‘Flora Fitzwilliam?’ It was a woman’s voice. American.
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Janet Kingston. I’m calling from the New York Post.’
‘OK,’ said Flora warily, putting aside her laptop. She couldn’t imagine why the New York Post might want to talk to her.
‘We’re running a story on tomorrow’s “Page Six” about Mason Parker’s affair with Henrietta Branston. I wondered if you have any comment you’d like to make on that before we go to press?’
Flora felt a strange sensation in her limbs, as if she were suddenly weightless.
‘Miss Fitzwilliam?’
She could still hear the reporter’s voice, but it was muffled now, as if Flora had cotton wool in her ears or was holding her phone under water.
Mason Parker’s affair … Henrietta Branston.
No. It didn’t make sense. She’d spoken to Mason only a few hours ago and everything was fine.
‘Flora, are you still there?’
‘Yes. I’m here,’ Flora croaked. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake. Mason and Henrietta are old friends.’
‘So, is that your comment?’ Janet Kingston asked cheerfully, as if the two of them were discussing the weather.
‘What? No!’ said Flora. ‘I don’t have a comment.’
‘Because I think you ought to know we’re publishing pictures tomorrow that show the two of them are a lot more than friends.’
The room had started to spin. Flora clutched the arm of the sofa like a drowning woman clinging to a life raft.
‘Can I take it you didn’t know?’
‘I have to go,’ Flora mumbled, hanging up and dropping her phone onto the cushions as if it were a red-hot coal. No sooner had she let it go than it rang again, the shrill notes piercing her skull like arrows.
Mason’s name flashed up on her screen.
Flora picked up. ‘Hey.’ She was surprised to hear the tremor in her voice.
Mason sighed heavily. ‘They called you already, didn’t they?’
‘Just now. But it’s a mistake, right?’ Flora blurted. ‘I mean, it isn’t true.’
The silence that followed seemed to last for hours.
‘I’m so sorry, Flora,’ Mason said at last. ‘I can’t tell you how awful I feel.’
Flora stared at the phone in her hand as though she were watching somebody else. Possibly somebody in a really cheesy Lifetime movie. The entire last ten minutes felt like an out-of-body experience. When she spoke, her voice was not her own.
‘How long … I mean, when did it start?’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Mason.
‘Kind of. Yeah, it does.’
Another heavy sigh. ‘It started on Valentine’s Day.’
Flora winced.
‘Look, I’m not making excuses. I know it was totally wrong,’ said Mason. ‘But when you didn’t fly home like you said you would, I was so mad at you. And I got drunk, and Hen was there—’
‘Hen’s always there,’ Flora said numbly, although with less bitterness than she expected. The weird thing was, this wasn’t hitting her as hard as it should be. Mason cheating on her, and not just with a random other woman, but with Henrietta Branston – it was Flora’s worst nightmare come true. And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of detachment, like it was happening to someone else. Maybe it’s the shock?
‘I just … I didn’t know if you loved me any more.’ Mason’s voice was breaking. ‘You never come home. You shut me down every time I bring up the wedding.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is true, Flora.’
For someone who’s sorry, he’s sure focusing a lot on my problems, thought Flora.
‘I still love you,’ said Mason, filling the dead air between them.
‘OK. So is it over with Henrietta?’ Flora heard herself asking, feeling more like somebody else than ever.
Mason’s hesitation was brief, but it spoke volumes.
‘It will be.’
‘It will be?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘How? How is it complicated?’ For the first time, Flora began to sound angry. ‘We’re engaged and you slept with another woman behind my back.’
‘I know!’ Mason sounded close to tears. ‘And I’m sorry. But there is a context here, Flora, and you know it. We—’
‘I have to go,’ Flora cut him off.
‘Flora, please! Don’t hang up. Hear me out. You weren’t here. I’m not in love with Hen, but I can’t just drop her like a stone.’
Flora pressed the red button on her phone. Then she pressed it again, keeping her thumb in place long enough to turn it off completely.
Could you end a relationship as easily as you could end a phone call? With the touch of a button? Erase your life as a couple, your past, your hopes and dreams for the future?
Perhaps you could.
Feeling more unreal than ever, and not knowing what else to do, Flora locked the cottage doors, turned off the downstairs lights and went up to bed. The pills she took for jet lag were in her bathroom cabinet. Popping two into her mouth, she swallowed them with water from her tooth mug. Crawling under her covers, she waited for the pain to hit her and her tortured thoughts to start racing.
Instead she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she woke the next morning, dazzling sunlight streamed through her bedroom window, of the kind Flora hadn’t seen in months. Glancing blearily at her clock, she was horrified to discover it was already after ten. She had slept for twelve hours, something she couldn’t remember doing since college.
Jumping out of bed and into the shower, she allowed the warm jets of water to soothe her as the events of last night reasserted themselves.
Mason was having an affair.
With Henrietta Branston.
Page Six were running the story. It would be out by now, all over the internet. That was the worst part, Flora decided. Knowing that as soon as she switched on her phone or logged into Facebook, as soon as she emerged from the cocoon of Peony Cottage, she would be bombarded by other people’s opinions and emotions. Some would be kind. Some spiteful. Many, no doubt, would be pitying, which was almost worse. But all would expect some sort of response from Flora. Anger or heartbreak or … something.
I don’t know what to tell them, she thought, lathering zingy lime shower gel over her arms and stomach. I don’t know how I feel.
Mason and I are not getting married. She turned the thought over in her head, examining it from every angle, waiting for the grief and pain that ought to follow. But nothing much happened. She felt sad. And tired. And something else; another, unexpected emotion that Flora was trying hard not to recognize, but that kept reasserting itself: relief.
Pulling on skinny jeans and a rust-red turtleneck sweater, she grabbed her laptop, phone, car keys and jacket and headed to work.
‘I can’t bear it.’
Sitting at the kitchen table at Hanborough with Henry, Eva was rereading the Post’s piece on Mason Parker for the umpteenth time that morning on her phone. Georgina Savile had helpfully emailed it to Henry yesterday, in a message entitled, Oh dear! Trouble in paradise … Lottie Calthorpe, George’s friend in the Hamptons, had wasted no time letting her know. Evidently there was much rejoicing among Manhattan’s It-Girl community that Mason Parker had finally seen sense and dumped ‘that chubby little Puerto Rican’, as Lottie had described Flora.
‘Poor Flora!’ Eva shook her head sadly.
Recently returned from a modelling assignment, and looking more bronzed and lithe than ever, she was dressed this morning in a multicoloured silk shirt teamed with skintight bright yellow jeans. It gave Henry a hangover just to look at her. She put him in mind of a bird of paradise that had somehow lost its flock and ended up in the rainy Sussex countryside instead of the Brazilian rainforest.
‘Do you think she’ll come in to work today?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Henry, spreading marmalade on a third slice of t
oast. He also felt bad for Flora. She’d called in sick yesterday, the morning the news broke, and was clearly lying low. No one liked being cheated on, still less having their humiliation made public for all to see. On the other hand, a less worthy part of Henry was pleased that this fiancé of hers, this guy who Flora had always held up as being such a saint, turned out to have the same feet of clay as he did.
‘Should I go over to the cottage? If she doesn’t come in today?’ Eva asked. She was obviously genuinely worried for her friend. ‘I mean, Flora was there for me. After you and Kate …’ She left the sentence hanging.
Henry grimaced, as much from embarrassment as from guilt. Looking back now he had no idea what had possessed him to sleep with his brother’s wife that day at the hunt. He’d had countless affairs, but that one slip with Kate had caused more grief than all of the others put together. Eva had forgiven, but not forgotten. And Henry’s friendship with Flora had never recovered.
‘Have you called her this morning?’ Henry asked, steering the conversation back to Flora and the present drama.
‘I’ve tried. Her phone’s switched off.’
‘So maybe she needs some more time.’
Right on cue, Flora appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dressed for work in a fitted riding jacket and skinny jeans tucked into boots, and with her laptop slung over her shoulder, she looked as calm and collected as ever. If she’d been crying it didn’t show. There was no puffiness around her eyes, no blotchy skin or ruddy nose. Indeed, if anything, she looked better rested than usual. It was all rather odd.
‘I’ve come to run through the latest list of change orders,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s quite long, I’m afraid, but I need approval from one of you.’
‘Are you OK?’ Eva asked nervously. ‘Did you get my messages?’
‘I did.’ Flora smiled. ‘Thank you. But I’m fine.’
Getting up from the table, Eva enveloped her tightly in a sisterly hug.
‘I’m so sorry, Flora,’ she said sincerely. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Briefly,’ said Flora, extricating herself from Eva’s well-meaning but stifling embrace.
She caught Henry’s eye for a moment, but was unable fully to read his expression.
‘You don’t have to act brave around us, you know,’ said Eva. ‘Does she, Henry? You’re allowed to be upset. I mean, you were about to get married to the guy.’
‘I think Flora knows that, darling,’ Henry said, tactfully.
‘Of course she does. Sorry,’ said Eva, blushing. ‘That was a stupid thing to say.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Flora. ‘Really. I appreciate the concern but to be honest I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather focus on work.’
‘Miss Gunnarson?’ Henry’s PA, Mrs French, waddled in behind Flora. ‘Madame Faubourg is here.’
‘Who?’ Eva looked perplexed.
‘The dressmaker? From Paris. For your wedding dress fitting?’
‘Oh my goodness, I totally forgot.’ Eva gave Flora an embarrassed look. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘For what?’ asked Flora.
‘It’s not exactly the greatest timing,’ said Eva. ‘I can ask her to come back …’
‘Don’t be silly. Go. Have your fitting. It’s fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Henry can sign off on these.’
Sitting down at the table, Flora began unzipping her laptop bag in a businesslike manner. Her relief was palpable when Eva left.
‘OK,’ she said, handing a sheaf of printed spreadsheets to Henry while bringing up the relevant page on her Mac. ‘Let’s start with the big-ticket items and move down.’
For the next fifteen minutes they were all business. Henry agreed most of the changes, although he did question the contractor’s budget here and there.
‘Sixty thousand on marble? What’s that for?’
‘Bathrooms mostly,’ said Flora. ‘The floors in the guest suites, also the tile bases for the outdoor showers.’
‘What outdoor showers? This is the Swell Valley, not Ibiza.’
‘I know.’ Flora suppressed a smile. ‘I think Graydon might have slipped those in.’
‘Well, he can bloody well slip them out again,’ said Henry. ‘Have you heard from him since he went back to the States?’
‘Surprisingly, no,’ said Flora. ‘He was acting very strangely while he was over here too. We were supposed to have a whole string of site meetings, but I barely saw him in the end. How was your lunch?’
‘Boring,’ said Henry. He contemplated telling her about George’s plans for world domination with Graydon, but decided to leave it for now. Flora had enough on her plate. ‘Listen, Flora. I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it—’
‘Because I don’t.’ Flora looked up sharply.
‘I just want to say that I understand.’ Reaching across the table, he took her hand. ‘If you ever do want to talk about it.’
‘You understand?’ Flora looked at him angrily, withdrawing her hand. ‘What do you understand, Henry? What it feels like to be totally betrayed?’
‘Would that be so hard to believe?’ Now it was Henry’s turn to be angry. ‘Do you really think you’re the only person who’s ever been hurt? I’m your friend, Flora. At least, I’m trying to be.’
The hurt in his eyes was obviously genuine. For a moment Flora felt remorseful. But only for a moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said caustically. ‘I guess I see you as more as the betrayer than the betrayee. I wonder why that is?’
‘Right,’ Henry snapped. ‘So I’m still the bad guy, am I? Your perfect fiancé screws one of your friends and gets himself all over the gossip columns, but it’s not him you’re mad at, it’s me. Why is that, Flora? Why is it that Eva can forgive me but you can’t?’
Suddenly the tears that had refused to come ever since the Page Six reporter had broken the news burst out of Flora like water from a popped balloon.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Henry, rushing round to Flora’s side of the table and offering her a napkin. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
Flora shook her head vehemently. ‘No. It’s OK. You should. I mean, I am mad at you. I genuinely don’t understand why you can’t seem to keep it in your pants. Or why I have to know about it every time you cheat.’
‘That wasn’t exactly by design,’ said Henry, stroking her hair as she blew her nose loudly into the napkin.
‘But you’re right. Mason’s the one I should be yelling at right now, not you.’
‘But you aren’t?’
Flora sniffed. ‘No. I keep waiting to feel this wave of rage and humiliation and sadness. But it won’t come. It’s like it’s blocked. I mean, I am sad. And shocked. But just not …’
‘Enough?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess not.’
‘Maybe he wasn’t the right guy for you,’ said Henry softly.
He was standing behind Flora’s chair, so she couldn’t see his face. One hand was still absently stroking her hair. The other rested on her shoulder. All of a sudden the hand on her shoulder felt red-hot. Perhaps it was Flora’s imagination, but it seemed a tension had descended out of nowhere, like a cloud over the two of them, so thick Flora could taste it. Closing her eyes, she could feel her heart beat wildly like a trapped animal inside her chest. Then, just as she was about to bolt, to think up some excuse, any excuse, and get out of there, Henry stepped away.
‘May I make a suggestion?’ he asked, so coolly that Flora instantly felt foolish for thinking … whatever she’d been thinking.
‘Sure,’ she said, doing her best to match his even tone.
‘Come out hunting with us tomorrow.’
It was so unexpected, Flora burst out laughing. ‘Come out hunting? Me? What on earth for?’
‘Because it’s fun.’ Henry grinned. ‘It’s also all-consuming and tiring and it gets you out of the house. I promise you, you will not have time to think about
Mason when you’re careering over the Downs after a fox. You weren’t really going to marry someone called Mason, were you?’ he added, as an afterthought. ‘You have to admit it’s a bloody awful name.’
Despite herself, Flora giggled. She’d missed this. Henry being charming and funny. Her allowing him to be charming and funny, without being permanently outraged.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I appreciate the suggestion, but I haven’t ridden in years.’
‘All the more reason to get back on the horse,’ said Henry. He’d never been good at taking no for an answer. ‘I’ll ask Seb to find you a nice, gentle mount. You’ll love it, I promise. And, even if you don’t, it’s part of the whole English country experience. You’ll miss all this when you’re gone, you know.’
He was teasing her, trying to lift her spirits. But the truth was, he was right.
She would miss it.
That was part of the problem.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, the first glimpse of sunshine the Swell Valley had had in weeks. Flora opened her bedroom window to see fields stiffened by a pale grey frost, each blade of grass glittering in the sunlight like shards of glass.
Squeezing into the jodhpurs that Sebastian Saxton Brae had loaned her last night – ‘They’re actually designed for an older child but I ’spect they’ll fit you all right’ – and tucking in a white cotton shirt, she went downstairs to make a much-needed coffee.
Hunting! How on earth had she let Henry talk her into it? Mason had called her last night, to ‘talk things through’. Stupidly, Flora had taken the call, and they’d ended up going round in circles till well past midnight. Mason was threatening to come to England and see her. He kept saying he didn’t want to ‘throw it all away’, conveniently forgetting that by sleeping with Henrietta Branston he’d done exactly that, and had the gall to accuse Flora of being ‘cold’ towards him.
What did he expect? A thank-you note and a bottle of champagne?
After the call she’d been unable to sleep, and had ended up doing work emails into the small hours. The one bright spot was a note from Jason Cranley, thanking her for the ‘miraculous’ transformation of the townhouse, and informing her that a hundred and fifty thousand pounds had been transferred to her private account that morning.
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