Unsuitable Men (8 page)

The renovations had been conducted in a way that was guaranteed to thrill the
Country Hous
e reader. The duke and duchess had declined to use a large firm of interior decorators in favour
of many small teams of artisans. Father-and-son carpenters had recreated the wooden stairs of the ancient hall by hand. The prayer cushions for the chapel had each been individually hand-stitched
to show local landmarks and the Delaval coat of arms. Paints and dyes had been created according to traditional methods – there was woad here, and elderberry, and a yellow made from onion
skins. Weaving had been done by two sixty-something women who called themselves, inevitably, Warp and Weft. Lance had spent the last few years photographing the work’s progress in timeless
black and white: a hymn to craft and tradition. I noted, leafing through his portfolio, that he had even photographed the plumbers, but most likely because they were exceptionally good-looking
rather than amazing craftsmen. Despite Martha’s instructions, I had to admit that Lance’s emphasis on traditional crafts bettered her ideas: his black and white photographs would form
the basis of the piece, while he and I would create a few full-colour tableaux that showed off the finished results as romantically as possible to appeal to moneyed brides.

‘The chapel, the chapel, the chapel,’ chanted Lance, whisking me out of the covered walkway and on to a gravel path that wound through a copse of ancient yew. ‘You know,’
he confided, ‘the family legend says that each of these trees – some of them are over a thousand years old – contains the soul of a knight who laid down his life in
battle.’

‘Which battle?’ I asked breathlessly, looking around me at the looming trees, already captivated by the history of it all.

Lance shrugged. ‘Like I know. But imagine the trees lit up with fairy lights, right?’ he said. ‘Or even, maybe, along the path, flaming torches in braziers? You can see it,
right?’

And I could – it would be romantic and mysterious, although perhaps fairy lights were a little undignified a decoration for the hardened manly souls of the tree-bound ancient warriors.
Lance made me stand at the top of the steps to the chapel, which was sunk down in a yew-surrounded hollow, while he ran ahead and switched on the lights. I shivered, pulling my coat tighter around
me; even in the light of day this place was a little spooky.

‘And here is the
pièce de résistance
,’ he announced, and I stepped into the chapel. It had been whitewashed into a stark purity that contrasted with the dark
greenness of the yew trees which brushed against the mullioned windows. Lance had eschewed candles here for hundreds of tiny lights which surrounded the altar, leaving the rest of the chapel in
almost-darkness. Instead of flowers, it had been decorated with lichen-covered branches which cast their shadows across the walls. Although it was a consecrated chapel there was something pagan and
ancient about it; it wouldn’t have surprised me if the long-dead soldiers had stepped out of their yews to kneel here in front of us, offering sacrifices to their Saxon gods.

‘And here’s the thing,’ said Lance, interrupting my open-mouthed staring by promenading down the aisle as if it was a catwalk. He stopped at the altar and spun on his heel to
face me. ‘We just need someone to look a bit bridal in a few shots – and Martha and I think it should totally be you, right?’

‘Wh-what?’ I said, horrified. This wasn’t at all what I had signed up for. I was here as a responsible journalist and representative of
Country House
, not a dress-up
Barbie for Lance’s entertainment.

‘I know, I know,’ said Lance, waving his hands. ‘Martha said you might be all weird about it, but it’s nothing much – no face shots, no full-body shots, just a
little bit of human interest. We’ll have Sacheverall and Bibi in the Hall and in the walkway, but here we want someone young and bridal-looking. And you’re just perfect, darling, with
that amazing red hair of yours.’

I felt tears well up alarmingly. I felt so very far away from being bridal. It seemed impossibly cruel that Martha should have lined me up to play that role just after I’d been dumped by
the man I had thought I would marry. I wouldn’t believe that she had done it on purpose – she must have not thought it through. Luckily the weak light in the chapel hid my trembling
chin.

‘I – I’m not sure,’ I wavered. ‘I don’t really like having my photograph taken.’

‘Oh, Aurora,’ said Lance, skipping back up the aisle towards me, both hands outstretched in entreaty.

‘Rory,’ I insisted.

‘Rory,’ said Lance. ‘It’s going to be a few shots of, like, your hand holding on to a man’s hand – mine, of course, there’s a dire shortage of male
models up here, I’m sorry to say. It’ll be the back of your head bowed near the altar, that kind of thing. It’s not like,
America’s Top Model
or anything: no full
bridalwear, no hanging from harnesses, no smizing, I swear it. Bibi’s going to be in the other photographs and not one of Sacheverell’s female staff is under, like, two hundred years
old. Please say you’ll do it.’

I remembered how hard Martha had worked to arrange this. I thought about how she had begged me to do her justice.

‘Do you absolutely swear that you’re not going to put me into some hand-woven wedding dress?’ I asked. ‘Because I will not put on something scratchy and hempy made by
Warp and Weft.’

‘Oh, darling,’ laughed Lance, ‘as if. You don’t have to get changed at all; we’ll make it work beautifully without any fuss. Just you and me. Trust me.’

By the time I got to my room at the Delaval Arms I was exhausted. I had no idea how professional models did it – but then professional models most likely didn’t
also have to interview a duke and his frosty duchess as well as supervise the photo shoot while being directed in how to assume poses of a bridal nature. I threw myself backwards on to the bed and
leapt immediately back up again, having forgotten that Lance had insisted on decorating my hair with holly for the final shots of the day. I picked the spiky leaves gingerly out of my hair and
released it from the twist that had restrained it for the afternoon.

I had imagined I’d have a quiet evening on my own at the inn, but Lance had suggested joining me for dinner and, as he had been excellent company all day, I’d happily accepted.
Dining with a stranger seemed infinitely preferable to eating by myself on Valentine’s Day. On my first Valentine’s Day alone for a decade. It wasn’t that Martin and I had made a
big deal of Valentine’s. In fact we’d always stayed in on the night itself because he said all the restaurants put up their prices too much for just one over-commercialized night. His
birthday was in March so we had our big night out then, which made sense since Martin liked to really treat us – it was his money after all – and we couldn’t have afforded to go
to somewhere like Claridge’s on two consecutive months. But I’d loved our quiet Valentine’s nights at home. Just the two of us, with a special meal that I’d made, and maybe
a DVD together afterwards. I didn’t need hearts and flowers to love being with Martin.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror, shoulders drooping as I sat on the edge of the bed, the corners of my mouth turned down like one of those Venetian masks meant to represent tragedy. Snap
out of it, Rory, I told myself, and forced a smile at my reflection. Martin is no doubt spending Valentine’s with his new girlfriend. You are here, at the Delaval Arms, with an oddly dressed,
enthusiastic American who would probably prefer to be on a date with someone from Grindr. Both of you are making the most of the circumstances. You owe it to Lance Garcia not to droop all over the
table like some half-drowned Ophelia descending into heartbroken despair. It could be worse.

So I made a special effort, as if I was dressing for a proper date instead of – what? A pity date? A business meeting? The evening ahead was strangely undefined, which was maybe what was
making me feel weird. I always felt safest when I knew what role I was playing, where I fitted into a particular scenario. Although I’d been intimidated by the icy duchess when I’d
interviewed her, I’d known that with enough bowing and scraping, and several compliments on the textiles, I could get her to unbend a little. The duke was easier to work out; he just needed
some jolly-hockeysticks teasing and for me to lavish attention on his black labrador. I was the efficient, knowledgeable journalist from
Country House
, respectful and slightly awed. By the
end of our interview the duke had invited me to stay for dinner, but the duchess had sharply reminded him of a prior commitment. Thankfully Lance had come to the rescue by insisting on accompanying
me to the Delaval Arms; he was probably looking for an excuse to get away from his aunt’s romantic celebrations. The former Bibi Wishart didn’t strike me as the sort of woman
who’d let her husband get away with a DVD and a night in.

I realized as I walked down the corridor to the dining room that I had probably taken more trouble over my appearance for this evening with Lance than I had for the last five Valentine’s
nights with Martin. I was freshly showered, wearing heels and a pale-lavender dress from Topshop, and had spent half an hour on my make-up instead of my usual five minutes with a mascara wand and a
lip gloss. I wondered if it was true what Martin had said, that I’d let myself go with him. I hadn’t become obese or stopped shaving my legs or anything, but I had probably stopped
making this sort of an effort since we so rarely went out. Shouldn’t I have tried a bit harder to keep his attention? Shouldn’t I have realized that a man like Martin needed to be proud
of the girl on his arm? I shouldn’t have taken him for granted. It was weird how I hadn’t heard from him at all, except for an efficient cheque for my share of the deposit on the house.
Like I had entirely ceased to exist for him, even though his place in my head was still very much occupied. Stop thinking about Martin, I reminded myself, and squared my shoulders, pushing my chest
forward and lifting my chin. If I didn’t feel confident, I could at least fake it for one night.

Lance was already waiting at the table, dressed in skinny jeans, a checked shirt buttoned right up to his neck and a fitted purple cardigan. His face wore a look of faint amusement as he scanned
the room. I wasn’t sure exactly what was making him smile: himself, or me, or just the rather improbable situation. We had been given a table that sat slightly raised on a dais at the top of
the room, overlooking the other diners, as if on display. I suppose if you were somebody who cared about such things – Michael Winner, say – you would have declared it to be the best
table in the house. The maître d’ certainly seemed to think so, leading me towards Lance with a strange combination of deference and condescension that said, quite clearly,
I realize
you must be someone of importance to have bagged this table, but I want to make it absolutely evident that I have no idea who you are, and nor do I care.
The room was already nearly full of
couples, their faces shining with determination to have a good time. A few of the men looked strained already and I wondered if, from our vantage point, we would be witnesses to any proposals
tonight.

‘Rory!’ Lance exclaimed, leaping to his feet at my approach. I kissed him hello and let the maître d’ seat me and, a step too far I felt, shake the napkin out of its
fan-shaped arrangement and spread it across my lap.

‘Great table,’ I said, more because I thought he’d probably arranged it than because I enjoyed being raised above the other diners.

‘Mortifying, am I right?’ he answered, rolling his eyes at me. ‘Sacheverell said we had to have it, nothing but the best for our visitor from
Country House.
Hey, nice
dress, I see you got the memo. We totally match – his and hers. Hilarious.’

He had that American way of saying things were hilarious without actually laughing, which I have always found a bit disconcerting. It’s almost as if conversation is being appraised rather
than experienced when someone comments, ‘That’s funny’ instead of just laughing. I found myself answering in kind though.

‘Yes, hilarious,’ I said, but smiling to show that I did find it quite funny. With our accidentally matching outfits and our special table of romance – all champagne flutes and
tasteful arrangements of roses – we looked like we were being set up for another
Country House
photo shoot.
Were
we being set up for another
Country House
photo shoot?
‘We’re not being photographed tonight, are we?’

Lance laughed comfortably. He didn’t seem to find any of this awkward. ‘Your duties are over, Rory, this is just a thank-you from me to you, right? I totally swear we’re not
going to demand anything from you tonight. Well, not anything you’re not prepared to give, am I right?’

His eyes twinkled playfully and, if I hadn’t known that he was gay, I would have thought he was actually flirting with me.

‘Ha,’ I laughed, nervously.

‘No, seriously, we were all kinds of worried when Martha dropped out like that. Not the best sign, you know? But it’s been a great day, and I totally know you’ll write a great
piece. Martha said you were the best journalist at the magazine – she hand-picked you for it.’

‘She did?’ I asked. How unlike Martha. I wasn’t unduly flattered, since it seemed likely to me that she’d said it more to mollify the concerns of the Delaval family than
to compliment me.

‘Yeah, and I’ve got to say, you handled Bibi like a dream. She can be an A-one pain in the ass, God forgive me for saying so. But it all worked out.’

The steel-haired waitress, as intimidatingly unsmiling as the maître d’, arrived in time to spare me the dilemma of whether or not to agree with him, which seemed rude to my hostess,
or disagree and imply that he was indiscreet and treacherous to have spoken like that about his aunt. The waitress carefully lifted a bottle of champagne out of an ice bucket, wrapped it in a
napkin and poured out two glasses with her other hand held behind her back, gently bowing as she did so. It was a gesture that suggested, rather than deference, that she was doing us a very great
favour by serving us. As I watched her, I caught myself unconsciously inclining my head back at her and quickly snapped back upright in case she thought I had been attempting to condescend to her
in some way, as if I was the duchess instead of the duchess’s lowly guest in a high-street dress.