A Hopeless Romantic (31 page)

When the conversation moved on to Lulu’s latest career path—in this case, her burning desire to be a singer-songwriter—Laura tried not to let her incipient hysteria overwhelm her.

“So, what kind of thing…” Angela asked politely, piling up the bowls.

“Lululu’s had a lot of interest already, haven’t you, Lulu?” said Annabel, a fond smile cracking across her wintry expression. “She made a demo tape—that’s a demonstration of her songs, Mary. At her friend Barrett’s house. Some record producers are
very
interested, apparently. She’ll have to pick and choose who she goes with.”

“It’s like—it’s kind of my own stuff, my own message?” said Lulu, coming alive a little. “Like—like Dido, but she’s so kind of…you know,
commercial.
Really hackneyed. It’s sad, really. I don’t want to be a sellout, you know. I just wanna do my own stuff, really say something with it. Stuff…that’s happened to me. Really personal stuff, you know. Just for me, not for anyone else.”

“So—you don’t want to sell any copies,” said Laura acidly, as Angela disappeared into the kitchen, followed by Jasper and Cedric.

“Yeah, of course I do. Obviously, if people like me…” She smiled coyly. “But”—Lulu’s eyes glazed over, and she ran her finger around the rim of her glass so it made a chalky, whining sound—“I don’t want to be on
Top of the Pops
or any of that shit. I don’t want to be on magazine covers. I really don’t want that stuff. I just want to write, songs and stuff?”

“Right,” said Laura. The sound of Lulu’s long fingers on the glass was excruciating. “So, who’s asked you to be on the cover of a magazine, then?”

“No one,” said Lulu, staring at her as if she were talking to a moron. “I just won’t do it when they do ask.”

“Right,” said Laura, getting up. She said in a friendly tone, “I really hope no one’s interested, then. Good luck, fingers crossed for you.”

“How’s the job, Laura?” Annabel called from the other end of the table. “I’ve hardly said two words to you so far. How is everything? Mum says she hasn’t seen much of you lately.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Mary patiently. “I said it was lovely to have her here and spend all this time with her.”

“Yes,” crooned Annabel, as if she were talking to an imbecile. “I know.
Lovely.
” She swept on. “That reminds me,” she said inconsequentially, “I did a talk to a lovely group in Bexleyheath the other day, on preserves and the larder. And guess who was there?”

“Who?” said Mary, as Laura picked up the plates.

“Lady Rose Balmore,” said Annabel.

“Who?” said Mary again, as Laura put the plates sharply down on the table.

“You know. The Marquis of Ranelagh’s sister.
Lovely
woman. Chartley Hall.”

Cedric was standing by the French windows, watching the group with a detached air. He said, “Vivienne Lash’s daughter.”

“Who?” said Annabel sharply, turning round to see who had interrupted her so rudely. “Oh, Cedric! Hello! Er—well, we obviously didn’t talk about
that
, of course.”

“I did a few films with her,” said Cedric reminiscently. “Stunning creature. Flighty, though. Pretty mad. Still, gorgeous. Beautiful breasts.”

“Belle, old girl, you remember,” said Robert, harrumphing a cough into his big fist. “Actress. Nice looker. In all those fifties comedies. Ran off with the brother. ’Member?”

“Yes, of course I remember,” said Annabel. “Anyway, Lady Rose Balmore. I had the chance to meet her, most interesting woman. We discussed Chartley, you know—”

“Yes,” said George, coming alive abruptly. “We went there on Wednesday, had a great day, didn’t we, Laura?”

“Ah,” said Annabel, not particularly interested. “Well, we talked about Chartley. I asked her—I hope she didn’t mind!—how her brother was getting on. He’s younger than she, you know. Dominic. And she said very well, and then I told her the apples at Chartley were perfect for jelly, and she must be sure to make some this year. She said she would pass it on. Well!”

With a lightning flash of certainty, Laura knew, as sure as the tide was coming in, that this was what Lady Rose had been coming to find Nick about less than two hours ago, and the cosmic irony of this made her want to laugh out loud, but of course she didn’t. She sat down again, rather weakly, and poured herself another glass of wine. There was some dead dry skin on her feet, and she bent down to pull it off in a small act of bad manners directed at her aunt.

“Anyway, I mentioned—only in passing—that my stepmother had a house on the coast nearby, and she was most kind about it, very nice. She even asked—”

“There’s a car just pulled up in the drive,” said Jasper, wandering out onto the terrace, drying a glass with a tea towel. “I wonder who…”

On the stone stairs by the side of the terrace, the sound of footsteps rang out, and a deep voice called tentatively, “I am—I’m sorry to disturb you. I just wanted a quick word with—is this where Laura’s staying? Is she here?”

Laura sat up sharply, or rather tried to, and banged her head hard on the table. “Shit,” she muttered, and turned around.

There, walking toward the table, walking toward her, was Nick. Right there. A real-life marquis, the most eligible man in the country, and he was looking for her.

Opposite her, Aunt Annabel’s jaw dropped, so low that a bone clicked loudly in the silence.

chapter twenty-eight

C
an I help…” Robert began, half rising, but the words died on his lips.

“Oh, my God,” said Lulu. “I know who you are! You were in
Harpers
last month! You’re—”

“It’s you,” breathed George.

Aunt Annabel tried to pull herself together. “Good Lord,” she said. “You—you’re—”

“Ah,” said Mary. “Of course! It’s you.”

“Hello,” said Nick. “I’m Nick.”

“Oh, my God!” said Angela, appearing on the terrace with a summer pudding in her hands. “You’re…” She regained her composure remarkably fast, and said, “Pudding?”

Dominic Edward Danvers Needham, twelfth Marquis of Ranelagh, Earl of Albany Cross, returned the gazes of those grouped around the table. Lulu giggled and turned her stringy frame toward him, her huge eyes even more enormous than usual.

“Er, no, thanks,” Nick said. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your lunch. I just wanted a quick word with Laura here…” He stared at her intently across the table. “Laura?”

Laura, meeting his gaze, stood up instantly. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to the others. “Er—start pudding without me.”

“Fine,” said Cedric, hugely enjoying the street theater going on in front of him. He took out his pipe.

Annabel glanced at it disapprovingly. “We’re having pudding now,” she said firmly, her eyes following Laura. “You can do that later.”

Laura escorted him away from the goggling family group, down the stone steps that led to the beach.

“Sorry about that,” said Nick as Laura shut the gate. “I hoped you might have finished.” She turned to face him. “Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” she said uneasily. “I—”

“Look,” said Nick, scratching his cheek, “I won’t disturb you for long. I just wanted to see you again. You were so strange this morning. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yes, of course,” said Laura, impulsively reaching out and putting her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry, really sorry. I know you’ve got loads on today—I knew I was in the way.”

He held her hand, pressing it against his rib cage. “That doesn’t matter, Laura. Seriously. You’re not—I was worried you might have regretted it. Last night.”

“God, no,” said Laura, rather too frankly. She clapped her hand to her mouth, as he smiled. “I mean…no, of course not. It was—” She met his eyes, and smiled back. “It was great. You know it was.”

“It was,” he agreed. He was still holding her hand. “I’m glad. I thought you might have had second thoughts. About it all.”

“No,” she said. “No, I haven’t.”

Nick looked up at the sky. He was suddenly serious. “It’s getting late,” he said, switching gears. “I can’t stay long, either. I wanted to ask you to come tonight.”

“Tonight?” said Laura, not understanding. “But you’ve got the…”

“Yes,” said Nick. “It’s the family dinner thing. It’s good fun. Charles’ll be there. And Lavinia.” He grinned quickly. “You’ve met her, remember?”

“Yes,” said Laura. Her head was spinning. “Yes, but—Nick—me? Come tonight? Why?”

“I want you to,” he said simply. “I want to have you there. Please.”

“Nick, it’s a family thing,” said Laura uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t want to—”

“It’s lots of people,” said Nick. “Laura, I keep thinking I’ve shortchanged you this week. Not telling you who I was.” He shook his head. “I thought perhaps you might like an evening at Chartley, just one more night, Laura. I don’t want you to think I didn’t tell you because of…some stupid reason.”

“Go there—with you?” said Laura.

“Yes, absolutely,” said Nick. “And I won’t leave you on your own. I promise.”

Laura felt slightly sick, like before a big meeting at work. How could she say no? How could she say she didn’t want him like that, that she
didn’t
want to be his date, the one everyone was staring at, like Prince William’s new girlfriend or something? That she just wanted him, by himself, them together, nothing else…? Oh, this was ridiculous, it was getting out of control. “Er—” she said, not knowing how to say that she couldn’t, she didn’t want to, that they weren’t meant to be together at things like that.

But then she was saved. Her phone, which was in her pocket, rang.

She whipped it out of her pocket and jammed it up to her ear, turning away from Nick, who stared at her, obviously rather taken aback. “Hello?”

“Laura?” came a jagged voice, crackling over the sound of the sea and the wind.

“Yorky!” Laura said. “I’ve missed you! How are you? I didn’t reply, did I? I’ve…”

“
Why
didn’t you reply?” Yorky’s voice was aggrieved. “Laura, I’m freaking out, man. Becky’s coming up here! She’s coming up here at eight.”

“I can’t believe you finally asked her out,” said Laura. “Well done, man. What happened to the boyfriend?”

“I didn’t ask her out!” Yorky practically shouted. “She asked me! And before I could screw it up, I said yes, without thinking! What am I going to do? She says she thinks I’m a lovely guy!”

Nick walked away, toward the sea. Laura watched him, the cast of his dark head, his wiry frame, the way he walked, his slightly stiff bearing.

“No!” she said, not paying attention. “She never said that, seriously?”

“Thanks,” said Yorky. “Thanks for your support.”

“Sorry.” Laura tore her gaze away from Nick and swiveled round toward the dunes.

“So, when are you back tonight?” Yorky said. “You need to be here, to have the nuts in bowls ready, and all of that. While I’m cooking.”

The last time Yorky had cooked for a girl on a date, he’d made salmon and cucumber mousse, which he’d whipped up in the food processor so much that it looked like gray foam. He’d served it with some carrots, and that was it.

“Why are you cooking?” said Laura. “Don’t cook. Take her out! And why do I need to be there?”

“To talk me up!” said Yorky, his voice rising. “You have to say things like ‘Hey, Yorks! Did you mend that cupboard while I was away? How did you reach it?’ And I’ll say, ‘Well. Because I’m a big strong—’”

She was standing on the edge, the edge of the precipice, and she couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to…“Yorky,” Laura interrupted. “I’m not coming back tonight.”

Nick heard. He turned around.

“Laura! No!” said the voice on the phone crossly.

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Promise. We can have a debrief then. I’ve got lots to tell you.”

“Really?” Yorky sounded dubious. “So, sorry to be a bad flatmate. How are you? How’s it all been?”

“Great, actually,” said Laura, as Nick walked toward her. He raised his eyebrows. She put her finger to her lips, smiling gently at him, trying to breathe normally, pushing aside the voice that told her she was in too deep, she was vulnerable. He was there, in front of her, looking at her with those eyes; nothing else mattered—for the moment.

“So,” Yorky said, recalling her to herself. “What are you doing tonight? Something mega-exciting, eh? Night at the pub with Ange and George?”

“No, a ball at a stately home with a marquis,” said Laura, and Nick wrapped her in his arms and kissed her neck.

“Absolutely,” said Yorky on the other end of the phone. “Me too. After I take Becky for a drink at the Cavendish, we’re going on to dinner at Buckingham Palace.”

“Well, there you go, then,” said Laura. “Ow.”

“You sound muffled, is something in the way?”

“No, just bad reception,” said Laura. “I’d better go. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” said Yorky, as Laura dropped the phone on the ground, and Nick kissed her again.

“Who was that?” he asked after a minute or two.

“My flatmate. He’s having a romantic crisis,” said Laura, twining her arms around his neck. Trying not to sound anxious, she added, “Nick—tonight. Am I mad? It is going to be okay, isn’t it?”

“I promise,” said Nick. “You’ll have a great time. Don’t worry about any of the other crap.” She scanned his face, and his hold on her tightened. “Honestly, Laura. I’ll be there, won’t I? We’ll be there together.”

She looked at him and smiled, and at that moment Fran, leaning over the wall up at the house, yelled down at her top decibel level that they were cutting the cake, and was Laura coming back up again or not?

Aunt Annabel appeared next to her, and boomed graciously, “Your lordship, you are, of course,
more
than welcome to—to eat the cake with us.”

Laura’s toes curled up in their flip-flops. She and Nick looked at each other, and she saw his lip curl, too. “Sorry,” she said instantly.

“Don’t be,” said Nick. “Thank you,” he called, his voice carrying up to Annabel. “I must go—thank you again, though.”

He turned to Laura. “You’ll stay the night, Laura?” He pulled her toward him. “So, can you get to mine for eight?”

“Absolutely,” said Laura, ignoring that his invitation to make her way to his thirty-five-bedroom, five-thousand-acre, Grade One–listed estate by eight o’clock was phrased as “Can you get to mine for eight?” She smiled to herself, something she thought she might be doing a lot of before the evening was over and she got to be alone with him again. “I’ll drive, then.”