A Hopeless Romantic (50 page)

“Nick, listen,” said Charles more loudly.

“What?” said Nick. “What are you talking about?”

A kaleidoscope of images and words started rushing through Laura’s mind. The e-mail. The broken phone. Charles’s nerves. Nick’s expression.

“Oh, God,” said Laura. She looked at Charles. “Charles—?”

“I invited her,” said Charles, standing straight and looking at Nick. “I invited her down. Pretended to be you. I thought you should see her again. I thought you two should—sort it out. There are things you need to tell her, Nick.”

“You did
what
?” said Nick, advancing toward him.

“Oh, shit,” said Laura. “Oh, no. No, no. You sent that e-mail, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Charles. His expression was defiant, aggressive, as with those who know they are wrong but feel they have just cause to be. Laura and Nick stared at him as he stood between them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Well, I’m not sorry. She’s here now, Nick. She can’t go back till tomorrow. I know you both hate me, but—but I did the right thing.”

Laura swallowed, and shifted on both feet. She didn’t know what to say. The gravel crunched under her shoes. She wished she were anywhere. Anywhere but here.

“The right thing—” Nick swore under his breath. He took a step toward Charles. “Charles, you—oh, God. What have you done?”

He grabbed the shoulder of his friend’s jacket. Charles stared at him impassively. They were still for a few tense seconds; then Nick released him and stepped back.

From behind them, through the vast wooden entrance doors, came a lilting voice: “Nick! Nick, darling! Come inside! I can’t find the drinks. I’m thirsty!”

As if she were a housewife ordering her husband around through the patio doors at a barbecue, there at the stop of the stairs was Cecilia Thorson, in a headscarf, wide print skirt, pretty little pumps. She fluttered, birdlike, halfway down the stairs. “Nick? Nicky,” she said across the driveway. “Are you coming?”

“What’s she doing here?” said Charles sharply, under his breath.

“Rose invited her,” said Nick. His lips were thin, his voice expressionless. “She turned up about fifteen minutes ago. Now do you see what I mean?”

He turned back toward Cecilia. He didn’t even look at Laura, or Charles. He took a deep, ragged breath. “Yes,” he said, looking up at her. “I’m coming, Cecilia.”

His back was still turned to Laura. “Find her a room,” he said in a low voice to Charles. “She can be your date tonight. I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow, Charles.”

And without another word, he strode away toward the steps. He took them three at a time, took the outstretched hand Cecilia offered him, and led her inside. Laura watched him as if it were a scene from a film, not her life. She put her hands to her throat, trying not to retch. She couldn’t breathe.

chapter forty-six

A
ny additional worry that Laura might have had about being an uninvited guest for whom there was no room was swiftly put aside. Charles, mortified, ushered her in—through the front doors, that was something; she thought in a daze that if she’d been swept in by the back door, like a call girl on hire for the evening, she would actually have
walked
all the way back to London—and she was met by Mrs. Hillyard who, with calm professionalism, treated Laura’s arrival as if it were entirely part of a plan, as if she were a deeply welcome guest. Within two minutes, Laura had been shown to a pretty little room, decorated in toile de Jouy and replete with flowery porcelain, on the side of the house toward the sea.

“Drinks are in the great hall at seven o’clock,” she said with a smile. “Do let me know if there is anything you need, Miss Foster.”

Let’s see, thought Laura as she sat on the edge of her bed. A revolver with three bullets, one for me, one for Nick, and one for bloody Charles? A helicopter out of here? And a memory wipe so I never remember this? Look on the bright side, she told herself, as a tear rolled down her cheek and she sniffed loudly. At least the slight question I had in my mind about whether or not this was going to work out is gone. At the ridiculousness of that thought, she gave a watery chuckle. “Oh,” she said, turning round and opening her suitcase, trying not to give in to it all, “this is completely absurd!”

She opened the case. There, lovingly packed at the top, hastily rewrapped in its paper, was the claret-colored dress she had bought to wear that evening; and at the sight of it, the memory of buying it, the memory of showing it to Mary a few hours ago when she had been so full of excitement and anticipation, Laura’s resolve crumpled, and she cried. She bit her lip, hard, walked over to the wardrobe, and hung it up. It swayed in the old teak case in solitary splendor.

The matching bag and shoes, which she could also ill afford, she put at the foot of the bed, and then she looked around the room. The old, gun-colored radiator was on the other side, miles away from the bed. Was it even on? She suspected not. She suspected she would freeze tonight. She took out her underwear, and shuddered. Unpacking was becoming like a horror film with lots of flashbacks, each item invoking a new memory of the pathetic hope with which she had packed it, and a corresponding moan from her at how stupid she had been, how completely embarrassing all this was. The jaunty little cardigan and jeans that she’d packed for Saturday, not knowing what they’d be doing, hoping it would be something as wonderful as the summer…ugh. She threw the suitcase on the floor, and kicked it under the bed. The room was cold, she realized; she went over to shut the window.

Outside on the terrace below, a man in a long white apron was polishing an array of silverware: candlesticks, plates, platters, trays. The doors to what Laura thought were the kitchen were flung open, and he was chatting away to someone invisible inside. Next to him stood a rather recalcitrant, awkward-looking teenager, polishing with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Around them was a buzz of activity, although always dignified. People kept emerging, shaking out various things, consulting with the polisher. Two gardeners trundled past, each pushing a wheelbarrow. They stopped at a respectful distance from the silver-polishing, made a few inquiries, went on. In the distance, the pine forest was black against the early evening sky. Around Laura in the great shell of the house, lights were coming on, illuminating the façade as she looked out of it.

She had never felt more alone, more out of place, more unwanted. It was an odd sensation, the numbness before the real pain kicked in. She didn’t know which was worse.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, and there was Charles.

“Hello,” said Laura, slightly coldly. She turned away, drew her suitcase out from under the bed, and resumed unpacking.

“Laura,” said Charles. He bent his head formally, as if abasing himself before her. “I came to tell you I’m so sorry for this bloody awful situation. I’m a total idiot. Should never have tried to pull something like this.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I know,” said Laura, trying to be understanding, he looked so desolate. “Never mind.”

“No,” said Charles, flexing his fingers in agitation. “Listen, Laura. You know I had no idea Cecilia’d be here.”

“Obviously you didn’t,” said Laura wryly.

“You know Nick didn’t either. He’s furious with Lady Rose for inviting her.”

“Bully for him,” Laura murmured.

“Laura, there’s nothing going on between them, you do realize that?”

“Are you serious?” said Laura. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Charles hopped from one foot to the other. “Well, of course there’s something going on, but it’s not what everyone thinks.”

“Well, I think they’ve had sex, and I also think he only met her because her parents are incredibly rich and on the lookout for a nice catch for their millionairess daughter and his sister wants them to get married,” Laura said. She was biting her lip, trying not to let him see she’d been crying.

“Right,” said Charles. “Well, you’re right about that—but—I was only trying to help.” He sank onto the bed and rubbed his eyes. “And of course it’s all messed up. He’s furious with me. Never seen him so cross.”

“Well,” said Laura. “Oh, Charles, don’t look like that.” She wiped her nose on her forearm rather inelegantly, sniffed loudly, and sat down next to him. “You were honestly trying to do him a favor. He can’t really be that cross with you, can he? Why?”

“Don’t you know why?” said Charles. “You really don’t know why he’s furious, that you’re here? And she’s here?”

“No, why?” said Laura.

“Think about it,” said Charles. He got up and stood there, looking down at her. Laura’s face was blank.

“God, the two of you,” he said eventually. “You’re each as bad as the other. You’re both just too bloody stupid to see it.”

“What do you mean?” said Laura. She shook her head, staring up at him blankly. Her pupils felt dilated, her limbs heavy; she was tired with the shock of it.

“Work it out for yourself, Laura,” said Charles. He flicked her cheek with his finger, an oddly touching gesture. Laura smiled. “I’ll pick you up at seven, then,” he said, heading for the door.

“Do I really have to go tonight? Face all those people?”

“Nobody knows, do they?” Charles pointed out.

“You’re right,” said Laura. “It’s hardly like the girls in my sixth form are waiting downstairs to laugh at my shame.”

“Exactly. Get dressed, you’ll feel better, smile that lovely smile of yours, and you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Laura smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you.”

“See you later.”

It was five-thirty. She was suddenly exhausted. She looked at the pretty little bed covered with old lace cushions, the bedstead she knew was real old cast iron, not bought on sale from a bed warehouse in Dalston, and lay down on it, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. She thought she heard the door open, but she said, “Shoo,” and turned over and carried on dozing.

Laura woke up to a loud knocking on her door. Without looking at her watch, she knew instinctively that it was Charles, and that she was late. She jumped out of bed, trying to ignore the head rush it gave her, and hopped to the door.

“Shit,” said Charles, gazing down at her. He was in a smart suit, his short hair carefully wetted and combed back. Laura followed his gaze, from the creased jacket she hadn’t taken off since leaving the train to her rumpled skirt; she could feel her hair was standing up in odd places all over her head. She rubbed her eyes, and put her hands to her hair experimentally. Hm.

“It’s seven o’clock,” said Charles desperately. “Laura, did you—”

“I fell asleep,” said Laura. “I was tired. Shit. Sorry.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said helpfully. “I’ll wait outside.”

“No, no,” said Laura. She didn’t know Charles hugely well, but she knew him enough to know his idea of hell was tardiness of any kind. She patted his arm. “Go down, Charles. I’ll see you down there. I’ll be ten minutes at the very most, and I mean that.”

“Are you sure?” said Charles. “I can hold the fort. Explain you’re on your way.”

“Oh, Charles,” said Laura, leaning wearily against the doorframe. “You are totally perplexing to me. Who’s going to care if I’m late or not? No one even cares that I’m there in the first place.”

“I do,” said Charles kindly. He looked her up and down, sucked his lips in, and smiled. “And Nick does, even if he might not show it.”

“Charles,” said Laura gently, “please don’t.” She coughed. “Look, it’s going to be hard enough to get through this evening as it is. If you keep being jaunty and optimistic, I might actually lose what remaining cool I have and belt you. So”—she tried to sound mock-scary, when in reality she wasn’t angry, simply tired, dead tired, wanting to fall asleep and never wake up again—“we’ll go, have some nice food and wine and chats, and tomorrow first thing you drive me to the station. Okay?”

“Well,” said Charles doubtfully, “maybe not first thing. This Harvest Festival dance—it goes on pretty much all night, you know. You don’t want to miss out.”

“God, you really don’t get it, do you, Charles?” said Laura, and she made to shut the door. “See you down there.”

“Now, hurry and get ready, and I’ll be waiting for you downstairs by the door. Hurry up!” He shut the door behind him.

Laura stood up straight. Right, she thought. Right, then. If this is as bad as it gets—bring it on. I’m going to do it. It’s going to be okay.

Twenty minutes later (it would never have been ten minutes, never), Laura nervously clutched the huge newel post at the top of the Grinling Gibbons staircase and began her descent. It had taken her a good few minutes to find the grand staircase in the first place. She had got lost, gone down and up various corridors and into various alcoves, feeling totally insignificant and lost, like a dormouse. She peered down into the great hall at the bottom, where the guests were all congregated, drinking champagne. Laura clambered down the stairs as quietly as she could, trying not to draw attention to herself. It was a hard staircase to navigate in high heels—the railing had clumps of terribly intricate grapes and apricots and what looked alarmingly like a real-life rat but she thought must be a squirrel, and she didn’t know what to hold on to and what might fall off. Halfway down, she looked across at the wall and saw a normal, everyday railing attached to it. She clicked her tongue, but it was too late to stagger across the wide steps and use that instead. Typical. So she carried on, negotiating the steps and the carved fruits of the world with the utmost care, taking in the scene below her as best she might.

It was as if the stage were set for something. There was a sense of expectation in the air. A long night was ahead of them; all those present clearly knew that. It wasn’t the terrifying set of people Laura had thought it might be—posh, ghastly, noisy, superior—certainly nothing like last time. That was something. There were a few Colonel Mustard types, but there were also lots of quite nice, ordinary-looking people. Everyone was in suits and smart dresses, Laura was relieved to see. She hadn’t been sure of the dress code when she bought the dress; looking down, she knew she wasn’t going to look out of place, sartorially at least.