A Hopeless Romantic Part 19

"Yes," said Laura. "Yes, I have."

"Do you think you'll stay in touch?"

Laura gazed into the distance. "Not sure," she said. "We need to talk about that tonight. About a lot of stuff." She came back into the present with a jolt. "I-er, I mean, Naomi needs to sort all that out. With her ex. She's got a lot of things to sort out."

"Ah," murmured Angela sympathetically. She picked up a bag of salad. "What about this? Looks nice."

"It's washed in tons of chlorine, and it's really ecologically unsound," said Laura, throwing the offending bag of salad back. "Oh, Mum," she said in a rush of confidence, "I don't know what she's doing, to be honest."

"Why?" said Angela, her head on one side. "Oh, dear. Why, what's the problem with her boyfriend?"

Laura was silent for a moment. Then she said slowly, "She's only just met him. But she thought-she thought he was great. That they were really good together. But he's kind of lied to her." Her eyes filled with tears; she turned toward the bags of salad again. "Oh, look," she mumbled in a m.u.f.fled voice. "Watercress."

Angela wasn't really paying attention, having drifted toward the vegetables. "Oh, dear. That's a shame," she said vaguely, covering her tracks, her eyes scanning the shelves like an SAS operative. "Carrots, ooh, yes," she said. "Leeks."

Laura leaned against one of the shelves and put her hand to her forehead. She felt hot and rather tired. A night of sleepless tossing and turning, of reaching out to grab her phone, wanting to text him and say, "I know who you are," of wrestling with the knowledge she had now acquired, had brought no more answers. She liked him; he liked her-wasn't that enough? It didn't matter, did it? she told herself, through the long night, as the sky filled with light and the morning came. Surely this didn't really change things?

Then, following simultaneously on, would come the doubts, the questions. Was it really true that he was this person? Someone she felt she knew, and now just didn't know at all? She couldn't reconcile the two: Nick, who loved thin chips, made her laugh, and kissed her as if it was just right; and the Marquis of Ranelagh, this symbol of ancestry and wealth, of formality and duty-this person about whom she had heard so much, as if he were a thing, rather than a living, breathing man. She had turned over and over in bed till the sheets were loose and crumpled, trying to make sense of it, desperate for some calm. That house-the treasures inside it-the history-the family, Lady Rose, Lady Lavinia...the mother who'd left him, the scandal. The publicness of a life like that. Then she knew why he hadn't told her, and she felt a cold feeling start inside her, that this was stupid, doomed, that she shouldn't take it any further.

After all, she'd only just met him. Perhaps even worrying about it was stupid. Perhaps thinking about it was the last thing to do. She wasn't angry with him, or even with herself, for once. She just wanted to see him again, to be with him, and perhaps then she would know what should happen next. Because at the moment, she wasn't sure.

"Naomi's boyfriend lied to her, did he?" Angela said vaguely, putting some leeks into the trolley. "Oh, dear.'

Laura shook herself out of her reverie, and followed with the trolley. "Well," she continued, not really minding whether her mother was listening or not, "yes. She knows he's lied. But he doesn't realize she knows."

"What did he lie about?" said Angela, looking curiously at her.

Laura said sadly, "About who he is."

"What, is he a convict?"

"Kind of. The opposite. Sort of."

Angela looked at her daughter as if she were mad, and Laura said hurriedly, "Well, she doesn't know what she should do about it now. And that's not even the biggest issue," she continued, warming to her theme, as Angela made sympathetic noises and moved around the corner to the condiments, where she bent over slightly, humming and putting her finger to her lip, to run her gaze over a row of mustards. "The biggest issue is, now that she knows he's what he is, that makes everything different."

"What would your grandmother say?" asked Angela. "Dijon? Or whole-grain?"

"Dijon," said Laura, plucking a jar viciously off the shelf and throwing it into the trolley, where it clattered loudly.

Angela frowned, obviously rewinding the sounds in her head so she could respond to her daughter's last sentence. "How is everything different?" she said with astonishing clarity. "Does him having not told the truth about who he is really make that much of a difference, if she feels that strongly about him? Doesn't matter if he's a convict. Unless it's for something really awful, of course," she said, lowering her voice. "But it doesn't, does it?"

Laura stopped still in the aisle. "Don't know," she said, chewing her lip. "I'll have to see. See her and see."

"It is Dijon she likes, isn't it?" said Angela, moving on. "Ask your grandmother when we get home, just to make sure."

"I'll ask her," said Laura. "Good idea."

Before lunch, as Angela stood in the kitchen chopping, dicing, preparing marinades, getting things ready for the next day, and George crouched down by the barbecue, oiling it, speaking tenderly to it as if it were a temperamental dressage horse, Laura wandered out onto the terrace, carrying a huge bowl and a ma.s.sive bag of broad beans to sh.e.l.l under her arm. Mary was crouched over a flower bed, deadheading a pink scented rambling rose that clung to the side of the house. She was wearing sungla.s.ses and had tied an old printed scarf over her hair.

"Ah," she said, standing up with a groan as Laura approached. "Come and talk to me."

"I will," said Laura, pulling a chair up to the table and sitting down.

Mary brushed the dead leaves off her gardening gloves, and winced as she bent down again. "Got everything you needed this morning?"

"Absolutely," said Laura. "You like Dijon, not whole-grain, mustard, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," said Mary. "Loathe whole-grain. Those little bits. In fact, I was thinking we should have some mayonnaise, too. Xan used to make garlic mayonnaise, you know. Delicious, it really was. When we were in Morocco, he-"

Wanting to steer her thoughts in a different direction, Laura said, "Sorry, Gran." Mary looked up, rather crossly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," her grandmother said. She leaned against the slatted wood of the house and undid the scarf covering her hair, shaking it out. "What's on your mind, darling?"

"You-you said you'd met the marquis's mother," said Laura hesitantly. "Vivienne something. Didn't you?"

"Golly," said Mary. She patted her cheeks. "Vivienne Lash. Yes, ages ago. Xan and I met her and Freddy both, when we were living in the south of France for the summer. Saw quite a bit of them, actually."

"Have you met her son?"

"The new marquis?" said Mary. "Oh, no. She was the outcast, you know, darling. She left his father when he was-ooh, barely a teenager, I think."

"Right," said Laura, not really knowing what to ask next, or what she was hoping to get out of this conversation. "So-did she talk about her children?"

"Vivienne?" Mary sat down next to Laura and lifted up her sungla.s.ses. "Not much. Think it was too painful for her. We knew all about it, of course. Everyone did."

"How come?"

"Well, it was a huge scandal. Ma.s.sive. Kept the tabloids busy for weeks."

"Really?" said Laura. "Why on earth? People run off with people all the time."

Mary smiled at her. "Oh, darling. You are naive about things like this. Just because it doesn't interest you, just because you'd rather read about it in the pages of a novel, doesn't mean it's not endlessly fascinating to the rest of the public. Or the newspapers, at least. No, it was all rather juicy to them. For a variety of reasons."

"What?"

"She was terribly famous in her day, you know, Vivienne. Real A-list British star. When she married the Marquis of Ranelagh, it was like a real-life fairy tale. Beautiful actress marries richest peer in the land, that sort of thing."

"And they are...that rich, are they?" Laura said in a small voice.

Mary flexed her right hand, squeezing the secateurs tightly together. "The Needhams? I should say so. Laura, they're the great aristocratic family, you know. Vast wealth. That house is only the tip of the iceberg. There's the place in Grosvenor Square, that castle in Scotland-and they own half of Belgravia, too."

Something caught in Laura's throat; she breathed in the wrong way and started choking, coughing violently. "G.o.d," she rasped, as her breathing returned to normal.

A seagull flew overhead, croaking loudly. Mary looked up, and her gaze followed it as it flew out to sea. She said distantly, "Yes. You know, though, it wasn't enough for her. She shouldn't have married him. I think she loved him, but it was Freddy she really loved."

"Freddy?" Laura said, breathing deeply.

"The brother. I think William-was that it? William? Xan would remember, he-oh, well," said Mary, her face clouding. "Anyway. Yes, it was the scandal for a while. Because she was so well known. And the Needhams were so rich. And she was running off with his brother, you know, that's really not on in some people's eyes. And then there were the children. There were three of them. Yes, that was it. Rose was the eldest. Then there was Lavinia, yes, that was it, gosh, I'd forgotten. And then the boy. The heir. She did worry about him. He was only-what? Nearly twelve when it happened? Still quite small."

The seagull squawked in the distance. Laura stayed very still, her arms around the bowl, not wanting to disrupt anything. She gave a tiny nod, willing her grandmother to tell her more.

Mary sighed, and stretched out her arms. She cleared her throat. "Yes," she said. "I loved her. But she did suffer about leaving that boy behind. Dominic. Nick, she called him. The heir to the whole d.a.m.n thing. What a life. Can you imagine?"

"No," said Laura. "Absolutely not."

"Can't imagine it. Losing your mother like that."

"Well, but she didn't die," said Laura.

"No, but they weren't allowed to see her. Or she them. She missed them dreadfully, you know. I sometimes wonder..." She stopped, and looked out across the lawn, over the wall, down to the sea.

"What, Gran?" said Laura.

"Was it worth it? But they were so in love. And she was so miserable with her first husband, you know. Still."

"Still..." Laura said encouragingly.

"I think she hated herself for it, for doing such damage. Still does, probably. I haven't seen her for years, you know. She was lovely." Mary sighed. "But she was punished for it. She didn't deserve it, I think. She was only human. We all are, you know." She put her hands lightly on the arms of her chair.

"Yes," said Laura. "We are." She patted her grandmother's hand, and nodded at the bag of beans. "I'll get on with these, then."

The rest of the day pa.s.sed as if she were sleepwalking, counting down the hours till she saw him again. Against the backdrop of preparation for the next day, as the sun shone down and the Fosters put up bunting, cleaned and cleared everything, tidied the house, put the newspapers outside, Laura worked almost silently, still tossing it all over in her mind like the mounds of salad she washed in the spinner, still thinking so hard her head hurt, without ever reaching a conclusion about what to do. She only knew that she liked him, more than she could say, that it felt so right.

But that was exactly what was terrifying her. Because she'd been there before, and had been proved utterly wrong; and if she'd thought Dan was someone who hadn't come clean about his life, Nick could win an Olympic gold medal in the same event. She had to see him, to talk to him, to try to work out why, yet again, this had happened to her. And why it mattered so much.

chapter twenty-three.

H e was waiting for her when she arrived at the beach. The last of the day's holidaymakers were leaving in dribs and drabs, brightly colored nylon sun umbrellas rolled up under their arms, clutching towels, goggles, rubbish-the paraphernalia of family holidays. Laura pa.s.sed one such family as she made her way down to the beach past the rustling sea gra.s.ses and beach huts. There was something real and comforting about them, about the way the father held his son's hand, the little boy quiet and dirty after the day's exertions, about the way the other son, who looked about five, trailed behind his parents, his face tearstained, his mouth lolly-stained, the excitement of the day obviously too much for him. That was real life, she thought. This, the encounter she was walking toward in a red sundress, the silver bangles on her wrists jingling, this wasn't real, was it? But here, now, with the sun setting and the calm of evening falling on the sea, she just didn't know. All she knew was that she couldn't wait to see him again.

Nick turned at the sound of her step. He frowned slightly as he recognized her, his eyes squinting against the evening sun. There was something intensely familiar about him, Laura realized. Not because he looked like some postcard of his ancestor. Not as if it had only been three days. She watched, like a neutral observer, as he straightened up from the post he was leaning against, his tall, muscular frame moving easily under his shirt, his tanned, dark face, so distant and arrogant in repose, now smiling quickly at her as she drew near. How comfortable he looked here, in this landscape. Laura knew she looked like what she was-a tourist. Utterly different.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, taking the bottle she'd brought and clasping her hand. "My name's Naomi, great to see you again." He shook her hand, grinning at her. "Can I show you some interesting bog weeds?"

"h.e.l.lo," she replied, her hair blowing behind her in the breeze. She looked up at him, suddenly shy. She'd forgotten how attractive he was, how nice to look at he was. Marquis or no marquis. He was still holding her hand, and he pulled her toward him and kissed her. She remembered with a jolt how much she enjoyed being with him, how kissing him was something she wanted to do all evening. She broke apart from him, and stood back.

"How are you?" she said abruptly.

"Fine, I'm fine," Nick said, scanning her face. She could see a note of uncertainty in his eyes. He was still holding her hand, his face inches away from hers. "I'm glad you could come."

"Me too," said Laura. Their eyes met briefly, and suddenly she wanted to put her head on his chest, stay like this forever. But she shook her head, withdrew her hand, and stood back a little.

"Shall we go this way?" said Nick, jerking his head to his right.

"Great," said Laura. This was strange; it wasn't working out the way she'd expected. He was still the same. She'd expected to notice the difference in him, now that she knew, but there was none. The same distant, detached amus.e.m.e.nt at the world, the same politeness, kindness. That same feeling that she could totally be herself with him-it was still there. She did not move as he set off, and he turned back to find her watching him, the knuckles of her hands pressed against her cheeks.

"Everything okay?" Nick said easily.

"Well," said Laura, suddenly feeling a bit sick, "not sure, really. Nick. Why didn't you tell me who you really are?"

A tiny muscle ticked in Nick's cheek. He was silent for a moment, then gave a harsh, short laugh. "I see," he said, putting the cooler box down. "I a.s.sume you're referring to the t.i.tle I happen to have, rather than to my unbeaten record as Chartley District Junior Darts Champion in 1985."

"Don't joke, Nick," said Laura. "I'm serious. You-you lied to me."

He looked as if he were about to protest, but then said quietly, "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Nick-"

"I lied about a couple of little details, Laura. That's all they are, I promise you. They're unimportant to me."

"But they're not to me!" said Laura. "You're-you're a freaking marquis, for G.o.d's sake! How could you not tell me? Do you do this to people all the time?"

"No," he said, holding out a hand to stop her. His voice was low, his expression serious. "Laura, listen to me. Listen. This is important. It is not a big deal, I promise you. The person you met-that's me. You know my name, you know what I do all day-that is what I do all day, mostly. You-you-I didn't want to tell you the truth, because you'd got the wrong end of the stick, and then I found, well..." He smiled at her. "I found I wanted you to like me for myself, more and more. So I didn't tell you."

"You should have."

"Yes," he agreed. "I should have. But"-he stepped forward and grabbed her fingers, enclosing them in his strong hands-"Laura, I swear to you this doesn't make a difference to us. Whatever this is between us, it mustn't make a difference." His hands tightened. "It already does, too much. It's not going to change this."

The pressure of his hands suddenly hurt. She winced. He released them, and said, "I'm sorry. It's just-my life is odd. Extraordinary. And when I'm with you-it's seemed more normal. And, believe me, that's quite rare." He shook his head, and made as if to turn away. "Look, I'm sorry."

Laura suddenly saw how comic the situation was. "Don't apologize for being a multimillionaire aristocrat," she said. "I should be impressed, I suppose, not having a go at you." She smiled at him to let him know it was okay, not wanting to tell him what she was really thinking.

"Shall we go and eat?" said Nick. "And we'll pretend it's yesterday, and you still think I'm your local friendly farmer, or whatever it was you a.s.sumed I was when you started shouting at me and trying to set my estate on fire."

"I thought you were unbelievably rude and a big bully, and I still do," said Laura.

"Great," said Nick. "Glad to see you're still the same charming girl I took a chance on and asked out. Nothing's really changed, has it." She smiled at him. "Has it?" he asked more seriously, looking at her for the answer, and Laura shook her head. He picked up the cooler box and handed a couple of bottles to her, and they walked down toward the beach together in silence, casting long shadows in the setting sun.

"Potato salad, some biscuits-ah, there's some cheese in here, too. Crisps. Some ham. And mustard. Great."

"You didn't make this, did you?" said Laura, leaning forward on the sand to peer inside the box.

Nick paused as he lifted out a bottle of wine. He said, "Er, no."

"So, who did?" Laura said mischievously, genuinely curious. She stretched her legs out on the blanket, feeling more relaxed.

Nick lay on his back, looking slightly embarra.s.sed. "Um...the housekeeper." He scratched his face.

"Who is called...?"

"Mrs. Hillyard."

"And does she have a scrubbed red face and wipe her hands on her ap.r.o.n all the time and say things like, 'Ooh, I say, Mr. Hudson'?"