A Hopeless Romantic (43 page)

Simon nodded and looked apologetic. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said. “But you don’t know what it’s like, you’re right.”

Jo looked quickly from Laura to Simon. Then she said slowly, “Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? Laura?”

“What?” Laura said, not really paying attention. She put the salad bowl gingerly on top of the pile of plates Yorky had picked up as he staggered into the kitchen, followed closely by a rather shaken-looking Becky.

“It’s not exactly true.” Jo was playing with her wineglass, sliding it from one hand to the other. She looked from one Foster sibling to the other. “About you being with someone really different from you. Laura does know about that.”

“What?” said Laura, bewildered. “What are you talking about?” How could Jo know about it?

Jo nodded at her emphatically. She reached out and took her hand. “Love. We were on the same flight back yesterday as Fran. Your cousin. And Ludo. Had a long chat with them. They’d been in—”

“Singapore,” Laura finished for her. Why did she know that? Yes, Annabel had told her. “So?”

“Fran?” said Simon. “You poor things. For the whole flight? What a nightmare.”

“I don’t understand…,” said Laura.

“We had a long chat,” said Jo. “Fran and me. She told me all about your granny’s birthday party.” She looked searchingly at her friend. “About who was there. About who turned up. You know.”

Laura went pale. She could actually feel the blood draining from her face; it was the oddest sensation. “Oh, my God. Look,” she said, recovering herself, “they don’t know what happened—”

“Well, they couldn’t wait to tell us all about it,” said Chris suddenly, next to his wife.

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Jo, her eyes on Laura’s. “So…it’s true, then? Who you met—up there?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Simon, frowning.

“What if I told you your big sister spent her holiday with your parents having some grand affair with the Marquis of Ranelagh?” Jo said.

“Who?” said Simon blankly.

Jo and Laura were sitting by the pile of newspapers that needed to be recycled, and to Laura’s immense horror, Jo pulled the supplement with the offending article off the top of the pile. Why hadn’t she thrown it away? Why the hell couldn’t she bring herself to just chuck it in the bin?

Jo smoothed the newspaper on the table and jabbed at it with her finger. “One of the richest men in England. His house is over three hundred years old. Look!” She gestured at the picture of Nick, standing in front of the house. “Laura. Is that him? It is, isn’t it? He’s the one Fran told me you were seeing.”

“What?” said Yorky, standing in the doorway holding the plates for the cheesecake. He shook his head violently. “Laura? What’s going on?
Who
’ve you been seeing?” The spoons atop the plates slid onto the floor with a loud clatter.

“Some millionaire marquis,” said Simon, standing behind Jo and peering over the newspaper. “Laura, seriously? My God.”

“Oh, God,” said Laura. She crouched down, picked up the spoons, and slammed them on the table.

“Is this true?’ said Yorky, putting the plates down heavily, sounding like a stern Victorian paterfamilias.

“Er, yes,” said Laura.

“You—shagged—
him
?” Yorky pointed at the paper.

“It wasn’t like that,” Laura said.

“Him?” Becky said timidly. “Seriously?”

“Yes, yes,” said Laura. She could feel her ears burning red. “I was on holiday in July,” she said, trying to explain it to Becky, who was looking really alarmed. “I met him—at his house, when we went to look round, you know. Me and Mum and Dad. He asked me out, we had a few drinks. Um. And it was great. But I had to come home.” She smiled at Becky, as if this were completely normal. “Just a holiday fling.”

She avoided the gaze of Jo, whose small, determined face was watching her, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. She turned to Yorky, who was shaking his head at her. He gave her a small smile. “I knew it,” he said. “Just knew it. Didn’t you?” He turned to Jo.

“Yes,” said Jo. “Bloody hell, yes.”

“A marquis? You must be over the moon,” said Simon slowly, drawing the paper toward him. “Your very own romantic hero. When are we going to meet him?”

“You’re not,” said Laura. “I’m not seeing him again.” She stood up. “You didn’t bring in the ice cream, Yorks.”

“But—” Yorky said. “Why not?”

“It was a holiday fling, nothing more,” said Laura. “You won’t believe me, so I can say it till I’m blue in the face, but it’s true. He didn’t tell me who he was, I thought he was just some ordinary bloke. We were—” She stopped. “I thought we were friends. Yeah, we slept together. Yeah, it’s a beautiful house. Oh, the idea of it was all very romantic. But it didn’t work out. It’s just—well, the reason it was never going to work out with me and Nick is, we’re so different. Too much difference. It’s a fairy tale. Fairy tales aren’t real. And that’s why—I worry about you and Jorgia, and I shouldn’t. You’re right, it’s not my business.”

“Ah, sis,” Simon said, putting his arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze. Next to him, Yorky leaned over Jo and Becky to stare at the article. Chris watched them all stoically. Simon said in an undertone, ‘I’m sorry, Laura. I mean it. Let’s forget it. But I think you’re wrong, you know.” He paused. “I love Jorgia, that’s all I’m sure about. Seriously. You don’t fall in love with someone because it’s convenient.”

Sadness flooded into Laura’s heart, a great wave of it, overtaking her so unexpectedly that she was almost knocked out by it. She felt so alone, all of a sudden, and she couldn’t understand why, when here were her two best friends and her brother. What if Nick were here, she thought for a second, and she could put her head on his chest, feel him draw her close to his body, feel safe, as safe as she had in his house, in bed. What if she could tell him all of this, how would it be? She wished…No, she reminded herself. Forget it.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t work?” said Jo urgently, in a quiet voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to see him again?”

Laura wanted to laugh. Those were two totally separate things, weren’t they? Of course she was sure it wouldn’t work. And of course she wanted to see him again. Her eyes filled with tears. Mistake, mistake. She could not let Jo see her cry, could not let them see it meant anything to her.

“Oh, darling,” said Jo softly. “You’re not very happy at the moment, are you?”

“I am,” said Laura. “I’ve got a date next week,’ she added weakly, as a diversionary tactic.

“Well, that’s good!” said Jo encouragingly. “Do you like him?”

“Oh, yes,” said Laura. “He’s—yeah. He’s great. Met him through work. He’s a financial analyst something. Er—seems really nice.”

“What’s he called?”

“Marcus,” said Laura reluctantly, and the image of Marcus, fiddling with his cuff links, loomed large in her mind’s eye.

“Look, there you go, then!” said Jo, trying to seem inordinately pleased. “No more marquises, eh? A nice, normal date with a nice normal bloke, just what you need.”

“Er—” said Laura, not sure how to respond. “Well—I suppose so.”

chapter forty

W
hen do you have to meet this man, darling?”

“Not till seven-thirty, don’t worry.”

“Here, one more glass? And I’ll just go and get the necklace.”

“Absolutely, thanks, Gran. This is really kind of you.”

“Well, it’s lovely to see you, my darling girl.”

Laura drained her glass, and her grandmother poured some more champagne into it. “There you go,” she said, and she padded back into the kitchen to put the bottle in the fridge. “I’ll just get the necklace.” She disappeared down the corridor.

Laura gazed around the flat, then looked out the window. It was a still, light autumn evening, with just a hint of cold in the air. She was meeting Marcus at a champagne bar near the Royal Courts of Justice, where the dinner was taking place, and since Marcus had rung her up the previous morning to confirm, and mentioned casually that it was very formal black tie and could she please be dressed appropriately (“Classic,” Jo had said when Laura told her this. “He obviously thinks you dress like a hooker”), Laura was demure in a black velvet dress falling just below the knee, tied with a pale silver Regency-style ribbon high on the waist. But she needed something else to not feel cheap, so she had rung up her grandmother and, killing two birds with one stone, asked if she could a) come to see her that evening to b) borrow her diamond necklace, which had been Mary’s own grandmother’s.

From the window in Mary’s sitting room, one could see across the rooftops of central London, down south to her beloved Selfridges, toward Mayfair and Hyde Park. The sitting room was light, filled firmly with old, odd pieces of furniture from Mary and Xan’s travels. An old Moroccan rug, woven with gold, hung on the wall. A mahogany writing desk, stuffed with letters and housekeeping files, all written in Mary’s huge, looping scrawl. There on the wall was the picture of Xan that Laura loved so much. He was standing in the garden at Seavale, the sea in the distance, leaning on a spade and smiling at something past the camera. A rough cloth sun hat was jammed on his head. And there, staring up at him with frank adoration, was a very small (Laura thought four, perhaps) Simon, naked except for a pair of shorts, gazing with his mouth open. Laura smiled as she looked at the picture. It was funny how much Simon resembled his stepgrandfather. He was slow to anger, quick to laugh, just like Xan had been.

After what Simon had said to her the previous Saturday, so cold and harsh, after Laura had seen the open disdain in his eyes, she had taken a long hard look at herself. Was she different now? She knew she wasn’t the wide-eyed romantic she’d been a year ago. But had she, in trying to turn over a new leaf, to protect herself, gone too far the other way? She thought of Jo’s comforting hand on her arm as she tried not to cry, thought how nice it would be simply to burst into tears and tell her all about it, how much she missed him, how she thought perhaps Mary might have been right all along but she had the feeling it was too late.

It wasn’t too late for her, though, she knew that now. She wasn’t going to change, again. She was just going to stop being this way or that way and simply be herself, again. Stop hiding. Stop dressing things up in fairy-tale costumes or dressing them down, packing them away and keeping them hidden. Just be herself. Go on dates, work hard, have a laugh. Enjoy herself.

She looked at her watch. “You okay, Gran?” she called. She could hear her grandmother in her bedroom, clinking various boxes open and shut.

“Here it is.” Mary appeared, shaking her fist in the air. “It wasn’t where I thought it was, I couldn’t find it. Silly of me.”

She opened her hand. Against the wrinkled, soft palm lay an old link chain and, at the center, a cluster of stars with twirling tails, intricately and beautifully made. One stone caught the light outside and twinkled quickly.

“Let me put it on you,” Mary said, and she shuffled past the armchair and slid the necklace around Laura’s neck. “Look at yourself.”

Laura patted her collarbone, loving the feeling of the scratchy, cold metal on her skin, and stood up to look in the small looking-glass by the balcony door.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “Just lovely.” She was glad her hair was up, twisted loosely into a chignon, so that the necklace could be seen. It was beautiful. Laura felt grown-up. She took Mary’s hand. “Thank you so much for letting me wear it tonight,” she said. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

“Of course you will, darling,” said Mary, staring at the necklace. “You’d be wise to anyway,” she added, turning away. “It’ll be yours one day, when I’m dead. Then you can wear it all you like.”

“Well,” Laura said, slightly briskly. “We don’t know that, do we? It should be Annabel’s, and anyway, I’m not having this conversation with you, Gran!”

“Not Annabel’s,” Mary said stubbornly. She picked up her drink, still standing in the middle of the room, and said rather gothically, “You’re my blood daughter, not her.”

“Mum is, you mean,” said Laura, feeling rather uncomfortable.

“Who?”

“My mum. Angela. She is.” Laura pointed to the wedding photo of her mother on the wall.

“Yes, yes,” said Mary impatiently. She blinked, and said accusingly, “Stupid, stupid, we shouldn’t be talking about this, you know.”

“Well, thank you so much. I’m so excited.”

“More excited about the necklace than this date, am I right?” said Mary, and she gave Laura an appraising stare. Her eyes danced, and Laura laughed, partly with relief.

“Er,” she said, picking her glass up again and twisting it round in her hand. “Well, I don’t know about that. Marcus—he’s…”

Marcus had had an invitation for the dinner sent to her, addressed to “Miss Laura Foster,” a thick cream card with gold around the edge; and today she had received flowers at work, a huge bouquet with a message that said, “I look forward to tonight. Yours, Marcus,” which made Shana and Nasrin almost apoplectic with mirth—only Laura had heard them out in the stairwell laughing about something five minutes later, and she suspected it was that.

She thought it was nice, very, very nice. How many people actually did that? And wasn’t it awful that girls spent their whole time complaining about boys and saying they were crap—and then when a boy did something totally lovely and thoughtful, they laughed at him, like it was pathetic and needy and a bit strange? So what if she wasn’t madly in love with Marcus? She’d only met him once, properly; he’d asked her on a date, and he seemed nice if a trifle, well, odd. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The new Laura. She smiled at Mary.

“Yes?” said Mary encouragingly, sinking slowly into a chair.

“Ahm,” said Laura, not sure how to start. She caught her grandmother watching her, with her bright, clever eyes that missed nothing, and thought, Actually, it’s pointless to try and spin this for you, you miss nothing. It was strange that it was so.

“Heard from that nice young man lately?” said Mary.

“What? Him? No. No,” said Laura, giving her grandmother a quelling stare. She took a sip of her drink.