Rules for Dating a Romantic Hero (2 page)

‘It’s from Topshop,’ Laura said. ‘The only thing I can afford from Marc Jacobs is a plastic bag.’

‘Right. He doesn’t actually do plastic bags. OK. Well …’ Her eyes strayed round the room, like a lazy magpie.

‘Have you seen Nick?’, Laura said hurriedly. ‘He was up so early this morning I missed him.’

Lavinia shook her head. ‘No. But Charles said they had some project. They’ve been in his study for hours. He’s exhausted. There’s so much going on at the moment, isn’t there?’

‘Er … yes,’ Laura said vaguely. The truth was Nick had been so wrapped up in the house lately, closeted away with Charles, full of plans, and she wasn’t part of them. The finances of Chartley, not great since his money-wasting father’s death, were more worrying than ever thanks to mortgages, insurance premiums and the modernising of the estate. ‘I don’t really know what’s up.’ She felt that she could at least talk to Lavinia about things. ‘I feel bad. I’ve been so busy with the shop that I haven’t really asked him about it.’

‘Right. Egg, don’t bite Mummy, OK? You look great, Laura. Oh, I meant to ask? What’s the free book situation, by the way? Just let me know when you know.’ Lavinia bent forward and suddenly kissed Laura, ‘Well done. You’re such a clever girl, I honestly don’t know how you do it. See you later.’

Laura was left facing the door.

She turned back, looking herself over one more time with a sigh. Why did her dresses always crumple the moment she put them on? Why was her hair already greasy? Then she took another deep breath. You’re a real person. You’ve got a proper job working four days a week for the council, for God’s sake. This bookshop is another job. So that makes two more jobs than Lavinia or Rose have, unless you count butting in as a job, in which case, yes, they have full-time jobs—

The door swung open again. ‘Yes?’ she almost snarled.

‘Hello, Laura.’ Nick stood in the doorway and her heart jumped at the sight of him. He paused at the door, looking at her, then shut it quietly. She thought with a pang how tired he looked. He was always tired these days. ‘I’m sorry I missed you this morning.’ He came towards her and took her in his arms. ‘You look gorgeous.’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’ She inhaled the smell of him – sweet, hay-like sweat, something spicy. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘All set for today?’

‘Oh yes. Your sisters are both on excellent form, by the way.’

Nick kissed her. ‘Forget about them.’ He stroked her cheek. She loved the feeling of his body against hers, his comforting, muscular solidity.

‘It’s jolly hard to when they stroll in while you’re getting dressed. Can’t we get a lock for the door?’

‘Rose only wanted the candlesticks,’ he said into her hair.

Laura stepped back. ‘Aha, she didn’t actually. She came in to check on me. Make sure I wasn’t wearing something stupid.’

Nick sighed. ‘She means well.’

‘No she doesn’t!’

He laughed. ‘You’re right. She means unwell. Never mind. I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ She kissed him, his jaw, his nose, his lips.

‘Can we start season three of
The Sopranos
tonight?’

‘You bet.’ She gripped his shoulders. ‘Nick, thank you for today. For everything.’

He looked at her, almost amazed. ‘Why? It was your idea. You got the funding, you found the place. You’ve done everything while still doing that other job back in London. You’re incredible.’

‘I’m not. And we don’t know if it’s going to work.’

‘It will work. That’s what I’ve been talking to Charles about. The estate’s changing. We need to plan for the future. Find other reasons for people to come here, and you’re a main part of that.’

For some silly reason, Laura could feel her heart thumping in her chest. ‘Me?’

‘I mean the shop. Not you. I know you hate all that stuff.’ He sounded so businesslike. She was oddly shy then, and glad when he pulled her towards him again, and kissed her gently. ‘You can do anything, Laura. And this is your thing.’

They stepped apart, still smiling stupidly at each other. She grabbed her shoes and bag and the two of them walked out together, down the winding old staircase and out onto the corridor, hung with portraits of Nick’s ancestors. Laura gazed up at a Van Dyck portrait of Lady Sybil Needham. She’d taken over the running of the estate and then moved to Paris in her old age, marrying a man thirty years her junior. Hello old girl, she thought, staring at the poised figure with the serious eyes and clever face. I’ve always rather liked the look of you.

The first group of tourists stopped and stared.

‘Oh my God, it’s you,’ a woman in her fifties carrying a camera and a guide book, said. ‘Gosh. I’m sorry!’ She laughed, near-hysterical. ‘So good to see you!’

‘Hello,’ said Nick. ‘Er, you too!’ He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Everything OK? I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.’

‘We’re having a wonderful time,’ said her friend, who had severely bobbed grey hair. ‘Absolutely marvellous. Everyone says it, but you don’t believe it ’til you’re here. This really is the most beautiful house we have, isn’t it?’

‘Well,’ Nick said, putting his hand on the small of Laura’s back, ‘I think so.’

The two of them glanced in surprise at Laura by his side. ‘Well, lovely,’ said the first, uncertainly.

‘My girlfriend’s opening a children’s bookshop in the village this afternoon,’ Nick said. ‘We’re on our way there now. You should drop by, it’s wonderful. Excuse me.’

They smiled, but their expression was curious. ‘Right. Thank you,’ the first one said. She looked Laura over, rather disappointed. ‘How nice for you, dear,’ she said vaguely. ‘Marjorie, let’s be moving on.’

‘I think she was hoping for a character from
Downton Abbey
instead of me,’ said Laura as she and Nick emerged into the Great Hall and walked across the black and white marble flooring, taken from a Roman palace.

‘You’re exaggerating,’ Nick said. ‘She just wished you weren’t there. Or dead.’ He held the door open and she passed through, down the golden stone steps, and the visitors who were just arriving stopped and stared.

‘Welcome to Chartley Hall,’ Nick said, holding the door open for them and smiling in a friendly way. ‘Thanks so much for coming to our home. Have a fantastic time.’

‘That lady he’s with, she’s the girlfriend from nowhere,’ she heard one of them say as they walked away. ‘I read about her in the paper last week.’

‘She’s from Middlesex or something isn’t she?’ another one put in. She could feel their eyes on her back. ‘Her dad’s a handyman or something. Do you know they couldn’t even afford to go abroad when she was a kid? They had a caravan. I read that somewhere.’

‘Well, she’s got her claws into this one, hasn’t she? Good for her.’

‘It’s not easy, being the girlfriend of the most eligible bachelor in the whole country. After Prince William, that is, and he’s out of the running now!’ The crowd gave an excited laugh. You could sense them thinking: At last. Someone’s mentioned it! Rose, in her absolute element at the microphone, gave a wicked chuckle. ‘They’re pretending not to hear me. Well, big sisters are supposed to embarrass their little brothers, aren’t they?’

Laura shot a glance at Nick out of the corner of her eye, but his gaze was fixed firmly to the floor. In front of them was the shop, its new sign bold green and white:

Laura’s Place

A bookshop for children and their grown-ups

Once again, Laura wished her parents were here. But she’d been too – shy? Worried? – to invite them, and they’d come down the previous weekend instead to see the shop. It was stupid, because they’d have loved it. They were so proud of her, getting this whole thing off the ground. If the rest of her life baffled them, this, at least, was something they could entirely get their heads round and tell their neighbours about.

‘It’s hard, dear, knowing what to say to people. I don’t like to brag about it. After all,’ her mother had said, without meaning to sound unkind. ‘What is there to brag about? You’re not married to him. He just happens to be …’ And she’d trailed off.

He just happened to be Dominic Edward Danvers Needham, twelfth Marquis of Ranelagh, Earl of Albany Cross, Lord of the Handfast, owner of Chartley Hall and 10,000 acres of land. Title created over 600 years ago after the Wars of the Roses. House designed by Inigo Jones. The finest collection of Renaissance drawings in the country. A muster of peacocks (yes, after three years, she knew what the name for a group of peacocks was). And a diamond tiara worn by Queen Victoria during her first tour of India. To say nothing of the castle in Scotland, the properties in London, the diamonds and other jewels residing in the vault, the foundation that gave away millions of pounds in grants every year.

And she just happened to be a normal girl – nothing more, nothing less – from a London suburb, a house with a rusty climbing frame in the garden, a caravan, enough money for new shoes, but not enough money for holidays abroad. A safe life, a boring life, a happy life.

When she’d told her parents what she was planning, her mother had clapped her hands together. ‘Well, Laura, that’s great! Good for you. We were worried …’ She’d glanced at her husband, who’d stared into his newspaper as though it held the secret to the location of the lost city of Atlantis. ‘We were worried you might not have anything up there that’s your own.’

‘Oh,’ Laura had said, a little puzzled.

Then Angela Foster had said, ‘It’s such a big place. And to me you still seem … so small.’ She had laughed, tears in her eyes, and Laura had suddenly found herself struggling not to cry as well. ‘I just … well, I’m very glad you’re doing that. We’re very proud of you.’

Laura had spent nearly ten years working on volunteer reading programmes for a local London council, and Laura’s Place was her long-term dream come true. A place for children to flick through all the books they wanted. A playground, with cabins at the back of the garden. There was room to sleep up to twenty children at a time. Eventually the old school house, which had been turned into a shop, would also become a centre where kids from all over the country, especially deprived areas or families where English wasn’t their first language, could come for a weekend. To learn about the joy of books, camping, bonfires and games on the estate. Each child would be given a bag of books and a mentor to stay in touch with afterwards.

She hoped to replicate Laura’s Place elsewhere in a couple of years, but that was the next stage. She was waiting for the final funding to come through from a few sources, including the Needham Trust, the charitable foundation run by Nick’s family which, like many charities, could only give away so much each year.

The following weekend, she and Nick had agreed to an interview with Laura’s greatest enemy, the
Daily News
, who were obsessed with her and her relationship with Nick. One of the advisors who’d helped set up the shop had arranged it. ‘You have to do it. It’s a talking point, to promote the shop and secure that last piece of funding. You have to sound credible. Happy. Together. Committed.’

She loved that.
Committed!

The old red brick gleamed, the green front door and white windows sparkled with fresh (dry) paint. Inside the shop was stacked with shelves and brightly coloured furniture, bean bags, cushions and mats, so anyone could sit on the floor and read.

Casey, the manager, was a local single mother of two. Brian, the vicar’s husband who was an ex-teacher, was now part-time bookshop assistant. Both stood proudly beside Laura. They were all exhausted. Nick took the microphone from his sister Rose.

‘Thank you, Rose. I won’t keep you, ladies, gentlemen and children.’ He grinned. ‘This is a wonderful day for Chartley. For us, and for a generation of children who are going to enjoy this shop. It’s all because of Laura, and I want to raise a glass to her and tell her …’

She lifted her eyes to his, but her smile froze when she saw his expression. She followed his gaze as a slim blonde girl in a white kaftan, jeans and thong sandals, standing slightly apart from the group, waved shyly at him and let her hand slide quickly back to her side.

Laura recognised her but couldn’t place her. Nick looked ruffled, dumbstruck, even. Whoever she was, he didn’t want her here, that was for sure.

Laura nudged him, and he shook his head and continued.

‘I … I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. To Laura’s Place! Oh! Hog roast starting in a few minutes, and please go into the shop and have a look round, buy something, enjoy yourselves. Thank you.’

The local and national journalists in the front row shuffled in annoyance. ‘Nick, smile for the camera please,’ said the largest one, a beefy, red-faced guy. ‘Laura, get close to him, please.’

‘Me, too?’ said Rose, edging towards them.

‘No thanks. Just one of the happy couple. You know what I mean,’ said the photographer as a couple of people sniggered. Laura and Nick stood still, like waxworks in a museum, and when she glanced up again, the girl in white had disappeared. It was then that Laura remembered who she was. Nick’s ex-girlfriend, Lara Montagu.

They’d never really discussed Lara. It was in the past, but it was also too recent. It was one of the things she and Nick didn’t talk about.

She struggled sometimes to remember what the old Laura had been like. The one who’d met Nick nearly four years ago, in a field behind the woods at the back of Chartley Hall. She had reasonably assumed that this tall, muscular man driving a mower was someone who worked on the estate. That girl had probably been pretty normal, Laura thought now, but back then her life seemed to be a total mess. At twenty-six, she fell in love all the time, and she could never seem to see the flaws everyone else did. The guys were gay, they were crazy, they were engaged, or they kept promising to leave their girlfriend, who then turned out to be pregnant.

It was after this, her most recent (and most catastrophic) romantic disaster, that Laura had found herself up in Norfolk staying with her parents at her grandmother’s house by the sea. It was almost a working holiday. Time for her to work out what she was doing wrong, that is: why she kept looking for romantic heroes and ending up with losers. Years of Jane Austen TV dramas and slushy novels about tall, dark, handsome men with curt manners and amazing kissing techniques had twisted her perspective. She’d decided she had to reject everything to do with romance.