The Bachelor

by Tilly Bagshawe

‘Gabriel!’ Laura hissed, but not before everybody in the pews in front and behind them had collapsed with giggles.

  One row behind Emma, Barney Griffith sat making polite conversation with Lady Saxton Brae, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Carole Middleton today in a naff champagne/peach-coloured dress and matching three-quarter-length coat, both purchased from Dominique’s, a chichi boutique in Chichester.

  ‘I simply can’t bring myself to pay London prices,’ she told Barney, who nodded with glazed eyes. ‘I mean, obviously, we could afford it. But it’s just so wasteful.’

  ‘Right,’ said Barney, looking around desperately for any means of escape but finding none.

  ‘Especially when one thinks of all the other things one could do with the money.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Starlight’s crying out for a new dressage saddle, but you can’t imagine what Equipe are charging these days for bespoke. Almost three thousand pounds!’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Barney, who felt as if he might cry, and not just from the boredom of Kate’s conversation. He’d been ridiculously emotional all day. At first he put it down to disappointment, because Flora wasn’t going to be here. She’d given Henry some spurious excuse about a work thing in New York, apparently, a story she stuck to in her one, brief, deeply unsatisfying telephone conversation with Barney last week. She’d apologized, of course, for not being in touch, and the two of them had swapped stories about what they’d been up to. Flora asked Barney about his photography, and told him her ideas for a new business. But the old closeness, the connection they’d had before her mother’s death – that seemed to have gone completely.

  That accounted for part of Barney’s sadness. But the more he examined his feelings, he realized it was the prospect of Eva and Henry marrying that was at the heart of his down mood. He’d grown closer to Eva than ever in the last few weeks, since she told him about the baby, and more convinced than ever that she and Henry were a terrible match. Going to her scan, particularly, had moved him more than he would have imagined possible. Seeing her baby on the screen, a new life, so innocent and full of hope, and watching Eva’s face, anxious at first and then transfixed with wonder and love as the foetus started to move around.

  Don’t do it! he wanted to yell out. Don’t marry Henry.

  He’ll let you down. He’ll let you both down.

  But, of course, he hadn’t. And the days and weeks had rushed by and now here they were, all playing their roles. Henry as groom. Eva as bride. Barney as honoured guest. It all felt horrible, sad and wrong but inevitable, like watching a tsunami roll in towards the shore.

  Kate was still talking, her words floating around in Barney’s brain like random ingredients bobbing up in soup he hadn’t ordered and didn’t want.

  ‘Forelock … vet … Sebastian thinks … next season … hunt ball … Hanborough …’

  Tuning her out, Barney looked towards the altar, where Call-me-Bill was making small talk with Richard Smart, Henry’s best man.

  Richard looked a lot better than when Barney had last seen him. He was still too thin. His morning coat hung off him like a tramp’s overcoat and his dress trousers swamped his legs, giving him a look of Charlie Chaplin. The lines and grey hairs that his wife’s death had left him with were still there, making him look considerably older than his years. But when he nudged Henry in the ribs and grinned, his smile was genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes, and even his conversation with the vicar, a renowned windbag, seemed animated and engaged. Behind him, in the front pew, his sons were goofing around, stuffing kneeler cushions under their shirts and rubbing their backs, pretending to be pregnant. Richard told them off but you could see his heart wasn’t it, that he was happy to see them happy again.

  Life goes on, thought Barney. He wished to God he didn’t feel so depressed. Maybe there was something actually wrong with him? Maybe he should see a doctor.

  Next to Richard, Henry also looked well: happy and relaxed and as irritatingly handsome as ever in his perfectly tailored dark suit and tie. Whatever pre-wedding nerves he’d exhibited over the past few months seemed to have evaporated now. Even Eva had admitted that since he’d returned from his trip to Yorkshire to see Flora, Henry seemed different. Calmer. Happier. More at peace.

  The organist struck up a few early chords as more of the bride’s family started to arrive, Eva’s mother Kaisa looking understatedly elegant in a jade green suit and ruffled cream silk blouse on the arm of Henry’s brother, Seb.

  It won’t be long now, thought Barney, wondering idly what Flora was doing right now. In an hour and a half, Eva will officially be Mrs Henry Saxton Brae.

  ‘You look perfect. Just perfect.’

  Erik Gunnarson’s eyes welled up with tears as his only daughter appeared at the top of the stairs. In a bias-cut lace dress with long sleeves and a scooped back, which clung like gossamer to her sylph-like figure (at four months gone there was still no hint of a baby bump), her full-length veil held back from her face by an exquisite pearl and diamond tiara, Eva was breathtaking, every inch the fairy-tale princess. Over the years Erik had grown accustomed to the incredible life his daughter now led as a world-famous model. The six-figure earnings, the luxury cars and holidays, the private air travel and free couture clothes. Even so, seeing her now, descending the spiral stairs of an ancient English castle – her castle – on her wedding day, about to marry one of England’s most eligible bachelors? It was quite something for a little girl from Vallentuna, the daughter of a Swedish postal worker.

  ‘Thanks, Far.’

  Eva smiled cautiously. She felt beautiful. The dress was a triumph, exactly what she’d wanted. Hanborough also looked ravishing, bedecked with white dahlias and sweet peas and every variation of greenery. Later, the party barn and great hall would both be illuminated by hundreds, if not thousands, of white church candles in miniature glass hurricane lamps. Graydon James may have stolen the credit, but Eva knew it was Flora’s vision and hard work that had transformed the cold, bleak castle into the warm, romantic, utterly magical home that it was today.

  Flora.

  Flora was Eva’s friend, probably her closest friend in the Swell Valley, apart from Barney. But she wasn’t coming to the wedding. Henry had passed on her excuses, something about work in New York. But Eva wasn’t buying it.

  There must be something else. Another reason. A real reason.

  Barney had offered plenty of possibilities. Coming back to Hanborough was too painful after Graydon’s betrayal. Flora was depressed after her mother’s death and didn’t want to have to field questions about her sacking and what happened and where she’d been.

  ‘Maybe she can’t face your wedding now that her own’s been called off?’

  All of these scenarios made sense. And yet, Eva couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that none of them was the truth, or at least not the whole truth.

  Henry had been different since he’d returned from Yorkshire. Better, kinder, more interested in the baby and in their wedding plans. He’d apologized for his distance and snappiness before, blaming work and George and the stress of the new, unwanted merger with GJD.

  These were all good things. And yet, Eva’s unease grew.

  Perhaps she was different, too?

  Something had changed.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Her father offered her his arm as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  No.

  ‘Yes, Far. Let’s go.’

  Outside, a vintage Daimler gleamed in the sunshine, a simple white ribbon draped across its polished black bonnet. The chauffeur opened the door, first for Eva and then for her father. Erik Gunnarson helped his daughter carefully smooth out her dress and veil before they set off for the church.

  Holding her dad’s hand, Eva gazed out of the window as they made their slow, stately way along the castle drive. A not inconsiderable crowd of locals who had shown up for free champagne this morning now lined the sides of the road, waving and cheering and smiling at the bride
as they passed. Once beyond the castle gates, the valley spread out below them, as lush and verdant as Frozen’s Arendelle. They drove through the tiny hamlet of Hanborough, bedecked in bunting for the occasion, then began the descent through the woods towards Fittlescombe and St Hilda’s Church.

  Tears filled Eva’s eyes. She had come to love this place.

  ‘Darling?’ Erik asked anxiously, catching her sad expression. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Eva forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. A bit emotional, that’s all.’

  Erik Gunnarson frowned. He knew his daughter.

  ‘Eva?’

  She wouldn’t meet his eye.

  ‘Eva!’ he said, more sternly. ‘Listen to me. You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Far,’ she said, her smile genuine this time. ‘There are over a hundred and fifty people in that church, and four hundred more heading to the reception later. Not to mention half the British press camped outside.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Erik Gunnarson said, his voice quiet but deadly serious. ‘I mean it, Eva. If you aren’t sure, don’t do it.’

  ‘Is anybody ever “sure”?’ Eva asked him. ‘Really sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘They are. I was. Your mother was. Absolutely.’

  Eva looked out of the window again. The moment was too intense and she couldn’t hold her father’s gaze.

  Erik leaned forward to speak to the driver. ‘Pull over.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The chauffeur sounded confused.

  ‘I said stop the car,’ said Erik. ‘My daughter and I need to talk.’

  ‘Where the hell is she?’

  Henry leaned in and whispered to Richard, the same question being whispered in the pews and among the press pack and well-wishers camped outside.

  ‘She’s half an hour late. Eva’s never late.’

  ‘Bride’s prerogative,’ said Richard reassuringly, forcing a smile. ‘She’ll be here, mate.’

  But he was worried too. Outside, the ushers scanned the horizon nervously for any sign of the bridal car. Someone had already been dispatched in the direction of Hanborough to look for them, but had not returned. Unsurprisingly, Erik Gunnarson’s mobile was switched off.

  Kaisa Gunnarson approached the vicar, an anxious look on her face. Keeping her voice low so as not to unduly panic Henry, she said, ‘I think something’s wrong. This is very unlike my daughter. And Erik’s always on time, for everything.’

  The Reverend Clempson looked more nervous than all of them. His forehead visibly glistened with sweat and he kept tugging anxiously at the gold-embroidered sleeves of his sacramental vestments, like a little boy on his first day at school worrying a loose thread on his blazer. Still, he did his best to sound positive.

  ‘Brides do sometimes get last-minute nerves. Perhaps she and her father are talking things through. How did she seem this morning?’

  Kaisa thought back to breakfast up at the castle. In keeping with tradition, Henry had spent the night before the wedding at Richard’s house, so as not to see the bride until the church. The Gunnarsons had sat around the kitchen table at Hanborough together, and Eva had seemed … calm? Or perhaps, with hindsight, subdued?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she told the vicar. ‘She was fine. Busy. People kept arriving and—’

  Richard Smart interrupted them, holding his phone and looking deeply relieved.

  ‘They’re here. The car just pulled up outside.’

  ‘Thank goodness!’ Kaisa smiled broadly and returned to her seat. The vicar exhaled and a ripple of relief and excitement swept through the church by osmosis like a Mexican wave, as the organist finally struck up the opening chords of Bach’s Bist du bei mir.

  The double doors at the rear of St Hilda’s swung open. A hundred and fifty necks craned and heads swivelled to catch a first glimpse of the bride. Henry stared down the aisle like a man staring down the barrel of a gun, the stress of the last hour still etched on his face.

  This was it.

  She’s here.

  We’re getting married.

  Erik Gunnarson appeared in the doorway. Alone. The organist hesitated, but continued playing as Eva’s father walked purposefully up to the altar and spoke a few words to Henry and Richard. Henry’s face turned green, then white. At a signal from Richard, the organ music stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’m sorry everyone.’ The father of the bride spoke clearly and in perfect English, his voice echoing off the walls in the sudden silence like a ricocheting bullet. Nobody spoke or even breathed. ‘I’m afraid there won’t be a wedding today. My daughter …’

  There was a long pause. Erik looked at his wife, continuing directly to her.

  ‘My daughter has changed her mind.’

  Shock vibrated through the church like a clanged cymbal. Gabe Baxter looked at his wife in disbelief. Barney Griffith found himself gripping the pew in front of him so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  Stepping down from the altar, Erik Gunnarson took his wife’s hand, and the two elderly Swedes hurried out of the church together. The congregation watched in stunned silence until the doors closed behind them. Then came a collective exhale and a surge of noise as the implications of what had just happened sank in.

  ‘Will there still be a party at the castle?’ Penny de la Cruz’s very old and very deaf mother observed loudly. ‘Terribly disappointing if there isn’t a party.’

  Richard looked blankly at Henry.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, aghast. He wasn’t sure what else to say. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Henry truthfully.

  Looking up, Henry caught Georgina Savile’s eye. Everyone in the church was looking at him, their expressions ranging from shock to pity to concern. But George’s face registered something else. Desire. Excitement. Hope.

  She smiled. Ikea must have gone mad. But her loss would be George’s gain.

  Irrationally, instinctively, Henry smiled back, like a recovered meth addict remembering a past high. But only for a moment. He didn’t know what he was feeling or even what was happening right now. But whatever it was, he knew George wasn’t the answer.

  He turned back to Richard.

  ‘Get me the fuck out of here,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Flora Fitzwilliam spread out her White Company picnic rug on the grass between two spreading oak trees and began unpacking her picnic lunch: a small game pie from Fortnum & Mason, a bag of perfectly ripe white cherries from Marks & Spencer’s and an Innocent smoothie. Heaven.

  It was early September, but summer still clung to London like the smell of woodsmoke after a long burning fire. Sitting here in Kensington Gardens, looking down the hill towards the Diana Memorial Fountain, Flora luxuriated in the warm sun on her bare legs, and the pleasant, leaf-dappled shade on her face. She felt profoundly happy. Her new design business, Fitz, had made a modestly successful start, with two solid commissions for private London houses already under her belt. More importantly, she was living completely independently for the first time in her life, without Mason or Graydon or any sort of a male safety net – professional or personal – underneath her. Working day and night from her tiny one-bedroom studio cottage in a mews off Ladbroke Grove, Flora almost had to pinch herself each morning at the idea that this new life in London, this freedom, was really hers. Of course, she still had to sort out something long term with her visa, and she was still having to endure Graydon’s relentless attacks on her in the trade press, as well as his intermittent threats to sue. (For what, exactly, Flora wasn’t sure, but she didn’t doubt his deep pockets nor his vengeful nature. Graydon didn’t just hold grudges. He acted on them, repeatedly and relentlessly, until his perceived enemy was extinguished.) But, all in all, from the dark days after her mother’s death only a few months earlier, it was incredible how far she’d come. Getting away from the Swell Valley, and Henry and Eva’s dramas, had been a huge piece o
f the puzzle. She still missed Henry. But she missed Eva and Barney and Penny too, and she told herself it was all part of the same thing, a lovely chapter in her life, but one that had had to come to a close.

  Like the rest of the nation, Flora read about the saga of Henry and Eva’s cancelled wedding with astonishment and fascination. She’d been in New York the day it happened, when Henry had actually been jilted at the altar, and had half expected to hear from him, or from someone. But her phone never rang. She returned to England two days later to find every newspaper and gossip magazine obsessed with the ongoing saga. There were pictures of Henry on his honeymoon in Tahiti with his best man, Richard Smart. Richard had apparently persuaded him they should go together, to get away from the media attention and/or to drown Henry’s sorrows, although judging by the pictures of him surrounded by scantily clad Tahitian girls, he seemed to be bearing up admirably under the strain. Meanwhile, just as news of Eva’s pregnancy leaked, she disappeared from public view entirely, sparking a week-long hunt to track her down, on a scale not seen since Liz Hurley ‘went to ground’ after Hugh Grant was caught with Divine Brown. The whole thing was like a soap opera, or an unusually gripping reality show. Despite knowing the protagonists intimately, Flora found herself swept along in the drama just like everybody else. It was as if she were reading about characters, not real people whom she knew and cared about.

  Taking a bite of her ridiculously succulent and delicious pie, she opened today’s early edition of the Standard, flipping it open at page two to catch up on the latest instalment. Things had taken a thrilling twist last night when Eva had been ‘found’ hiding out in a remote summer cabin in Skåne, in the south of Sweden, with a new man. Flora had almost choked on her gin and tonic when the man’s name was announced on Capital FM as ‘top British photographer Barnaby Griffith’.

  Barney? And Eva?

  Barney and Eva?

  At first the thought of the two of them together seemed quite ridiculous. Barney, after all, had spent the last year professing his undying love for Flora. And in all the time Flora had spent with the two of them, she’d never seen the slightest spark of attraction. And yet, on many levels, they were a good match. Both kind, artistic and mellow, both dog lovers and country bumpkins at heart, notwithstanding Eva’s glamorous, jet-set lifestyle. Flora had always had the sense that modelling had chosen Eva, rather than the other way around. That, had the cards fallen differently, Eva might have opted for a much, much quieter life. Looking at the grainy long-lens pictures of the two of them in the paper now, standing outside the cabin hugging and laughing, Eva’s baby bump clearly visible in an old-fashioned, peasant-style dress, she looked as if she might have found it.