‘Of course I forgive you! I thought you were charming.’
‘I’m so glad,’ he said, wriggling his arm around her shoulder. ‘Because I thought exactly the same of you.’ He grinned, his face close to hers. ‘Only you’re far, far more beautiful.’ He sat forward. ‘But where are my manners? Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll do what I can. Wine? A cocktail? Champagne – although that one might be a bit more tricky...’ He strode over to a drinks cabinet and peered inside. ‘Why don’t I make us both a martini?’
While he poured the drinks, she looked at the magazines on the coffee table. Among them, poking out, was a book. She picked it up, murmuring the title, ‘The Catcher in the Rye.Isn’t that the one everyone’s talking about?’
At that, Richard lifted his head, then, smiling, he reached over and plucked it from her hands. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite your thing, darling,’ he said, sliding a magazine into her hands before going back to mixing the drinks.
She looked down at it. TheTatlerwas for the upper classes. On the cover, an unattractive woman in an ugly tweed skirt suit posed in front of a stately home. ‘The new Lady Rickerby-Willis moves into Alchester Manor’.
Flipping through the pages, she saw articles about the coronation: ‘Who’s Invited to the Abbey?’ ‘Which Banquets and Events to Attend’.
It was a different world fromWoman’s Weekly,with its tips for finding a good spot to watch the procession or the parks where you could pitch a tent. People with windows overlooking the route were renting out rooms for a fortune.
She stopped at a page filled with photographs from a societywedding, men in tailcoats and ladies in gowns, heavily adorned with jewels. Some even wore tiaras.
Then, suddenly, her eyes focused on a man in a group of four. She glanced up to double-check. The same dark-brown hair, the same lilting smile.
She’d guessed that Richard was upper-class, but to be featured in a magazine like this, he must be almost royalty. She wondered about his family estate somewhere in the countryside. Could he give her a life that was far, far better than anything she’d ever dreamed?
With a smile, she imagined her wedding, how her mother would pull her into the heart of the family, the adoring mother of the bride.
‘Here we are!’ Richard strode back over with the drinks, taking a seat beside her, glancing at the magazine. ‘That was the most frumpy wedding dress I’d ever seen.’ He kissed her head. ‘Not like you, my darling. You’d make a beautiful bride, radiant. And that country church is far too rural for my liking. My preference would be London, St Paul’s if possible, and a reception in the Savoy.’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t you think that would be just the place, darling?’
She let out a laugh. Was he asking where she’d like their wedding to be? ‘St Paul’s Cathedral?’
Gazing up at him, she met his eyes lingering on hers, smiling in that way he had, making her feel more at home in that guest room than she’d ever felt in her life.
‘Right,’ he said, leaning over behind the sofa to pull out a carrier bag. ‘Why don’t you try this dress on in the bathroom? It’s for the beauty contest.’
Glaring, she stammered, ‘I-I couldn’t possibly take anything from you.’
‘Remember, we agreed that you’d pay me back with your winnings. In any case, what else would I do with it? It isn’t my colour at all.’
Laughing, she took it to the bathroom, quickly changing out of her uniform.
The dress was a pale blue, close-fitting with thin straps over her shoulders. It was extremely elegant, quite unlike anything she’d usually wear.
‘I hope it’s not too cold in there,’ he called to her.
She laughed as she came out, tottering in the high heels that had also been in the bag. ‘There’s not a lot of material on the top.’ She’d had to take off her bra as it was so low-cut, skimming the side of her breasts, a deep V showing off her cleavage.
He was standing by the desk, watching her in clear admiration. ‘You look incredible!’ Walking around, he tweaked the material, smoothing it over her waist and hips.
‘Do you really think so?’ she asked.
He tutted. ‘No more talk like that! You’re a stunning woman, Lucy Jones. We need to see more confidence. Walk up and down, pretend you’re a model, stand up straight and let your body shine.’
At first she was self-conscious. The heels were making her wobble, and she felt exposed without a bra. But his relaxed presence, his appreciative gaze, made her feel glamorous. For once in her life, she felt valued, wanted.
‘It’s all about posture.’ He went over to her, gently pulling her shoulders straight, his hands on her skin, warm and reassuring. ‘Let’s try again.’
And this time, she walked out with her head held high, delighting in his gaze on her.
‘I can’t wait to see what the future holds for you, my angel.’ He went over and took the pins out of her hair, letting it fall down her back. ‘And when you visit the hairdresser, ask them to dye your hair a little lighter. It would suit you.’ He pulled her closer. ‘Blondes always stand out, don’t they?’
The sensation of being so close to him was both exhilarating and disconcerting. She hadn’t had a lot of practice with men, just a bit of fumbling with boys. Even though she longed for him to scoop her into his arms, inwardly she panicked – was she going too slow, too fast? What if he was used to more experienced girls and she wasn’t racy enough for him?
He seemed to read her mind, pulling back, tilting his head to look into her eyes. ‘Are we going too quickly, my sweet? You have to let me know. We can go as slowly as you like.’
