A Hopeless Romantic (20 page)

“Don’t mind, really,” said Mary, slapping her hand down on the wooden arm of her chair. “Honestly, love, I really don’t care. The main thing is having all my family there. It’ll be so lovely. Annabel’s making some amazing cake thing. It sounds fantastic.”

“Great,” said Annabel’s stepsister, slightly icily.

“It will be lovely to see Lulu and Fran again, won’t it?” Mary said. “And Simon will be back then, won’t he?”

“He will,” said Angela. “Well, I hope so.” A frown crossed her face as George shifted in his seat and said, “Harrumph.” Simon was not exactly renowned for his reliability, nor indeed for his communication skills when away. Although this time he had been quite good—they’d all had postcards, and the usual long e-mails detailing people and places that meant little or nothing to Laura, but seemed to give her parents and Mary no end of pleasure, since they kept rereading them out to each other.

Laura feared for her mother if he didn’t make it back in time. She knew that in some small part of her mind, Angela had obviously, fervently, envisaged a scene where Simon strode in, tall and tanned and charming, with a lovely poncho-style present for his grandmother, greeted his family and aunt, and was a general hero for coming all the way back from Machu Picchu just for lunch, whilst skeletal Lulu and heavy-thighed Fran looked on and contributed nothing, and Annabel had to concede that, yes, for once, the Fosters had won this round.

Laura changed the subject. “What’s for supper? Anything I can do?”

“No, it’s all ready,” said Angela. “Some salady things, I hope that’s okay. Something simple so we could eat by eight.” She turned to her mother and smiled brightly. “Mum, you must be tired after all that gardening today—you’ve really cleared it all out, haven’t you? It looks marvelous, I must say.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Mary. “Good-o.”

“Yes, yes,” said George amiably, picking up the thread of his wife’s conversation. “I’ll give you a hand tomorrow.” He paused, and rubbed his hands together. “Sooo. Tomorrow. Where shall we go, dear? I thought the windmill at Moxham might be nice. What do you think?”

“Well,” said Angela excitedly, “we could try for the Seekers Tribute Band in the evening, couldn’t we?”

“Yes, we must!” said George. “Tasks for tomorrow, Angela! Now, let’s get the guidebook and decide what to do tomorrow, eh?” He loped over to the table and picked up the guidebook. “Hm.”

He bent his head in concentration, as Angela looked happily out to sea and Mary downed the rest of her drink. Laura glanced at her watch. It was seven-fifty. She looked up, out across the lawn. The sun was crowning the sea, casting long golden shadows across the water. It was very still. Suddenly she stood up.

“I’m going out,” she said.

Her parents looked up at her, bewildered.

“What?” said Angela. “Where? Going out where?”

“Just out,” said Laura. “Can I take the car?”

“Er—no!” said George. “You can’t suddenly announce you’re taking off just before supper. Where are you going?”

Laura bit back a sharp reply, and instead said, “Sorry. I just want a drive. Someone I used to work with—well, she lives up here. Naomi? Do you remember her?” Her parents’ faces were blank. “She works for the Wetlands Trust now. Well, I got a text from her earlier. She’s over at the George. I thought I might join her for a drink, but it’s rude of me to leave without having supper”—she plowed on, aware she was laying it on a bit thick but hoping against hope it’d work—“so perhaps I shouldn’t go, you’re right. I just fancied a bit of a change, getting out, seeing some friends.”

Laura’s parents looked at each other, and Laura held her breath. She knew they were thinking, She’s been through a bad time. Not sure how bad. But something’s not right. Perhaps this is a good thing. Young people ought to get out and about on holiday. Shouldn’t they?

They must have managed to convey these thoughts to each other by ESP, because they nodded at each other at the same time. George produced the car keys and dropped them reluctantly into his daughter’s hand.

Laura pocketed them, grabbed her book, and turned to go. “Thanks, Dad,” she said as she disappeared into the sitting room. She grabbed a wrap and her handbag, dropping her book into it, and ran out onto the terrace again. “I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

“Don’t be back too—” Angela began, then silenced herself as Mary shot her a warning look.

Laura ran across the gravel, and jumped into the car. The bushes on the path up to the house were already blacky green in the early dusk. She turned on the engine and drove away, leaving the house behind her. As she sped through the lanes in the evening air with the window open and her hair blowing in the breeze, she found herself feeling not like Mrs. Danvers for the first time in days, but more like Mrs. de Winter herself. With a bit more spine, hopefully.

When she arrived at the George, twenty-five minutes later, it was well after eight, and there was no sign of Nick. It was extremely crowded, as if the whole populace of Norfolk, indigenous and tourist, was having a drink there. Laura pushed through the throng, avoiding the glares of disapproval as she made her way to the lounge, where people were sitting with drinks, the doors flung open to the pub garden. She walked through them, looking left to right, but couldn’t see him.

Standing there in the busy pub, she suddenly wondered if he’d meant it or not, this casual invitation he’d thrown at her. What would she and Nick the farmer, groundsman, estate manager person,
whatever
it was he did, talk about? They had nothing in common. Why had he asked her for a drink? And why had she come?

She breathed deeply. She couldn’t go home just yet; it was too embarrassing. Apart from that, she realized that she would rather stay here and look like the loneliest person in the room than spend another evening with her parents. In fact, she quite liked it in a funny way, being here by herself, no ties, no responsibility, no dragging feeling of guilt about what she was doing. It was a drink with a nice stranger, no ties, nothing. She was a free agent, after all, she could do what she liked. Her new self rather liked that. She’d stay here, damn it, and enjoy herself, whether he showed up or not.

So Laura went up to the bar and got herself a glass of white wine, then went and sat outside at one of the tables by the French windows and opened
The Nine Tailors
; but she soon found she couldn’t read. She fingered the postcard portrait of the seventh marquis and gazed into the distance for a while, thinking about lots of things. Imagining her parents’ expressions if they could see her now, she allowed herself a small smile. Her sense of the ridiculous, which had lain dormant for a while, suddenly resurfaced, and she laid the book down on the table and grinned broadly. Here she was, basically having a date with herself, and it was the best evening she’d had in quite some time. It was tragic, really, when you thought about it, but she just didn’t care.

So she sat there till it was nearly nine, reading her book and occasionally looking up to take in her surroundings. She felt perfectly content, enjoying her own company for the first time in a long while. But then suddenly, a deep voice behind her said, “Excuse me, are you waiting for anyone?”

At last. Laura looked up, a quick retort ready on her lips. But standing in front of her was a tall, large man with a rather fleshy face whom she’d never seen before, tucking his shirt into the back of his waistband and looking impatient.

“Sorry?” she said, taking a moment to recover.

“Are you expecting some friends?” the man said again.

“Er,” said Laura warily. She really wasn’t in the mood to be chatted up. Good grief, men were incredible. Just because she was on her own and reading a book! Six months ago, perhaps she would have smiled and said, “No! Sit down!” and then developed an inappropriate crush on him, but now…“Well—” she said, trying to let him down gently, and grimaced. “You know…” She shrugged.

The man looked at her as if she were a half-wit, and Laura felt even more uncomfortable. He definitely worked in the City, a banker or something, Laura thought, nodding to herself.

She glared at him rather crossly, but he said, unheeding, “Look, it’s just there aren’t any other tables, and we’re having food. There’s five of us.”

“Eh?” said Laura.

“Is there any way you’d mind moving”—he pointed at one of the sofas, where there was a small square of squashy leather free—“over there, so we can sit here?”

Highly embarrassed, Laura shot up out of her seat. “Ha-ha! No! I mean, yes, of course you can! Ho!” she practically yelled, and then felt like an idiot.

“Thanks a lot, seriously,” said the large man, heaving himself onto the bench. “I should buy you a drink.” He slapped his wallet and drink down on the table, and as he did, the beer slurped up out of the glass and over Laura’s skirt.

“Oh, shit,” said Laura, wanting to be irrationally cross and shout at him, all of a sudden.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay? Can I buy you another drink?”

“No, don’t worry,” said Laura, in a tone meant to convey that she was not okay and he should buy her another drink; moreover, he should get a towel.

“Really sorry,” he said. He patted ineffectually at the table with large, meaty hands, and looked at her skirt as if he should do the same there. “Erhm. I’m such an idiot. So sorry.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” said Laura, turning to smile magnanimously, and found herself humiliatingly talking to thin air, as the man had turned back to his friends, who were huddled together, waiting for her to leave.

“Great,” said Laura out loud, feeling suddenly exposed, rather like someone whose skirt has been ripped off.

She threw an evil look at the tall man as she turned to go, her good mood evaporating as she pushed her way back through the throng, which seemed to have grown in the intervening hour. The queue for a table was just as long, would-be diners lounging in a bored fashion, waiting for the bills of the previous occupants to be paid. She pushed politely past them, and stumbled as she stepped out into the car park. She headed for the car and fished for her keys. Definitely time to go home.

“And where do you think you’re going?” came a voice from behind her.

Laura froze, her key poised above the lock of the car. She turned slowly, and there was Nick, striding easily toward her across the floodlit gravel. He looked smarter; he’d changed out of the T-shirt and jeans and was wearing a worn but clean, freshly ironed shirt and khaki trousers. He was tall, she remembered now, taking in his close-cropped hair, the almost harsh contours of his face, the strong cheekbones, the dark eyes. She almost didn’t recognize him. He looked…different, somehow. Like a different person.

“Where have you been?” he said as he came closer. “I assumed you’d stood me up.”

“Me!” Laura squeaked uncoolly. Her voice was unrecognizable to her own ears. “I waited for you for”—she looked at her watch; it was after nine—“for at least forty-five minutes! How dare you!”

“So you got here around eight-thirty. Hm,” said Nick easily. “And you’re surprised that, having said I’d be there at eight, by eight-thirty I’d assumed you weren’t coming and went upstairs to say hi to someone in the office.”

“You said you’d be here
from eight,
” said Laura accusingly. “I didn’t—I wasn’t going to come—anyway, well…”

She turned back to the car and stabbed ineffectually at the lock with her keys.

“Oh, calm down,” said Nick. “Look, you’re here now. Why don’t we have supper? Come on, you might as well, and I haven’t eaten yet—I’m hungry.”

“Ooof,” said Laura, staring helplessly up at him. “I—God. I’m tired.”

“Me too,” said Nick. “Look, Laura—I’m apologizing. Come and have some food and then go home. You can’t not eat, for God’s sake. The food is amazing, I promise you. What were you going to have with your—with your boyfriend back at home instead?” He smiled mockingly at her.

“Oh, shut up,” said Laura, but she smiled back into his face, and put her keys into her bag. “Thank you, that’d be lovely. I’d love to have supper with you.” She looked him up and down. “You look smart.”

“There was a reception at the house,” he said easily. He looked down at her. “Let’s go inside. They won’t keep the table forever.”

“Great,” said Laura. She stared at him.

“Get a move on,” said Nick unemotionally. “There’s a bloke over there I don’t want to spot me. We’ll be here for hours if he does.”

“Where?” said Laura. Nick pointed at the table-nicking, pint-spilling large man, who was guffawing loudly with his friends in the corner of the garden at Laura’s table.

“Ha,” said Laura. “I know him.”

“You do?” said Nick, slightly surprised. “City chap—can’t remember his name. Works for a bank? Sorry. I didn’t realize he was a friend of yours.”

“God, no,” said Laura, slightly hysterically, in case Nick thought she was consorting with strange, annoying men while waiting for him. “He split a pint over me. Spilt, I mean, he spilt a pint, and I was all—”

“Look,” said Nick, “mind if you tell me this story upstairs? He’s looking over.”

“Right,” said Laura. “Sorry.”

“No problem. Looking forward to it. It sounds great.”

He held the door open for her, and they stepped through into the pub together.

chapter eighteen

T
hey threaded through the crowded pub together in silence. Safely out of view of the table-stealer in the corner, Laura watched as Nick shook hands with various people and had his back slapped. She hung back a little, not wanting to announce herself to a roomful of strangers who obviously all knew this man well. It was his local, after all, and who was she? Some girl he’d met that afternoon whom he’d asked for a drink. But why?

Stop it.
Stop it,
she told herself. This is why you’re always getting into trouble! Your imagination runs away with you. She looked at Nick, who was shaking off some old fellow-farmer bloke. He looked rather uncomfortable, and he pushed her gently ahead of him through the rabble, almost as if he were in a hurry to leave them all behind. Laura liked the feel of his warm, firm hand on the small of her back, then brought herself up short. Remember, Laura, she said to herself, he is
not
Prince Charming. He is a nice, good-looking man and you are going to have a drink with him. Just because he made an amusing joke about the Seekers,
don’t
go casting him in the role of romantic hero. You don’t know him. He is a virtual stranger, he’s not Rhett Butler. Reality. Reality.