Today’s service had shown Flora in stark, brutal terms, just how alone her mother had been. I can’t let that happen to me, she thought, sinking down slowly onto an empty seat at a bus stop. I need a family. People to love me and mourn me. I need a life that means something.
Terrifyingly, she had no idea what she was going to do now. Not today, not tomorrow, not in the weeks and months and years ahead. Her entire life was suddenly a blank sheet of paper. No wedding to plan, no job to rush back to, no family, no home. Nothing. Should she go back to England and fight for her share in the International Designer of the Year award? Fight for Hanborough, for her career, her reputation? She hadn’t felt strong enough to speak to Henry since any of this happened, but she felt sure that both he and Eva would back her up if she did decide to take on Graydon.
Part of her wanted to. She had nothing left to lose at this point, after all, and the unfairness of what he was doing still rankled deeply.
But another part was tired of fighting. Deeply, deeply tired. Closing her eyes, Flora indulged that part, summoning up mental images of Barney Griffith’s sofa, of the warmth of the fire, the soothing numbness of the cheap wine flooding through her bloodstream.
A passing drunk staggered in Flora’s direction, collapsing on the seat next to her.
‘Jesus, cheer up, would ya?’ he slurred, in what might once have been an Irish accent. ‘It might never happen.’
Flora looked at him, wide-eyed suddenly.
He’s right, she thought miserably. It might never happen.
What if it never happens for me? Marriage. Family. A career. What if those things never happen?
Will I die alone and bitter and wasted, like my poor mom?
For the first time all day, she started to cry. Once she started, it was hard to stop.
Eva rested a tanned, diamond-encrusted hand on Henry’s forearm as he got out of the car.
‘Don’t lose your temper,’ she reminded him gently. ‘Give George a chance to explain first, like we agreed.’
Had they agreed? Henry wondered, hauling their suitcases out of the car and staring up at his beloved castle, the first time he’d laid eyes on her in over three weeks. He didn’t remember agreeing to anything. All he remembered was landing at Heathrow, after a blissful holiday in the Bahamas, to a barrage of messages, each making him more furious than the last.
Hanborough had been nominated for the big design award, but it was Graydon James’s name on the nomination, not Flora’s.
Worse, Graydon had sacked Flora, without so much as discussing the situation with Henry, and had actually had the nerve to ban her from the site at Hanborough, as a result of which the contractor had walked off the job and all works at the castle had ceased.
Most incendiary of all, however, was the news that Georgina Savile had taken it upon herself to enforce Graydon’s instructions, installing herself at the castle – Henry’s home – and declaring herself de facto decision-maker on everything in Henry’s absence. After some sort of physical fight with Flora, which ended with George taking an unexpected swim in the moat (even the saint-like Eva had raised a wry smile at that mental image), Flora had stormed off site and hadn’t been seen at Hanborough since.
In the meantime, neither Flora nor George were answering their phones, which meant that for the long drive back to the Swell Valley, Henry had no one to rant to other than Eva, and the hapless Mrs French, who made the fatal mistake of answering the landline at the castle.
‘Is George there now?’ Henry demanded, so furious it was hard at times to make out what he was saying.
‘She stayed again last night,’ the flustered PA admitted. ‘But she’s not here right this second, no. I believe she’s gone out riding.’
‘Riding what?’ Henry exploded. ‘Who gave that bitch permission to touch my horses? How dare she!’
‘I … I’m not sure she’s riding,’ poor Mrs French stammered helplessly. In the end Eva had convinced Henry to hang up and wait until they actually got to Hanborough to sort things out with Georgina.
‘For all you know, she has a perfectly rational explanation,’ Eva said, although she sounded less than convincing, even to herself. ‘Of course we must reinstate Flora and sort all this out. But there’s no point biting George’s head off till we know exactly what happened and why.’
Striding across the drawbridge with a face like thunder, Henry stormed inside ahead of Eva.
‘George?’ he bellowed.
‘There’s no need to shout.’
George sauntered into the hall to meet him. In skin-tight jodhpurs and a crisp white shirt, with her long hair falling in tousled waves to her shoulders and her cheeks still flushed from the ride, she looked as desirable as she ever had.
‘Welcome home.’
Henry glared at her with naked loathing.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you install yourself in my house? And how dare you fire Flora?’
George gave him a perplexed look. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t fire anybody. Graydon fired Flora. As his business partner, and yours, I simply made sure his instructions were followed.’
Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, “as his business partner”?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.’ George smiled sweetly. ‘But while you were gone I finalized the deal with GJD. It really is a fantastic opportunity for us, Henry. When you read the terms, I know you’ll agree that we—’
‘Un-finalize it.’ Henry’s voice was quiet, but the anger quivered through every word.
‘No can do, I’m afraid.’ George was still smiling, but the steel in her tone matched Henry’s. ‘Gigtix.com and GJD are now officially partners. It’s all legal, signed and watertight. So unless you want us to be sued for breach of contract—’
‘You have no right to sign anything without me!’ Henry thundered.
‘On the contrary,’ George replied confidently. ‘Each of us has the right to act independently in the firm’s best interests, which this deal certainly was. That’s the joy of a 50/50 partnership. And while we’re talking about rights, I didn’t “install myself in your house”. You listed Hanborough as a business asset, remember?’
‘That was temporary, for tax purposes, and you know it,’ snapped Henry. ‘As soon as the renovations are completed and signed off, I’m buying it back for cash. We agreed all this a year ago.’
‘Did we?’ George scratched her head in mock confusion. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. I don’t suppose you have anything in writing?’
‘You know I don’t,’ Henry muttered murderously. ‘We agreed on trust.’
‘Ah, yes. Trust.’ George’s eyes flashed with anger and hurt. ‘That goes both ways, doesn’t it, darling?’
‘Where’s Flora?’ Henry demanded.
‘I have no idea.’ George yawned pointedly. ‘I believe she was in New York last week for her mother’s funeral. She should be back by now. I’m afraid I don’t find fat Flora’s whereabouts as fascinating as you do.’
Henry’s eyes widened. ‘Her mother died?’
‘Didn’t she tell you?’ George asked. ‘Perhaps the two of you aren’t as close as you’d like to think?’
‘You bitch.’ Henry shook his head. What had he ever, ever seen in this awful, mean-spirited woman? ‘For your information, I’m recontracting Flora as our designer, today, this afternoon. After that I’ll call my lawyers and contest whatever bullshit you think you’ve sewn up with Graydon James. You won’t get away with any of this, you know.’
George’s jaw stiffened. ‘If you so much as try to rehire Flora Fitzwilliam, I’ll tell Eva about us. I’ll leak it to the press too. Who knows, maybe my phone will be hacked and someone will come across some very intimate pictures?’
Henry stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t dare. You’ve got as much to lose as I have.’
‘More. I’m married, remember?’ George shot back. ‘But I would dare, Henry. You think yo
u can have your way with me whenever you want to and then treat me like a second-class citizen?’ She was trembling with emotion, all the hurt and disappointment of the past two years pouring out of her like pus from an infected wound. ‘Now that Flora’s your new best friend, and you and Ikea are planning your big society wedding, you think I can be jettisoned like a used condom? Well, I can’t!’ she hissed. ‘I’m here to stay, you bastard, whether you like it or not. Here in your business. Here in your precious castle. I’m the mouse that fucking roared! And that bitch Flora Fitzwilliam can go to hell.’
Henry looked at her in silence. He was still standing there, staring, when Eva walked in behind him.
‘Hello, George,’ she said, smiling politely. Then, noticing George had tears in her eyes, she asked anxiously, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ said George, not taking her eyes off Henry. ‘Perhaps you’d better ask your fiancé. Is everything all right, Henry?’
‘You’re mentally ill,’ Henry replied witheringly. ‘You need help.’
‘Screw you,’ George whispered. Sweeping past both of them, she ran out of the castle with a stifled sob, got into her car and drove away.
Eva looked at Henry aghast. ‘What on earth happened?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘She’s crazy.’
‘You were only in here five minutes,’ said Eva. ‘I thought you were going to talk to her calmly?’
Mrs French hesitantly emerged from the office.
‘Welcome back,’ she said nervously to Eva. Turning to a stony-faced Henry she added, ‘I’m so sorry about all of this. I just … I didn’t know what to do. When Mrs Savile arrived …’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Henry. ‘I’d like you to remove any of Mrs Savile’s things she may have left here and put them outside the gates.’
‘Now?’ Mrs French asked.
‘Now,’ said Henry. ‘And I want the locks and gate code changed. That woman is not to be allowed back on the property under any circumstances.’
‘Come on, Henry,’ Eva said reasonably. ‘Let’s not escalate this.’
Ignoring her, Henry headed back outside.
‘Where are you going?’ Eva called after him. ‘We just got home. Don’t you even want to unpack?’
‘Out,’ said Henry, blowing her a kiss. ‘I won’t be long.’
The drive to Peony Cottage took all of two minutes, but it took another fifteen for Henry to muster up the courage to get out of the car, walk up the path and knock on Flora’s door.
Her mother had died. Everything else – George, Graydon, being fired, the award nominations – meant nothing in comparison to that one, awful fact. Henry knew that better than anyone. He’d told Flora all about his own mother’s death and how devastating it had been for him. How present and raw her loss still felt, even all these years later.
Yet Flora hadn’t confided in him. She hadn’t called him on holiday, or emailed. She hadn’t said a word. Was she trying to spare him her pain? To allow him and Eva their time away and their happiness, without tainting it with her own grief and misery? Or was George right? Were Henry and Flora simply not as close as Henry thought they were? The idea bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Then there was the whole situation with Flora’s job. She would expect him to reinstate her at Hanborough, and of course he wanted to. But with George’s threat hanging over him to expose their affair, never mind the legal quagmire surrounding ownership of the castle and his obligations vis-à-vis Graydon James Designs, his hands were tied, at least temporarily.
Would Flora understand?
Or would she feel Henry had let her down, right when she needed him the most?
He still had no idea what he was going to say when he knocked on the cottage door, gently at first, but then harder when there was no answer.
‘Flora?’
He wandered round to the back garden, in case she was there, calling up towards the open bedroom window when he found it empty.
‘Flora? Are you in there? It’s me.’
Still no answer. Tentatively, he tried the kitchen door. It opened instantly.
Henry walked through the kitchen into the living room, but he didn’t call out again. The basic furniture was still in the cottage, but all Flora’s personal touches – the paintings on the wall, the bright Aztec throw cushions, the art deco clock – had gone. Walking upstairs in a daze, Henry stared at the stripped bed, its bare mattress lying forlorn on the white metal frame. Idly he pulled open the top drawer of the chest of drawers, but he already knew what he would find.
Nothing.
The house was empty.
Flora was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was a glorious June in the Swell Valley. As temperatures climbed into the eighties, schoolchildren sat at their desks, gazing out of the windows and longing for July. Locals stripped down to shorts and T-shirts, exposing limbs still white from the long, cold spring, and sat in their gardens delighting in the sunshine. Even larger crowds than usual descended on the valley for the annual Brockhurst-Fittlescombe cricket match. But all the usual events were overshadowed by the terrific excitement and anticipation surrounding this summer’s celebrity wedding up at Hanborough Castle. The date was now set for 27 August, when legendary playboy Henry Saxton Brae would finally say ‘I do’ to the stunning Eva Gunnarson. Although the service and reception themselves would be private affairs, all the residents of the surrounding villages were invited up to the castle for celebratory champagne on the morning of the wedding, and to cheer on the bridal party as they made their way down the hill to St Hilda’s Church. Not since Rory Flint-Hamilton’s wedding to his society bride Victoria Radcliffe-Gray back in the 1970s had there been so much excitement, or such a sense of the entire community coming together in celebration.
For Henry, it was a strange time. While Eva floated around in a halo of prenuptial bliss, strangers continually stopped him to offer congratulations, and the castle was filled with dress designers, florists, caterers, photographers and their various assistants from dawn till dusk, Henry’s professional life was in a state of utter turmoil. His hopes of undoing George’s deal with Graydon James, both to develop a design app and to bring out a line of Hanborough-inspired merchandise, had been roundly and swiftly dashed by his lawyer and old friend Peter Freeman.
‘In a nutshell,’ Pete said, in his refreshingly direct way, ‘you’re buggered. If you try to pull out now, GJD will certainly sue for breach of contract and material damages. You and George did give each other the right to act independently when you set up Gigtix, mate. The contract’s pretty black and white.’
‘Can’t you make it greyer?’
‘Not this time. On the plus side, this actually is a damn good deal for Gigtix. I know you hate her, but George is no pushover at the negotiating table. If you could get over the whole “control” thing, you might even see this as a good thing. Your business model was dying, Henry, whether you like to admit it or not. George and Gay-don just gave you the kiss of life.’
‘And Hanborough?’ Henry asked, through gritted teeth.
‘Company property,’ said Pete. ‘My advice is to patch things up with George, make an over-generous cash offer and buy it back.’
‘She won’t sell it back to me. Not now we have this whole ridiculous merchandising boom going on.’
‘Ridiculous, but very profitable already,’ Pete reminded him, earning himself a glare of disapproval from Henry. ‘Now that Graydon’s won International Designer of the Year, it’s gonna go through the roof. You do realize how huge that is?’
Henry sighed. He did know how huge it was. But all he could think about was poor Flora.
Last weekend Graydon had ascended the podium at the Grosvenor House Hotel in London and tearfully accepted the International Designer of the Year award, taking the opportunity to share with the audience how hurt he’d been by the betrayal of a ‘close colleague’ earlier in the year, and how recei
ving this award for Hanborough was all the sweeter as a result. He didn’t mention Flora by name. He didn’t have to. Everybody in the business knew who he was referring to, not least because he’d spent the last month employing his powerful global PR machine to brief against Flora, leaking negative stories to the press about her plagiarizing his work and abusing his generosity.
George had gone with Graydon as his ‘date’ for the evening, looking ravishing in a backless white gown, and together they had talked up GJD and Gigtix’s new joint venture, milking the publicity for all it was worth.
Meanwhile Henry could do nothing but watch. He imagined Flora in a lonely hotel room somewhere doing the same. Was she depressed? Suicidal, even? It was possible. No one had seen hide nor hair of her since her trip to New York for her mother’s funeral. Henry was desperately worried about her, and had even gone so far as to call Mason, her ex-fiancé, to ask for help tracking her down. But Mason hadn’t heard from her either.
‘I spoke to her when she was here, but not since. She didn’t want me at her mom’s service. I think she just needed some space.’
A lot of space, apparently. Eva also seemed convinced that Flora would resurface ‘when she’s ready’. Only Barney Griffith shared Henry’s deeper concerns, and though the two weren’t friends, they’d promised to let each other know at once if either of them heard anything.
Pete Freeman gave Henry his sternest, most lawyerly face.
‘Look, Henry. George won’t sell the castle back to you while you keep telling her what a cunt she is. That’s the bottom line. Can you really blame her?’
Henry’s expression indicated that he could.
‘Just play nice, for fuck’s sake,’ said Pete. ‘This really is not rocket science. You scratch her back and she’ll scratch yours. Can’t you sleep with her again or something?’
Henry’s eyebrows shot up.
‘What?’ Pete asked innocently. ‘It seemed to work well before.’
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