‘I’d rather stick my dick in a blender,’ growled Henry. ‘Besides, in case you hadn’t heard, I’m about to get married.’
‘Exactly,’ said Pete, smiling broadly. ‘Your business has been saved, you’re making more money than you have in years, and you’re about to marry the woman of your dreams. The woman of everybody else’s dreams, too, come to that. You might want to consider cheering up.’
He was right, of course. Henry knew he had a lot to be thankful for, especially now. After Lucy’s death and all the terrible things he’d done, the only way for him to make amends was to marry Eva and to make their marriage work. He was lucky still to have that chance. A second chance in his personal life and his business. Things could be a lot worse.
Even so, it was hard to feel happy with George lording it over him, Flora being still missing in action, and the wedding in all its pomp and glamour and publicity hurtling towards him like a tulle-powered freight train.
Henry arrived home one evening after a particularly trying day in the office with Graydon James’s UK press officer, a mincing little turd of an individual who would insist on talking endlessly about ‘synergies’, and who gloried in the name of Carlton Krepp, to find the vicar, his wife, and their noisily gurgling baby Diana installed in the drawing room with Eva.
‘Ah, darling, there you are!’ Eva beamed. ‘Come and join us. We were just talking about Baby Einstein. Did you know that babies who first hear classical music in the womb are seven times more likely to graduate from a top university?’
‘What utter drivel,’ drawled Henry, unable to shake his bad mood. Eva, Bill and Jen all looked so smugly contented, cooing over the baby with their plates of fruit cake and half-drunk glasses of port.
‘It’s not drivel, actually,’ said Jen. ‘Plenty of studies bear it out.’
The vicar’s wife had never thought much of Henry Saxton Brae. She considered him arrogant and self-centred, and nowhere near good enough for Eva, who remained irritatingly in thrall to him. Jen couldn’t understand it.
‘Name one,’ said Henry rudely.
‘The Newcastle University research in last month’s New Scientist,’ Jen shot back defiantly. ‘There’s quite a few long words in there, though, Henry. You may need Eva to explain the tricky bits.’
‘Jenny!’ The Reverend Clempson looked mortified. ‘We’ll get out of your way,’ he added apologetically to Henry, hauling himself up out of the sofa and retrieving his drooling daughter from the tiger-skin rug. ‘I daresay you and Eva were looking forward to a quiet evening.’
Once the Clempsons had left, Eva looked reproachfully at Henry. ‘That wasn’t very nice. Why do you always have to be so miserable?’
‘I don’t know,’ snapped Henry. ‘Why do you always have to fill the house with freeloaders?’
‘He’s the vicar, Henry! He’s marrying us in a few weeks! And Jenny’s a friend.’
‘Was that my good port?’ Henry asked gracelessly. ‘How much did they have? I know Call-me-Bill’s a lightweight, but that woman can drink for England.’
Eva stood up and pushed past him. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
Grabbing her by the arm, Henry suddenly saw there were tears in her eyes.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Really. It’s not you, or them really. I had a godawful day at work. This phenomenally irritating little drag queen – who George seems to think is God’s gift to PR – spent the entire day—’
‘I’m pregnant,’ Eva blurted.
Henry released her arm, lapsing into stunned silence.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
‘I … wow,’ Henry stammered. ‘Are you sure?’
Eva’s hurt turned to anger. ‘Are you sure? That’s what you have to say?’
‘No, I mean, I’m just … I’m surprised.’
‘And?’ Eva’s eyes widened. She was used to Henry disappointing her, but this took the biscuit.
‘And … congratulations?’ he offered hesitantly.
She shook her head at him in disgust. ‘Congratulations? Well, thank you very much. Congratulations to you too. Asshole.’
Pushing past him, more forcefully this time, she stormed out of the room.
‘Eva!’ Henry called after her. ‘Eva, wait! I didn’t mean—’
The slamming of the master bedroom door echoed all the way down the stone stairs, shaking the furniture below like the rattling of an old man’s bones.
Fuck. Henry ran a hand through his hair.
He’d made a pig’s ear of that one. He knew he should go up to Eva and make things right, and he would in a minute. But just for a moment, he let the import of what she’d told him sink in.
Eva was pregnant.
They were going to have a baby.
Was he happy? He should be happy. Perhaps he was happy, just too shocked and numb to realize it? He wished he could talk to Richard about it. Rich was a father, after all, an excellent father. But Henry still couldn’t bring himself to confide in Richard Smart the way he used to. Every time he saw him, the guilt was unbearable. And the reminders of Lucy. Henry could have talked to her too, except that she was gone, gone for ever, and he would never see her or touch her or hear her voice again. All of a sudden, he felt tears prick his own eyes, as a torrent of different emotions swelled within him. Grief. Guilt. Fear.
Flora, he thought, for the hundredth time since she’d been gone.
I wish I could talk to Flora.
It frightened him how much he missed her. Henry realized now that during the months she’d worked at Hanborough, Flora had been a sort of buffer in his relationship with Eva. She’d become a friend in her own right too, to both of them. But she was also the glue that made them work, that held them together – comforting Eva when he hurt her, confronting Henry when he was in the wrong, listening to both of them. With Flora around all the time, Henry and Eva had rarely been completely alone.
But now they would be. A married couple.
More than that. They would be parents. A family.
Pulling himself together, Henry hurried upstairs, strings of apologies forming on his lips.
Two days later, Barney Griffith sat alone in the snug bar at The Fox, nursing his second Guinness of the day.
It was raining outside, the first shower the valley had seen in months, and a fitting backdrop to Barney’s mood. Bad things, he decided, really did come in threes.
Having finally finished the first draft of his novel, he had sent it out two weeks ago to eight carefully selected London literary agents. This morning he had received his eighth and final rejection. (‘Thank you for your manuscript, which we read with interest’ … clearly translated to ‘Thank you for your manuscript, which we didn’t read at all/burned in a fire/wiped our arses on …’)
This latest rejection came hot on the heels of the announcement by his ex-girlfriend, Maud, that she was engaged to be married. And not just to anybody, but to Andrew Frasier-Bartlett, an old prep-school friend of Barney’s whose father owned the better half of Hampshire.
‘I hope you’ll be happy for us,’ Maud wrote, attaching pictures of a diamond engagement ring worth many multiples of Barney’s house. ‘And please don’t take it personally that you’re not invited to the wedding, but Andy feels it would be awkward and I think he’s probably right.’
‘Andy’ was right. It wasn’t even as if Barney still loved Maud, or even thought about her very much any more. It was more that in a dreadful, mean-spirited, unworthy way, he resented the fact that everybody else’s life appeared to be following some sort of fairy-tale trajectory, while his own was a Woody Allen movie at best and a Lars von Trier sob-fest at worst.
True, his photographs were now selling steadily at Penny de la Cruz’s gallery, a tiny chink of light in an otherwise gloom-laden sky, and useful in that it meant that he wouldn’t starve – not this month, anyway. But the fact remained that he was a failed novelist with no real job, no prospects, no girlfriend. And now, worst of all, no
Flora.
Barney’s unrequited love for Flora had burned for so long it no longer hurt him. Rather, it provided a constant, gentle, warm glow, like a lit match in a carefully cupped hand. Just knowing Flora was there made him feel better.
But then, suddenly, she wasn’t there. The last night Barney saw her, the night she learned her mother had died, he’d felt closer to her than ever. At the very least he had become her go-to friend in need, her top choice of shoulder to cry on.
But then she had gone to New York, come back, buggered off somewhere and stopped taking his calls. He knew he wasn’t alone. No one had seen her on Facebook. No one had heard a word from her in weeks. Even Henry Saxton Brae, never Barney’s favourite person, had come to see him, panicked that something terrible might have happened to Flora. Barney didn’t really think it had, but the idea, once planted, worried him. So did the fact that Henry’s worry was clearly sincere. As far as Barney knew, this was the first time Henry Saxton Brae had ever, in his life, been more focused on another person than on himself. He’d agreed to let Henry know if he heard from Flora.
But he hadn’t heard. Not a peep.
‘What what, old man? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.’
Barney glanced up. Sebastian Saxton Brae, ruddy-cheeked and moist-lipped, his eyebrows sprouting wildly out of his forehead like two especially hairy caterpillars, grinned down at him, revealing two rows of large, horsey, slightly yellowing teeth. Not for the first time, Barney marvelled that Seb and Henry were related – not only because Henry had got a hundred per cent of the good looks of the family, but because Seb had got a hundred per cent of the kind-heartedness. For a long time Barney had disliked Seb because of his support for hunting – he was master, after all – and what with Barney being an anti, the feeling had been mutual. But the accident had changed all that. Lucy Smart’s death and Seb’s own terrible injuries had brought the village together and put things into perspective.
Eva had always told Barney that Seb was a sweetheart. As with so many things, she was quite right.
‘Can’t be that bad, can it?’ Pulling up a chair, Seb sat down at Barney’s table without being asked. ‘Is it money?’
‘Not really.’ Barney smiled ruefully. ‘No more than usual anyway.’
‘What then? A woman?’
Barney sighed heavily.
‘She’s not worth it y’know, whoever she is,’ opined Seb. ‘None of them are.’
‘This one is.’ Barney swirled the Guinness around and around in his pint glass contemplatively. ‘Flora’s different.’
‘Flora?’ Seb looked surprised, then awkward. ‘Yes, well. She is different, I agree. I had the wrong impression of her at first. But she’s a lovely girl. Lovely. So are you and she, er … you know …?’
Seb attempted a nudge-nudge, wink-wink expression that was so ridiculous Barney couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
‘No!’ he said, recovering. ‘I dearly wish we were “you know”. But we aren’t. And I don’t think we ever will be. I just wish I knew where she was. We used to be such close friends. I’m awfully worried about her.’
Seb looked down, strumming his fingers on the table. Barney noticed he was biting his lower lip and looked terribly fidgety all of a sudden.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’ Seb was still miles away. ‘All right, look,’ he said, returning his attention suddenly to Barney. ‘I said I wouldn’t say anything. And I’d prefer if you didn’t land me in it. But I know where Flora is.’
Barney gazed at him in frank astonishment.
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ said Seb, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. ‘And I’ll tell you if it will put your mind at rest. But I must also tell you, the young lady wants to be left alone. She’s had a hell of a time of it with this tyrannical boss of hers, and breaking up with the boyfriend, and her mother kicking the bucket.’
‘I know,’ said Barney, unable to hide his amusement at Seb’s choice of words. ‘That’s why I want to talk to her. Just talk. I won’t pester her, I promise.’
Seb hesitated a moment, then scribbled an address on the back of an old betting slip and pressed it into Barney’s palm.
‘Mum’s the word,’ he whispered, tapping the side of his nose like Inspector Clouseau.
Barney watched him go, feeling inordinately happy all of a sudden. He looked at the paper in his hand. Perhaps he should go there first, talk to Flora, and then report back to Henry?
But no. A promise was a promise.
Downing the remnants of his pint, he set off for Hanborough.
‘Barney!’ Eva came to the door. With wet hair and no make-up on and wearing sweatpants, a loose-fitting green T-shirt that kept slipping off her shoulders, and a pair of oversized furry slippers, she looked oddly sexy. ‘What a nice surprise. Come in.’
‘Is Henry home?’ Barney asked, taking off his jacket.
‘I’m here.’ Henry appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Have you heard something?’
‘Actually, yes,’ said Barney. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but Flora’s in Yorkshire. Has been the whole time. Seb lent her his cottage up there weeks ago.’
‘There you are,’ said Eva. ‘I told you she’d be fine.’
‘We don’t know she’s fine,’ Henry snapped, frowning as he came downstairs. ‘Seb, my Seb?’ he added to Barney, who nodded. ‘I don’t believe it. Why didn’t he say anything? I’ve been going out of my mind.’
Barney shrugged. ‘Flora asked him not to. She wanted to be alone. In any case, I just came to let you know. I’ll drive up there in the morning and check on her, make sure she’s really OK.’
‘No,’ Henry said, with a force and volume that made both Eva and Barney jump. ‘I’ll go. Tonight.’
Barney looked at him curiously. What had he missed? There could be no mistaking Henry’s fervour, his desperation even, to be the one to race to Flora’s side.
He’s in love with her.
They’re in love with each other.
As soon as the thought popped into his head, it all seemed blindingly obvious. Henry loved Flora. It explained his panic when she disappeared. His indifference to Eva. The increasing flashes of temper.
Poor Eva. She deserved so much better; it was heartbreaking.
Barney waited for the pangs of jealousy to hit him. He’d been infatuated with Flora for so long, surely he ought to feel dreadful at the idea of having Henry Love-God Saxton Brae, England’s most lusted-after bachelor, as a rival? But instead all he could think about was Eva. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to protect her from the blow he knew must be coming.
Eva, however, seemed utterly unaware that anything was amiss.
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she said lightly to Henry. ‘Barney can go. I’m sure Flora’s fine and we have our appointment tomorrow at ten, remember?’
Henry looked at her coldly. ‘Stop saying that. You’re not “sure” Flora’s fine. You just don’t care whether she is or not.’
‘That’s not fair!’ said Eva, stung.
‘No,’ added Barney. ‘It really isn’t.’
‘She just lost her mother, for fuck’s sake,’ muttered Henry.
‘Then let Barney go to her,’ said Eva, showing a rare flash of real anger.
‘I’m happy to go, if it will help,’ said Barney, putting a supportive hand on Eva’s shoulder.
‘It will help,’ said Eva.
‘No, it won’t,’ insisted Henry. ‘I will go. I’m not bloody debating it. I still can’t believe Seb.’
‘Why does it have to be you, Henry?’ Eva raised her voice, but suddenly she sounded close to tears. ‘When our baby’s first scan is tomorrow?’
Barney’s eyes widened. ‘You’re pregnant?’
Eva nodded.
Barney felt simultaneously delighted – he knew how much Eva had longed to become a mother – and as if the balled fist of fate had just sucker-punched him in the
stomach. Spontaneously wrapping Eva in a bear hug, he lifted her up off the ground.
‘That’s amazing!’
His joy was infectious. Eva soon found herself grinning broadly, despite her anger at Henry.
‘Congratulations!’ said Barney.
‘Thanks.’
Why couldn’t Henry show even half as much excitement about his own baby as Barney could about somebody else’s? thought Eva. The Bahamas trip had been magical, but ever since they got home a horrible distance had begun creeping back in between them. He was clearly more concerned about Flora than he was about her and their child. How could he even consider missing their first scan?
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, as Henry bounded back up the stairs, two at a time.
‘To pack a bag,’ Henry called over his shoulder.
Eva shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re really going?’
‘I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘Don’t bother!’ Eva muttered angrily after him, but he was already out of earshot.
Barney stood awkwardly watching this domestic fracas, feeling increasingly like a peeping Tom. He wished he could make everything OK for Eva. For all of them. But it was as if they were four puppets – himself, Eva, Henry and Flora – whose strings were being maliciously yanked and jerked by some careless and impish god.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked Eva.
‘Not really,’ she said. Barney half expected her to cry, but she didn’t. Instead she let out a long, defeated sigh. In a way, it was worse.
‘He’s just worried about her,’ said Barney, conscious of how unconvincing he sounded. ‘I don’t think he means to be short with you.’
‘I don’t care what he means,’ said Eva bleakly.
‘Yes, you do.’ Barney wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘Can I do anything?’
Eva looked up at him. ‘Come to the scan with me tomorrow?’
Barney’s face lit up. All of a sudden, it seemed, the gods had decided to let Barney go, setting him down gently upon the stage.
He beamed at Eva. ‘I’d be honoured.’
Flora was in the garden, sipping coffee and working on some sketches, when Henry’s Bugatti Veyron pulled up in the lane outside. It was still early, about nine in the morning, but the sun was already pleasantly warm and the birdsong and fresh morning smells were irresistible.
The Bachelor Page 33