The Bachelor: Racy, pacy and very funny!

This is my moment. My chance. The pinnacle of my life as an artist.

The last chapter of Flora’s life in England had ended in misery and shame. It was time to write the next one. Time to create her own happy ending.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_6706fcaa-0522-5bb9-beac-0ef0177c0788)

The moment Flora stepped off the plane it started to rain. Lightly at first, just a few small drops dancing off the tarmac. But by the time she’d been through Customs and made it out to the Hertz car rental, sheets of water were bucketing down from menacing, charcoal-grey sky.

Tired, and unused to driving on the left-hand side of the road, never mind with her windscreen wipers going full pelt, Flora managed to take two wrong turns getting out of Heathrow and ended up going the wrong way around the M25. By the time she got back on track heading towards the Swell Valley, she was stressed, frustrated, and more than forty minutes late for her first site meeting with Graydon and the client.

‘Where are you?’ Graydon’s voice, low and gravelly and demanding, echoed around Flora’s car like a bear growling in its cave.

‘I’m on my way,’ she said. ‘The traffic’s terrible.’

‘I didn’t ask for a fucking traffic report,’ Graydon barked at her. Someone had woken up on the wrong side of bed this morning. ‘Just make sure you get there on time. Something came up in London so you’re going to have to meet Henry solo.’

Flora fought back the urge to scream. Or to ask Graydon whether what ‘came up’ was in fact some tart of a male stripper’s ten-inch hard-on, while she’d just flown halfway across the world to try to salvage the most prestigious job GJD had ever had, after Graydon’s last lover had just screwed it up royally.

‘Is there really no way you can be there?’ she asked, more in despair than expectation. ‘If the client’s expecting both of us—’

‘The client’s just secured my services for a pittance,’ Graydon snapped.

You mean my services, thought Flora, although she was wise enough not to say so.

‘He’ll get what he’s given.’

‘All right, but can you at least talk me through the … key points?’ asked Flora, grinding the car’s gears noisily into fifth. She hadn’t driven a stick since college and could barely see three feet in front of her in this rain. ‘What are his main … concerns?’

‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ Graydon said airily. ‘He wants the place to look magnificent, without compromising the history. And he wants it done yesterday. He’s open to suggestion, creatively.’

‘Really?’ Flora perked up. Henry Saxton Brae had a reputation for arrogance, as well as for being controlling. She’d assumed he’d be one of those young clients who think they’re really an architect and who weighed down projects with their endless impractical demands. ‘He doesn’t have a wish list?’

‘Oh, well, you know, somewhat,’ muttered Graydon. Flora could hear muffled voices in the background on his end of the line. And laughter. ‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t be late. And don’t nick anything.’

He hung up.

Clearly Graydon’s panic over holding on to the Hanborough job had subsided since yesterday. Was it really only yesterday when he’d called her? Picturing herself in Lisa Kent’s Siasconset garden, Flora felt as if it were a week ago at least.

The clock on her dashboard said 11 a.m.

She would be late. That much was a fact.

The only question was by how much.

Oh well. It couldn’t be helped. Hopefully Henry Saxton Brae would understand.

Flora finally arrived at Hanborough at half past one, a full hour late for the meeting. As luck would have it, she wasn’t the only one.

‘Mr Saxton Brae’s been held up at a meeting, I’m afraid,’ a smiling, slightly plump, middle-aged secretary informed her, scurrying out to the car as soon as Flora pulled up. ‘He shouldn’t be long now. Can I offer you a cup of tea while you wait?’

‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

The rain had finally stopped, and it seemed to Flora as if the clouds had parted just for her as she followed the secretary across the drawbridge and walked through the ancient portcullis into the castle proper. Outside, sunlight fell in thick, bright shafts onto the honey-coloured stone, and bounced back off the swollen waters of the moat. Inside, however, all was dark and cold and damp. Magnificent, in its own way, with its high ceilings and winding stairwells and tapestry-hung walls. But distinctly lacking in light.

We’ll have to do something about that,thought Flora, although for the moment she wasn’t sure what. A mug of tea arrived, along with a Hobnob biscuit. Not until that moment had Flora realized how hungry she was. Wolfing down the biscuit, she distracted herself from her rumbling stomach by wandering down the halls, mug in hand, trying to get her bearings while simultaneously taking a mental photograph of her first impressions of each room and feature.

First impressions were vital, in Flora’s opinion. It was so easy to lose sight of the essence of a house, or any building for that matter, once it became too familiar. Part of the designer’s job was to keep hold of that freshness, those first ideas and thoughts and emotions that assailed you when you walked through the door. Because that was what future generations would see, long after she and Graydon and Henry Saxton Brae were gone.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’

Flora jumped and spun around, promptly spilling half a mug of tea all over a priceless Persian rug.

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry!’

She was standing in the drawing room, examining a rather wonderful antique harpsichord that had been inexplicably shoved into a corner, when Henry Saxton Brae surprised her. In a dark suit and blue shirt open at the neck, but with an Hermès silk tie dangling from his long fingers, he’d obviously just come from a business meeting. Flora’s first impressions of Henry were that he was incredibly handsome – far better looking than he was in the pictures – and incredibly angry.

He was also incredibly rude.

‘Where the fuck is Graydon?’

‘He got held up. In London. I’m Flora Fitzwilliam.’ Flora put down the mug and offered Henry her hand. ‘I just flew in from New York. I’ll be overseeing the project at Hanborough and I’m incredibly excited to—’

‘No.’ Ignoring Flora’s proffered hand, Henry looked her up and down, like a horse he’d been considering buying but now found wanting. ‘I don’t want you. You can go.’ And with that he turned around almost casually and left the room.

It took Flora a moment to recover. But only a moment.

Running out into the hallway, she called after Henry’s retreating back. ‘Excuse me.’ When Henry didn’t answer she raised her voice. ‘Hey!’

Henry turned around, still scowling.

‘If you have a problem working with me, the least you can do is have the courtesy to tell me what it is,’ Flora said defiantly.

Henry took a step towards her. He was still giving her the ‘appraising a racehorse’ look, although this time it was marginally less dismissive.

‘You’re too young,’ he said bluntly.

‘I’m twenty-six.’ Flora drew herself up to her full five foot two. This seemed to amuse Henry, if the small smile playing around the corners of his lips was anything to go by.

‘Exactly. I told Graydon I needed somebody experienced.’

‘I am experienced,’ Flora said firmly. ‘I’m also the best designer at GJD. By miles,’ she added, jutting her chin out defiantly.

Henry’s smile grew. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Flora. Her dream job was slipping through her fingers. This was no time to play the shrinking violet. ‘If you’d read my references—’

‘I don’t have time to read references,’ said Henry.

He was in a bad mood because George had just lost them an important deal, the match he’d been hoping to watch at Queen’s this morning had been rained off, and to top it all off that infernally arrogant queen Graydon James had sent his minion to a site meeting without him, blowing Henry off for some spurious ‘emergency’ up in town. The truth was that Henry had already decided to nix Graydon’s girl just to teach the arrogant sod a lesson before he’d even laid eyes on Flora. Then he’d walked in, seen how young she was, and felt even more justified about pulling the trigger.