A former mineworkers’ cottage in the idyllic village of Rosedale, set deep within the North York Moors national park, Seb Saxton Brae’s fishing retreat had been the perfect bolthole. An hour’s walk to the nearest pub and a twenty-minute drive from any sort of shop, school or other sign of civilization, it was about as remote as England got. And yet it wasn’t lonely. The tiny community of farmers and writers and artists and fishermen kept quiet company with one another. A nod over the hedge as they worked in their gardens, a wave from the tractor as they headed up onto the moors. Despite the turmoil in her life, or perhaps because of it, Flora had felt happier in Rosedale than she would have imagined possible. Yes, she was living in a bubble. But it was a lovely bubble, peaceful and healing and productive and safe.
Henry’s arrival popped it in an instant.
‘I don’t believe it. Seb told you,’ said Flora as Henry unlatched the gate. In jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, Henry didn’t look his best. He had heavy bags under his eyes from having driven through the night, and a grey-black shadow of stubble forming unevenly on the lower half of his face. Even so, and even after all the stern talking-tos Flora had given herself since her return from New York, the sight of him made her heart race unpleasantly and her palms start to sweat.
‘Seb didn’t tell me,’ he said, stooping to kiss her cheek despite her less than welcoming expression. ‘He accidentally let something slip to Barney.’
‘So Barney told you?’ Flora frowned. ‘Since when are you two friends?’
‘We aren’t,’ said Henry. ‘But everyone’s been worried about you.’
‘I don’t know why,’ grumbled Flora. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Can I come in?’ said Henry.
‘Would it make a difference if I said “no”?’
He smiled. ‘Of course not.’
‘You’d better come in then,’ said Flora.
Inside the cottage was a mess. Or, more specifically, a hive of activity. Flora’s laptop was open on the dining-room table, surrounded by a sea of images, fabric samples, documents and box files, their contents spilling out everywhere. Two half-completed mood boards lay on the floor, amid piles of pins. In the kitchen a cheap white board now covered most of Kate’s antique dresser, with headings such as ‘Clients’, ‘Leads’ and ‘Cash Flow’ scrawled in Magic Marker across the top, with columns of text, numbers and names below. Half-drunk cups of coffee littered every available surface.
‘I wasn’t expecting guests,’ said Flora, catching Henry’s bemused expression as she turned the kettle on.
‘It looks like a war room,’ he observed, throwing a three-day-old newspaper off the sofa in the kitchen so he could sit down. Now that he was here, Henry wasn’t sure what, exactly, he had come to say, or what tone he should strike. He’d been so worried about Flora, so desperate to see her face and hear her voice, nothing else had mattered but reaching her as fast as he possibly could. But now that he’d arrived, and she was safe and here and sitting in front of him, he felt foolish. As if the Flora that needed his help and protection had been a figment of his imagination.
‘I suppose it is, in a way,’ said Flora. ‘My battle plan.’
‘And what battle are you planning?’ Henry asked. ‘A surprise attack on Graydon?’
Flora smiled. ‘Not at all. Although if I were, I’m not sure I’d tell you. Not now you guys are partners.’
‘Not my doing,’ Henry said, raising his hands. ‘Georgina went behind my back. Totally stitched me up. I would never do that to you,’ he added, with a sincerity that took Flora aback. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘Of course,’ said Flora, although she wasn’t sure she knew any such thing. She’d seen so many versions of Henry. The spiteful and arrogant version, who messed around and betrayed those he loved with gay abandon. The loving and vulnerable Henry, who’d begged for her help to save his dog from the river and wept when Soda was safely back in his arms. The self-aware and guilty Henry, who continually promised to change but never quite seemed to make it. The lost, motherless son, desperate for love but too terrified to trust deeply enough in anyone, least of all himself. She wondered which version had driven all the way up here today, and what he wanted, really.
‘What Graydon did to you over the Designer of the Year award, and afterwards at Hanborough, was outrageous,’ Henry went on. ‘I wanted to reinstate you but—’
Flora cut him off, pressing a mug of tea into his hand and sweeping more papers onto the floor to sit beside him.
‘It’s OK. I get it. I don’t care about Graydon.’
Henry looked disbelieving. ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly,’ said Flora, with a cheerfulness Henry was starting to find disconcerting. All this time he’d been picturing her in a pit of despair, cut off from her friends and family, deranged with grief. It was difficult to adjust so quickly to such a different reality, one that left him with no role to play. The truth was, he realized now, he had wanted Flora to need him. To reach out to him, so he could reach out to her. To beg him for help.
Instead, she’d turned to Seb for help and had figured out everything for herself.
‘None of this is about Graydon,’ Flora explained, pointing to the chaos around them. ‘ It’s about me. My future. What I want to do, where I want to be.’
Henry frowned. That was a lot too many I’s for his liking.
‘I’m planning to launch my own business. The details are still a little hazy. Totally hazy, actually.’ Flora laughed.
‘OK,’ said Henry, cautiously. ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose.’
‘It is. It’s great.’ Flora smiled broadly, but did he detect a certain edge to her voice? Henry still wasn’t totally buying this new, upbeat, live-and-let-live Flora, any more than she was buying the completely honest, caring, upright version of him.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ he blurted.
Flora’s expression instantly changed. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.
Ah, thought Henry. Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘How was the funeral?’
‘It was fine.’
Henry gave her a ‘come on’ look.
‘It was sad,’ said Flora. ‘Small. Lonely. Her life was sad. But, you know, she made some bad choices. She lived in the past. She wouldn’t let it go.’
‘You could have talked to me about it,’ said Henry, taking Flora’s hand in his, feeling desperately close to her suddenly.
Meanwhile Flora felt something akin to panic. The physical contact, the warmth of his palm against hers, was unbearable. Wonderful and intoxicating and terrifying all at the same time. She quickly pulled her hand away.
‘There was nothing to say,’ she told him, the brisk smile of earlier now fixed back in place. ‘I really am fine. I just needed to get away. Clear my head.’
‘Hmm.’ Henry looked disbelieving. And something else. Hurt? ‘And have you?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ Flora said, truthfully. After all, clearing one’s head was not the same as clearing one’s heart. ‘A lot has happened this year, and some of it’s been hard. But I don’t want to make the same mistake as my mother. I want to look forward, not back. Don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Henry didn’t know exactly why, but he felt horribly depressed all of a sudden. It was ridiculous really. He’d driven up the A1 in a blind panic, half expecting to find Flora strung up from a ceiling beam. But instead here she was – calm, sanguine, positive even; rising above Graydon James’s spite and George Savile’s scheming; moving on from her mother’s death and her broken engagement, determined to focus on the silver lining among her clouds.
Am I sad because I’m jealous? Because I can’t do the same? Can’t count my blessings?
Or because I came here to rescue her, but she doesn’t need rescuing after all?
Perhaps, Henry realized, he was the one who needed rescuing? But from what? Wasn’t his life perfect, after all? The archetypal fairy tale, complete with princess and c
astle?
And yet something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.
‘Eva’s pregnant,’ he blurted out.
Flora felt her stomach lurch but her smile remained fixed. ‘That’s wonderful! Oh, congratulations, Henry. You must be thrilled.’
‘Of course,’ he nodded, smiling back.
Thrilled.
‘A new life. A new start,’ said Flora. ‘That’s exactly what you wanted. After Lucy and … everything. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Henry. ‘Absolutely.’
Like two actors, trapped eternally in a play from which they could never escape, the two of them dully repeated their lines, each wishing that the other would break the spell.
‘Please give Eva my love,’ said Flora, bringing the scene to a close. ‘When you go back.’
She’s dismissing me, Henry thought bleakly. I should never have come. But he couldn’t give up just yet. Turning to face her directly he asked:
‘Why don’t you give it to her yourself? Come home.’
‘Hanborough isn’t my home, Henry,’ Flora reminded him as gently as she could, although she could see the hurt in his eyes again, the same, little-boy-lost expression he’d had before. ‘It’s yours. I was there for a job and the job is done. I already gave up my lease on Peony Cottage.’
‘Well, you can’t stay here for ever,’ said Henry, his brow furrowing.
What Flora had said was true, of course, but he didn’t want to hear it.
‘And you’re coming for the wedding anyway, so you may as well stay in the valley for the summer at least. Everybody’s missed you.’
‘Everybody?’ Flora raised an eyebrow. She was fishing but she couldn’t help it.
‘Barney,’ mumbled Henry, looking away. If Flora didn’t know him better, she could have sworn she saw him blush. ‘He’s been moping about like Linus with a lost blanket for weeks.’
Flora stood up and walked over to the kitchen window. A bird feeder hung from the branch of a willow tree just a few feet from the house. She watched as a woodpecker flew down and attacked the nuts, his bright red head moving backwards and forwards like a particularly graceful jackhammer.
Without turning around she announced: ‘I’m not coming to the wedding, Henry.’
Henry felt the room starting to spin.
‘What do you mean? Of course you’re coming. You have to come.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Henry stood up angrily. ‘Why not?’
‘I have a job,’ said Flora. ‘A job prospect anyway. Back in New York. It’s too good to pass up.’
‘What job?’ Henry challenged her.
Reluctantly, Flora turned around. ‘Does it matter?’
Henry could see there were tears in her eyes, but he couldn’t feel compassion. Not when she was doing this to him. Not when she was leaving.
‘Of course it bloody well matters!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t believe you!’ he shouted.
A bleak, awful silence fell.
They looked at one another, sadness and love and longing and a whole host of other, repressed emotions hanging in the air between them, like a force field that neither of them could break through.
‘Flora …’ Henry’s voice cracked. ‘Please. I …’
‘You should go,’ said Flora.
Henry shook his head, too choked to speak.
‘You shouldn’t have come.’
This was clearly true, but Henry couldn’t admit it, not in words.
‘You have a baby on the way, Henry.’
‘I know.’ He clutched his head as if in pain. ‘I know, I know, I know.’
‘Then go home,’ said Flora. ‘For my sake and for yours. Go home to your family, Henry. You need to do the right thing this time. You can. I know you can.’
Afterwards, Henry couldn’t remember leaving her. Did he say goodbye? Kiss her? Did he just turn and walk away? Did he run?
The only thing that stayed with him was sitting in his car on the motorway, somewhere past Ferrybridge, his mind filled with an image of Richard Smart’s anguished face at Lucy’s funeral, and his ears ringing with Flora’s words.
‘You need to do the right thing this time. You can …’
She was right. He did need to do the right thing.
And he would. For Eva, and their child.
Whatever feelings there were between him and Flora, they obviously weren’t meant to be. Perhaps they were too similar? Too focused on protecting themselves? In different ways, their respective childhoods had taught them that. Don’t open your heart. Don’t get too close. Don’t rely on others.
People let you down. People leave. People die.
And then you are on your own.
Again.
People like Eva didn’t see the world that way. People who’d had happy childhoods, full of love, full of security.
It was time to let go and to grow up. Time to give his own child a childhood like that. Safe. Secure. Happy.
Flora had moved on. Now, so must he.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Georgina Savile carefully smoothed the seam of her midnight-blue Victoria Beckham dress, adjusting her vintage Philip Treacy hat to the perfect angle as she took her seat in the middle of the church.
On the downside, today was Henry and Ikea’s wedding day. George still struggled to believe that Henry, her Henry, was seriously proposing to spend the rest of his life shackled to a woman with the IQ of a pickled walnut and the conversational skills of a rollmop herring. But the prospect of his marriage no longer upset her the way it used to. Marriage, after all, had never been any impediment to her own extracurricular adventures. Glancing back at her husband, Robert, who’d been roped in at the last minute as an usher when one of Henry’s school friends had come down with Norovirus and couldn’t make it, George waved and smiled. Robert was a marvellous husband: loyal, hard-working, unsuspecting and malleable. Henry, on the other hand, would make a terrible husband. Being his mistress, George had decided, was a far more desirable proposition than being his wife.
The fact that she was not currently his mistress didn’t concern her too much either. Step one in regaining that position had been to get rid of Flora Fitzwilliam, and in that George had succeeded brilliantly. Not only had she forced Flora out of Hanborough and destroyed her professional reputation, but she’d evidently managed to create enough of a wedge between her and Henry that Flora wasn’t even attending today’s ceremony. Her absence had raised one or two eyebrows, not least the bride’s. But as far as George was concerned, it was the best possible news.
Step two had been reasserting her authority at work. She’d made a serious mistake, she now realized, in rolling over and letting Henry walk all over her for so long. In the early, passionate days of their affair, George and Henry had sparred and argued constantly. He was attracted to her because she was difficult, a challenge. Over time she had weakened, and his attraction had waned as a result. Now, however, with the GJD deal done and business booming, George was flexing her professional muscles once again. Coupled with her killer figure – if she did say so herself, she was easily the sexiest guest at today’s wedding – George felt sure that her new-found confidence was bound to win Henry back. At least as far as her bed, which was where she wanted him.
George smiled regally at the other guests as they continued to file in. Being one of the first guests to arrive, not to mention the most ravishing, meant that George had had the entire press pack to herself. Paparazzi snapped away feverishly as she and Robert made their way slowly across the green and into St Hilda’s churchyard, virtually ensuring that George’s picture would earn a prominent place in the Daily Mail’s gossip pages, as well as Hello!, Tatler and hopefully Vogue, all of whom were covering the Gunnarson/Saxton Brae nuptials. It was a glorious day in the Swell Valley, and George’s long bronzed legs and lithe figure, shown off to perfection in her fitted VB sheath, dazzled in the midday sunshine.
‘Is it all right if we squeeze in next to you?’
Laura Baxter, the famous local TV producer, had been shown to George’s pew by one of the other ushers, a lawyer friend of Henry’s named Pete. Laura was attractive but middle-aged, and her chocolate brown knee-length dress wasn’t doing her any great favours.
‘Of course.’ George flashed her the sweet smile she always gave less attractive women, especially the ones with good-looking husbands. Although, to be fair, Laura’s husband Gabe was also not looking his best today, despite the morning suit.
‘I told you we were early,’ he grumbled to his wife as they eased past George to their seats. ‘I could have had an extra half an hour in bed.’
‘Oh, do stop moaning,’ complained Laura, adding to George, ‘He’s on a diet. Honestly, you’d think it was a hunger strike, the fuss he’s been making. It’s like living with a teenage girl right before her period.’
George giggled. She enjoyed a good bitch with other women, just as long as she was prettier than they were.
With fifteen minutes to go before the service, the remaining guests began streaming in, with pews filling up thick and fast. Penny de la Cruz looked surprisingly beautiful in a flowing, grey silk dress with tiny white embroidered flowers, floating down the aisle with her long hair cascading down her back like the Lady of Shalott. Behind her, her daughter Emma Harwich, once a famous model and wild child, teetered along arm in arm with her latest husband, an Iranian oil magnate at least twice her age, and so greasy he looked as if you could fry chips in him. In a red minidress that looked cheap but wasn’t, and weighed down with a mountain of tacky but outrageously valuable diamond jewellery, the most striking thing about Emma was her face. She’d clearly done something deeply regrettable to her lips, which now bulged like two swollen balloons, smothered in glossy pink lip gloss.
‘Bugger me,’ Gabe Baxter ‘whispered’ far too loudly to his wife. ‘Is that Emma Harwich? Her mouth literally looks like a vagina.’
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