“Don’t you start, as well,” I said, pushing her hand off my leg and crossing my arms.
Jeremy chuckled and slapped his palm on the table. “Right, better drink up. We have a party to get ready for.”
“Soirée,” I muttered under my breath.
Jeremy downed the dregs of his purple pint and grimaced as he gestured his empty glass to me. “C’mon, you’ll need plenty of time to look your best for Hugo.”
Francesca nudged a playful elbow into me as she got up. If it was meant to reassure me, it didn’t. All the elation I’d felt at her arrival dropped like lead in the pit of my stomach. This new terrain was rockier than I’d imagined.
13
DON'T YOU WANT ME
When we arrived back at the manor, I made my excuses and left them to it. The brittle sound of Francesca's laughter echoed behind me — the laugh she always used around Jeremy.
I crunched along the gravel track until the manicured lawns gave way to the more rugged, untamed beauty of the surrounding landscape. Our cottage sat nestled in its own private garden, framed by imposing conifers and a low picket fence, marking the boundary of our little world — a world away from all the pretensions of the manor.
An evening curled up with Atwood and her Handmaids suddenly seemed preferable to the thought of an evening of Francesca and Jeremy laughing at me as I tried to swat Hugo away like a persistent blowfly. But with the fresh air and distance between us, I could see that their conversation was just banter. I could see how silly I was to question Francesca’s feelings and motivations when justlast week she’d been the one to seduce me, to pull me into her bed and consume me like a Fortnum’s hamper.
Jeremy was winding me up and Francesca was playing along, that was all. Of course she liked me and not Jeremy. Of course she didn’t actually want me to date Hugo Beaumont.She’d sat next to me, touched me under the table, and flirted when I told her I’d missed her. Things between us were good. We hadn’t yet had the chance to define our relationship, and perhapsrelationshipwas too formal, but what we had was something special, and everything she’d said hinted at more to come. Yet something about her that afternoon had sown a seed of doubt.
Cold air and an earthy smell followed Dad into the cottage when he returned from the hunt.
“Alright, kiddo,” he called, waving a gloved hand in my direction. He peeled off his waxed jacket and wrestled with his muddy wellies, leaving them in a haphazard pile in the porch.
“Good timing. I just brewed a pot,” I said as he shuffled into the room, all ruddy-faced, hugging himself to warm up.
“I was about to have a bath, but you can go first if you like?”
“God, I really don’t feel like socialising tonight,” he said, blowing into his chapped hands as he bent by the fire.
Me neither, I thought. But I didn’t say that, because I didn’t want to give him an excuse to back out of it. He needed this; it was one of the few social occasions he still went along with, probably because it felt like dutywrapped in obligation. The Daltons were not only his employers, but his friends.
“You’ll have a good time once we’re there and we don’t have to stay late.” I handed him a mug of tea. He smiled up at me, appreciation softening the lines etched onto his face.
“Go on, you get in the bath first, love. Leave the water in, and I’ll add some hot.”
After a soak in the tub, where I strategically dunked myself every time I let my mind wander to Francesca and Jeremy, I took my time getting ready, deciding on a white blouse to tuck into high-waisted black trousers. I blow-dried my hair, scrunching mousse through to give it more volume. I even brushed on a little mascara and a swipe of pale lipstick before standing back to take in my look.Not too bad.
Dad poked his head around my bedroom door. “Ready, love?”
I turned to face him as he slowly stepped into the room.
“You… look…” he said, wearing an expression I didn’t recognise.
I turned back to the mirror to try to see what he was seeing. He closed in behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
“You look beautiful… I mean, you actually look like…” his voice cracked. “Your mum.”
“Oh,” I said, searching my reflection for any hint of her, but I couldn’t see it.
Before the sadness bloating between us squeezed allthe air from the room, he said, “She’d be so proud of you, kiddo.” He planted a kiss on the top of my head and turned to leave.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?” He looked back, eyes glistening.
“Do you really think she’d be proud of me?”
