The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

  It was all so long ago now, she couldn’t be sure. And it certainly wasn’t beyond George to make something like that up.

  ‘Clearly you’re not as close to Henry as you imagined,’ George observed spitefully. ‘And I wouldn’t bother looking for your keys either. Graydon and I took the precaution of changing the locks.’

  Graydon and I?

  Suddenly the penny dropped. Flora’s eyes narrowed murderously.

  ‘What did you do?’ she hissed at George. ‘What have you been saying to him?’

  ‘Nothing that wasn’t true.’ George tossed back her long hair defiantly. In her new Charles Jourdan boots, she towered over Flora like the Wicked Witch of the West over an indignant Dorothy. ‘I suggest you read these, before you make any more wild accusations.’

  Reaching into her voluminous coat, George pulled out a slim white A4 envelope. The GJD New York office address was emblazoned on the front.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Flora, taking the envelope without thinking.

  ‘Your notice of dismissal. You can read Graydon’s complaints in detail at your leisure. Poaching clients. Illicit payments. Inefficient reporting—’

  ‘What?’ Flora exploded. ‘That’s crap and he knows it.’

  ‘But you may not read them here,’ George continued, ignoring her. ‘You are to leave the property immediately. Any further attempts by you to access Hanborough or its grounds will be viewed as deliberate trespass and dealt with accordingly.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ said a shaking Flora. ‘Henry won’t allow it. Does he even know you’re here?’ she added, the thought suddenly occurring to her that perhaps all of this was bullshit, that George was acting solo on some sort of elaborate bluff.

  ‘Goodbye, Flora,’ said George, turning on her heel imperiously and pulling out her shiny new key to let herself back into the castle. ‘Try not to make too much of a mess of the gravel on your way out.’

  Watching her struggle with the stiff lock, her slender back turned to Flora as if she were nothing, nobody, Flora suddenly found herself overwhelmed with rage. It came upon her like a white, blinding light, filling her small body with waves of power and strength, and her spirit with an overwhelming desire to use them. Before she was even fully aware of what she was doing, Flora grabbed George from behind, clamping her arms around George’s tiny, wasp-like waist and lifting her physically off the ground.

  ‘Put me down!’ George screeched. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’

  Flora didn’t answer. Instead she carried George to the edge of the low wall where the keep joined the drawbridge. Hoisting her up with astonishing ease – Flora wasn’t a large person, but George felt as light as a Barbie doll – she held her over the side, enjoying a few delicious moments of George’s utter panic, before dropping her into the moat with a satisfying plop.

  It wasn’t deep, five feet at most. But the water was thick with algae and slime. It was also, Flora assumed, breathtakingly cold.

  George emerged from the fetid water, threw back her head and screamed, as much in shock as anything else. From all over the castle, workmen and staff came running to see what had happened.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’ one of the men asked, struggling to suppress his giggles. Nobody at Hanborough liked Georgina Savile.

  ‘All right? No! I … she … that woman …!’ she spluttered.

  Flora picked Graydon’s letter up off the ground and walked quietly away.

  Barney Griffith was elbow-deep in flour when he heard his door knocker hammering.

  After a fun but drunken (and expensive) night up in London at Penny’s gallery opening, ending in the triumphant sale of not one but two of his photographs, hooray!, Barney had returned to his cottage and a demented welcome from Jeeves, determined both to start saving more money (selling two pieces was a good start, but it was only a start) and to eat more healthily. No more cakes, no more booze. No more putting bank statements in sock drawers and pretending they hadn’t arrived.

  In a fit of enthusiasm for both these new resolutions, he’d slightly overdosed on The River Cottage Cookbook this afternoon, rushing out to the health food shop in Fittlescombe to buy organic flour, spelt, and various other previously unheard-of ingredients needed to make Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s ‘healthy pastry’. Admittedly he had spent rather more than he meant to on this expedition. However, he argued to himself, you have to spend money to make money. By making copious amounts of home-made pastry and freezing it in advance, he would slash not only his budget for Mr Kipling cakes and expensive suppers at The Fox (from now on he would make his own steak and kidney pie), but his waist measurements, too. As a plan, it was foolproof, and not remotely compromised by the packet and a half of leftover Country Slices he’d eaten while ‘prepping’ his work space, or the two large glasses of wine he’d poured himself for courage, and to help channel his inner Keith Floyd as he cordon-bleu’d his way to svelteness and solvency.

  It turned out, however, that pastry making wasn’t quite as easy as Hugh F-W made it sound. Now on his second batch, and almost two hours into the attempt, Barney had two baking trays full of what looked and tasted like ready-mix concrete and a large mixing bowl full of grey, slightly lumpy glue. Or possibly the world’s largest ball of spat-out chewing gum.

  ‘Coming!’ Wiping the worst of the flour from his hands onto a glue-encrusted tea towel, he raced to the door. His face lit up as soon as he opened it. ‘Flora! What a lovely surprise. Come in.’

  Following him inside, Flora was almost relieved that the smartly dressed photographer of the other night had been replaced by the scruffy Barney she knew and loved. He still looked remarkably handsome with the new haircut, notwithstanding the spelt liberally scattered through it. But Flora realized with a pang that she didn’t want Barney to change, not ever. Standing in his tiny sitting room, looking around at the familiar paintings and photographs and tatty but welcoming furniture gave her a warm, safe feeling. A fire was dying in the grate, and in the kitchen sounds of the Test Match crackled through the air from Barney’s old Roberts radio. It was all so comforting and cosy, apart from the oddly pervasive smell of burning …?

  Flora looked at Barney, covered in butter stains and flour, and suddenly burst into tears.

  ‘Oh my goodness, what’s wrong?’ Barney asked, hugging her and depositing floury handprints all over her sweater and jeans. ‘What’s happened? I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It is,’ Flora sobbed, completely letting herself go for once. ‘It is that bad! I have nothing, Barney. No money, no home, no husband and now no career. In fact, it’s worse than no career. It’s like, I have a minus career. It wasn’t enough for that asshole Graydon to steal my award and then sack me. He won’t stop until he’s ruined my reputation too! Can you believe he—’

  ‘Graydon sacked you?’ Barney interrupted, trying to latch on to the salient points in Flora’s hysterical tirade before they were lost in the flood.

  ‘Via Georgina bitch-of-the-goddamn-century Savile. She’s behind all this, you realize? She stitched me up!’

  ‘What did he sack you for?’

  ‘Breach of contract!’ shrieked Flora. ‘Which is, I’m sorry, a fucking joke when you look at what he’s done to me. He’s given two interviews today, today, that I know of, accusing me outright of stealing his clients and undermining his business behind his back. He makes me out to be like this … this viper in the nest … like I’m some ungrateful … Oooooof!’ She let out a weird strangled yelp of frustration. ‘I hate him. I HATE him! But I also know him.’ Her voice dropped to a doom-laden whisper. ‘He’s vengeful, Barney. He won’t stop until he’s ruined me. Until I can never work again as a designer. He’s out to destroy me.’

  ‘All right, calm down,’ said Barney, not unsympathetically. ‘You make him sound like some sort of Mafia super-boss or James Bond villain.’

  ‘He is!’ Flora yelled wildly.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Barney. ‘He’s a cam
p, geriatric has-been with a good eye for colour and a massive chip on his shoulder, egged on by a spoiled, jealous cow who’s always hated you.’

  Flora opened her mouth to protest, then realized that this was, in fact, a fairly accurate summary of Graydon and George’s respective roles, and closed it again.

  Leading her into the kitchen, Barney poured Flora a large glass of cooking wine. Taking a big gulp, Flora pulled a face. ‘Good Lord, that is disgusting.’

  ‘I know,’ said Barney. ‘I’m economizing. Spelt pastry?’

  He offered Flora a small, squarish piece of concrete that he’d managed to chisel away from the rest earlier with the help of a sharp knife, a spatula, and considerable amounts of elbow grease.

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m not eating that and nor should you.’ Picking up the baking tray, she deposited its entire, rock-solid contents into the bin. ‘I was about to say “don’t give up the day job”, but then I remembered you don’t have one.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Barney, pleased she was able to crack a joke at least. ‘Well, nor do you any more,’ he teased her back. To his dismay, tears started streaming down Flora’s face again.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘I know you were joking. It’s just the shock. When I saw Hanborough had been nominated, I was so happy. Just for a moment. I really thought everything was going to be OK, you know? But then it all came crashing down again, worse than before. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Well, first you’re going to sit down,’ said Barney. ‘Take a breath. I’ll dig us out something edible and we’ll come up with a plan. For one thing, you don’t have “no money”. Jason Cranley just paid you six figures, didn’t he?’

  ‘Which is one of the things Graydon’s trying to use against me,’ muttered Flora, curling up on Barney’s sofa and kicking off her boots.

  ‘That’s six more figures than I currently have sitting in my bank account,’ said Barney. ‘It could be worse, Flora. Plus you haven’t explored all your legal options.’

  ‘What legal options?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Barney. ‘I haven’t explored them either. But a good mate of mine from my old firm recently transferred to our New York office. Dan’s a brilliant lawyer. He’ll definitely give you some basic advice for free if I ask him to. Tell you honestly whether you have a case or not, under US law.’

  ‘That’s so kind,’ said Flora sincerely. She doubted it would help. Graydon kept small flocks of lawyers as pets and considered litigation a pleasant, stress-relieving hobby. He would eat anybody Flora hired for lunch. But it was nice to feel that Barney was so unequivocally on her side.

  Flora sipped her disgusting wine while Barney made them both some beans on toast with grated cheese. Watching him clatter around the tiny kitchen like a benevolent giant, she wished she could be a bit more like him. Broke but happy, cheerfully admitting to having nothing in the bank without the slightest twinge of fear. How did people do that? Flora wondered how different her life might look if she weren’t always so panicked about money. If she could contemplate marrying a poor man like Barney, living on hope and baked beans.

  I’d love to be like that, she thought. I’d be a better person. But it’s just not me.

  The more she drank, and ate, and chatted to Barney, the more relaxed she became. It was so warm and snug in the little sitting room, the heat from the fire filling every crevice of the room and lulling her into a sort of willing stupor. Occasionally thoughts of Henry would pop, unbidden, into her mind, and the sadness would creep back in. She really must get over her attraction to him. It had crept up on her, almost without her noticing, and it was making an already bad situation so much worse. She’d only just broken things off with Mason, after all. And Eva was her friend. And even if Henry were single, he was clearly utterly incapable of commitment—

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Barney.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Graydon, I suppose,’ Flora lied. The room was starting to spin. She’d definitely had too much wine. ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ she heard herself asking Barney. ‘I can’t face going back to Peony Cottage on my own.’

  ‘Of course. You know you’re welcome any time. You can take my bed and I’ll have the sofa.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Flora sounded doubtful.

  ‘Totally.’ Barney smiled.

  Despite himself, he felt a surge of happiness rise up inside him. He knew Flora saw him only as a friend, a big brother-cum-shoulder to cry on. After the fool he’d made of himself last Christmas, proclaiming his love for her, he wasn’t about to ruin things by declaring himself again, or making a pass he knew would be rejected. But it still felt good that she’d come to him in her moment of crisis.

  She trusts me.

  Flora drifted in and out of sleep as Barney disappeared upstairs in search of spare blankets and a pillow to make her comfy on the sofa after all. The shrill ring of her cell phone jolted her awake.

  Didn’t I turn that off? Frowning, she reached down into her bag and grabbed the offending object.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Flora? It’s me.’ Mason’s voice sounded distant. Strained.

  ‘Hey.’ It was nice to hear him, but strange at the same time. Through her half-drunk fog she struggled to reconcile being here, on Barney Griffith’s sofa in the English countryside, with talking to Mason in New York City. It felt like one side of that equation had to be a dream. ‘Are you calling about the award? You know Graydon screwed me, right?’

  ‘Flora—’

  ‘He fired me too. Locked me out of the London offices, and the Hanborough site. I need to talk to a lawyer. Barney Griffith has a friend who might—’

  ‘Flora.’ Mason raised his voice, cutting her off. ‘It’s not about that. It’s your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’ The fog was coming back, swirling thicker and deeper now, clogging Flora’s thoughts like wet cotton.

  ‘They called the apartment.’ Mason sounded choked. ‘This was the number you gave, as next of kin. I’m so sorry, Flora, but Camila had a heart attack this afternoon at home. She died about an hour ago.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Flora looked up at the cherry blossoms fluttering to the ground in the May breeze. It was a good day for a funeral, bright and clear and cool. St Agnes’s Catholic Church in Brooklyn wasn’t a particularly beautiful building, but its red-brick walls looked less severe in the spring sunshine, and the cherry trees lining the small rear churchyard gave it the feel of a private garden, the sort of space one might go to sit and read a novel on a quiet Sunday afternoon, or enjoy a peaceful sandwich on the simply carved stone bench.

  Father Domingo’s deep, resonant voice echoed through the still air.

  ‘Our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we also await a saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ.’

  Only Flora, the churchwarden, and Cecilia, Camila’s cleaning lady, were at the graveside. Cecilia, poor thing, had found Flora’s mother the day she died, collapsed in the hallway of her modest apartment. The two women had become friends of sorts over the years. As much as anyone could be a friend to a reclusive, alcoholic, borderline agoraphobic like Camila Fitzwilliam.

  There was no one there from the old days. No one left who remembered Camila when she used to be a vibrant, engaging young woman, full of laughter and hopes and ideas, full of love. Sometimes Flora wasn’t sure whether that version of her mother was something she actually remembered, or whether she’d invented that happy person after the fact, like an imaginary friend. All she knew for sure was that after her father went to prison, all the joy was gone. Later, with his death, there was another, more catastrophic descent. The drinking got worse. Sadness became depression, which in turn became paranoia and resentment. It was all so unnecessary, and so terribly, terribly sad.

  Mason had offered to come with Flora to today’s service, but she preferred to be alone. That was a good decision, she reflected now, as Father Domingo wrapped things up.

/>   ‘Eternal rest grant to your daughter Camila, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace.’

  After thanking the priest and exchanging a few kind words with Cecilia, Flora decided to walk for a while. She had nowhere particular to be for the rest of the afternoon and it had been a long time since she’d walked through New York City alone; even longer since she’d looked around her and actually noticed things. Teenagers huddled together on brownstone stoops, laughing at something on their phones. Squirrels chasing each other madly along the sidewalks before leaping into trees, squawking like birds in some battle over mating or territory. The smell of fried onions wafting out from the restaurant kitchens on Franklin. The distant sound of sirens – someone else’s tragedy today.

  Her mother would never see or hear or smell any of these things again. That was it. Camila had had her allotted days, her hours, her exact number of breaths, and now it was over. Some arbitrary higher power had clicked its fingers and turned out the lights, just like that. Flora hadn’t been close to her mother for a long time. Perhaps, if she were honest, not ever. But Camila was still her mother. It still hurt, flying home to organize a funeral where the only mourners would be you and your mother’s cleaning lady.

  Flora couldn’t help but compare today’s mournful little gathering with the huge crowds that had turned out for Lucy Smart’s funeral. Had that really been only six weeks ago? It felt like for ever. Of course Lucy was young, and a mother, and her death had been totally unexpected. But those weren’t the only reasons that St Hilda’s Church had been full to bursting that April day, while St Agnes’s, Brooklyn, remained depressingly deserted.

  Lucy Smart had been part of a family. Part of a village, a community, which came together in times of trouble or need or loss. Through her work at Hanborough Castle, and her friendships with Eva and Barney and Penny, and even Henry, Flora had felt briefly as if she, too, were part of that community. As if, for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t completely alone.