The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Thinking of guilt made her turn and look at Henry.

  He too was staring straight ahead now, clasping Eva’s hand tightly, singing ‘Jerusalem’, Lucy’s ‘favourite hymn’, according to her mother, and doing a decent job of holding it together. There’d been a moment earlier when Flora had worried he might unravel. Richard Smart had walked over and hugged Henry as soon as he arrived at church.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, mate.’

  ‘Of course I’m here,’ said Henry.

  ‘I bloody hate these things,’ said Richard, while his mother-in-law settled the boys into their places. ‘Lucy hated them too, all the eulogizing and sanctimonious crap. The vicar asked me the other day what Lucy’s favourite hymn was. I mean, really? She never came to church. That’s like asking the Pope for his favourite Black Sabbath song.’

  Henry tried to laugh, the way he would have in the old days, but his face just froze. Luckily Eva stepped in and hugged Richard before he had a chance to notice anything was wrong. Soon after that the service started. But Flora watched Henry standing there, fighting for breath, gripping the pew in front of him for support so tightly his knuckles went white.

  After the final hymn, the Reverend Clempson led the mourners outside while the pallbearers followed with Lucy’s coffin. Flora couldn’t help but well up herself as the box was lowered into the earth and the grave covered over, Archie and Harry clinging tightly to their father, still not crying but unable to watch their mother being taken from them for the final time.

  ‘Terrible thing,’ muttered Sebastian Saxton Brae. Released from hospital a week earlier, he stood directly behind Flora in a heavy black overcoat, leaning slightly on a walking stick but otherwise in apparently good health. ‘I’m not sure they should be here.’ He nodded towards Lucy and Richard’s boys. ‘My father never let Henry come to our mother’s funeral.’

  ‘He didn’t?’ Flora’s eyes widened.

  Seb shook his head. ‘He thought it would be too much for him. I think he was probably right.’

  I don’t know, thought Flora. Funerals were about acceptance, after all. About closure. Saying goodbye. If Henry had never really accepted his mother’s death, was it any wonder his relationships with women were so hideously dysfunctional?

  She smiled wryly. She’d always hated it when Mason played amateur psychologist with her, and now here she was doing the same thing to Henry.

  On the other side of the grave, behind the vicar, Barney Griffith put a hand on Eva Gunnarson’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’ Eva spun around, smiling gratefully. She didn’t know what she would have done without Barney’s friendship these past few weeks. Flora had been a big help with Henry’s depression, but it was only really Barney who had thought to ask Eva how she was doing. Their afternoon walks with the dogs had become the highlight of Eva’s days when she was at Hanborough, a sad reflection on how gloomy life with Henry had become and how isolating country life could be for an ‘outsider’.

  ‘Are you going to The Fox afterwards?’ Eva asked. Richard had laid on drinks and food at the Fittlescombe pub for everyone who’d come to pay their respects to Lucy.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Barney. It was common knowledge in the valley that Barney was the only person, other than Seb Saxton Brae, actually to have witnessed the accident. The thought of being accosted by one of Lucy’s drunken, grief-stricken relatives and asked to relive that awful day had been filling Barney with panic for the last week. ‘Would you mind awfully? I’m just not sure I can face it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Eva. ‘I probably won’t stay long myself. Flora and I thought we might walk back to Hanborough together, if the rain doesn’t get worse. Clear our heads.’

  ‘I’d hold that thought if I were you,’ said Barney.

  Eva followed his gaze. On the far side of the village green a black limousine had pulled up. An immaculately dressed man in his early thirties stepped out of it, popping open a large black umbrella and setting out across the grass towards the church.

  ‘You know who that is, don’t you?’ Barney asked, unable completely to keep the note of defeat out of his voice as the figure drew nearer.

  ‘Who?’ said Eva.

  ‘It’s Mason Parker.’

  Eva gasped. He was right. She’d seen pictures of Mason before, although she’d never have recognized him from this distance. ‘What’s he doing here? And how do you even know what he looks like?’ she added reproachfully to Barney, who blushed.

  ‘I might have googled him once or twice,’ he admitted.

  They both watched as Mason reached the churchyard gate, hanging back discreetly until the crowds had dispersed. When Flora finally looked up and saw him there, she grabbed hold of Seb Saxton Brae’s arm and went quite white, as if she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Seb asked.

  Lady Saxton Brae, aware of some sort of commotion, hurried over and hovered by her husband nervously, like an agitated queen bee protecting its hive. Kate felt relieved – now that Seb knew the truth about her fling with Henry – not to have the secret hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. But she knew that Flora also knew about it – that Eva had confided in her on that awful afternoon. She wouldn’t feel completely comfortable until Flora Fitzwilliam had packed up and returned to the United States, where she so obviously belonged.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Flora. She started to walk towards Mason like someone in a trance, her feet acting quite independently of her brain.

  A few moments later she was standing right in front of him, the rain stinging her cheeks as she looked up into his familiar, yet somehow incongruous features. Dark, wet figures streamed past them towards the pub or their homes or cars, but Flora felt them only as shadows, unreal creatures existing outside the bubble of herself and Mason and the church gate that had become, in that instant, the world.

  ‘Hello, Flora.’

  Even his voice sounded different. Or rather, it sounded the same, but wrong; as out of place here, outside St Hilda’s Church, as a police siren would be in a Tibetan monastery or a bird call deep under the ocean.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know …’ Mason looked at the gravesite awkwardly. ‘Was it a friend of yours?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ asked Mason. ‘Go somewhere? I’ve got my car.’ He pointed across the green.

  Flora nodded mutely. She wondered when, exactly, she was going to wake up.

  Mason drove them into Chichester where he was staying at The Swan, a rather frou-frou hotel-cum-gastropub famous for its traditional afternoon teas.

  ‘I don’t understand how we’re the most obese nation on earth when the British clog their arteries with afternoon tea,’ Mason observed, as the waitress set down an impressive array of cakes, sandwiches, scones, clotted cream and jam in front of them on some sort of silver tower.

  ‘Portion control.’ Flora smiled, helping herself to a small piece of Battenburg and a toasted teacake. ‘They’re not big on soda either. Why are you here, Mason?’

  It wasn’t asked angrily or aggressively, more in the tone of someone who genuinely wanted to know.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ said Mason, equally genuine. ‘I had to see you, I guess, face to face. To apologize.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Flora, not sure if she felt disappointed or relieved that this was the reason.

  Reaching across the table, Mason took both her cold hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry, Flora. I really am. It’s over with me and Henrietta,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, pouring himself a cup of tea from the Wedgwood pot between them.

  ‘That was quick!’ observed Flora, who still felt as if this were a conversation in a dream, or that it was happening to someone else.

  ‘It was never going to last,’ said Mason. ‘I mean, it was never about Hen. It was always about us. I loved you,’ he said, staring down at the steaming brown liquid in his cup, clearly
struggling with his emotions. ‘I still love you.’

  ‘I still love you too,’ said Flora, only realizing in that instant that she meant it. ‘But it won’t work, Mason.’

  He forced himself to look up at her. ‘Why won’t it?’

  Flora sighed. How to answer that question?

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t agree,’ he clarified. ‘I just want to know why. I want to hear it from your side, Flora. Because I don’t think I’ve ever understood you, not really.’

  That makes two of us, thought Flora. She tried to explain.

  ‘It’s lots of things. Your life, your family, the bank. Being a partner’s wife. That’s not me. I thought it was, for a while. I wanted it to be.’

  Mason nodded. ‘I know. The irony is, I fell in love with you because you didn’t fit the mould. But the problem with that is …’

  ‘That I don’t fit the mould?’ Flora smiled ruefully.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Coming back here, to England, that changed things too,’ said Flora. ‘It brought back a lot of stuff from my past, what happened to my dad, all of that.’ She didn’t mention Henry Saxton Brae, and her wildly conflicted feelings about him. ‘And then there’s my work.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That.’ Mason frowned. ‘Your “artistic expression”.’

  ‘You see, exactly!’ Flora sat back. ‘You’ve never taken it seriously.’

  Mason didn’t deny it. Graydon James might think of himself as Michelangelo and Flora as his protégée. But Mason would never see interior design as ‘real’ art.

  ‘I saw Graydon the other day at the Met,’ he said, switching gears.

  ‘Did he talk to you?’ asked Flora.

  ‘No. He was wearing, I don’t know what you’d call it, some sort of headdress? He looked absolutely ridiculous. And he had three male models with him, trotting along behind him like chicks following their mother. I don’t think he had time for the likes of me.’

  ‘We’re barely communicating at the moment.’ Flora filled Mason in on Graydon’s strange behaviour during his recent visit, and the radio silence followed by the angry outbursts. ‘It doesn’t help that he seems to have become thick as thieves with Georgina Savile, who wants my head on a spike.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mason.

  Flora’s mind flew back to Henry, and George walking in on them in the kitchen at Hanborough. Walking in on nothing. But it wasn’t like George to let a little thing like facts get in the way of a good vendetta.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Flora sighed. ‘Don’t care either.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go.’

  Mason hesitated, as if thinking about trying to persuade her otherwise. But he didn’t say anything.

  ‘What will you do?’ he said. ‘Once Hanborough’s finished, I mean.’

  Flora bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure.’ She told him about the work she’d done for Jason Cranley and the free design advice she’d offered Penny de la Cruz for her Battersea gallery.

  ‘A hundred and fifty grand for two weeks’ work?’ Mason was impressed. ‘That’s amazing, Flora. Good for you.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean I can repeat it, though,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you can’t either,’ said Mason. ‘I’ve always thought you were better than Graydon. You should totally go it alone. Start your own business. Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s not that easy.’ Flora laughed nervously. ‘Graydon’s the one with the brand name. He’s my security.’

  Leaning across the table, Mason kissed her tenderly on the top of the head.

  ‘You’re your security, Flora. That’s why we aren’t getting married. Remember?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘This is fantastic! There must be over two hundred people here.’

  Laura Baxter scanned the room, crammed wall to wall with the great and the good from south London’s buzzing art scene, all guzzling Penny de la Cruz’s prosecco and stuffing themselves with Marks & Spencer’s canapés.

  ‘I know.’ Penny beamed. ‘And we didn’t even use a PR firm. Can you believe it?’

  Laura could. The only person surprised by Penny’s success was Penny herself. Tonight was the official launch party for her new gallery, showing Penny’s own work – large, abstract canvases in ethereal greens and blues – as well as pieces by a select few other artists, including some breathtaking photography by Barney Griffith.

  ‘Is that Wraggsbottom?’ Laura asked, catching sight of an enormous, stylized, staggered-shutter shot in black and white, showing shafts of sunlight breaking through clouds and hitting a tiled roof. ‘I think that’s our chimney!’

  ‘Could well be,’ said Penny. ‘It’s not sold yet. Do you want to make Barney an offer?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Gabe, kissing Penny and catching the fag end of their conversation. ‘We’re broke.’

  ‘We are not broke,’ said Laura crossly. ‘You’re just mean. There’s a difference. How much is it?’ she asked, ignoring Gabe’s groans and moving closer to the photograph.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!’

  Santiago was dinging his wineglass loudly with a spoon, trying to make himself heard above the din.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ Gabe whispered to Penny.

  ‘Thank you all for coming.’ In a dark suit and navy blue tie, with his black hair newly cut and his white teeth dazzling against his permanently bronzed skin, Santiago de la Cruz was still easily the most attractive man in the room, at least in Penny’s opinion. Even after more than ten years together, she still had to pinch herself sometimes to think that he had chosen her. ‘My beautiful wife would like to say a few words.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t!’ squealed Penny as a hush began to fall. ‘Not yet!’ But it was too late. With the entire room of artists, collectors and critics turned expectantly in her direction, there was no option but to step up to the dais.

  ‘Welcome, everyone. This is an incredibly exciting day for all of us at the gallery. I promise to let you get back to your drinking, and hopefully cheque-writing, as soon as possible.’ She smiled knowingly at Laura Baxter, and at Fast Eddie Wellesley, her former neighbour at Riverside Hall, where poor Richard Smart was still holed up, swathed in grief. Eddie had just flown in from the Bahamas with his wife Annabel, and had been eyeing a bronze sculpture of a sleeping whippet all evening, easily the most expensive piece in the gallery. ‘But first I have a few important people to thank.’

  At the back of the room, Flora smiled encouragingly at Barney Griffith as Penny singled him out for praise, not just for his photographs, but for the immense support and encouragement he’d offered as she got the gallery up and running. This was a big night for Barney, and he’d pulled out all the stops for the occasion. In a dark suit that actually fitted him for once, with his sandy hair cut short and his hazel eyes offset by a gorgeous, cornflower-blue silk tie, he looked positively dapper, if a little nervous. How have I never noticed how good-looking he is? Flora thought, as he flashed her a bashful smile. She was glad she was here to support him, especially as she’d almost cancelled just a few hours earlier.

  It had been a terrible week. The nominations for the International Designer of the Year would be officially announced tomorrow, and the already frenzied pace of works up at the castle had now reached fever pitch. Every day Graydon demanded new images to submit to the committee, even though the rules clearly stated that no additional materials would be looked at by the judges until after the shortlist nominees had been announced.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Graydon had snarled down the line at an utterly exhausted Flora three days ago, after receiving the latest in a long line of shots of the party barn roof.

  ‘It’s what you asked for,’ said Flora through gritted teeth. ‘A night image of the interior, showing the retractable glass.’

  ‘It’s revolting. Offensively bad. It looks like something a six-year-old took on their mother’s iPhone. Do it again.’

  ‘OK.’ Flora
closed her eyes and thought of her happy place. ‘I’ll send you something tonight.’

  ‘Not tonight. Now. I need it now!’

  ‘Graydon, it’s three in the afternoon here. It’s broad daylight. I thought you wanted a night shot?’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I want. Give me what I want!’ he bellowed.

  Flora was used to Graydon’s tantrums and unreasonableness under pressure, but this was ridiculous, even for him.

  The work stress might be easier to bear if her personal life weren’t also in utter tatters. She’d felt better about things after Mason’s visit. It was good to clear the air and to part as friends and, although it was childish, Flora couldn’t help but feel a little gratified that the poisonous Henrietta Branston had already been given the boot. On the other hand, closure with Mason meant exactly that. A huge, important chapter in Flora’s life was closing. It didn’t help that while Flora was busy dismantling the last pieces of what she’d believed would be her future with Mason, Henry was busy rebuilding his relationship with Eva.

  Ten days ago, Henry had announced that he needed to get away, ostensibly from Hanborough and the works, but he confided to Flora that it was really about getting some distance from Lucy’s death, not to mention George. So he had whisked Eva off to the Bahamas for a pre-wedding honeymoon, pictures of which were splashed all over the gossip magazines. Every morning Flora would drive back up to the castle, exhausted after the latest battle with Graydon and wracked with insomnia about her uncertain future, only to find Mono-Tony’s workmen drooling over the latest picture of Eva in a barely there Heidi Klein bikini, draped over Henry like a groupie at a rock concert, radiating contentment and wealth and happy-ever-after.

  Be happy for them, she told herself. They’re both your friends.

  But it was hard.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Barney Griffith told her, turning up at Peony Cottage uninvited, and unannounced, as he was increasingly wont to do. ‘No one likes seeing other people in love when their own love life’s going down in flames.’