Part 31 (1/2)

Ten minutes later, Laura smoothed open the Sunday paper on the kitchen table. BRITAIN'S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS, ran the headline. She tore her eyes away from the photo of Nick standing in front of Chartley, pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her fingers, and read rapidly: Number Three: Dominic Edward Danvers Needham, 12th Marquis of Ranelagh, Earl of Albany Cross. Okay, so the Princes have to be at Nos. 1 & 2, but many are more intrigued by the deb's delight, Dominic Needham (above). Thirty-five, single, handsome, worth roughly around 300m, the Marquis of Ranelagh is the matrimonial jackpot for almost every ambitious mother with a socialite daughter to marry off-and the heart-throb of a generation of boarding-school girls. And, of course, there's also the house.

Chartley Hall is regarded by many as the finest stately home in England. Built by Inigo Jones, nestling next to the wild North Norfolk coast, it is full of the most fabulous treasures (the Hogarths, the greatest collection of Renaissance drawings in the country, the Grinling Gibbons woodwork throughout, the magnificent library, and the notorious soldier collection begun by his father). Visitors flock there year-round. But does the notoriously private marquis have anyone to share all this with?

”Oh, G.o.d,” she whispered to herself. ”This is dire.”

Happily, girls, the answer is-for the moment-no. For beneath the glittering surface, all is not well in the House of Needham. Rarely has there been a great aristocratic family so rocked by scandal in recent years. First came the notorious affair between the present marquis's mother, the beautiful British actress Vivienne Lash, then 11th Marchioness of Ranelagh, and her husband's brother, notorious gambler and playboy Lord Frederick Needham. They ran off together when the present marquis was just eleven, and now live in the south of France. The 11th Marquis forbade all contact between his ex-wife and her children, and to this day Nick and his two sisters, Lady Rose Balmore and Lady Lavinia Needham, have made no effort to keep in touch with their mother, who now, in her late seventies, is said to be in ill health.

Her children have fared little better. Her eldest daughter, Lady Rose, seemed set to follow in her mother's footsteps when, in 1978 at the age of eighteen, she eloped with Gareth Ringwood, a drummer with the heavy-metal band Roxattax. It was a tempestuous marriage that ended in divorce in 1980, and coincided with her heroin addiction reaching its height. After an overdose that nearly killed her in 1982, she entered rehab, and six years later married the multimillionaire industrialist Sir Malcolm Balmore. They have two young children, Samuel and Elizabeth, and Lady Rose is active on many committees, tireless in her work for various charities.

”My G.o.d!” said Laura, unable to stop herself from grinning. ”Fantastic. Who'd have thought it?”

Lady Lavinia has not taken the same path as her elder sister. She might be called rootless, in fact. She spent several years in India in various ashrams, and ran a stall in London's Portobello Road market, selling leather goods she had sourced herself. She spends six months of the year in Thailand, where she has a house-paid for by her family, it is presumed, for she has never worked a day in her life. Ethereally beautiful, she is as famous for her love life as anything, having dated several rock stars and actors. She is currently living with her brother in Chartley Hall, where sources close to the family say she is having an affair with the marquis's oldest friend and estate manager, Charles Potter.

He wishes, Laura thought. G.o.d, this is a load of rubbish.

She read on.

So, what of our handsome romantic hero, Dominic (known to all as Nick)? Until recently, friends said, he was increasingly remote, shunning the London society that was once his lifeblood. A regular on the smart London social scene, where young rich aristocrats regularly pay 1,000 for a bottle of champagne in the nightclubs of Mayfair and Chelsea, he withdrew almost entirely from public life after his father died in 2003, when Nick went up to Norfolk to take over the estate. His father was much loved in the county for his management of Chartley and its lands and properties. His son, who has made a few attempts to alter the running of the estate without any great success, is often regarded as standoffish and arrogant by those who don't know him. Friends say loyally that he is merely shy, growing used to the role he must play as one of the highest peers in the realm.

In recent weeks, however, his behavior has changed, and the gossip on the circuit is that he has finally fallen in love. Since June, he has been seen several times in town with Cecilia Thorson, trust-fund daughter of millionaire financier Lars Thorson and his wife, notorious socialite and seventies beauty Lady Tania Ingham. The Thorsons are well known in fas.h.i.+onable circles, seen as the A+ of the A list, and Nick could look no higher for a future wife. Friends say he is very much in love, spending more and more time in London and increasingly absent from his post at the estate, where he still has much to learn.

Is this true love? Is this an apprentices.h.i.+p? Or is the marquis too wrapped up in himself to find the solution to his problems-a wife who will provide an heir for one of our greatest national treasures? Many would like to know-and many girls would love to be that solution.

”Who was that?” came Yorky's voice blearily from his room. ”The phone?”

”Nothing important,” Laura called back. ”Coffee?”

”Yes, please.”

Laura stood up, arching her back and stretching. The kettle was boiling. She got the coffee out of a cupboard. She screwed up her eyes as if trying to stare into the distance. They stung with tears. Stupid to have any kind of proprietorial feelings about him, she told herself. You haven't heard from him in a month, and that was your decision; you know it's too hard, that you can't be together, you haven't let yourself think about him, so that's why it's so weird to read about him now. Just recognize that, you'll be fine. He's not for you, this life is not yours, the whole thing is ridiculous.

She knew all that rubbish about Cristal-drinking toffs was idiotic, but at the same time, she also knew that there was no smoke without fire. He was different, she knew it. And apart from anything else, he was obviously going out with that girl, the millionairess Cecilia. Laura tried to feel n.o.ble. It was obviously the right thing for him-a blue-blooded, blond millionaire's daughter, that was absolutely what he needed.

It couldn't be further away from what she was, an ordinary girl making coffee in a slightly scuzzy kitchen in North London on a Sunday morning. So what if it still hurt-that was the way it was. She looked down at the article again. Best thing would be if she were to chuck it, straight away. She poured the coffee, biting her lip as she read it all through again.

chapter thirty-eight.

I 'd love to, Laura. But I'm not sure. Really. Don't have a go at me.”

”Simon! But it'll be great! Jo and Chris will just have got back from Oz, they really want to see you. And Yorky's invited the famous Becky, you'll meet her, too.”

Simon said apologetically, ”I'll try, Laura, but I'm just not sure. I have to speak to Jorgia on Sat.u.r.day, too-we've got a lot to sort out. And it's so far...”

Laura said, ”Whatever, Simon. Fine.” She crouched over her desk at work and started tapping on her keyboard loudly, to try to let him know that she was a Very Busy Person. It was a waste of time speaking to Simon these days, she thought crossly. Of course he should be coming over on Sat.u.r.day, to catch up with everyone, but was he? No. He wanted to stay in with Mum and Dad knitting tea cozies and coo down the phone to his girlfriend. Pah. It was ridiculous-even Yorky was starting to think it was ridiculous, a grown man living at home in Harrow with his mum and dad, helping them out, going to the supermarket, taking care of all their recycling.

”It's just...it's such a nightmare coming all the way in from Mum and Dad's, you know.”

”If you weren't living with Mum and Dad, it wouldn't be a problem,” said Laura pointedly. But Simon didn't take the bait.

”Come on Sat.u.r.day, Simon, go on.” Laura tapped her fingers on the receiver. ”Come on, bro. I miss you! You can even kip on the sofa if you want.”

”Okay,” said Simon, relenting. ”Okay, of course. I'd love to. Er. Are you cooking?”

”Yorky's cooking. Well, perhaps we're getting a takeaway. Listen, I have to go, I'll be late.”

She said goodbye, put down the phone, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and picked up her bag.

Her latest project, which she was just starting, was Operation Bring Linley Munroe Back into the Fold. She had had a meeting there last week with Clare Swynford, the coordinator for the company, and had prepared a pack of stuff about the programs they did, the investment opportunities (tax-free), and lots of pictures of smiley children, which had won Clare over most convincingly. Today was a different matter, though. She was going back this afternoon to meet Marcus Sussman, the man at the root of all the problems, the one who'd insulted Mrs. McGregor and then been outraged at his treatment. He was head of the banking division at Linley Munroe; and since he'd been the first to volunteer and the first to pull out, Laura was being made very clearly to understand-by Rachel, by Gareth, and by Linley Munroe as well-that he was the cause, but also the solution. He was an important man, and Laura couldn't help feeling he wasn't the kind of person to go gooey-eyed over a cute photo of three children drawing with some crayons.

She wasn't, truth be told, looking forward to it much. She knew what Marcus Sussman would be like. Pleased with himself, too rich, arrogant. But it had to be done, so Laura slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up her phone and the folder she'd made for Marcus Sussman, and headed out of the office. On her way, she pa.s.sed Rachel.

”Where you off to, then?” said Rachel.

”Linley Munroe,” said Laura briefly. ”Can't stop, I don't want to be late. The rehabilitation begins.”

”Great!” said Rachel. ”Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

It was a little more than ten minutes' walk to Linley Munroe; Laura prepared her lines in her head. It wasn't a big deal-they had some great new companies who were interested in investing money, she told herself. Linley Munroe wasn't the be-all and end-all. She knew she'd caused the breach in the first place, indirectly. There was funding missing, vital funding, because of her, and getting Linley Munroe to give money, plug the financial hole they were in, represented the last of the mistakes she had to rectify.

The first signs were not promising. Laura was shown into an office that was a bizarre hybrid of formal leather-bound boardroom chic mixed with gla.s.s futuristic Canary Wharfstyle modernism; the company clearly wanted the best of both worlds. The air conditioning was turned on full blast, and Laura s.h.i.+vered. It was warm outside and she was in a thin top. She wished she'd brought a st.u.r.dy cable-knit sweater to pop on. She gazed around the office, taking in the black office furniture, the neatness of everything. There was one piece of paper in the in-tray; everything else was filed away. There were no personal effects anywhere, unless an invitation pinned up on the board to an Autumn Black-Tie Dinner thrown by some bizarre-sounding organization with a long, Germanic name could be called a personal effect. Laura thought not.

She waited. And waited. Five minutes turned into ten. The longer she waited, the crosser she grew. She swung herself around on her wheelie chair. Then she swung round on her chair again, and the door opened.

”Excuse me,” said a voice behind her. ”You must be Laura Foster, yes?”

”Oh, my G.o.d,” said Laura, clutching the side of the desk and turning herself round on the chair. ”I'm so sorry-”

A tall, beefy man with an eerily familiar face strode forward. ”I'm Marcus Sussman.”

She stood up, and held out her hand. ”It's you!” she said.

”You're-” said Marcus Sussman, looking at her with a momentarily bewildered expression. ”I've seen you before.” His brow lifted. ”Oh, my G.o.d.”

”Yes,” said Laura.

”You're that girl in the pub, last month. In Norfolk!” He seemed amazed, although he registered no positive emotion, nor issued any further apology.

”You stole my table, then you spilt your drink over me,” Laura said in what she hoped was a tone of benevolent amus.e.m.e.nt.

Marcus Sussman looked at her, nonplussed, as if she were talking Swahili. ”Right,” he said.

He was a strange man. She remembered him now. His clothes were beautiful; his s.h.i.+rtsleeves were fastened with cuff links and the tailoring of his suit was perfect, even Laura could see that. On him, the effect was odd, though. It was that of harnessing something, hiding something, putting on a costume. He wasn't suave or elegant. He was fleshy, rather large, too tall; his hair was slightly too long, falling in big bracket shapes on either side of his forehead. And he had egg on his plump silk tie. Or something encrusted-she could see it. Why didn't he flick it off, or notice? Hadn't someone told him?

”Real coincidence, that,” said Marcus Sussman.

”Yes, what a small world.”