‘Madeleine, is it?’ said Henty, impressed. ‘And what’s Guy like? From all accounts he’s an absolute dreamboat.’
‘Very charming,’ agreed Honor. ‘And,’ she added as Henty’s eyes lit up, ‘very devoted to his fiancée.’
‘Bugger,’ said Henty. ‘I could see you ensconced in the big house, popping out heirs and running the village fête.’
‘I’m afraid the position’s already been filled,’ said Honor with a grin, pulling another chocolate digestive out of the
packet. It was half an hour until she had to go to the manor. Just long enough to explain to Henty the reappearance of Johnny in her life. She was, after all, Honor’s best friend, and if she was prepared to air her own dirty linen – quite literally – it was the least Honor could do to reciprocate. And she was so unsure about what path to take. She knew Henty would be sympathetic and she longed for some guidance, or at the very least some reassurance.
Honor knew the day was drawing nearer when she would have to make a decision about when to tell Ted the truth. It wasn’t fair on him or Johnny to allow them to build up a relationship based on a false premise. But once Ted knew, it meant the presence of Johnny in her life was cemented, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She needed to establish some ground rules, a clear framework within which to operate. But until she could be sure of her feelings, that was impossible.
Sometimes she felt a surge of affection for Johnny, beguiled by his charms, and then she would remind herself that that was his speciality, casting a spell that made you blind to his faults. That was when she tried to step back and be objective, counting his many failings, chief of which was his conviction that the world revolved about him. And Honor knew that attitude did not make for good parenting. She didn’t care if he let her down, messed her about, but it could be only a matter of time before he did it to Ted. And that was when the trouble would start…
In the meantime, it would be nice to have someone else’s opinion. She opened her mouth to spill the beans when Henty leaned across the table, eyes shining.
‘Can I let you into a secret?’
‘Of course.’
‘I can’t keep it to myself any longer, but you must promise not to tell anyone. Especially Charles.’
‘I won’t breathe a word.’
Henty took a deep breath.
‘I’m writing another book.’
‘Good for you.’
‘It’s fallen into place all of a sudden. I’ve had the idea for ages but I haven’t done anything about it. But now I’m ready. I want to prove that I’m not just a wishy-washy overweight housewife –’
‘Nobody thinks that of you!’ protested Honor.
‘Want to bet? That’s exactly what Fleur thinks.’
‘Well, don’t do it for her benefit.’
‘I’m not. I’m doing it for me.’
‘So what’s it about?’ Honor was genuinely curious. She’d read and loved
Chelsea Virgin
.
‘It’s sort of semi-autobiography mixed with fantasy’
‘Whose?’
Honor grinned.
‘That would be telling. But I’m having quite good fun with the research.’
Richenda had never believed in miracles until today. But the transformation that had taken place in front of her very eyes was almost on a par with turning water into wine.
Cindy Marks had arrived promptly at nine o’clock, whereupon Richenda had swifdy and efficiently given her the version of events that she wished her viewing public to read. It wasn’t far from the truth – there was little
point in lying. But to give it a satisfying twist they focused on Richenda and Sally at long last being able to rekindle their relationship, having been kept apart by a controlling monster all of these years. A monster who had rebuffed their individual attempts to make contact with each other (this was exaggerated, but impossible for Mick to deny); a monster who had at long last been put to rest. That way any attempt at a backlash from Mick would just look like the spiteful revenge of a man whose wicked plan had been foiled.
By eleven o’clock they had concocted a masterpiece between them: a thoroughly heart-warming fable of reconciliation. Richenda was at pains to ensure that Sally was happy with the content, because the last thing she wanted was for her mother to start retracting statements and making denials. After all, it wasn’t impossible that Mick might get her back into his clutches. Unlikely, but not impossible.
Cindy, meanwhile, was ecstatic. She arranged a photoshoot for five o’clock that afternoon, and gave Richenda a substantial budget for a total make-over. By midday, a rather dazed Sally was in the chair at Richenda’s favourite hairdresser in Beauchamp Place, who had strict instructions to take off at least six inches and as many years. The hairdresser put a rich chocolate brown vegetable dye over the hennaed grey, then, despite Sally’s alarmed squeaks of protest, lopped off half her straggly mop. The end result was a glossy, layered shoulder-length bob with a long, sexy fringe falling over one eye.
‘Steady on,’ murmured Richenda
sotto voce
as she paid the hefty bill. ‘I don’t want her looking too good.’
They galloped up the road to the boutique where she bought her more casual clothes. The rails were stuffed with beaded cardigans, customized jeans, silk tops, luxurious sweaters and the most mouth-watering array of accessories from earrings like crystal chandeliers to dainty pearl bracelets: a veritable dressing-up box for grownups. Sally’s eyes widened when she looked at the price tags, wondering if perhaps the nought was in the wrong place. She picked up a mohair sweater, fine as a cobweb. It was four hundred pounds.
‘Jesus. I could knit that in half a day,’ she whispered, scandalized.
‘Ssh – don’t worry about it. The
Post
are paying,’ chided Richenda. ‘Right – let’s decide what look we want to go for. I’m thinking rock chic, rather than rock chick. I know Lulu can carry it off, but you don’t want to look like Chrissie Hynde on a bad day.’
She knew she was being blunt, but the pictures were going to be vital. And the look that Sally favoured was rather harsh – black leather was unforgiving. The idea was to retain her image – Richenda didn’t want to turn her mother into something she wasn’t; that would be humiliating – but soften the look up to make it more flattering. And Sally seemed excited by the idea, exclaiming with delight over the clothes, eager to try on whatever Richenda suggested. In the end, they chose a dark-red silk chiffon top with wide sleeves that looked perfect over a white T-shirt and jeans, teamed with a pair of high, pointed suede boots, some strands of amber beads and an armful of bracelets.
Sally stood slightly self-consciously in the middle of
the boutique for everyone’s approval. It was incredible to think that this was the same woman who had appeared on Richenda’s doorstep the day before. That Sally had been faded, drawn, dated, a ghostly apparition of times past. Now she looked bohemian but glamorous. And the thing that did most to enhance her appearance was her smile; all day long she beamed with happiness and excitement.
‘Right,’ said Richenda, looking at her watch. ‘We’ve got just over an hour before we need to get to Kensington. Nail bar, then make-up. Hold on to your hat!’
Outside St Joseph’s, the crowd of mothers was gradually expanding as half past three came closer. Henty stood on the periphery, unnaturally quiet, trying to suppress the bubble of mischief inside her. Every time she thought about what she was going to do, she wanted to laugh. But she needed a deadpan expression if she was going to pull it off. Not that it was really that funny, when you thought about it. Charles’s behaviour was disgraceful, but he was a weak, vain and silly middle-aged man insecure about being the wrong side of forty. Fleur, meanwhile, was a traitor to the female of the species. They both needed teaching a lesson, before things got out of hand. Henty could just about handle the situation as it stood at the moment, but she knew if it got any more serious she’d be devastated. Which was why Honor’s idea was so perfect – it would bring them to their senses, and make them realize how ridiculous their behaviour was.
Honor was by the gate. Henty didn’t dare catch her eye
or she knew she would collapse, so she stuffed her hands deep into her Barbour pockets and kept her head down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fleur arrive at the gate, her hair immaculate, her expression supercilious. She gave her a smile, and strolled over to her.
‘Hi. Great evening on Saturday. I really enjoyed it.’
‘Yes. Me too.’ Fleur was cautious, aware that people were listening, curious as to what they might have been up to. ‘I love the Honeycote Arms.’
‘By the way, I think you might have dropped these while you were there.’
Henty held the knickers aloft by one of the ribbons. A dozen pairs of eyes widened as they realized what they were.
‘They certainly aren’t mine. They wouldn’t fit me,’ continued Henty sweetly.
Fleur turned white, and then bright red.
‘I don’t know what you mean. They’re not mine either.’
‘Well, they must be Charles’s then. I found them in his pocket. I never knew he was into women’s underwear.’
The pants dangled in mid air between the two women. Eventually Henty tossed them into the wastepaper bin outside the school gates that usually held drinks cartons and sweet wrappers.
‘Pity. They must have cost a fortune.’
The rest of the mothers turned away, smiling and exchanging scandalized glances. Fleur turned on her heel, her jaw set, her lips tight, clearly furious but unable to admit it.
Honor sidled up to Henty.
‘If that doesn’t warn her off, nothing will,’ she
murmured. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of public humiliation to put the likes of Fleur in her place.’
The reunion photoshoot took place in a smart little town-house hotel in Kensington – neutral territory where everyone could relax. They ordered proper tea, with tiny triangle sandwiches filled with cucumber and egg, and scones, and cakes oozing cream, all served on delicate bone china. Cindy ordered champagne as well, to give it a sense of occasion.
Richenda and Sally sank back into the comfort of the hotel’s sofa, smiling and laughing for the cameras. And it wasn’t put on – they each felt a genuine sense of elation at being together, combined with a sense of glee that they had triumphed over Mick. Cindy was quite delighted. It was so refreshing to do a positive story once in a while. She did occasionally weary of muckraking, but as a tabloid journalist it went with the territory. There was just one more question she had to ask. She came and sat on the arm of the sofa, then leaned down and picked a tiny chocolate éclair off the cake stand.
‘By the way,’ she said casually. ‘How does Guy feel about all of this?’
There was a pause. Richenda smiled.
‘He’s absolutely delighted, of course. We’ve arranged a reunion for the weekend. In the country. He wanted us to have a few days alone together to get to know each other again.’
It was almost like reciting a script; as if she’d been up all night rehearsing her lines. Cindy would have no idea that she hadn’t mentioned a thing about her mother’s
reappearance to Guy. Not that she was hiding it from him, exactly, but the time had to be right. After all, she’d been lying to him as well as the rest of the nation.
Unfortunately, Honor and Henty had severely misjudged their opponent. By showing Fleur up in front of the other mothers, Henty had merely thrown down the gauntlet. Fleur was determined that this was now war. She’d prove to that frumpy little dollop who had the upper hand. She arrived back home, put out milk and biscuits for her two children, then draped herself over the sofa in the living room while she made a phone call, admiring her reflection in the glass of the enormous plasma-screen television, stroking her flat stomach and running her hand over the generous curves of her breasts.
‘Charles…’ she purred. ‘It was gorgeous to see you at the weekend. We need to meet.’
‘Of course.’ Charles sounded a tiny bit nervous. After Fleur’s performance on Saturday, he felt uncertain about what he’d begun. Not that he wasn’t incredibly flattered, but she was a bit scary.
‘What about this pilot?’ she continued smoothly. ‘I was thinking Wednesday. It’s a quiet day for me at the shop. I can leave my assistant in charge. If you came here then we could get the cameras rolling.’
Charles hesitated. A week ago he would have agreed with alacrity, but he was getting cold feet. While he still thought the pilot was a great idea, he was a little wary of Fleur’s motives. There was something slightly unhinged about her, something –
‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you?’ she enquired.
‘I’m sure I could take the idea to someone else.’
Charles opened his mouth to protest that it wasn’t her idea to take elsewhere, but knew that if she did there was bugger all he could do about it. Terrified that she might, and that he would miss out, he hastily reassured her.
‘No, no. I’m just checking my diary. Seeing if I can rejig.’
Charles flipped through his diary. He had one appointment on Wednesday morning – a fresh-faced graduate who was convinced she was the next big thing, who’d described her work as magical reality meets chick-lit. Charles knew she was unlikely to have any talent whatsoever, but there were worse ways of spending time than imparting your wisdom to suggestible young girls hungry for fame. However, Fleur was a better prospect, so he put a line through the appointment and declared himself free.
‘I’ll email you a rough script,’ he said crisply, trying to sound businesslike. ‘You don’t need to follow it to the letter, but it’ll give you something to bounce off.’
Fleur smiled to herself. If she had her way, they’d be bouncing off the walls, the ceilings, the floor…
‘Fantastic. What do you think I should wear?’
‘Um…’ Charles swallowed hard as a number of possibilities ran through his mind, none of them suitable. ‘Something practical but pretty?’
Fleur snorted in disdain.
‘How deeply dull. I was thinking thoroughly impractical but sexy.’
There was a teasing note in her voice. Charles laughed lightly, realizing he sounded as if he was taking the whole thing too seriously.