Lots of Love (59 page)

‘Eh?’ Dilly abandoned the bootlace top and pulled on the gypsy shirt, holding Ellen’s red suede bustier up against it and tilting her head at the mirror. ‘Do you think this would look too tarty?’

‘No, it’ll look great. Like a medieval wench.’

‘So where are you two going on to tonight?’ Dilly started to put the bustier on over the gypsy shirt. ‘Mum says you’re taking Spurs out to dinner while Rory and I are at the pub.’

Ellen helped her do up the studs at the back. ‘I left it to Spurs to decide.’

‘Must be somewhere
really
fancy to merit a dress like that. Maybe Tewcott Castle, where you watch the jousters and eat roast hog? Spurs could joust for your honour.’ She sat more upright so that Ellen could reach the lowest studs. ‘Actually,’ she added, ‘now I think about it, I’d really rather have liked Rory to take me somewhere like that tonight. I know the Plough is more familiar, but it’s not very . . . special, is it?’

‘You said you wanted to go somewhere he could be relaxed,’ Ellen reminded her, ‘so that you can get to know each other properly.’

‘I know, but it’s just a bit odd, isn’t it, that Rory and I are having our first proper date together in a smelly old pub and you and Spurs – who are just friends – are probably going out somewhere really amazing?’

Ellen looked into the mirror over her head: both boobs had fallen out of the flimsy fantasy dress now. ‘If there’s magic between you, it doesn’t matter where you are,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘The simplest of places can seem like paradise. You just have to look into each other’s eyes and forget the real world exists.’ She remembered her first long, hot weekend with Spurs when every time she’d looked in his eyes the world had disappeared, as had her desire to go and see it.

‘God, Ellen!’ Dilly sneered. ‘That is so, so schmaltzy. I thought
I
was a hopeless romantic, but you should hear yourself. And there was me thinking you were a super-cool surfer chick.’

Ellen caught her own eye in the mirror. ‘I’ve been accused of being completely unromantic.’

‘By whom?’

‘The man I looked at and forgot the world existed.’

‘He can’t have seen you in that. If I was wearing that dress, Rory would never look me in the eye. He’d be far too distracted, poor darling. Mind you, he’s a bit of a shoe-gazer, so I must be prepared. Perhaps you should rethink your footwear too?’ she reminded Ellen kindly.

As Dilly jumped off the bed to start trying on Ellen’s small collection of mostly clumpy, urban-chic footwear, Ellen spotted her neon pink diving fins leaning up against the old wardrobe. Perfect for the Little Mermaid. She started to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Dilly looked up from strapping on Ellen’s red wedges.

‘Nothing. I’ve just realised I’ve been swimming against the tide.’

‘You can drop me here,’ Dilly insisted excitedly, as they drove into the Plough car park.

‘I said I’d see you to your table.’ Ellen checked her watch. They were bang on time.

‘It’s just a pub, Ellen – more’s the pity.’ She pulled a goofy face, jumped out and checked her face in the wing mirror.

But as they walked into the beer garden, it became apparent that one part of it, at least, wasn’t just any old pub. Ahead of them, an avenue had been created with sparklers poked jauntily from the grass, all of which spat and frothed their hot little shards far more brightly than the sun sinking behind the trees. Several tourists had whipped out cameras and started forming a small crowd to either side of the burning path that led into the secret grotto where Rory had reserved a table.

‘Bloody hell!’ Dilly started to laugh, turning to Ellen. ‘Did you know about this?’

Carefully keeping her hands clamped to her side to stop her tits popping out, Ellen shook her head and indicated for Dilly to follow her.

Breathless and babbling eagerly, she followed Ellen along the fizzing corridor, waving happily at her audience. And then, as they walked under the tree canopy and into the privacy of the little streamside bower, she let out a shriek of delight.

The ordinary picnic table had been transformed. Now set beneath a tented garden pagoda, it was swathed in silk sarongs and covered in hurricane lamps glowing with every colour of candle. Crystals dangled from the branches to either side, creating dancing prisms of light in the clearing as they caught reflections from the stream. A small self-important Jack Russell, wearing a bow-tie, was sitting on one of the bench seats.

Waiting beside the table were Rory and Spurs. The former had a fiddle pressed under his chin, the latter a guitar slung round his neck.

Dilly and Ellen looked at each other as the duo launched into ‘Will You Come To The Bower’, both men whistling the tune and the Jack Russell barking along.

‘Shut up, Twitch, you’re ruining it,’ Rory hissed, out of the side of his mouth, as the bow danced on the strings. Dressed in a retro black suit, with a long-lapelled flowery shirt unbuttoned to the chest, very clean floppy blond hair and pointy-toed boots, he had transformed himself from the stable tatterdemalion into the ultimate young rock god.

Ignoring him, Twitch barked all the more. Dilly clapped her hands in delight and rushed over to gather him up and start dancing along to the tune.

Just for a moment a bewildered, laughing Ellen caught Spurs’ eye before he looked fixedly at his frets once more. Purple tie loosened and hair flopping over his face as he struck out the chords, he was disturbingly unfamiliar again, showing aspects of himself he’d never even hinted at.

‘This is so, so cool!’ Dilly danced around. ‘I’m going to have the best night ever!’

As soon as the song was over, Spurs twisted the guitar round to his back on its strap like a banderol, made a quick bow, then took Ellen’s hand without looking at her.

‘Enjoy yourselves, kids. We’ll pick you up later.’ He led her back down the spluttering sparkler path, ignoring the excited cheers of the other beer garden occupants, some of whom had noticed that Ellen’s chest was threatening to stray out of its chiffon because Spurs was towing her along at such speed.

‘Quietly understated for a first date, huh?’ he said, when they reached the car and collapsed against it.

‘Certainly different.’ She pressed her hands together and lifted them to her chin so that she could discreetly pop her assets back into place.

‘Oh, it’s cheesy as hell, but the boy wouldn’t be told once he latched on to the idea.’ Spurs was shaking his head in amusement. ‘I tried persuading him that the musical turn was too much, but he had his heart set on it.’

‘It was good. I didn’t know you played the guitar.’

‘Aunt Til taught us to play Irish jigs at family parties – much to my mother’s pique.’ He looked at his fingers. ‘Rory’s sister played the tin whistle, and Aunt Til was a demon on the bodhran.’

‘Well, Dilly loved it. She loves it all.’

He pulled the guitar from around his neck and put it into the back of the car, not looking at her. ‘And you?’

‘I’m sorry I doubted you.’ She hauled the slipping dress back on to her shoulder.

‘All Rory’s idea.’ He swung the door shut.

‘And the costumes? Were they his idea?’

‘No.’ He checked that the door was shut properly, then tweaked his shirt cuffs from his jacket sleeves in a curiously formal gesture. ‘They’re for a different show. I have a lot more style, you see.’

At last he looked up at her from under his brows, his face expressionless. ‘It suits you.’ He nodded curtly.

It was hardly in the premier league of compliments. It was years since Ellen had worn anything so dressy, and she felt deeply self-conscious in the little bare-fronted number. She felt even more insecure when the dress chose that moment to plunge off her shoulder once more and reveal a tiny crescent of dark areola before she retrieved it. ‘I think the usual method is to attach toupee tape to stop things falling out,’ she mumbled.

‘I think the usual method,’ he said calmly, ‘is to wear it the other way round. The criss-cross bits were at the back on the mannequin.’

‘No?’ Ellen looked down and laughed. ‘I’d better go and change it round in the loo.’

‘Wear it like that,’ he insisted. ‘It looks much better.’ Then he looked down and saw that she was wearing clogs. ‘Was there something wrong with the friendship shoes?’

‘I couldn’t walk in them.’ The very high, strappy mules had been three sizes too big.

‘I got an eight.’ Spurs was indignant. ‘That’s what was written in the trainer you threw at me. I still have it.’

‘Those trainers are American – an American size eight is an English five.’

‘Trust the Americans to exaggerate.’ He glared at her tatty clogs. ‘I bet Big Foot just has slightly high insteps. Couldn’t you have found something a bit smarter?’

‘Hamlet chewed up my best shoes. I’m sorry.’ She tried not to laugh at his indignation. ‘Are you supposed to be the footman or something?’

‘Almost,’ he said grumpily, crossing the car park to a big barrel full of blue irises and tugging a bunch. Keeping one for himself, he handed the rest to her before opening the jeep’s passenger door. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

‘I thought I was chauffeur?’ she asked uncertainly, clutching the pilfered flowers.

‘I’m in the driving seat now.’ He attached the iris to his lapel and pulled his signet ring from his little finger. ‘Hold out your hand. No – the other.’

She held out her left hand and he slid the ring on to her third finger, the Constantine crest facing into her palm so that only the plain gold band showed.

‘This evening,’ he closed her fingers tightly round the ring, ‘it’s the cygnet’s turn to become a swan.’

Ellen looked up in confusion.

‘It’s a fairy tale, Ellen.’ He pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘The ring’s on your finger – and bells on your toes are part of the costume.’

‘Are we morris dancing?’ she asked.

The smile almost gobbled up her fingers. ‘Tonight I’ll try anything for you. Even that.’

‘Mr and Mrs Gardner. Many, many congratulations!’ The maître d’ fluttered around them. ‘Have you had a splendid day?’

‘Wonderful,
thank you.’

‘On behalf of all the staff at Eastlode Park, may I wish you a very enjoyable evening with us? If you’d care to go through to the Green Drawing Room where my colleague will bring you complimentary champagne . . .’

Ellen clutched her irises tightly to her exposed chest as she followed the waiter through to the grand reception room, Spurs’ hand on her back. ‘Mr and Mrs
Gardner
?’ she hissed over her shoulder, already feeling the cold sweat of deceit prickling in her hair.

‘Yes, darling. You’ll have to get used to your new name.’ He spoke through a fixed smile, silver eyes dancing around the room.

Such was Spurs’ magnetism and charm that the historic hall’s staff were completely won over by him and his pretty bride, despite her strange choice of footwear. Waiters rushed over to set coasters and bowls of finest Japanese crackers on the dainty walnut and ormolu table between two velvet-backed Chippendales.

Eastlode Park was just as grand as the write-ups proclaimed in the brick-thick glossy magazines: they eulogized the priceless antiques, impeccable service and outrageous luxury. From the moment a liveried staff member had glided across the raked gravel to valet park the jeep – by far the scruffiest vehicle on the grounds – Ellen and Spurs were attended to unmarried hand and cloven foot. Struck dumb by its sheer scale and extravagance, Ellen had never seen anywhere remotely like it in all her life, not even when trailing dozens of National Trust properties after her parents on holiday as a girl. The house – a titanic, beautifully preserved eighteenth-century palace – had been built for a famously lavish dowager duchess, who had died before it was completed. Gaudy, opulent and dripping with gold leaf, hand-carved cupids, ornate columns and frescoed ceilings, it had survived into the twenty-first century to become pure Baroque and roll.

Run as one of England’s smartest and most exclusive hotels for many years, with a Michelin-starred restaurant, a nine-hole golf course, fishing lakes, shoots, helipad and even suites with private indoor pools, it was as famous for its outlandish prices as its luxury. Only the wealthiest film stars, rock legends, oil barons, gun-runners and Japanese tourists stayed there.

‘What better place to stop off on our wedding day?’ Spurs pointed out cheerfully as they settled in chairs as valuable as small Islington flats and watched a waiter pour vintage Bollinger into Bohemian lead-crystal flutes.

‘Indeed,’ Ellen said, through gritted teeth, as she attempted to achieve a sitting position where her boobs didn’t immediately spill out of the dress. This wasn’t quite the fairy tale she had envisaged.

Another simpering waiter, ogling Spurs discreetly, swept over to open velvet-covered menus with no prices, and place them reverently into the newlyweds’ hands.
‘May
I recommend –’ he started.