A Hopeless Romantic (53 page)

She went over to him. “Not my business,” she said, and shivered. “I’m sorry.”

He looked down at her. “What for, Laura?” he said, smiling. “What on earth for?” and he took her left hand in his right hand and put it in his jacket pocket, then did the same with her right hand, his fingers closing around hers, so that she was facing him. He said quietly, “So. I thought we weren’t speaking to each other.”

“You were quite horrible to me last time I saw you, in London,” said Laura.

“Laura, shame on you.” His hands, in their pockets, tightened around hers. “You were the last person I was expecting to see there. That was a good day, that day, and you came along and ruined it.”

“Charming!” said Laura.

“I mean,” he said, his mouth close to her ear, “that was the first day I hadn’t thought about you. Constantly. And then there you were. Having a really bad day. And I was trying to make it better, but I didn’t know what to do—what to say…” He trailed off. “How’s work, by the way?”

“Work?” said Laura, momentarily wrong-footed. “It’s fine. Great, actually. Much better than when I last saw you.”

“Really?” he said. “Why?”

“Oh…” Laura looked around her, weighing up whether to go into Marcus’s about-turn, and found the eyes of an Elizabethan lady in a ruff on her. She looked down. It wasn’t important, not here; she shouldn’t bother him with it all, even though she really wanted to. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. But thanks, though.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” she said, wishing she could talk to him, tell him everything, but not feeling able to here, under the collective gaze of his family, alive and dead. “I’m sorry about that night. It was—weird.”

“You ran off,” said Nick. “Again.”

“Well…” Laura shifted on her feet. “I’d had a bad evening. And I felt completely out of place. And then Cecilia phoned you, and—I just thought you were being polite, and trying to get rid of me.”

“She was checking up on me,” said Nick. “I should have told her to go away. I’m sorry.”

“And yet here she is again,” Laura pointed out.

He sighed. “Oh, God. I promise you, there’s nothing going on between me and Cecilia. My sister invited her tonight. Nothing to do with me.”

“Where is she?” Laura said curiously.

He jerked his head up. “Actually, she gave up. Told me I was pathetic and went to bed about fifteen minutes ago. Her bed, obviously. She’s got her own room. She has, Laura. Believe me.”

“Nick,” said Laura, putting her hands up, “really—it’s none of my business.”

“Isn’t it?” he said, his voice reverberating in her ear, his lips close to her hair. “It’s nothing to do with you, is it?”

“No,” said Laura, shaking her head and looking up at him, bemused. “Nick—you’re the Marquis of Ranelagh. I’m nothing. Well, not nothing, but…You can do what you want, I don’t—”

“You still don’t see it, do you?” said Nick. “Seriously, you still can’t see it?”

“What?” said Laura.

He ran his hands through his hair and, not looking at her, said, “What if being with you was the first proper conversation I’d had with someone for years? That I felt like the person I really was, for once?” He backed away and gripped his tie, loosening it. “God, Laura. Don’t say that, not you, especially not you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t see it, even now?” he said tiredly. “I’m not the Marquis of Ranelagh, that’s not me. That’s the thing I inherited, just like you inherited your total stupidity from some family member of yours, I don’t know who.”

Laura gasped in outrage, and he smiled wickedly at her in the darkness. She shivered.

“Silly girl. I’m sorry. You’re cold.” He looked at her appraisingly, then took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he replied, mock-formally. He took a quick breath, and said, “We seem to have been going around in circles, haven’t we? But let me just say this.” His voice was softer. “I’m not the marquis. I am sometimes, of course. But I’m still the person you met this summer, before it all got confusing, bogged down with all that other crap.” Laura made to say something; he held up his hand. “Listen to me, Laura. I’m Nick. My mum ran off with someone when I was eleven, I haven’t seen her for more than twenty years, and my dad and I didn’t get on. He was a bully. I liked geography at school, I hated French. I like
The Sopranos.
I don’t like Arsenal. When I was in America for the summer when I was nineteen, I slept with a stripper.”

“Really?” said Laura, interested despite herself. “Where?”

He shook his head, trying not to smile. “Tell you later. Let me finish. All of that stuff I told you, I could talk to you about. About how much I love the house. About the way to run things, how it all means so much to me. Just like any other job, without all this other crap getting in the way.”

“What crap?”

“You know,” he said impatiently. “Fawning. Ceremony. Old ladies in car parks. Insane men with tour guides. People bowing, asking the same questions all the time. It’s my responsibility. I have to deal with it, and I don’t mind, in fact I’m proud of it; but you—you made me feel like a real person for once. And I—I wanted to do the same for you. I wanted you to feel better about yourself, to realize how completely, totally wonderful you are, Laura.”

He took her hand and kissed her palm gently, his forehead touching hers; and out of the corner of her vision Laura saw the portrait of his beautiful, smiling mother, her dark eyes watching them. She gave a ragged, deep sigh, as Nick pulled her toward him. He bent his head and whispered, “Oh, Laura…”

“No,” Laura heard herself say. She looked up. There, on the opposite wall, the seventh marquis stared down at her, clutching his book. “I can’t, Nick. Not here.” She stepped back a little from him.

“What do you mean?” said Nick, his brow furrowed, his face instantly closing up.

“Not here,” Laura said softly, making a tiny gesture with her hand. “These—all of them. I can’t.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, releasing her other hand and shaking his head slowly. “Don’t—don’t do this, Laura.”

“Nick,” said Laura. She had to make him see why it was so important. “They’re the reason we can’t be together. All of these people, here.” She gestured the length of the room. “You and me—when I’m with you, it doesn’t matter. And I can see you in my flat,” she added rather inarticulately.

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Nick. “I’ve never been to your flat.”

She took his hand. “I mean, I can see you talking to my friends, lying on my sofa.” She squeezed his hand; he had to see what she meant, had to. “Us, together, normal. That’s why I—I thought I was falling in love with you. Not because of any of this stuff. The fairy-tale romance bit of it, Nick—I don’t want that. I just want you, do you understand?”

His jaw was set. “Laura. But all of this—this
is
me.”

“Oh, I know it is,” said Laura impatiently. “But you just said yourself, there’s a big part of you that’s you, just yourself, and
that’s
the bit you need someone to share with you.” His eyes searched her face; she looked at him, imploring him to understand. “And here—this room, all these people.
They’re
the bit that complicates everything. They’re the reason we can’t be together.”

She lapsed into silence, still holding his hand, not knowing what to say next.

Nick laughed suddenly in the gloom of the room, a warm, comforting laugh. “Laura, oh, Laura.” He stroked her collarbone, and she shivered at his touch.

“What?” she said.

“You’re right, you know, but I think you’re taking it too seriously.”

“I—”

“Look,” said Nick, with the air of one trying to be reasonable. “I want to talk to you. Properly, about all of this. But I want to kiss you first. You’re right, this room’s a bit daunting. So. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Just like that?” said Laura. “It’s as simple as that, is it?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “The trouble with you is, you overthink everything. I like you, you like me. Let’s go and sit on the steps and talk. Without great-grandmothers A, B, and C watching us.”

He bent his head and kissed her, quickly, hard on the lips, and then said, “Okay?”

“Okay,” said Laura. “Okay.”

“Come on,” he said, holding her hand again, and they walked back up the length of the room and paused near the doorway. Laura could see Charles, circling in the background of the great hall. She was sure he was looking for Nick, and she didn’t want him to come, didn’t want them to have to separate, wanted to stay like this forever.

“Well, I’m glad I’ve seen this room, anyway,” she said. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t like it. It’s—er, it’s lovely.”

“What a polite guest. My pleasure,” said Nick. “All mine.”

“All yours,” she said, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “I’m glad you found me here.”

“I was looking for you, Laura,” he said. “And now let’s go.”

The gallery doors were flung wide open; Charles strode into the room, his phone in his hand. “There you are.”

“Hey,” said Nick, but Charles wasn’t looking at him, he was walking toward Laura.

“Laura, my dear,” he said, with the same kind face he always had. Laura smiled at him, but her blood froze as she looked into his eyes, saw their expression. “Your aunt’s looking for you. You’re going to have to go. It’s—it’s your grandmother, Laura. She’s had a massive heart attack. She’s in the hospital. It’s not good. She’s asking for you. Laura, your mother needs you to go back to London. Tonight.”

chapter forty-nine

A
s long as Laura lived, she would never forget that journey. Bizarre details. The mints Aunt Annabel had in her car. The travel atlas; half the cover was torn off, so unlike the Sandersons. The way Annabel drove, wildly, hunched over the steering wheel, her face pale in the darkness, her makeup like a mask. Those things that Laura had unpacked so carefully, painfully, a few short hours ago, now flung randomly into the suitcase. They should have just left, should have asked the others to send things on, Laura realized afterward as the journey went on, deeper into night, as Annabel drove in silence and they both had time to think.

Yes, Laura had time to think; hours of time. It was over three hours from Chartley Hall to the hospital in town; but what could she think about? Nothing. Her mind couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t consider what she might find there, what might not be there. She didn’t understand, couldn’t process it all. When she tried to think about it, it was as if her brain had short-circuited. Nick had offered to drive; Annabel had practically pushed him away, racing to the car, roaring away from the house in a frenzy that Laura had never seen before.

They tried to talk at the beginning of the journey, but both of them were so overwrought and worried that conversation was hard.

“Where are they?” Annabel asked, as Laura finished a call to her mother. They had been driving for over half an hour. Laura glanced at a sign; they were still in Norfolk. Oh, hurry, hurry, she thought, please hurry.

“Still at the hospital. They’re all there.”

“Who?”

“Mum, Dad, Simon. Cedric and Jasper. And Fran and Robert.”

“Where’s Lulu?” said Annabel instantly.

“I don’t know…. I didn’t ask.”

“Why isn’t she there?” Annabel said. Since she had no way of knowing or finding out, Laura said nothing. “What did they say?”

“They said she’s unconscious now. But she has been talking. I think—” Laura’s voice faltered; she wasn’t used to saying things like this, didn’t know the language. It was too easy to default to clichés from hospital television shows or books. “I think she’s worse.”

“What’s she been saying?” said Annabel sharply.

“I don’t know,” said Laura. “Mum didn’t say. Except—she was—except she was asking for me. She wanted to see me and Simon. She recognized him.”

“Just Simon?” Annabel hunched over the steering wheel even higher, peering at the road ahead as if willing the car to take flight and soar across the countryside, take them back to Mary.

“I don’t know,” Laura said again, feeling helpless. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re her grandchildren, not Fran, I suppose.” Annabel cleared her throat. “And if Lulu’s not there—perhaps she’s waiting for her to get there.”

“I’m not sure,” said Laura. “Aunt Annabel—I don’t think she knows what’s going on.”

There was a dull stabbing pain behind her eyes, like something crawling, scratching them. This was all wrong. Mary wasn’t someone in a hospital, dying! She was the most alive person Laura knew. Her place in the world was so sure. She knew what she knew, was so certain of everyone and everything, which was why she was the most reassuring grandmother one could possibly have.

“Come on, come on,” Annabel muttered. She bit her lip. Laura looked at her. She looked awful; it was as if she had aged about twenty years, but there was something more than that. Her composure was the first thing that struck one about Annabel; it was her most noticeable quality, more than her glossy brown hair, her perfect makeup, her glamorous, determined air, her rather braying voice. It was the quiet certainty that her world was right, that she was right. Now, looking at her aunt, Laura felt she was seeing a tiny bit of the other Annabel she might be for the first time, and it was a strange experience.

They were on a main road finally, thankfully, and the electric strip lighting overhead bathed their faces in a ghostly green light. It was one of those endless, featureless roads, its only characteristics of interest blue signs, chevrons, traffic cones. Nothing else was visible from the road. They could have been anywhere in the country. Laura blinked, trying to remember where she’d been; but already the memory of Chartley, of Nick and what he had said, what it had all meant—it was racing far into her mind, already framed and deposited in a memory bank, a lovely pure snapshot of something in the past. She couldn’t connect it with this.

Laura shunted down in her seat, wrapping her slightly-too-big-for-her jacket around her for warmth. She looked down. She was still wearing Nick’s jacket, the one he had put around her in the picture gallery—that was this same evening, wasn’t it? Her mind scrabbled to remember, and the creatures pinching behind her eyes grew more frantic.