The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Is it?’ Henry’s voice was like ice.

  ‘Of course it is,’ trilled George. ‘He gets all the gay male clients and flings Flora at the straight ones like you with her boobs hanging out. And six months later, here you are with no roof, six months behind on works and seven figures over budget! As a friend, darling, I’m telling you. Stop thinking with your cock for once – fire Flora, and bring in somebody competent. I’d be happy to introduce you to our chap, Jeremy Baines.’

  ‘As a friend?’ Henry said witheringly.

  ‘Absolutely.’ George smiled. ‘Jeremy did a wonderful job on our Holland Park house. I’ve got his number here somewhere.’

  She started scrolling through her address book.

  Henry stood up.

  ‘As a friend,’ he smiled thinly, ‘your Holland Park house looks like a dentist’s office. Painting everything white is not my idea of design genius. I’m restoring a castle, not building a morgue.’

  George gaped at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘As for Flora, she has more talent in her little finger than you or I have in our entire bodies. The fact that you can’t see that says everything about you and nothing whatsoever about her. She also works like a bloody slave. I have no intention of firing her.’

  George’s eyes narrowed. ‘Touched a nerve, have I? So you do fancy her. How tragically predictable.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, George,’ said Henry, stalking out.

  ‘You too!’ George called after him furiously. ‘Enjoy sunny Sweden!’

  After Henry had left, George sat and stared at the door for a long time.

  So bloody, hateful Flora had worked her magic on Henry too, had she? Cast her insidious, goody two-shoes spell? Not content with sucking up to Eva, she’d managed to enrol Henry, George’s Henry, into her ever-growing fan club.

  Not on my watch, George thought bitterly. It’s time somebody taught Miss Flora Fitzwilliam a lesson.

  She picked up the phone. ‘Charlotte? I need a number. Get me Graydon James’s private office in New York.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be eating this.’

  Flora dug her spoon into a third, ambrosial mouthful of The Latchmere’s sticky toffee pudding, closing her eyes as the delicious hot butterscotch sauce exploded onto her tongue like a sugar-fuelled orgasm.

  ‘Yes, you should,’ Penny de la Cruz said firmly. ‘I hate to sound like a Jewish mother, but you’ve been wasting away recently. I’m sure Mason doesn’t want a twig coming back to him for Christmas.’

  Actually, Flora thought, Mason wouldn’t mind at all if I lost a few pounds. Not that he didn’t appreciate her curves, especially her boobs. But there was something borderline obscene about Flora’s figure at its fullest, something almost cartoonishly sexual, that she sensed Mason was sometimes embarrassed by. As he once put it, ‘It’s like even when you’re dressed, you’re naked.’ Admittedly he’d been sporting a splendid erection at the time which, combined with his admiring tone of voice, had led Flora to take this observation as a compliment. But she’d also seen him wistfully eyeing the slender, willowy girlfriends of his fellow J.P. Morgan bankers. Or perhaps she was the one doing the wistful eyeing – at least when it came to the gorgeous, sample-sized dresses they all seemed able to fit into. Being short and voluptuous made it mightily difficult to dress well at black-tie events. And this Christmas in New York would be one black-tie event after another, with Flora being paraded around by Mason’s mother like some sort of prize turkey.

  Luckily, notwithstanding the pudding, Flora was probably the skinniest she’d been since high school. She’d agreed to meet Penny for a long overdue lunch (‘the least I can do to thank you for your sketches, especially as I’m going to use all of them at the gallery’), partly as a way of forcing herself to come up to London and do some Christmas shopping. The discovery of dry rot had turned her into a virtual prisoner at Hanborough, but her flight to New York was fast approaching, and she’d yet to buy a single Christmas present, never mind find two evening dresses to fit her, replace her greying, hole-ridden panties and ancient bras with something less shame-inducing, and get a wax, facial, pedicure and other Manhattan basic essentials, none of which were remotely available anywhere in the Swell Valley.

  ‘Are you excited?’ Penny asked, attacking her own chocolate fondant with considerable gusto. ‘About going home for Christmas, I mean. I imagine New York must be terribly romantic at this time of year.’

  ‘It is,’ said Flora. ‘Haven’t you been?’

  ‘Me? Oh, no.’ Penny shook her head and laughed, as if the very idea were ridiculous. ‘My first husband was a big believer in traditional Christmases when the children were little. That meant lots of church and carol singing and whatnot, and the Queen’s speech, and me doing all the cooking and washing up. We never went anywhere.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were married before,’ said Flora. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Paul? He ran off with another man.’

  Flora gasped and went bright red. ‘How awful! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t be.’ Penny waved a hand airily. ‘Being gay was actually one of the least awful things about Paul. I thank God every day he ran off. I’d never have found Santiago otherwise.’

  Flora smiled. ‘The two of you do seem terribly happy together.’

  ‘We are,’ Penny beamed. ‘But he won’t go anywhere for Christmas either. All he wants to do is stay in bed and eat chocolate truffles and, you know. Celebrate.’ She blushed. ‘He even gets annoyed if the children come home. He likes it to be just us.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ sighed Flora. She’d be looking forward to going home a lot more if Mason wasn’t insisting on dragging them both out to a different cocktail party every single night. If only it were just the two of them, in a cabin somewhere. Canada, maybe. Or Wyoming. Or even here, in England, somewhere tranquil and lovely.

  Barney was going to the Lake District for Christmas to stay with his sister in some crumbling stone farmhouse under a mountain. He’d shown Flora pictures, incredible images of grey skies and still silver water against a magnificent backdrop of towering crags and fells. Barney really was an amazing photographer. The place looked like heaven.

  ‘I heard Henry’s going to Sweden this year, missing all the parties,’ said Penny, shattering Flora’s reverie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I assume that means things are going well with him and Eva?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d assume that,’ said Flora.

  ‘Oh?’ Penny’s eyebrow went up.

  ‘Henry has a sweet side.’ She was mainly thinking of him with Whiskey and Soda. ‘He can be kind and he does love her. But I’m not sure he’s cut out for marriage,’ Flora said diplomatically.

  The conversation turned back to Penny’s gallery, and Flora’s work. Flora explained about next year’s big design award and the pressure she was under from Graydon both to modernize the designs at Hanborough and to finish on time, which now looked like a taller order than ever with the roof problems and dry rot.

  ‘He can’t expect you to do the impossible,’ said Penny, waving to a waiter for the bill.

  ‘You haven’t met Graydon,’ said Flora. ‘Expecting the impossible is the James family motto. But you know, this award is important to me too. Hanborough may be my last big job, and I’d like to go out with a bang.’

  Penny frowned. ‘Why would it be your last big job?’

  ‘I’m not saying it will,’ Flora backtracked, ‘I just don’t know. After I’m married, things might be different. Mason wants to have kids right away, so there’s that. And his career will have to come first.’

  ‘Will it?’ said Penny. ‘It sounds to me as if your career’s just taking off.’

  ‘Yes, but mine doesn’t make any money,’ Flora said ruefully.

  ‘Not yet, maybe,’ said Penny. ‘In any case, aren’t there other measures of success? I mean, look at Barney. He gave up an excellent job as a lawyer to do something he loves.’


  ‘Exactly. Look at Barney,’ said Flora. ‘His cottage is freezing and all his clothes are falling apart at the seams; he’s wasted a year of his life not finishing a book, and he’s alone.’

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t found the right girl yet. Or the right girl hasn’t found him,’ Penny observed cryptically.

  ‘Maybe.’ Flora scraped the last remnants of her pudding from the bowl. ‘All I know is, that sort of life would never work for me. I don’t want to be poor and live in a garret.’

  ‘What is a garret, anyway?’ asked Penny.

  Flora laughed. ‘No idea. But let’s never find out. Mason works hard and he can give us both a good life. I do love my job. But one has to be practical.’

  Penny said nothing. But she wondered who she’d just eaten lunch with, Flora Fitzwilliam or Mason Parker?

  Heading back to Battersea, she found herself hoping that Flora’s fiancé really was the prince that Flora thought him to be. Penny knew better than anyone that there was no unhappiness in life quite so hard to bear as a miserable marriage.

  ‘One has to be practical?’ That didn’t sound like a recipe for happily ever after.

  Barney and Eva walked together down the hill towards Flora’s cottage. It was only teatime, but twilight had already crept over the valley, spreading a blue-black blanket of stars over the bare woods and frosted grey fields.

  Jeeves, who wasn’t a fan of the cold, trotted along at his master’s heels in an unusually subdued manner, while Whiskey and Soda raced ahead, their lean muscles rippling and their glossy coats glinting with health, even in the half-light.

  ‘Does Henry ever walk his own dogs?’ Barney asked, breaking his own, new rule never to bring up Eva’s dickhead fiancé. His opinion and Eva’s were so far removed on the subject of Henry, that the safest course was to avoid the topic altogether. ‘What did he do before you two got together?’

  ‘I don’t actually know,’ said Eva, whistling to the two setters to return, which they did with instant obedience. ‘I think the grooms took them out. I don’t mind, though. I love walking them. Anyway, it gives us a chance to talk.’

  They’d reached the bottom of the hill now and stood at a gate, directly across the lane from Flora’s front door. The lights were all off, other than the single lantern hanging above the front door. Clearly no one was home. Barney pulled out his camera and started clicking away. The cottage looked so tranquil, its whitewashed walls bathed softly in the last of the evening’s light, and with long shadows dancing along the brick path.

  ‘Isn’t it too dark for that?’ Eva asked.

  ‘No. It’s perfect. Ethereal,’ said Barney, still taking shots. ‘If they come out nicely I’ll blow one up for Flora as a Christmas present. Remind her why she wants to stay here and not move back to New York.’

  Eva rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t give up, do you? Try and be open to meeting someone else.’

  ‘I will if you will.’

  ‘You’re single,’ Eva reminded him. ‘I’m engaged.’

  ‘To a tosser,’ Barney reminded her.

  Eva scowled.

  ‘Sorry.’ Barney held his arms out wide, like a footballer admitting a foul. ‘She’s dreading going back for Christmas, you know,’ changing the subject back to Flora as they turned left along the lane.

  ‘Did she say that?’ Eva sounded surprised. Flora had told her more than once how much she was missing Mason, and how badly she needed the break.

  ‘Not in so many words. But when I showed her the Lake District pictures I could just tell she wanted to be there.’

  ‘Barneee!’ Eva chided.

  ‘She did! Flora loves peace and beauty. She’s an artist, like me. You know I’m much more suited to her than Perry Mason, or Peter Parker, or whatever his stupid American name is. She doesn’t want to waste her life being some sodding banker’s wife.’

  ‘She wants security,’ Eva said bluntly. Sometimes one had to be cruel to be kind. ‘I’m not saying she’s a gold-digger, but not everyone can live on air and dreams the way that you can.’

  ‘Air, dreams and Guinness,’ Barney corrected her. ‘There’s a difference.’

  He joked about it because he didn’t know what else to do. Deep down, however, he had a horrible feeling that Eva might be right. Flora wanted a rich man to take care of her. Barring a miracle, rich was something that Barney Griffith was never going to be.

  It was funny how Eva could be so perceptive about everybody else’s love life and insecurities, and yet so blind about her own.

  Then again, thought Barney as they approached Fittlescombe village, perhaps we’re all a bit like that. Perhaps that’s part of the human condition?

  He was just wondering how he could work this idea into his book when the pure, beautiful sound of children’s voices drifted towards them from the direction of the village green.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Eva, stopping to listen.

  ‘I think it’s carols.’ Barney grinned. ‘They must be practising down at the school.’

  ‘How lovely!’ said Eva. ‘Let’s go and listen.’

  Clipping the dogs onto their leads, they hurried across the bridge onto the green. St Hilda’s School stood next to the parish church. Sure enough, about twenty children clutching candles were huddled around the school gate, their high, breathless voices reciting the verses of ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. A small but growing group of villagers, mostly drinkers from The Fox, had spilled out onto the green to listen to them. You could see people’s frozen breath hovering in little puffs in front of them as they linked arms and pressed together for warmth.

  ‘Oh, look, there’s Henry!’ exclaimed Eva, dashing away to join him as he emerged from the pub with Richard Smart.

  Barney watched as Henry threw his arms wide, drawing Eva protectively into him, kissing the top of her head as they both stood swaying, entranced by the music, their two dogs sitting obediently at their side. It was a small gesture, nothing out of the ordinary. But it was the first time Barney had seen Henry behave in a genuine, unaffected, loving way towards his girlfriend. This wasn’t another ‘look at me, I bagged a supermodel’ public display of affection. This was real. Heartfelt.

  Barney was surprised by how jealous he felt, as if a small but very sharp knife were being twisted in his heart.

  Don’t be such a sad, lonely git, he told himself firmly. Just because Flora doesn’t want you, you can’t go around resenting everyone who has found love.

  Glancing around, it suddenly seemed as if happy couples were everywhere. Santiago and Penny de la Cruz were there, arms coiled around one another like a pair of contented snakes. Laura Baxter was in stitches at something Gabe had just whispered in her ear, earning herself a stern look from a number of parents, gathered to gaze adoringly at their singing children. Outside the church, the vicar and his wife stood arm in arm: he skinny and small, she enormously round and fat, clearly about to give birth any minute. The entire scene reminded Barney of Dr Seuss’s Whoville, with the whole village coming together in song, glowing with Christmas spirit.

  And what does that make me? Barney thought miserably. The Grinch?

  Closing his eyes, he let the children’s voices soothe him.

  ‘The hopes and fears of all the years, are met in thee tonight.’

  Jeeves started to howl.

  Gathering up his own hopes and fears, Barney turned and headed home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mother wants you to meet Kashi Soames and her new husband. I think she’s on number five now.’

  Mason Parker opened the French doors that led from the library of his parents’ Westchester estate onto one of at least ten balconies and smiled at Flora. In a full-length gold evening gown with a cropped mink jacket, she was standing with her hands on the stone balustrade, looking out across the Parkers’ stunningly lit grounds. A gently sloping, manicured lawn, bordered on either side by giant clipped yew hedges, led down to a boating lake. In t
he middle of the water, an artificial island had been built. It usually sported a fountain, but at Christmas time the water was switched off and a vast Norwegian spruce was erected in its place, professionally trimmed and sparkling with thousands of tasteful white bulbs, their reflections dancing on the still water like fireflies.

  The grounds, like the house, spoke of wealth but also of class. Everything here was classical, beautiful, and just as it should be.

  Everything except me, Flora couldn’t help thinking.

  Coming up behind her, pressing his strong body against Flora’s soft one, Mason reached down and extracted a lit cigarette from between Flora’s fingers.

  ‘I thought you gave up?’ he said, disapprovingly, crushing out the offending object on the stone and flicking it off the balustrade into the abyss.

  ‘I did. But tonight’s a special circumstance.’

  ‘How so?’

  Flora turned around and looked up at him, lovingly but with a hint of despair.

  ‘Are you kidding me? I already feel like a prize pig being shown for sale at a farmers’ market. Your mother must have introduced me to fifty of her friends, and every one of them looked at me like this.’ Flora did an exaggerated, up-down, appraising look, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head disappointedly.

  ‘Oh, hush,’ said Mason, kissing her. ‘Everyone loved you. And besides, you’re not for sale. You’re my pig, and you’re off the market. Right?’

  He made a snorting, pig noise that even Flora had to laugh at. Perhaps she should lighten up. But it was Christmas Eve, and all she wanted to do was get back to their apartment in the city, crawl into bed and stay there, like Penny and Santiago de la Cruz were probably doing right now. Instead they would be sleeping in one of Ruth Parker’s many ‘guest suites’ tonight, which was like being in a luxury hotel except without the privacy. And tomorrow there would be more parties, more people to meet and smile at till her jaw ached, and yet more conversations about the wedding and how ridiculously excited she was about it, all the time.