If only that were the only reason, thought Flora. But she wasn’t ready to admit to herself that she might be in love with Henry Saxton Brae, never mind share that awful truth with anybody else.
‘My love life isn’t going down in flames,’ she protested. ‘It just changed direction.’
‘Changed direction towards the completely burning building, you mean? The one that’s a hundred per cent on fire?’
‘That is not what I mean!’ said Flora indignantly.
‘You have to admit, it is smouldering a bit,’ said Barney, unable to resist smiling just a little. Mason Parker being officially out of Flora’s life was excellent news as far as Barney was concerned.
‘Mason and I made a mature decision not to continue with something that wasn’t working,’ said Flora, po-faced.
‘Right. So will you call the fire brigade or should I?’ Barney grinned. ‘Oh, come on. Lighten up! Your engagement tanked and you feel like shit. It’s OK, I get it. I’ve been there, remember? Recently.’
Thank God for Barney, thought Flora. Looking at him now across the room, swatting away Penny’s praise with an embarrassed frown that kept threatening to turn into a smile, Flora thought again how easy her life would be if she could fall for someone like him. Someone kind and talented, and not remotely alpha. But as much as she adored Barney as a friend, she simply couldn’t find him attractive, even looking as dashing and Eddie Redmayne-ish as he did tonight. The fact remained, Barney wasn’t really ready to take care of himself, never mind somebody else.
Perhaps Mason was right, and Flora should be her own security. But as much as she wanted her own career and life, the part of her that craved a man to look after her wouldn’t be silenced so easily.
‘Finally, I would like to say a heartfelt thanks to the lovely and talented Flora Fitzwilliam.’
Flora was miles away. Only when she heard her name did she realize Penny was still talking.
‘When I asked Flora for advice on designing the gallery, this stunning place we’re all standing in now, I was expecting a few sketches at most. Instead, and despite her own huge workload over at Hanborough Castle, she gave so generously of her ideas and her time and her vision, she ended up designing the entire space from scratch.’
Flora felt the panic rising up within her as the first ripple of applause rang out. There were a lot of famous and well-connected people at tonight’s launch, not to mention a lot of journalists. If word reached Graydon that she’d been moonlighting for Penny de la Cruz behind his back, especially in his current mood, Flora dreaded to think what might happen.
‘As I think you’ll all agree, the final result is quite magical,’ enthused Penny, to more applause. ‘Flora, where are you?’
‘She’s over there!’ Barney Griffith said loudly, pointing Flora out to anyone who might have missed her. To Barney, as always, Flora looked radiant, but a less biased observer might have remarked that she wasn’t at her best tonight. That her cream pencil skirt and pale pink polka-dot blouse washed out an already wan, exhausted complexion, and that her decision to let her hair ‘air-dry’ on the train to London might well have made sense in terms of time, but less so in terms of pure aesthetics.
‘I really didn’t do anything,’ Flora pleaded ineffectually. But Penny was on a roll.
‘Nonsense! You did everything. And, as you didn’t let me pay you for it, I’m afraid you must at least let me thank you tonight. Sasha?’
To Flora’s horror, a pretty, Sloaney blonde approached the dais, teetering under the weight of the most enormous bouquet of flowers Flora had ever seen.
‘On behalf of myself and everyone at the gallery.’ Penny beamed, holding the flowers out towards Flora like a holy offering. ‘Thank you, Flora, for giving us a space worthy of our fabulous artists.’
Cheers broke out again. Flora found herself moving inexorably forward towards the dais, swept on by countless well-meaning hands and nods and smiles. Before she knew it she was holding the ridiculously enormous bunch of flowers, as phone after phone snapped pictures of her.
She groaned inwardly, a rigor-mortis smile fixed on her face.
All it takes is one Instagram. One tweet.
Graydon’s going to go ballistic.
Her only hope was that, with the International Designer of the Year nominations being announced tomorrow, he’d be too swept up in either excited joy or crushing disappointment to notice anything else.
If they were nominated for Hanborough, all the rancour and problems of the last few months would be behind them for good. For all his mood swings and capriciousness, Graydon had been an incredible mentor to Flora. When they worked together, they were a great team. Maybe even the best in the business.
Kissing Penny on the cheek through a veritable jungle of foliage, Flora said a silent prayer.
Please let us be nominated.
Please, please, please.
Flora stayed in London that night, at Jason Cranley’s house. Jason and George had evolved from clients into friends, and it was lovely to wake up in a real home for once, rather than a soulless hotel room.
‘Morning, sleepyhead.’
George smiled at Flora as she shuffled into the kitchen and handed her a just-brewed Nespresso.
‘The built-in sofa works beautifully in here, doesn’t it?’ she observed happily, patting herself on the back for her own work. She was wearing the fluffy white dressing gown and matching slippers that Jason and George had provided, and feeling as pampered as an Egyptian queen. Like everything else in the guest bedroom suite, from the sheets and towels to the soap, scented candles, assortment of magazines and handmade chocolates from the sweet little shop on Hampstead Heath, the dressing gown was the last word in comfort. Flora felt as if she were wrapped in lightly warmed clouds.
‘You know, if they don’t give you another baby, you could always adopt me.’ She looked at George hopefully, sipping the perfect coffee he’d just made her.
‘You’ll be too busy and important for the likes of us once you win that award,’ said Jason, who was sitting at the table, deep in a Guardian piece on terrorism. Looking up at Flora he added, ‘Today’s the day, isn’t it? What time are the nominees announced?’
‘Not till ten,’ said Flora, yawning and sitting down herself. Reaching forward, she helped herself to a slice of toast and some berries from the bowl in the middle of the table.
Jason looked at her, then at George.
‘Er, Flora darling?’ George said gently. ‘It’s a quarter past ten now.’
‘What?’ Flora spat out her coffee, promptly staining her perfect white robe. ‘It can’t be! I never sleep past eight.’
‘That guest bed is very comfortable,’ observed Jason mildly. ‘I daresay you needed the rest.’
‘Fuck!’ Standing up, Flora spun around uselessly like a lost robot. ‘Where’s my phone? Where’s my computer? Shit!’
‘Calm down,’ said George, putting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her back into her seat like a nurse helping a confused patient. ‘You can use ours.’
Jason slid the already open MacBook Air across the table. With trembling fingers, Flora tapped out a search for this year’s nominations.
The awards committee website opened. The very first image was a stunning shot of Hanborough Castle, shrouded in mist, the glass roof of the party barn just visible in the foreground against a backdrop of the original building’s mellow stone.
Flora gasped. ‘We got it!’ Her hands flew to her mouth in delighted disbelief. ‘We’re nominated! We got it!’
‘That’s fantastic!’ George beamed.
Jumping up, Flora allowed herself to be hugged, high-fived and twirled around in turn by each of them. It had been a terrible few months, really awful. She hadn’t realized until this moment quite how down and exhausted she’d been. But this changed everything. She might not have Mason, or Henry, or any clear plan for the future. But her career was about to be catapulted onto a whole new level. Despite all the battles and pro
blems they’d had on this job, Flora realized she owed a huge part of that triumph to Graydon.
‘I need to call my boss,’ she mumbled, sitting down again and scrolling further down the results page on the website. ‘I wonder who else is nominated.’
George and Jason watched like proud parents as Flora read on. Quickly, though, they saw her expression turn from delighted to confused to horrified.
‘What’s the matter?’ George asked. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I don’t believe it.’ Flora stared at the screen, shaking her head. ‘The bastard. The fucking bastard! How could he?’
Pushing the computer away from her in disgust, she got up again and headed for the stairs.
‘Where are you going?’ Jason called after her. ‘Can we help?’
‘To get dressed,’ Flora called back, already halfway up the stairs. ‘He’s not getting away with this. Not this time.’
Jason looked up at George. ‘What the hell was that about?’
George raised an eyebrow and turned the screen around for Jason to see.
Under ‘Nominations, International Designer of the Year’, six names and projects were listed, in alphabetical order. Hanborough Castle was third on the list. The entry read:
‘Project: Hanborough Castle. Restoration, West Sussex, UK.
Designer: Graydon James.’
The receptionist at GJD’s London offices looked as if she wished the ground beneath the front desk would open up and swallow her.
‘I can’t let you up there, Flora.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘What do you mean you “can’t let me up there”,’ Flora snapped. ‘It isn’t up to you.’ She knew she was being unfair. None of this was Katie’s fault. But right now she didn’t care. The red mist that had descended the moment she read Graydon’s name on that list and searched in vain for her own was the only thing holding her together. Without her anger, she felt her legs might literally give way beneath her.
Ignoring Katie, she walked around the desk to the bank of lifts and pressed the call button.
‘There’s security up there, waiting.’ The poor girl was almost pleading. She sounded as if she might burst into tears. ‘Graydon’s told them to have you physically removed if necessary. He cancelled all your passwords and access codes.’
‘Fuck this,’ said Flora, banging her fist on the wall in frustration as the lift failed to arrive. ‘I’ll take the goddamned stairs.’
‘Flora!’ Katie shouted in desperation. ‘Please. I’ll be sacked.’
Flora hesitated, then stopped.
Damn him! Damn Graydon. The coward wouldn’t even answer his phone. And now he wanted to use this clueless socialite schoolgirl like some sort of human shield, to get her to do his dirty work for him? To cast Flora out into the wilderness?
‘I have a contract, you know,’ Flora said calmly, turning around. ‘He has no legal right to do this.’
Katie gave her a look that clearly expressed what Flora already knew. I’m on your side. But I can’t help you.
‘He can’t fire me by proxy. He needs to serve a written notice of dismissal and it has to have a reason on it.’
The girl shrugged helplessly.
‘Tell him to call me,’ said Flora, tightening the belt of her coat in an effort to hold on to the last shreds of her dignity as she swept back out onto the street.
It was freezing outside. The bright blue spring sky of earlier had given way to grey clouds and a bitter east wind that chafed at Flora’s skin like a slapping hand. Glancing at her phone she saw she had six messages and three missed calls. None was from Graydon. It was still only noon, just two hours since the nominations had been announced. It would take time for the news of Graydon’s betrayal to filter through to the design world at large, but the first calls, from friends and colleagues back in New York, were already starting to trickle in.
Graydon’s attempted betrayal, Flora reminded herself. He was trying to take sole credit for her work at Hanborough, and had made a bold grab for the International Designer of the Year award, but that didn’t mean he would succeed. Flora would launch a formal appeal to the judging committee. She would certainly file for unfair dismissal, if Graydon was in fact sacking her and not just making some childish, melodramatic point by barring her from the London offices.
‘Miss?’ A cabbie had pulled up to the corner. Flora clearly looked as if she were waiting.
‘Marylebone High Street, please,’ she said spontaneously, jumping into the taxi. ‘I need to pick up a bag. Then on to Victoria Station.’
Georgina Savile was having a wonderful day.
She’d spent the morning strolling through the grounds at Hanborough, giving interviews to journalists in Henry’s absence. By lunchtime she felt like quite the chatelaine.
‘I haven’t spoken to Henry and Eva yet, no,’ she told the breathless woman from Elle Décor. ‘But I know they’ll be delighted to see Hanborough nominated. Henry always felt that Graydon James was the most talented designer working today. After four decades in the business, it’s wonderful to have that talent recognized.’
It had been a difficult few weeks for George, too. First came Henry’s recalcitrance, his stubborn refusal to get behind a new business combining Gigtix’s expertise and e-customer reach with Graydon’s global brand. He knew it made sense to partner with GJD. Business-wise, it was a no-brainer. His refusal to move forward was clearly motivated by personal reasons, namely his growing dislike for George.
That hurt her. For years, George had accepted Henry’s hostility towards her, the put-downs and the eye-rolls and the flat-out rudeness, as part and parcel of their sexual connection. It was the ‘hate’ part of the love/hate dynamic that had kept their affair so explosive and the sex so mind-blowingly good for so long. She told herself it was a game.
But she could no longer keep up that illusion. Like Flora, George had had to endure the loved-up pictures of Henry and Ikea frolicking in the crystal waters of the Bahamas, splashed all over the Daily Mail. But whereas in the past, Henry would always return to George’s bed, now her perverse hold over him was fading fast. For this, George squarely blamed Flora Fitzwilliam.
Ever since Flora had turned up at Hanborough like a bad smell you couldn’t get rid of, a dead rat in the pipes, Henry’s relationship with George had curdled like sour milk. At first George had thought Henry and Flora were just friends. But walking in on them in the kitchen last month, seeing Henry curled up in Flora’s arms like a little boy seeking comfort from his mother, a chill had shot through her.
That sly bitch; that preposterously proportioned, common, American scrubber, Flora, was in love with Henry! With George’s Henry. And some part of him at least was obviously starting to feel the same way. Worse, the embrace between them wasn’t erotic, or at least not primarily. It was loving, affectionate. Kind. Kindness was something Henry had never given George, not even during the good times.
That hug in the kitchen was what had done it: tipped George over from sadness into anger, from passive dislike into determined action. The fact that screwing Flora over – and getting her own back on Henry – coincided so neatly with George’s own business ambitions, was merely the icing on the cake. And Graydon, God bless him, had been so entirely amenable to all of George’s suggestions. It really was incredible how quickly she’d been able to turn things around, to regain the upper hand in whatever game it was that she and Henry Saxton Brae were now playing.
George had just waved goodbye to a lovely man from the Telegraph and was heading inside to attend to some emails when her heart skipped a beat. Flora’s red Mini Cooper was bumping up the drive, rain-streaked and dirty after two days parked at Hinton Station.
George and Graydon had expected Flora to show up at the castle, of course. Just not quite so soon.
Moments later, she pulled to a stop in front of the portcullis and got out, slamming the driver’s door shut behind her. In dark-wash jeans tucked into UGG boots and an oversized
grey fisherman’s sweater, with her blonde hair pushed back off her make-up-free face, Flora looked younger and more vulnerable than usual. Her stride, however, was determined, marching up the stone steps and across the drawbridge like Boudicca storming into battle.
Catching sight of Georgina Savile standing by the front door in a chic black full-length coat and matching beret, Flora sighed. That was all she needed. What the hell was she doing here?
‘Where’s Tony?’ she asked wearily.
‘That’s none of your concern.’
George had stepped forward, closing the front door of the castle behind her. She was smiling very oddly at Flora. With her waif-like figure and spiteful but delicate doll-like features, she made an incongruous gatekeeper. Besides, weren’t trolls supposed to live under the bridge?
‘I don’t have time for this,’ said Flora, pushing past her. ‘What are you even doing here anyway?’
‘Protecting my asset,’ said George. She was still smiling as Flora tried the door but found it locked. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Flora looked at her as if she were insane. ‘Ask away,’ she said, fumbling in her handbag for her keys. ‘This is Henry’s house, not yours. And I have a job to do.’
George laughed, an empty, tinkling sound utterly devoid of warmth, like an icicle shattering on hard ground.
‘Wrong on both counts, I’m afraid. Henry bought Hanborough through his offshore trust, swapping out his equity stake for shares in Gigtix. It’s far too complicated for you to grasp, but the gist is that the castle belongs to the company, not Henry personally. Which means it also belongs to me.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Flora. ‘Henry would have said something.’
But a dull fear began to creep over her. Henry was obsessed with making everything in his life tax efficient. It was one of the very few things he and Mason had in common. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of imagination to think that he’d linked Hanborough in some way to his company. In fact, come to think of it, hadn’t she heard rumours about English Heritage doing a ‘behind closed doors’ deal with some sort of trust when she first came to the village?
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