The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘It’s all in your boobs,’ Eva had said encouragingly when Flora moaned about the return of her curves. ‘You look great.’

  This was a typically kind response from the Swell Valley’s answer to Gisele. But Flora couldn’t help but notice that Eva was very slowly eating some sort of organic mung bean salad at the time. No doubt she’d be following that up with a big glass of distilled air and a delicious bowl of ice chips.

  There was no getting around it. It was time to start running again.

  Incredibly sweetly, Mason had had a new set of state-of-the-art Bose headphones delivered to Peony Cottage the very next day, along with an iPod loaded up with everything from Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. With no more excuses, Flora had set off into the woods and hills. Despite being horrified at her lack of fitness, especially on the first day, it was astonishing how quickly she felt her spirits lifting and the pain of Graydon’s most recent betrayal begin to heal, or at least to fade.

  Slipping off her headphones, she took a moment to take in the beauty of her surroundings and listen to the twitter of birdsong in the trees and the wild rushing of the river.

  Seconds later the tranquillity was broken by a loud shout from the valley floor. Then another. It was a man’s voice, very loud and – though Flora couldn’t make out what he was saying – distinctly panicked.

  Running down the hill, she took the footpath into the copse that led straight to the river. ‘Hello?’ she called out to whoever might be there. ‘Is everything OK?’

  But rounding the next corner, she saw at once that it wasn’t. Henry, waist deep in water, was on one side of the river, a look of utter desperation on his face. Behind him on the bank, one of his Irish setters was tethered to a birch tree. The other dog, Flora saw to her horror, was trapped in some sort of sluice or drainage pipe on the opposite bank, its sleek head intermittently appearing as it strained frantically for escape before disappearing again beneath the gushing water.

  ‘Soda!’ Henry yelled futilely over the din. ‘Stay!’ Looking up at Flora with tears in his eyes, he shouted, ‘Every time she struggles she gets jammed deeper in. She’s going to drown!’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Flora, already taking off her sneakers. ‘How did she get in there in the first place?’

  ‘She went after a stick.’ Henry sounded utterly distraught. ‘It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and she went in before I could stop her. The current’s too strong. I’ve been trying to reach her but I can’t.’

  Without thinking, Flora stripped down to her knickers and sports bra and plunged into the icy water. Henry watched wide-eyed as she started to swim, her small but curvaceous frame astonishingly powerful in the water. Within ten seconds she was closer to Soda than he’d managed to get in the last horrendous two minutes. But at the mouth of the pipe the pull of the water was overpowering. Flora ended up clinging to the root of a willow on the far bank so that she wouldn’t be swept downstream.

  ‘Cross at the bridge!’ she shouted to Henry.

  He hesitated. The rickety footbridge was about fifty yards upstream. By the time he got there, crossed, and got back to where Soda was trapped, it might be too late. Flora’s own position didn’t look too safe either. But he couldn’t see any better options.

  ‘Just go!’ Flora yelled.

  Scrambling up the muddy bank, Henry ran along the river and over the bridge as fast as his waterlogged jeans would let him, tearing the skin on his forearms to shreds as he plunged through brambles and undergrowth to get to the sluice pipe. Flora manoeuvred herself directly underneath the entrance to the pipe opening. Soda was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘She’s gone!’ Henry wailed. ‘You need to get out of there.’

  Lying on his stomach along the top of the pipe, he reached a hand down to Flora.

  ‘No,’ panted Flora. ‘I can see her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I think so. If I grab her forelegs and pull, can you reach down and grab her from above?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Try,’ said Flora. Before Henry could say anything else, or even process what was happening, she had slipped completely beneath the water.

  ‘Flora!’ he screamed.

  The next thing he knew, Flora reappeared, her head thrown back and her arms extended, straining wildly, her feet wedged against the river bed, pulling Soda’s front half out of the sluice pipe like a reluctant dance partner. It was their only chance. Reaching down, Henry wrapped both arms around the dog’s underbelly and heaved with a strength he didn’t even know he possessed.

  The dog gave a wild, terrible yelp of pain before shooting out of the pipe with an almighty ‘pop’, like a champagne cork. With Soda in his arms, Henry flew backwards, collapsing onto the ground and slamming his head painfully on the base of a tree trunk. By the time he sat up, Flora was already about twenty feet downstream, pulling herself up to safety before collapsing, exhausted, onto the bank.

  Soda stood up, sneezed, shook herself off and looked around, slightly baffled by all the commotion now that the danger was past.

  ‘You stupid sod,’ said Henry, unable to stop the tears of relief coursing down his cheeks as he pressed them into the setter’s sodden fur. ‘Don’t ever do that again.’

  Holding on to Soda firmly by the collar, he squelched over to where Flora was still lying, panting, on the ground.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe you just did that. Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Rolling onto her side, Flora smiled at him. Her face was streaked with mud, there were leaves in her hair, and her wet underwear clung to her bottom like particularly raunchy gift-wrap. Despite the seriousness of the situation and the magnitude of what Flora had just done, Henry felt himself in danger of getting aroused just by looking at her. She had the exact opposite body type to Eva, but there could be no denying that she was an extremely sexy girl.

  ‘You could have drowned,’ he said.

  ‘Nah,’ said Flora, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘I’m a pretty good swimmer.’

  ‘You’re bloody amazing,’ said Henry, stroking Soda’s head lovingly. ‘I really can’t thank you enough. She’d be dead if it weren’t for you.’ Watching from the opposite bank, Whiskey whimpered loudly, then barked as if to say, ‘Hey, what about me?’

  Henry grinned. ‘We’re coming, lass. Give us a minute.’

  ‘You really love them, don’t you?’ said Flora, looking at Henry quizzically.

  ‘Of course,’ Henry replied.

  ‘Why do you act like you don’t give a shit when Eva’s around? Or when anyone’s around for that matter?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Henry lied.

  ‘Yeah, you do,’ said Flora. ‘It wouldn’t kill you to let your guard down once in a while. You are allowed to have feelings, you know.’

  Henry frowned, his eyes still locked with disconcerting intensity on Flora’s. Soaked in river water, with his black hair plastered to his head, he looked sleek and predatory, like a wet mink. Their faces were so close, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to lean forward and kiss him. Appalled, Flora felt a rush of blood to her groin.

  ‘You’ve just been completely heroic,’ Henry drawled. Could he sense the heat between them? ‘Don’t ruin it by going all schmaltzy and American on me. I couldn’t bear it.’

  Flora shivered, and not only from cold. ‘I need my clothes,’ she said, blushing.

  ‘I couldn’t disagree more,’ said Henry, his eyes roaming lazily over her almost naked body.

  ‘Clothes!’ said Flora, laughing to try and break the tension. ‘I just saved your damn dog and you’re going to let me die of hypothermia?’

  Henry sat up and snapped out of whatever it was that had just happened. ‘No. Of course not. I’ll go and get them.’

  He smiled, but it was a controlled smile. Polite. Distant. The moment of closeness, of intimacy or attraction or … something, had pa
ssed. The spell was broken.

  Standing up, he walked back towards the bridge, never loosening his grip on Soda’s collar for an instant.

  He loves those dogs, thought Flora. He is capable of love.

  I wonder why he’s so deathly afraid to show it?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Flora yawned loudly. God, she was tired. That flight back from New York was a killer. And it wasn’t as if she’d had much sleep the night before.

  Opening the car window as she approached Peony Cottage, she let in a cool blast of evening air and tried to wake up. It was September, and autumn had arrived in the Swell Valley with a bang. Overnight, it seemed, temperatures had fallen by a good twenty degrees. A distinct chill now hung in the air, intensified by strong flurries of wind that blew leaves from the trees and whipped branches to and fro like the waving arms of teenage fans at a rock concert. Flora had only been gone five days – it was only ten days since her encounter with Henry and the dogs in the river, which almost felt like a dream now – but in that short time the last dregs of summer seemed to have drained completely from the landscape. She’d returned to a valley already changing from lush green to faded brown, its blue skies replaced by heavy, brooding clouds that matched Flora’s mood.

  New York had been amazing. Going home, seeing Mason, making love again for the first time in almost three months. She’d been working so hard since she got to Hanborough, Flora hadn’t fully realized how much she’d missed that. Missed Mason, and their apartment and their friends and their life together. Her fleeting attraction to Henry Saxton Brae that day at the river had clearly been a symptom of loneliness, possibly combined with the adrenaline of the moment, nothing more. From now on, she vowed, she would go home at least once every six weeks. Either that or Mason would fly to her. Long-distance love sucked.

  Not everything about the trip had been easy. She’d had a major showdown with Graydon about the Vanity Fair article, although as usual he’d somehow ended up turning the thing around to make it out that Flora was in the wrong.

  ‘Lisa Kent was my client. And I did come up with the original design for Baxter Road.’

  ‘Which was changed completely by the time the house was actually built!’ Flora protested. ‘Every room in those pictures was my work, Graydon. You never even mentioned me.’

  ‘Of course I mentioned you,’ he’d told her testily. ‘So did Lisa, for that matter. It was the magazine that chose to focus on me. Because, like it or not, my dear, it’s my name that sells copies, not yours.’

  He’d then proceeded to rip into Flora about what he called the ‘slow progress’ at Hanborough.

  ‘I didn’t step in when you changed the plans for the great hall. Even though we both knew you’d need new Listed Buildings Consent. I let you run with the idea because you swore to me you could complete on time.’

  ‘And I will,’ said Flora. ‘Henry gave me a deadline of the first of July.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about Henry!’ Graydon roared. ‘Our deadline, the deadline, is April, for the International Designer of the Year award. I thought I made that crystal clear months ago.’

  ‘You mean back when you also said I’d be named as the co-designer on Hanborough?’ Flora challenged him defiantly. ‘That you wouldn’t take all the glory, the way you just did with Baxter Road?’

  Graydon had actually thrown her out of his office for that. It wasn’t until the next day that they made peace. But, even then, it was very much on Graydon’s terms.

  ‘Your job, your only job, is to get Hanborough finished on time. Are we clear?’

  Flora nodded.

  ‘Once you can show me that the works are on schedule, and once I’m happy with the quality of your designs – assuming that I am – then we’ll talk about credit.’

  That night, over dinner at Minetta Tavern, Mason had tried to be sympathetic, although his advice was the same as it always was.

  ‘Just tell the miserable old queen to stick it. You don’t need him, Flora. You don’t need to work at all. It’s my job to take care of you, angel. I just wish you’d let me do it.’

  For the first time, Flora had started to wonder if maybe Mason was right. Why did she work so hard, when she didn’t have to? She’d always told herself it was because she was an artist. And artists need to express themselves, to work, to create. But deep down she knew there was another, darker reason. When her dad had gone to jail, and then died, and later when her mom had shrunk back into her shell like some pathetic, dried-up snail, Flora had learned the hard way how to rely on herself. She’d survived on her own, worked hard on her own, got into RISD and landed the job with Graydon James, all on her own. Self-reliance sounded like a good thing, like a character strength. But really it was just another name for fear. For the terror of losing everything, again.

  Things are different now, Flora told herself.

  I have Mason. I can trust Mason.

  Mason is not like dad.

  She’d flown back to England feeling deeply conflicted. Perhaps the restoration of Hanborough Castle really would be her last job as a designer, not just for Graydon, but altogether? Her last hurrah before married life as Mason Parker’s wife – cared for, cherished and loved. She couldn’t decide whether the idea of letting it all go made her depressed or relieved. In a strange sort of way, it seemed to do both. But, either way, it felt more important than ever now that Hanborough should be a success. More than a success. A triumph. And that Flora should be credited for her efforts.

  Arriving at Peony Cottage at last, she dragged her case up the garden path and unlocked the front door. Fighting her way through a mountain of junk mail and small parcels, most of them fabric swatches or paint samples she’d ordered before she left, she scooped up an armful of what looked like actual post, dumped her case at the foot of the stairs and wandered into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  Sitting down at the tiny wooden table, Flora began opening letters. There was a small gas bill for the cottage, a request for money from Prisoners First, a charity helping prison inmates and their families that Flora had long supported, and an invitation to dinner next week from Barney Griffith.

  ‘Welcome back!’ he’d written inside. ‘Come over on Friday. Small group, v casual. Vodka and pork scratchings both provided.’ The card was a quite stunning photograph of Hanborough in the dawn light, taken from the valley below. Barney had taken the picture himself and was obviously a much more talented photographer than he’d let on.

  Finally there was a large brown envelope containing a detailed bid for the new masonry works to the great hall. Page after page of numbers and spreadsheets and addenda swam before Flora’s eyes.

  She looked at the clock on the wall.

  Six fifteen p.m.

  There was still time to pop up to the castle now, take some measurements for the stonework and check on progress, before exhaustion truly kicked in.

  Taking a quick slug of tea, shoving the paperwork back in its envelope and grabbing a KitKat out of the larder cupboard for energy, Flora tucked the envelope under her arm and hurried back out to her car.

  Flora arrived to find Hanborough unusually quiet. No cars were parked in front of the portcullis. Even when Henry and Eva were away, the gardeners and Mrs French – Henry’s secretary – were usually milling around somewhere. But today the staff must have gone home early.

  Letting herself in with her own keys, Flora shouted into the great hall, her voice echoing off the stone walls like a ping-pong ball. ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

  ‘In here.’

  Henry’s voice came from the kitchen. It sounded rough, as if he’d just woken up. Flora put her head around the door to find him sprawled in the tatty old armchair next to the Aga. Still in his hunting gear – the Swell Valley must have been out today – but with his shirt untucked, riding boots kicked off and his red jacket draped over the back of a kitchen chair, he looked unusually dishevelled. His face and chest glistened with sweat and his black hair was pushed mess
ily back from his forehead. He had a half-drunk tumbler of whisky in his hand and a brooding, dark look in his eyes. Flora was horrified to find herself thinking how sexy he looked.

  ‘When’d you get back?’ he asked, looking up at Flora with an intense, if somewhat glassy stare. From his expression and the slight slur in his voice, Flora surmised that the glass in his hand was not the first he’d had tonight.

  ‘Just now.’ She kept her own voice deliberately brisk and businesslike. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I just popped in to check on a few things and take some measurements.’

  ‘You’re not disturbing me.’ Henry smiled broadly. ‘Have a drink.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’m fine,’ said Flora. She felt flustered suddenly, and regretted coming up here. Why on earth hadn’t she left it till morning? ‘I’ll just run into the great hall to get what I need and leave you in peace.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Sit down,’ said Henry. ‘I’m fed up with peace. Eva’s in Paris working and I’m bored shitless.’

  ‘Even so, I—’

  ‘Sit!’

  He was still smiling. Deciding it would look churlish to refuse him, Flora perched awkwardly on a wooden chair. Hauling himself to his feet, Henry grabbed a glass down from the cupboard and poured her a whisky, ignoring her gestures of protest.

  ‘How was New York?’

  ‘It was good.’ Flora sipped the whisky tentatively.

  ‘You saw your fella?’ Henry sat back down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Flora noticed the way his thigh muscles bulged beneath the tight fabric of his breeches. ‘Mr Perfect?’