‘Thanks.’ Flora smiled. In a scoop-backed midnight-blue gown and sky-high Manolos and with her long hair worn tousled and loose, Flora felt good, but it was nice to have Chuck confirm it. She’d always liked him. It was only his bitch of a sister she had a problem with. Luckily Henrietta was not here today. Recently married herself, to some rich bore from Rhode Island, she was heavily pregnant and on bed rest. Shame.
‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened with Mason and Henrietta,’ he said, reading Flora’s mind. ‘It was so stupid. They both really regretted it afterwards.’
Flora waved a hand breezily. She doubted very much whether Henrietta regretted anything, other than Mason dumping her. But it didn’t matter now. ‘There’s nothing for you to apologize for. It’s ancient history, anyway. And everything worked out for the best in the end.’
They both looked over to where Mason and Catherine were having their photograph taken beneath the arbour that Flora had had built especially. Leaning into one another and laughing, they looked adorably happy.
‘They’re good together, aren’t they?’ agreed Chuck.
But Flora was no longer listening. Her face draining of colour, she clutched Chuck’s arm for support, so tightly that he could feel her fingernails through his jacket.
‘Oh my God!’ she gasped, downing the rest of her drink in one. ‘It can’t be.’
‘What?’ Chuck looked at her concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’
He followed Flora’s horrified gaze. There, standing directly behind the happy couple, chatting and laughing with some other guests, was Henry Saxton Brae.
Sensing the two of them looking, Henry looked up. When his eyes met Flora’s he smiled.
She felt her knees start to give way and clung on to Chuck Branston even tighter.
How? How is he here?
Still smiling, Henry was walking towards her.
‘Oh God!’ Flora moaned.
‘Do you know that guy?’ Chuck asked, holding her up.
Flora nodded mutely.
‘Well, is there a problem? Do you want me to stay with you?’
‘No,’ she said, regaining control of herself and releasing Chuck’s arm. ‘It’s fine. You go and mingle. Do your best man thing.’
Chuck looked sceptical. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Definitely,’ said Flora. Henry was just yards away now. ‘It’s not a problem. Just someone I wasn’t expecting, that’s all. Go. Go go go.’
Chuck left, eyeing Henry suspiciously as they passed each other. Seconds later, Henry and Flora were face to face.
‘Hello.’
His clipped, English accent sounded more pronounced than ever here.
‘Hello,’ said Flora.
They both stood in silence for a moment, drinking one another in. Henry spoke first. ‘Can we talk? Alone?’
Flora frowned. ‘I’m working.’
‘I know. Just a few minutes,’ Henry pleaded.
They walked down to the bottom of the garden. An old summerhouse was being used as a storeroom, full of dusty deckchairs and gardening tools, as well as various broken children’s toys. A rattan couch with torn cushions had been shoved into a corner. Flora brushed the dead leaves off with her hands and sat down. Henry sat next to her, so close that their legs were almost touching.
‘I don’t have long,’ said Flora, staring at the ground.
‘That’s OK,’ said Henry, staring at her. The heavy blue silk of the dress clung to her body perfectly, accentuating her tanned skin and the soft curve of her breasts and thighs. Unable to stop himself he reached out and touched her hair. ‘I like it longer,’ he said, his breath heavy with desire. ‘You look beautiful.’
Flora froze like a deer about to be shot.
‘What are you doing here, Henry?’ she said.
‘Will Coffin’s an old friend of mine,’ he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from Flora’s hair.
‘Catherine’s brother?’ Flora sounded disbelieving.
‘We met in London. He did a master’s at LSE,’ said Henry. ‘Small world.’
‘Very,’ agreed Flora, suspiciously. ‘So Will invited you? I only ask because I oversaw the seating plan and your name was definitely not on it.’
‘It was a last-minute thing,’ Henry said sheepishly. ‘All right, look, I heard you were doing the wedding. OK? I asked Will to invite me.’
Flora took this in. ‘You came to see me?’
‘I came to see you.’
Now Henry looked at the floor. An awful silence fell.
‘Did you hear about George?’ Henry asked, breaking it at last with a jarring change of tone.
‘No.’ Flora looked up. ‘What about her?’
‘She and Graydon fell out, big time. Gridz shares are in free fall. Last I heard, they’d each filed separate lawsuits. And, Robert’s divorcing her.’
‘What?’ Flora’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘Apparently he came home and caught her in flagrante with the trainer. Rumour has it they were doing something unspeakable with a rubberized dumbbell.’
Flora giggled. ‘Good for Robert. Not that she cares, I imagine.’
‘She cares about the money,’ said Henry. ‘Especially now the business is going down the tubes. I was lucky to get out when I did. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.’
The tension had been broken, but the silence kept creeping back. This time, it was Flora who tried to break it.
‘How’s the baby?’
Henry’s eyes lit up. Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out a picture of an exquisitely beautiful, dark-haired toddler with a cheeky grin and mesmerizing green eyes. Her colouring was Henry’s but her features were all Eva.
‘Oh my goodness! She’s an angel,’ said Flora.
‘She’s a horror.’ Henry grinned. ‘Her stepfather spoils her.’
‘And you don’t?’ Flora laughed.
‘Eva and Barney are expecting another in the autumn,’ Henry told her. ‘I think it’ll be good for Cesca to have a sibling. She’s becoming a little dictator.’
‘And you?’ Flora forced herself to ask. ‘Are you … attached?’
‘To what?’ Henry asked, looking baffled.
Flora laughed loudly. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”. So you’re not seeing anyone then? Not settled?’
‘No.’ Henry looked at his shoes. ‘I can’t settle.’
I know you can’t, Flora thought sadly.
‘Not while I’m still in love with you.’
Before Flora had a chance to react he’d reached over, grabbing her hand and holding it tightly, his fingers stroking each of hers in turn. ‘I love you, Flora. I tried not to, but I do.’
‘Please. Don’t.’ She tried to remove her hand but he held it fast.
‘Why not? I love you and I think you love me too.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘How doesn’t it matter? I want to be with you.’
‘No,’ Flora said firmly, wrenching free from his grip and standing up, her heart pounding. ‘You can’t be faithful, Henry. Not for life. It’s not in your nature. And I’m not like Eva. I couldn’t just forgive.’
‘Maybe it is in my nature?’ said Henry. ‘Maybe I just hadn’t found the right woman yet?’
Flora looked at him sadly. ‘I can’t base my whole life on “maybe”. I just can’t. I need security, Henry. I need to be safe.’
Henry looked anguished. He opened his mouth to protest then closed it again, not sure what he could say in his defence.
‘I have to go.’ Flora pushed open the summer-house door. ‘I have a wedding to run.’
‘Please. Wait!’ Henry called after her. ‘Flora!’
‘If you care about me at all,’ she said, fighting back tears, ‘go home. Don’t stay for the dinner. It will only hurt us both. Let me do my job tonight, Henry.’
She began walking back up the garden.
‘Flora!’ Henry called after her.
But she didn’t look back.
Two hours later, after the dinner and speeches, the dancing had begun. Mason led Flora onto the floor.
‘Was that Henry Saxton Brae I saw here earlier?’ he asked, after he’d thanked her again for the perfect night she’d given him and Catherine.
‘Yeah.’ Flora nodded. ‘Did you know he was friends with Will?’
‘I did not,’ Mason admitted. ‘I do know the guy’s in love with you, though.’
Flora’s eyes widened. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Come on,’ said Mason. ‘He came all the way out here, didn’t he?’
Flora was silent.
‘Why don’t you give him a chance?’ said Mason, whirling her expertly around the floor.
Flora looked at him, incredulous. ‘Are you insane?’
‘Why is that insane?’ Mason asked. ‘You obviously love him too. I’d like to see you happy, Flora. You deserve to be happy.’
‘I am happy.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Flora sighed. ‘I do. And I love you for saying it. But Henry’s not like you. He’d be a terrible husband. He can’t commit to anything. He’s like a cat. You might think you own him, because you buy him a bowl and food and a bed to sleep in. But, as far as he’s concerned, he’s only ever passing through.’
‘People change,’ said Mason reasonably. ‘Maybe he’s changed?’
Maybe, thought Flora.
I really hate that word.
It was almost three a.m. by the time Flora finally got back to her rented cottage on North Water Street, overlooking the harbour. Even through her exhaustion, she was moved by the stillness and beauty of the view as she fumbled for her key. The lights from the boats reflected off the still water, echoing the brightly sparkling blanket of stars above, but beyond that all was darkness and peace.
Climbing the wooden steps to her front door, she jumped out of her skin when a figure emerged from the shadows.
‘You took your time.’
‘Jesus Christ, Henry!’ She spun around, her heart hammering. ‘You scared me half to death. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m bringing you home.’
Flora rubbed her eyes, exhausted. She was too tired for this.
‘What do you mean? I am home.’
‘No.’ Grabbing her suddenly by the waist he pulled her to him in the darkness, wrapping both his strong arms around her like bars on a cage. ‘Your home is with me. It’s with me.’
He kissed her then, his lips pressing hard against hers. He smelled of bourbon and some sort of English aftershave, and although her body squirmed in protest, Flora’s lips seemed to have developed a mind of their own, returning his kiss with a passion she didn’t know she was capable of. Were her feet even on the ground? The whole thing was terrifying, and blissful, and it seemed to go on for a long, long time.
When at last he released her, Flora started to speak, but Henry cut her off.
‘I don’t want to hear it!’ he said angrily. ‘This “security” you’re looking for, Flora, this “safety”. It doesn’t exist! Not for you. Not for anyone. There’s no such thing as a life without risk, never mind a love without it. And, if there were, it wouldn’t be worth having. Can I promise to be faithful for ever, with a hundred per cent certainty? Of course I can’t.’
‘Exactly!’ Flora was shaking.
‘Exactly what?’ Henry said, exasperated. ‘Exactly nothing! You can’t promise that either. No one can. Not truthfully. The best any of us can promise is to try our best. Isn’t it?’
He pulled her close again, but she was resisting, shaking her head.
‘Maybe,’ she said, fighting back tears. ‘Maybe that’s true. But it’s not enough for me. I can’t live with that.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Henry said forcefully. ‘And you bloody well will. Because I can’t live without you and I’m tired of trying.’
He kissed her again, his hands roaming over her bare back and up into her hair. Flora staggered backwards till he was pressing her against the wall of the house. The pressure of his body against hers, the warmth and the power and the scent of him were too much. Kissing him back she let go, allowing three years of longing to flood out of her, losing herself in the incredible sensations.
‘I won’t … I won’t give up my career,’ she gasped as he slipped the dress off her shoulders and began kissing the tops of her breasts.
‘Fine,’ he murmured. ‘Just open the fucking door.’
Flora handed him the key. Seconds later they were inside the cottage on the floor, clothes flying off them as if they’d been caught in a hurricane.
‘You’ll have to move to New York …’ Flora groaned as his hand slipped beneath the elastic of her underwear.
‘New York. Fine,’ said Henry, unzipping his fly to release his painfully huge erection.
‘Really?’ Flora wriggled backwards, desperate for him to be inside her but unable to stop testing him. ‘You’d give up Hanborough for me?’
‘We’ll go there for holidays,’ he said, burying his face between her incredible breasts. Glancing up, he added, ‘With the kids.’
‘The kids?’ Flora’s eyes widened.
Grinning, Henry seized his chance and eased himself inside her. Flora sighed with pleasure. Henry tried to slow himself down, to savour this moment he’d waited so very, very long for, but it was no use. Flora’s hands were on his back, clawing at him, pulling him deeper and deeper into her as he thrust excitedly upwards. He responded joyously, harder and faster, until he came, far too quickly, but he didn’t care.
‘I love you,’ he said, laughing and panting as he collapsed onto the floor beside her.
‘I love you too,’ said Flora, oddly relieved to be saying the words out loud at last. ‘But we have to be practical.’
Henry rolled his eyes.
‘I mean it,’ said Flora, still gasping from the exertion of their incredible sex. ‘There’s Francesca to think about, and my company. It’s all very well saying you’ll move to New York. But your life is in England, Henry, and my life is here and—’
Propping himself up on one elbow, Henry gently but firmly put his hand over Flora’s mouth.
‘Shut. Up,’ he whispered, beaming down at her. ‘I love you. You love me. It will all be OK. Not perfect, maybe. But OK.’
And in that moment, Flora realized that he was right.
It would be.
Maybe even for the rest of their lives.
THIRTY-TWO
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Frances-caaaa! Happy birthday to youoooo!’
It was hard to pinpoint who was singing more loudly, or more tunelessly – Barney or Henry.
‘Do you think she’ll be scarred for life?’ Eva grimaced, wincing at Flora and covering her own ears as Cesca’s two daddies belted out her birthday anthem to the packed barn at Hanborough. All of Francesca’s little friends from nursery had come to see her turn two, as had a good number of her parents’ friends and a smattering of villagers curious to see the latest changes up at the castle since Flora and Henry were last here at Christmas, and to enjoy some free tea, cake and champagne.
‘I doubt it, judging by that grin,’ said Flora, laughing as her stepdaughter blew out her candles before unceremoniously sinking her face into the elaborate Disney Princess icing and taking an enormous bite out of the top.
‘Francesca!’ Eva rushed forward with a horrified gasp. ‘Sluta! Stop that!’
‘Oh, leave her alone,’ said Henry, slipping a protective arm around Flora’s waist and patting her growing baby bump proudly, while continuing to film Cesca on his iPhone with the other hand. ‘It’s her birthday.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Barney said reprovingly, physically extracting Francesca from the cake, despite her loud protests, and handing her to Eva while he began cutting up slices for the other children. His new baby daughter, Violet, hung off his chest in a designer baby sling like a contented little monkey as he methodically handed out plates. ‘She’s
the host.’
‘She’s two!’ protested Henry.
‘She might as well start as she means to go on,’ muttered Barney, sounding very authoritative and grown-up all of a sudden.
Flora grinned. Barney’s such a good dad. Really a natural.
Not that Henry wasn’t. True, he would never be the world’s most committed nappy changer. But he was utterly besotted with Francesca and saw her as often as he could, returning to Hanborough regularly. And he was also beside himself with joy over the prospect of his and Flora’s new arrival, a little boy due in the summer.
Flora had particularly enjoyed Henry’s desperate attempts to backtrack after she’d found out the baby’s sex and told him, and he’d practically exploded with happiness, running around their New York apartment like an excited terrier after a rat, literally whooping with delight, punching the air and declaring it ‘the happiest day of my life. Ever!’
The days of sincere ‘of course, a girl would have been just as lovely’ that followed were as endearing as they were obviously untrue.
‘It’s all right to want a son,’ Flora reassured him.
‘I’m just so happy,’ Henry told her. ‘Cesca. You. The baby. Everything is perfect.’
‘Even New York?’ Flora asked archly.
‘I love New York,’ Henry assured her.
Perhaps ‘love’ was an overstatement. But Henry had come to terms with their life in Manhattan, and enjoyed the energy of the city. Flora’s business was going great guns, and Henry had started dabbling in some real-estate deals, which gave him something to do. He did miss Hanborough but, as Flora reminded him, he hadn’t exactly excelled at full-time country life the last time he’d tried it. As compromises went, theirs felt like a pretty good one.
‘Is that your second slice, darling?’
Jen Clempson, the vicar’s wife, admonished her husband as poor old Bill edged towards the cake table. Call-me-Bill had definitely put on weight since they’d had Diana, and was looking distinctly fat and happy.
‘Do leave some for the children.’
‘Oh, shhhh.’ The vicar patted his wife affectionately on the bottom, handing her a fresh glass of Bollinger. ‘There’s plenty for the children. In fact, I rather suspect they’ve had too much.’ He wrinkled his nose in distaste, looking past Jen to the back of the room where Francesca’s presents lay in a mountainous pile. ‘Isn’t that Gabe Baxter’s boy being sick on the party bags?’
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