She sighed.
‘I suppose we’d better do a photocall. They won’t leave us alone until we do.’
Guy was filled with panic.
‘Not today. I’ll need a shave. And a clean shirt. And…’
Richenda wound her arms around his neck.
‘No, darling. Not today. Anyway, I want the world to see you as you really are. That’s the whole point. That’s why I love you. Because you don’t pretend.’
‘So what will the headline be? Beauty and the Beast?’
He scraped his stubble against her cleavage. She squealed with delight, then took his head between her hands, forcing him to look at her.
‘Seriously. We need to do something official or there’ll be photographers crawling all over the place.’
Guy’s face clouded over.
‘OK. But do me a favour. Can we wait until I talk to my mother? I don’t want her finding out we’re engaged when the hired help comes in brandishing the
News of the World.
’
‘Not the
News of the World
,’ corrected Richenda. ‘The
Daily Post
Cindy will have an exclusive.’
‘Whatever,’ said Guy, with a slightly sinking heart, and swearing inwardly that he would never touch Taylor’s again.
Guy took his mother to the Honeycote Arms. The pub in Eversleigh was perfectly good for a quick pint, but the food was acknowledged as dreadful, serving either soggy baguettes or rock-hard scampi. The Honeycote Arms, by contrast, was an epicurean paradise, warm and welcoming, and Guy managed to secure a table in the bar by the fire that was well out of earshot of the other diners. He installed his mother in the more comfortable of the chairs, and went over to the bar.
While he waited to be served – the Honeycote Arms was always buzzing at lunchtime – he took a moment to ponder his predicament. Things had happened rather fast for Guy that day: in an ideal world after last night’s party he wouldn’t have been long out of bed, but waking up to find himself engaged had brought with it a sense of urgency that couldn’t be ignored. Swept along by the momentum, this was the first moment he had had to draw breath and analyse his true feelings.
When he’d first met Richenda, he couldn’t deny that he’d thought of her as a novelty, a delicious little pleasure to indulge in while he went about his daily tasks, a consolation prize for being dragged back to do his filial duty. They were, he considered, borderline obsessed with each other, but he had to admit the relationship was largely based on walks in the wood, fireside suppers in this very
pub and rather a lot of furtive sex – they had to avoid the rest of the film crew and his mother, which of course made it all the more thrilling. Yet Guy had assumed that once filming had finished, Richenda would drift back to London, that their relationship would wither and die, like a holiday romance. Somewhere along the line, things had changed – to the point that she was about to become his wife!
It had certainly taken him by surprise, for he wasn’t the type to be trapped into marriage. Indeed, he’d spent many years dodging commitment; had become rather expert at extricating himself from relationships as soon as they showed any sign of becoming serious. For Guy had a somewhat misguided conviction that women were buying into a package rather than him, that it was the lure of being the lady of the manor that made him attractive. It was why he spent so much time travelling. When you met a girl in the surf of Sri Lanka, or in a hot, sweaty club in Havana, they weren’t aware that thousands of miles away sat a pile of Cotswold stone that made him the most eligible bachelor for miles around. But even then, he hadn’t met the right girl for him, because at the end of the day he knew his future lay at Eversleigh. He couldn’t escape that responsibility. And whoever he chose had to be able to deal with it in just the right way. Over the years, he could have had his pick of solid, sensible English girls who would have set to with gusto, chummed up the vicar and sat on committees and transplanted bulbs to their heart’s content. But that wasn’t really Guy’s style. Whoever he finally married had to have a bit more about them.
And Richenda certainly had that. Her status was, in a twenty-first-century style, on a par with his. She was definitely no gold-digger. In fact, if anyone was going to be accused of gold-digging, it was probably him…
‘Hello? Guy? Anyone in there?’ His daydream was shattered by Barney, the landlord, grinning at him curiously.
‘Sorry, mate. I was miles away’
‘What can I get you?’
Guy snapped out of his trance, ordering with alacrity, and ten minutes later he was digging into a slab of game terrine with pear chutney, while Madeleine picked at a plate of smoked duck breast. Madeleine scarcely ate. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate food. But she’d spent time in Paris before meeting Guy’s father, and the city had had an influence upon her, which included an obsession with being painfully thin. On a more positive note, it had left her with a knack for choosing accessories – a knotted silk scarf, an artfully draped pashmina, suede loafers and always, always real jewellery – that stopped her from becoming the caricature of an English country woman, but also gave her an air of Parisian
froideur.
Eventually she put her fork down and fixed him with a perspicacious glare.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Lunch out. What’s it all in aid of? I hope you’re not planning to bugger off again?’
Guy took a slug of Honeycote Ale. It gave him both a hair of the dog and some Dutch courage before dropping his bombshell.
‘I’ve asked Richenda to marry me.’
‘I see.’ She surveyed him frostily, her eyes as chill and
unforgiving as a winter’s morning. ‘This is all rather sudden, isn’t it?’
Humour and cajoling, Guy knew, could restore her eyes to a softer blue. He smiled winningly.
‘We’ve known each other nearly six months.’
Madeleine gave a disdainful sniff.
‘Hardly under normal circumstances. It’s not what you’d call a conventional courtship.’
‘Well, no…’
‘I mean, we’ve all been living in a fantasy world for the past few months. And I can see how easy it would be to imagine yourself in love…’
‘Mother. Please. Give me some credit.’
‘I’m just pointing out that when this circus has gone and you actually have to do some hard work, the reality might be different. For both of you.’
‘We have taken that into consideration.’ Guy lied glibly, infuriated with his mother for voicing fears he hadn’t even voiced to himself yet.
She raised an elegant eyebrow.
‘I know how impulsive you can be.’
‘Impulsive, yes. But not stupid. I’m quite certain I’m doing the right thing.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Guy leaned forward, gesticulating with his knife.
‘Because Richenda knows who she is. She’s a person in her own right. She’s confident, talented, successful. And I don’t think she’ll be intimidated by Eversleigh. Or swept away by it.’ Guy chose his words carefully, knowing this was the only chance he had to convince his mother he was doing the right thing. ‘I think we’ll
be an ideal partnership. We both have things in our lives that are incredibly important to us, that give us our identity. So we’ll be able to support each other. But at the same time give each other enough space to be who we are…’
He cringed inwardly, knowing he was talking like some grim American chat-show host, but it seemed to do the trick. Madeleine sighed.
‘Well, I suppose television stars are the new aristocracy,’ she conceded, and lit a cigarette while he was still eating, another of her French affectations and one that Guy found deeply irritating. ‘Does she realize what being mistress of Eversleigh entails? It’s virtually a full-time job.’
Guy stabbed at an errant cornichon with his fork. ‘Maybe you could talk her through it? You know what’s involved far better than I do.’
‘I’d be delighted. I think it’s only fair to let her know what she’s letting herself in for. And how irresponsible the Portias males can be.’
Guy smiled inwardly at this little dig, then realized that Madeleine was merely subtly shifting the balance of power by allying herself with Richenda. He put his fork down and pulled one of his mother’s cigarettes out of the packet. He found he was suddenly nervous. He had won his mother over all too easily, for the time being at least. There were no more obstacles in the way, a prospect that was rather unnerving. He wondered whether he’d secretly wanted Madeleine to wade in and stop the proceedings, tell him she forbade it. But of course she wouldn’t have. He was a grown man, after all, and she had absolutely no reason to object.
His mother’s voice cut through his deliberation.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting the master bedroom.’
Guy stubbed his cigarette out studiously. Anything rather than meet his mother’s eye. He couldn’t confess that he’d spent the night shagging the arse off Richenda in that very room.
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll have it done out for you,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’ve been putting it off as it is. I couldn’t bear the thought of it being used for paying guests.’
‘Thank you,’ said Guy faintly, not daring to ask if Richenda could choose the wallpaper.
‘We’ll have champagne in the small sitting room at six. It’s just a pity your father’s not here.’
Madeleine said it as if Tony was off on a fishing trip, not six foot under in the graveyard. Nevertheless, Guy managed a small smile at the thought of his father with Richenda. Tony would have had even less of a clue about what Richenda did than Guy, but he had appreciated a beautiful woman. It was amazing how sexually attractive the absent-minded professor act could be when executed correctly. His father had been utterly exasperating and totally charming. No regard for mealtimes or bedtimes, dress codes, deadlines; he had been a law unto himself. Guy suspected he’d never had to confront a bill or a bank statement in his life, let alone a leaky tap. Which was why Madeleine’s life hadn’t been any more difficult since his departure. Just empty.
‘Then Richenda and I can have a little chat,’ Madeleine carried on. ‘I want her to be quite clear what she’s letting herself in for.’ She put her slender hand over Guy’s in a
rare moment of affection. ‘I’m very pleased for you, darling. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’
Guy’s stomach gave a little flip. With his mother’s seal of approval, he realized he was moving into the next phase of his life. Things couldn’t stay the same, after all. He was thirty-five – he couldn’t remain a bachelor much longer without attracting speculation. No, it was definitely time he settled down and faced up to his responsibilities. He told himself he was bound to feel nervous. He felt certain everyone had doubts. It was a lifetime commitment, after all – no one could ever be a hundred per cent sure they were doing the right thing.
‘I’ll go and pay’ He stood up and went over to the bar. While Barney totted up the bill, Guy wondered why his stomach was still churning. Had the terrine been too rich? Or was there a more sinister meaning? He leaned an elbow on the bar.
‘Tell me,’ he said to Barney. ‘How did you feel when you proposed to Suzanna?’
Barney looked up, somewhat startled.
‘What?’
‘Were you shit scared?’
‘Well, yeah. I suppose so. It’s not every day you ask a girl to marry you. But I was excited too.’ A smile spread over his face. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
Guy scratched his head, grinning a bit bashfully.
You’ll read about it soon enough. In the papers.’
Barney gave him a playful punch on the arm.
‘Congratulations, mate. And don’t worry. You’re bound to feel nervous.’
As Guy counted out the money for lunch, he tried to
feel reassured. But still he couldn’t ignore the little nagging feeling of doubt. And he thought he knew what it was. He adored Richenda, that was certain. His heart leaped when she came into the room, or when he woke up next to her; he missed her dreadfully when she wasn’t around. But he wasn’t sure he knew her. She was mysterious, alluring, enigmatic – all things he found incredibly attractive and a turn-on, but he wasn’t sure they were qualities you looked for in a wife. ‘Wife’ said to him comfort, cosiness, familiarity – knowing about each other’s hopes, fears, bunions, childhood illnesses. When you looked at Barney and Suzanna, for example, you knew they knew each other inside out. But he hadn’t a clue whether Richenda had had chicken pox, or whether she liked marzipan. Or even where she’d like to go on their honeymoon. It would be up to him to book it, but he wasn’t sure of her ideal destination. Or even if she was afraid of flying…
As he drove his mother back through the lanes to Eversleigh, Guy told himself it was up to him to take their relationship on to the next level, to dig underneath the passion and the novelty for something more solid and sensible. He felt certain he would be reassured by what he found. And, he reminded himself, if it all went pear-shaped he could always bail out. They were only engaged, after all, and engagements could be broken off. It wasn’t as if they were getting married tomorrow.
While Madeleine and Guy went out for lunch, Richenda took the opportunity to wander round the house safe in the knowledge that she could explore for at least an hour before they got back. Not that she wanted to snoop,
exactly. After all, she’d spent the best part of six months at Eversleigh. But it had been always teeming with cast and crew, lit by ferocious lights, crammed with cameras and cables and wires, its walls resounding with shouts and instructions. Panic and turmoil had reigned. Now a gracious calm had settled upon it, and apart from the few members of the production team who were restoring it to its former glory, and the men taking down the marquee, she had the place to herself. She wanted to revel in the wonder of its thick walls and take in the glorious fact that soon she would belong here. She would be Mrs Guy Portias, of Eversleigh Manor.
Loads of stars were buying up mansions in the Cotswolds. Elizabeth Hurley and Kate Winslet had already succumbed; even Kate Moss was rumoured to be looking for a place in the country. But there was a world of difference between buying a stately home and actually having the right to be there. The Portias family had inhabited Eversleigh Manor for five generations. Their coat of arms was set in stone over the front entrance.