her face when talking to Eva, as if she were laughing at some private joke that Eva strongly suspected was at her expense. Despite this, Eva continued to be hospitable and to hold out repeated olive branches to Georgina. One day, she felt sure, her kindness would pay off, and George would realize that Eva was a decent person and that she made Henry happy.

  ‘We’d love to have you. There are plenty of rooms, after all.’

  ‘Even if it is still a building site!’ George laughed, adding teasingly, ‘But I suppose genius can’t be rushed, eh, Flora?’

  Die. Thought Flora. Die, die, die, you poisonous, manipulative cow.

  Flora couldn’t understand why George kept showing up like a bad smell when it was clear that Henry didn’t want her here. Or why either Henry or Eva put up with it.

  The only thing she knew for sure was that it was going to be a very, very long few days.

  Flora’s first official walk-through of the site with Graydon began at eight o’clock the next morning. It did not go well.

  No doubt irked by Eva’s lavish praise of Flora’s designs the day before, Graydon systematically ripped into every last inch of her work. Nothing was good enough. The fixtures in the guest bathroom suites were too modern. The window dressings in the state rooms too traditional. The reclaimed stone Flora had used for the floor in the great hall was too expensive. The oak boards in the master bedroom too cheap.

  ‘And as for this folly,’ Graydon jabbed a gold-ringed finger at the new library plans in derision. ‘This will have to go.’

  ‘It can’t,’ said Flora, aghast. They were standing just inside the castle doors, in a room known as the hall. A long refectory bench lined one wall. Flora sat down on it wearily. ‘Henry loves it. It’s his favourite room in the entire castle. Plus it represents a huge saving over the original plan.’

  ‘I don’t care what it represents,’ Graydon snapped, sitting beside her. ‘I’m not having my name associated with that piece of kitsch.’

  Flora’s eyes widened. Coming from a man wearing an aqua-blue sweater with two felt puppies appliquéd on the front, this was a bit rich.

  ‘Besides,’ Graydon added, his tone softening slightly, ‘Henry Saxton Brae is not the only person we’re trying to please here.’

  Flora looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The International Designer of the Year award is being held in London next year,’ said Graydon. ‘It’s been moved forward to June, which means all submissions must be put before the judges by April.’

  Flora looked at him blankly. The Hanborough restoration would not be close to finished by April. The plan had been to get everything but the South Wing completed by next August, in time for Henry and Eva’s wedding. At the current rate of progress, even that was going to be a stretch.

  ‘You’re not thinking of entering Hanborough?’

  ‘I’m not thinking about it, no,’ Graydon said caustically. ‘I’m doing it. Or, rather, we’re doing it. Together.’

  Flora opened her mouth to protest but Graydon wasn’t finished.

  ‘I happen to have two close friends on the panel. It’s going to be a much more avant-garde group of judges than in previous years. We’re going to have to rethink a lot of the plans here if we want to have a shot at winning. Introduce some much more innovative, modern elements. Think sustainability. Eco-friendly. Old meets new.’

  Flora imagined Henry wincing at every one of these expressions.

  ‘Take a look at these.’ Flipping open his MacBook Air, Graydon showed Flora a slide show of images. One was of a steel-framed barn with a retractable glass roof. Another of a Plexiglas tunnel connecting the East and West wings of the castle at the rear.

  Flora shook her head. ‘There’s just no way. For o
ne thing, Henry’s a traditionalist. He’ll never agree to anything like that.’

  ‘Then you must make him agree,’ said Graydon, unyielding.

  ‘Even if I could, this stuff is all way over budget,’ protested Flora. ‘And you want it done by next April? At the rate we’ve been going we’ll struggle to get the current plans finished by next August.’

  Graydon fell silent for a moment, his lips pursed.

  ‘Perhaps I made a mistake in entrusting you with a project of this significance,’ he said at last. ‘Our mutual friend Mrs Savile confided in me that you’ve been struggling.’

  ‘I have not been struggling!’ Flora said hotly. ‘And Georgina Savile is no friend of mine.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Graydon mused. ‘Well, you do look terribly tired, Flora. I have a new fellow working for me in New York, Riccardo. Perhaps it makes sense for him to take over from here? I know he’s chomping at the bit for a challenge.’

  Flora could instantly visualize Riccardo, no doubt Graydon’s latest squeeze.

  ‘Sure,’ she quipped. ‘That’s a great idea, Graydon. Because Guillermo worked out so well.’

  Graydon’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t owe you this job, Flora.’

  ‘No, you don’t. But you gave it to me, and I’ve done all you asked – and more. And, Henry and Eva love me,’ Flora said defiantly. ‘They would have to agree to any change in designer and, I’m telling you now, they won’t. Not in a million years. So if you want the slightest chance of getting these changes made, or entering Hanborough for the International Designer of the Year award, the fact is, Graydon, you do need me. You do.’

  She was quivering with rage, glaring at Graydon, daring him to deny it. For a moment Graydon glared back, equally furious. Then, to Flora’s surprise, he smiled.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ he said. ‘I’d started to think the old, ambitious Flora Fitzwilliam was gone for ever. So, we’re on the same page? Winning International Designer of the Year will mean more for your career than it will for mine, darling.’

  ‘You’d share the award with me?’ Flora’s eyes widened. ‘I mean, we’d enter Hanborough together?’

  ‘Of course,’ Graydon said breezily. ‘As a team. My brand. My vision. Your hard graft. What do you say?’

  Flora’s mind raced. She made a mental list of pros and cons. The cons list was considerably longer.

  Graydon’s plans were frankly hideous, a betrayal not only of Henry and of Hanborough, but of Flora’s own artistic integrity.

  Changing tack so radically and aiming for an April completion would mean working even harder than she was now, which scarcely seemed possible.

  It would also leave her even less time for Mason – fewer trips home, and no time at all to focus on planning their wedding.

  On the pros side, if by some miracle they pulled it off, she, Flora Fitzwilliam, would be International Designer of the Year. Her name and Graydon’s, side by side, as equals.

  ‘OK.’ She smiled back at Graydon. ‘I’m in.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ the old man purred. ‘So, how do you plan to convince our friend Henry to change his plans and double his budget?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Flora.

  Graydon frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have a better idea.’ Flora smiled cryptically. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Flora and Eva were sprawled out in old-fashioned deckchairs in the back garden of Peony Cottage. It was a glorious, baking hot summer afternoon and Flora had asked Eva over specially for tea and cake. ‘I have something I want to show you privately,’ she’d told her up at the castle, the day Graydon flew back to New York. ‘Shall we meet at my cottage? Around four?’

  Eva was entranced by Flora’s cottage, with its simple, cool whitewashed walls and artfully placed earthenware, and its overblown but exquisite back garden, bursting with sweet-smelling clematis and honeysuckle, its beds crowded with pretty pink roses and towering hollyhocks in white and pink and deep purple, the colour of overripe plums.

  ‘It’s like a Kate Greenaway postcard,’ she sighed. ‘Like something from a hundred years ago.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ agreed Flora. ‘I love it here. It’s my sanctuary.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Eva. ‘I mean, obviously I’m incredibly blessed to live at Hanborough. Who wouldn’t want to wake up in a fairy-tale castle every day, right?’

  ‘But?’ Flora prodded.

  ‘Well. It’s Henry’s home, really,’ said Eva.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that here, at Peony Cottage, you can do what you like. You’ve made it your home because you designed all the interiors yourself. Don’t get me wrong, I love what you’re doing up at Hanborough,’ Eva explained hastily. ‘It’s just that you’re doing it. You and Henry. Not me.’

  Flora beamed. This couldn’t be going more perfectly.

  ‘That’s exactly why I invited you over,’ she said. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head. Graydon and I both felt that you’ve been excluded from the design process up till now, and that maybe what we’ve been doing up at the castle is a bit …’ She searched around for the right word. ‘A bit simplistic – a bit one-dimensional, shall we say – as a result. Take a look at these.’

  Slowly, one by one, Flora walked Eva through Graydon’s revised plans. Naturally far more of a modernist than Henry, Eva was instantly drawn to the stark, minimalist, even industrial style of the party barn, with its steel and glass and light. ‘It looks very Swedish,’ she observed approvingly. Within half an hour, Flora had as good as convinced Eva that the designs were her own – or at least that she and Graydon had merely ‘anticipated’ her vision.

  ‘I know Henry wants Hanborough to feel like your home too,’ said Flora. ‘That’s why he moved here, after all. So the two of you could make a life together.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Eva mused, flipping longingly through the new plans.

  ‘But you need to speak up for yourself,’ Flora told her. ‘I can’t do it. If I showed Henry these plans, he’d shut me down immediately. But you can. And I really think you should.’

  Eva nodded, taking another sip of Earl Grey tea from Flora’s shabby-chic china cup. Flora noticed she had left her fruit cake completely untouched. Being a world-famous lingerie model did have some disadvantages, apparently.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Eva boldly, tucking the plans under her arm. ‘I can’t complain about being left out of the process if I never tell Henry what I want. Thanks, Flora.’ Standing up to her full five feet eleven, towering over Flora, she hugged her goodbye. ‘And thanks for asking me over today. I really appreciate your friendship. I hope you know that.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Flora, suppressing a mighty wave of guilt.

  She felt bad, using Eva so blatantly to get these design changes past Henry. But it was the only way. Henry and Flora had such similar tastes; if Flora presented them he would smell a rat immediately. Plexiglas tunnels and party barns were definitively not Flora’s style. And the International Designer of the Year award was not going to win itself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Henry told Flora two days later, re-presenting her own plans to her over coffee in the castle kitchen, ‘I know these are big changes. And I know they’re godawful. But it means so much to Eva. I want to at least meet her halfway.’

  ‘I understand.’ Flora nodded sympathetically. ‘You realize it’s a lot more money?’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Money’s not a problem. Don’t tell your bloody boss I said that,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Flora, trying her best to look loyal and supportive. Once again she successfully suppressed a pang of guilt. She was surprising herself by how good she was becoming at this manipulation lark. Perhaps she’d learned more from Graydon James than she realized?

  ‘I’m not having the tunnel,’ Henry said firmly. ‘It looks like a fucking small intestine.’

  Flora laughed loudly. She wouldn’t tell Graydon that ei
ther, although she wanted to.

  ‘But I told her yes to the barn.’

  ‘OK,’ said Flora. ‘I’ll put the change orders in to Tony and we’ll get started.’

  Draining her coffee, she was getting up to leave when Henry put a hand on her arm.

  ‘I appreciate your work here, Flora. I really do,’ he said earnestly. ‘And what a good friend you’ve been to Eva. She needed a friend here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Flora said weakly. ‘She’s a lovely woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Henry. ‘She is. Far too lovely for me.’

  Not even Flora could hold back the guilt that time as she slunk away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  For the next ten days, Flora barely slept. After speaking to an ecstatic Graydon, she dealt with an irritated Tony Graham (‘More money’s all very well, Miss Fitzwilliam, but my men aren’t miracle workers. We can’t erect a complex structure like this from scratch in that timeframe. Not with all the other work we have to finish on the place.’ To which Flora’s response had been a pithy: ‘Try.’). She started spending sixteen-hour days up at the castle, followed by at least two hours of admin and emails at home before collapsing into bed, exhausted but often too wired to fall asleep. She was invariably already awake when her alarm went off at six each morning, with ideas and potential problems on site racing through her head like unwanted rallycross drivers.

  ‘You need a day off,’ said Eva one Friday afternoon, catching an increasingly skinny and haggard-looking Flora slumped against the portcullis, jerking in and out of an involuntary sleep. ‘I mean it. If I see you up here tomorrow I’ll have Henry set the dogs on you. No one can function like this. Go home and sleep.’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ Flora replied, honestly.

  ‘Then do something else. Something fun. Disconnect. Seriously.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, Flora agreed, booking herself into Petals, the new hairdresser’s-cum-beauty salon on Fittlescombe High Street, for highlights, a haircut and a desperately needed mani-pedi on Saturday morning.