Lord Seeks Wife: A hilariously funny romantic comedy

by Heather Barnett

  As she rounded the corner, she heard footsteps close behind her, and then a hand grabbed her arm and span her round. She had the briefest glimpse of tanned skin, dark hair and brown eyes before she was being kissed firmly on the lips. Coco, pressed between them, made surprised snuffling noises. Henry stepped back and looked at her without a word before turning and striding away. Behind him, high in the sky, fireworks soared and crackled; reds, golds, blues and greens lighting up the tops of the trees.

  ***

  Once everyone’s attention had been distracted by the yapping, Sinead hadn’t hung around. Her plan had fallen to pieces. Lady Caroline hadn’t behaved the way she was supposed to, they hadn’t believed her cover story and Coco hadn’t followed orders. Storming through the undergrowth to where Derek was waiting, she ripped off her tiara, grabbed the pink helmet, slammed it on her head and barked, ‘Drive!’

  Derek watched with anxious eyes as she straddled the bike with difficulty, train over one arm. ‘What…’

  ‘Drive!’

  ‘Why…’

  ‘Drive!’

  ‘The dog?’

  ‘Get on the bleedin’ bike and drive!’ she screamed.

  He got on the bleedin’ bike and drove.

  ***

  Later that evening, there was a ring on the doorbell. Sinead put down her glass of wine and shuffled unsteadily out into the hall. Derek looked up from his black gloom.

  ‘Shlligo?’

  She shook her head.

  She’d barely spoken to him since they’d got back; locking herself in the bathroom where he heard her sobbing as he lingered outside the door, then reappearing with the apparent intention of draining every bottle of alcohol in the house. All he could get out of her was that her plan hadn’t worked and that she’d blown her chances with Lord de Beeble. Despite a secret thrill of delight at this disclosure, Derek was thoroughly downcast. She was devastated and he didn’t know what to do to help. When he ventured to ask her what had happened to Coco, she’d glared at him and announced that Coco was a ‘usheless, mangy, brainless fluff of ball.’

  Sinead opened the front door and found Alice on the doorstep. Noting the look of shock on Alice’s face, she glanced in the mirror by the door and saw that her mascara was streaked down her puffy face, her blonde hair was a mess and her peach quilted dressing gown had a red wine stain down the front.

  ‘Are you OK, Sinead?’

  ‘What’s shit to you?’ demanded Sinead. She paused, reflected, then clarified, ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Well… You look upset.’

  ‘You look upset,’ she retorted.

  In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Alice looked radiant, glowing, like a newly-opened summer flower which had escaped the ravages of Piers; and she appeared to be hovering a few millimetres above the ground.

  Clocking some of this, Sinead revised her assertion.

  ‘You’re a shit,’ she said, and nodded.

  ‘Right… Anyway, I came to bring Coco back.’ She handed over the grey bundle who whined excitedly and licked Sinead’s salty face.

  ‘Fine. Good riddance.’

  The door slammed in Alice’s face.

  Inside, Sinead swayed for a moment or two, glaring at the dog in her arms. Then she crumpled to the floor, squeezing the dog and kissing his curly head.

  ‘Poor ickle Coco,’ she crooned. ‘Poor, sad, lonely, ickle Coco.’

  When she felt Derek’s arm around her, she didn’t resist, but leaned back against his chest and let the tears trickle down her face.

  ***

  The feeling of unreal ecstasy hadn’t diminished the next day as Alice joined the rest of her family for Sunday lunch. As it was a special celebration – her parents’ wedding anniversary – they had booked a table at the Lion and Lamb to save Mrs Brand cooking.

  ‘We could have gone somewhere nice. That new Spanish place in Pantling,’ remarked Cecily.

  Her father waved a deprecatory hand. ‘This is quite posh enough for us. I’ve got a soft spot for the old Lion, you know. Plenty of happy times had by all here.’ He smiled at his wife, who squeezed his arm.

  ‘Well said, that man! A bit of hot grub, barrel of good ale and a hearty welcome from mein host, that’s all we simple folk want from our hostelries, isn’t that so, Papa?’ roared Piers, dealing his honorary papa a mighty slap on the back.

  ‘Steady on, Piers, he’s not as young as he used to be.’

  ‘Very true, Cecily. I’m feeling it in my joints these days,’ Mr Brand said, laughing. ‘Once knelt there’s no getting up again. I almost had to call for your poor mother to come and get me to my feet yesterday after an hour weeding the vegetable patch.’

  With a steady flow of gentle conversation streaming over her, Alice was able to sit almost in silence, paying scant attention to what was passing. She put in a word here and there, but mostly the bright summer garden was dimmed by the vibrant vision of a firework-strewn night. The starters were served and everyone tucked in. Alice picked at her battered mushrooms until she realised Piers was watching her.

  ‘I’ve got me a little notion, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been watching our favourite little lady and if my peepers deceive me not there are symptoms of lurve in that young lady.’

  Alice frowned and shook her head but he continued.

  ‘Doesn’t speak, doesn’t eat, moons about. Admit it, Alster! You’re in love!’

  Of all the people, she inwardly ranted, of all the people to notice – Piers! Normally as unobservant as a banana, why did he have to start paying attention to other people’s feelings today?

  ‘Come on,’ he urged, ‘tell all. Who’s the lucky man?’

  She had begun an earnest denial when her phone rang; a number she didn’t recognise. She answered it.

  Before the voice had got as far as the ‘H’ of Hello she knew it was Henry. She went beetroot.

  Piers was in high glee. ‘That’s him! I’ll bet my bottom dollar that’s the feller!’

  Oh God, she wished he’d shut up. Henry would be able to hear every word.

  She got up from the table.

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’ he prompted when she didn’t speak.

  ‘Hi – yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry, I’m in a beer garden, I’m moving somewhere quieter. Right, that’s better.’

  ‘Good. It’s Henry. de Beeble,’ he added, superfluously.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Your equipment is still up at the hall.’ She felt a chill of disappointment. Was that why he’d called? ‘I wondered if I might bring it round to you?’

  The sun came out from behind a cloud and the previously hateful Piers, capering around making lewd gestures in the background, transformed into a charming, whimsical imp.

  ‘That’s kind of you. If it’s not a bother?’

  It appeared that it wasn’t a bother and once times and addresses had been discussed, she hung up and returned to the table under the trees. Even Piers’ steady stream of musical references to ‘Mr Loverman (Shabba)’ throughout the meal failed to dent her happiness.

  ***

  Henry was due at eight o’clock, and by ten minutes to Alice was a bundle of nerves. The house was tidy, Tom was brushed, she had applied a little make-up, as José had taught her, and was wearing a new yellow sundress. The radio was murmuring in the background and she sat at the kitchen table with the crossword in front of her, to help her appear unflurried by the prospect of Henry’s arrival. She wasn’t sure why she was attempting the charade seeing as, sure as eggs were eggs, any semblance of calm would vanish upon his arrival.

  She heard a car pull up outside. Her heart beat madly. There was a knock at the door.

  She opened it – and found herself enveloped in Piers’ embrace. His clammy cheek was pressed against hers as he breathed whisky fumes into her face.

  ‘Desperate straits old girl, and only you can save me. First up, that feller out there wants paying.’ He let go of he
r neck and lurched past her into the hall. ‘You take care of that while I ex-she-cute a tactical chunder. Lead me to your vomitorium.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She grabbed his arm and shoved him into the downstairs loo, then snatched her handbag from the hall table and dashed outside. Once the aggrieved taxi driver had been paid off, including a generous tip, Alice came back in, shutting the front door behind her.

  ‘Piers?’ She listened at the door of the downstairs loo and then wished she hadn’t. ‘Piers, are you OK?’

  The doorbell rang. She hurried to open it.

  Henry stood on the doorstep, handsome as a god in the sunshine. He held a large box of pots and pans.

  ‘Hi.’ His smile made her stomach flip over.

  ‘Hi… Thanks so much for bringing the stuff round.’ She went to take it off him but he pulled it in closer to his body.

  ‘It’s heavy. I can bring it in, if you like?’

  Yes, she bloody well would like under normal circumstances. If there wasn’t a Piers-shaped bomb in her bathroom, primed to go off at any moment. Right on cue, the door to the downstairs loo flew open and Piers stood in the opening, naked except for a pair of Superman underpants.

  ‘Right then, Alster!’ he yelled, hands on hips. ‘Are you ready for me?’

  She saw surprise and then displeasure pass across Henry’s face.

  ‘This, this is…’ she stammered, waving a hand in Piers’ direction. But before she could complete the introduction, Henry had pushed the box into her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’ve got a guest. I won’t interrupt. Thanks again for last night.’

  She stood speechless as he turned and strode down the path, the silence broken by a loud belch behind her. Henry was already in his car by the time she called after him.

  ‘It’s not… you’ve got it wrong…’

  The engine revved and he was gone.

  A pair of sturdy arms slid round her waist and Piers rested his chin on her shoulder.

  ‘Good. Glad he’s gone. Now we can talk.’

  Alice unclasped his hands and pushed him off her.

  ‘For God’s sake, Piers! What the hell are you doing here – and why are you in your underpants?’

  She followed the direction of his hand as he pointed through the bathroom door to a pile of clothes on the floor.

  ‘Barfing casualties.’ He tried to take her resisting hand again but she snatched it away, marched him into the kitchen and pushed him into a chair. Setting a glass of water in front of him, she instructed him to drink it. When he’d drained it, and she’d had the chance to let some of the anger flood out of her system, she sat down across the table from him.

  ‘Please tell me why you’re here. If you can’t tell me in ten words or less, I’ll call Cecily and ask her.’

  Piers put the glass down on the table and contemplated his ten fingers, marking each word off as he said it.

  ‘Drank too much whisky, started a fight, Cess kicked me…’ He curled the tenth finger shut and mouthed ‘out’.

  After more water and coffee, the full story came out. Cecily and Piers had stayed at the pub after the rest of the family had left and Piers had made his way through a bottle of whisky. He’d fallen out with a man at the bar, who had refused to agree that Abba was the greatest ever pop band, and Piers had punched him in the face. Cecily had had to separate them with the help of some regulars. She’d made it clear that he wasn’t welcome at home and had stormed off.

  ‘So you’ve got to save me, Ally-Pally. Don’t let the world’s greatest romance end this way.’ His head was slumped on his crossed arms on the table and his eyelids drooped. Next thing, he was snoring.

  Alice called her sister, who agreed to come and pick him up.

  ‘Sorry, Al. It’s not fair that he involved you in this. Hope it’s not been too annoying.’

  Alice put down the phone and sat looking at it for a moment. Should she text Henry and explain? She saw again that look of displeasure in his eyes at the sight of Piers half-naked in her hallway. Why would he believe her? A wave of frustration shook her and she banged a fist on the table, making Piers spring upright, eyes wide open; before resting his head back onto his forearms with a contented snore.

  Chapter 25

  In the tiny, dilapidated-looking hairdressers off the green, three ladies sat in a row. They were, left to right, Elaine Jowlett (cut and blow-dry), Jan Fratterbury (perm) and Lorraine Watford (peroxide). Each held a magazine on her lap, left to right: Country Life, Hello! and an ancient copy of What Computer that had somehow found its way into the stack of reading material left out for customers.

  ‘No mention of Lady Caroline’s summer party in Country Life I notice,’ said Elaine with a satisfied sniff.

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, Elaine. It was only a week ago. They print these things months in advance, dear,’ said Jan Fratterbury as she flicked through her dog-eared copy of Hello! ‘More a Harpers kind of thing anyway, lovie. That might have some nice piccies.’

  ‘Well, I for one won’t be rushing out to buy it. Not interested in the slightest.’

  ‘No? Oh, I’m not ashamed to admit I like to look at the dresses. All the belles of the ball.’

  ‘You should always shut your computer down in the evening rather than keeping it on standby,’ Lorraine informed them.

  Jan nodded. ‘Thank you, dear, I will.’ Turning back to Elaine, she lowered her voice. ‘You heard about what happened at the party, of course? The little fracas?’

  Elaine flicked a page of her magazine and ran her finger along a line of print. ‘No, dear. I don’t indulge in tittle-tattle.’

  ‘Of course, that’s right, lovie. Very commendable. Neither a whisperer nor a tattler be, as the bard said. I shan’t sully your pure ears, then.’

  Elaine kept silent for a moment and then burst out, ‘Oh, out with it, Jan! I know you’re dying to tell me and far be it from me to deny you your pleasure.’

  Jan had reached the part when Lady Caroline was viciously attacking Coco with a hammer, when the aforementioned canine’s owner appeared in the doorway. Elaine and Jan looked up with guilty faces.

  ‘Sinead, lovie,’ gushed Jan, ‘we were just talking about you…’

  Sinead swatted this away like a troublesome fly. ‘Never mind that. Remember that Saskia woman? Henry de Beeble’s girlfriend?’

  ‘One could hardly forget her,’ retorted Elaine. ‘Striding around the village in that ridiculous outfit taking photographs and then a few weeks later being arrested for breaking into the Bhatias’ house! Her language on that occasion was far from ladylike, I may add. Ted was shocked to the core.’

  ‘Here’s something else to shock him,’ snapped Sinead as she shoved a passing hairdresser out of the way and tossed a magazine at Elaine.

  It was the latest issue of The Vacuum, which Sinead had ordered in to the local newsagent.

  ‘Page thirty,’ she added as Elaine picked it up.

  Elaine turned to a photographic feature entitled ‘English Eccentricity’. The first picture was of Elaine and Valerie under the Lion and Lamb sign. The image had been photoshopped, adding a mane and tail to Elaine and a woolly fleece to Valerie. Elaine’s jaw dropped and Jan, peering over her shoulder, started to snigger. Elaine flipped the page and the sniggering turned into a gasp as Jan’s eyes fell on a photograph of herself smoking in the school playground, with flames licking around her ankles and smoke pouring from every orifice. Opposite her was a picture of Lorraine having afternoon tea in a padded cell with a straightjacket hanging up behind her.

  Lorraine caught sight of it and nodded approvingly. ‘That’s my best side.’

  The next page showed Ted scurrying down an empty road, a mediaeval fool’s bladder on a stick flung over his shoulder and a jester’s hat on his head. Opposite him knelt Sinead at her immaculate flower beds, part of her clothes cut away to reveal robotic workings inside. Jerry Brewer was next, behind the bar of his empty pub, wearing a harlequin outfit with a large tear painted onto
his face. The final image was of Colonel Markham, his rows of flowers erased and replaced with legions of toy soldiers over which he presided with a rifle at his shoulder.

  Silence reigned for a good thirty seconds. Sinead waited, tapping her foot. Finally, Elaine found her voice.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ she spluttered. ‘An outrage! How dare that woman trample over our good natures? We allowed ourselves to be photographed in good faith. She has shown an utter disregard for our dignity which to my mind is tantamount to mental abuse!’

  Jan’s face was white and clammy. ‘Never mind your bloody dignity, Elaine, I could lose my job!’

  Despite her own involvement, Sinead was watching them with a certain malicious pleasure.

  ‘Annoying, isn’t it? When people twist things. Make you look like an idiot.’

  Elaine leapt from her chair and paced up and down the small shop, her black plastic gown billowing from her shoulders like a superhero’s cape.

  ‘We can’t accept this. We won’t. There are laws which govern this noble country of ours, laws to prevent the gutter press from libelling law-abiding citizens.’

  Jan was standing too, twisting her hands together; a pathetic figure with a head full of rollers. ‘That’s right! We’ll sue!’

  ‘Lawyers can be very expensive, Jan,’ countered Elaine. ‘We need to be clever about this. We need to find a way to force her to issue an apology…’

  ‘And compensation!’

  ‘Indeed – and compensation. Not that any kind of pecuniary redress could ever compensate for our emotional distress.’