Sitting Pretty Page 19

  ‘The gowns are hanging up in the spare room,’ Henry said, taking my case out of the boot. ‘Don’t worry, Marvin’s on his boat at the moment. There’s a small selection of accessories too, so hopefully there’ll be something you like.’

  I hurried up the stairs, bemused that he’d gone to all this trouble. Although of course, if there was to be a chance of me not showing him up at this do, he probably thought he needed to.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I couldn’t help exclaiming, having another Pretty Woman moment when I saw the ball gowns he’d picked out. There was a pinky-purple one in a lovely fabric – I thought it might be taffeta but I wasn’t really sure – which was straight and fitted at the waist, with a V-neck at the front and, I discovered when I lifted it down, at the back too. A less fitted design in a beautiful sea green hung next to it and then there was a raspberry coloured one with a fuller skirt and a rounder neck.

  Underneath each dress were a pair of shoes and an evening bag to match, and on the bed were three pashminas and some costume jewellery boxes. Henry really had thought of everything. The shoes were even the right size – he must have remembered from buying those boots. No straight man could put together outfits like these for someone he’d only known a few weeks.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ Henry called from the landing. ‘Would you like me to bring your case in? There are probably things you’ll need in it.’

  ‘Henry, these are gorgeous!’ I turned to see him in the doorway. ‘I can’t believe you thought of shoes and bags and things. And everything matches!’

  ‘I thought that was the idea,’ he laughed, putting a plastic laundry cover on the foot of the bed and lifting my case onto it. ‘I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. Call me if you need any help or anything. We need to leave by seven.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The Hampshire Hogs for Hope was a charity run by Hampshire business owners to raise money for the local children’s hospices. The money they raised helped the families of terminally ill children to take them on a holiday or to enable them to perform an activity that would otherwise be impossible. The annual pre-Christmas ball was the main fundraising event in their calendar and raised thousands of pounds to give the children in these hospices the very best Christmas they could. That was what I’d read on the internet after Henry’s invitation.

  It looked like it was going to be a very glamorous affair indeed. I was grateful to Henry – left to my own devices I would never have looked as if I fitted in with these well-dressed and stylish people. Although part of my brain couldn’t help wondering how much of the money spent on these clothes could have gone into the charity’s coffers instead. Fortunately, for once, my mouth didn’t blurt out what I was thinking.

  As Henry was being talked at by a throng of attractive women who nodded politely in my direction when he introduced me and then completely ignored my existence, I caught sight of Davina across the room. She looked stunning in a hot-pink satin sheath of a gown. I indicated her to Henry and started to edge my way through the crowd. By the time I got to her she was on her way to the Ladies, so I followed her in.

  I caught up with her by the mirrors. Looking at her in that dress, with her hourglass figure and shiny, blonde, perfectly behaved hair glistening in the lights around the mirror, I felt for a moment like the poor relation in the borrowed, albeit beautiful, frock. She didn’t even recognise me out of my dog hair-covered trousers and T-shirt. I was about to slink away as she started dabbing into her cleavage and behind her delicate ears with a deliciously sensuous perfume sample, but she caught sight of me in the mirror. ‘Beth? My goodness, is that you? You look amazing!’ She did indeed look amazed. ‘That dress is to die for,’ she gushed, probably not in the best taste, considering the purpose of the function we were attending. ‘Working for Henry certainly seems to agree with you. Is he here tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I came with him.’

  ‘Oh?’ Now she looked even more amazed. ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time.’ She peered into her teeny tiny, hot-pink satin evening bag, daintily pulling out a miniature lip gloss which I recognised as her favourite, Candy Shimmer, and adding a coat to her already shimmering lips before pouting at the mirror. I was sure she hadn’t meant to sound patronising – she was just being Davina.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ I said and left her to it.

  ‘Hey, Henry!’ A tall, plump, sandy-haired woman who looked about fifty and whose ample cleavage looked about fifty-five, was calling him over to table twenty as I stepped back through the double doors. I could only just hear her over Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine and the greetings of mingling revellers. ‘We’re on this one. Come and sit next to me!’

  ‘I’ve just got to say hello to someone,’ Henry called back, smiling sadly as if sitting next to her right now was the thing he wanted to do most in the world. He made his way towards me, calling. ‘See you in a minute,’ over his shoulder.

  Clasping my wrist as if it were a tiny life jacket, he gently led me in the opposite direction. ‘I can’t sit next to that woman, Beth’ he whispered frantically at me. So that’s what I was here for, crowd control. ‘If she’s saved me a seat, please promise me you’ll sit in it. You’re so good with people; you can talk to anyone.’ Yep, I was his personal bouncer. Maybe I should just tell him that if he wasn’t so charming to all these women they wouldn’t keep draping themselves over him and hanging on to his every word

  We were near one of the four bars – there was one in each corner – so Henry looked inquiringly at me and then smiled at the barman. ‘Two glasses of champagne please.’

  ‘Two champagnes, sir. Enjoy your evening,’ the rather camp bartender beamed at Henry as he handed him our drinks. The man was getting it from both sides tonight – mind you, he did look devilishly handsome in his dinner jacket – and I’d been right about the bow tie. We melted back through the throng. Henry, in no hurry to return to our designated table smiled, kissed the cheeks of friends nearby, and waved his hellos to those further away.

  Feeling redundant, I glanced back at our table. It was starting to fill up. People were making their way to their tables now and seating themselves instead of milling around, air-kissing each other. I followed Henry back to ours, praying that the woman – or more likely the women – Henry had brought me here to protect him from wouldn’t all gang up on me for spoiling their fun.

  The table looked stunning but crowded before the food even arrived. Its ornate Christmas centrepiece of lush greenery, flickering gold candles, and red velvety ribbon was flanked by glistening ice buckets, tempting bread baskets, and little dishes of butter pats. Tucked amongst these were copies of the menu, lists of raffle prizes and of course, Hampshire Hogs for Hope donation envelopes.

  Wine waiters started circulating with bottles of red and white, pouring for people and leaving full bottles on the tables. Henry, who’d finished his champagne, had white, so I followed suit, thinking that I couldn’t go far wrong if I copied him.

  Suddenly, more waiters flocked towards us with the starters and a huge plate appeared in front of me. In the centre, a tiger prawn looked up from its cushion of smoked salmon. Drizzles of pink and green made pretty patterns in the vast expanse of whiteness around it. While I waited for everyone else to start, I wondered why they needed such big plates if they were only going to use the middles. Henry nudged my elbow, whispering conspiratorially, ‘They could have used smaller plates and saved on the washing up.’ I giggled, tickled that he’d been thinking the same thing as me.

  While everybody else at the table picked up their prawns with their fingers, Henry performed a faultless head-tail-and-shell-ectomy with his fish knife and fork. I tried to do the same and nearly ended up with it in my lap. Fortunately for me, the organisers of the ball chose this moment to introduce themselves and while the rest of our table were looking towards the little stage, Henry gallantly swapped plates with me and performed his prawn procedure for a second time.

&nbs
p; I’d always thought there was something rather intimate about a man peeling a woman’s prawns for her. Though as poor Henry was surrounded by women who’d clearly be happy to peel anything for him and he’d brought me here to keep them at arms’ length, it wouldn’t be very helpful for me to start thinking things like that.

  The welcome speeches took ages. People finished eating – Henry’s prawn was delicious – and the waiters removed the plates, disappearing through the huge side doors, then swiftly returning with the next course. After we’d finished clapping, we turned back and found tiny green salads awaiting us.

  ‘Micro salad! Hmm.’ Henry nudged me again. ‘They should have put this with the prawns and …’

  ‘Saved on more washing up?’ I chuckled. ‘Your concern for the kitchen porters is very touching!’

  ‘And the environment!’ Henry teased. ‘I am very eco-friendly!’ He picked up his glass and clinked it against mine, ‘Santé!’

  ‘Santé!’ I grinned happily back before we both tucked in to our dinky salads. This was turning into a really lovely evening. Although Henry was so much smarter than me, we seemed to be on the same wavelength. Here was a man I could relax and have a laugh with.

  After the salad plates had been cleared away, the elegantly minimalistic turkey course was served. The turkey was a bit on the dry side, so everyone opted for extra gravy to soften it up. The three halves of Brussels sprout were definitely al dente, so they needed a bit of gravy too. And I was about four mouthfuls in when my knife slipped, shooting my stuffing ball into the table centre greenery.

  ‘Good shot!’ Henry chuckled, topping up my wine glass and that of the woman on his other side – who was here with her husband and therefore not simpering over him like most of the rest of the table – before doing his own. ‘I’ll give you mine to get rid of when no one’s looking.’

  Before serving dessert, they called the raffle. Henry had bought a stack of books and I’d bought as many as I could afford. Before I could stop him, he picked up my few and added them to his pile.

  ‘There,’ he announced, fanning them out between us. ‘Now we’ve both added to our chances of winning something.’

  ‘Seems a bit of an uneven deal.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he took a sip from his water glass. ‘I never win anything, so I’m hoping you’ll bring me luck!’

  There were about twenty prizes and about forty tables full of people who’d bought many books so I doubted that. Until the fourth ticket was called.

  ‘Blue, number four zero one!’ came the announcer’s voice.

  ‘That’s us!’ Henry pulled out a blue book with number four hundred on the top ticket. He folded it back and there was number four hundred and one. ‘Come on!’ He tugged me by the hand towards the stage. We returned to our seats with an envelope. I didn’t even know what our prize was, but at least it wasn’t anything in a jewellery box – that would have been embarrassing. Henry opened the envelope and showed me a voucher for a romantic dinner for two at Hetherin Hall country house hotel with pre-dinner cocktails in the terrace bar. A romantic dinner for two – how ironic.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Henry held the taxi door open while I climbed in, hoping I didn’t look as tipsy as I felt. I couldn’t imagine how he sounded so sober when he’d had just as much to drink as I had.

  After the raffle we’d had tiny dolls’ tea party-sized mince pies served with quenelles of brandy butter. Then they’d brought out the coffee, but by then the band had started up and I’d somehow found myself on the dance floor.

  We’d jived, extremely badly in my case, wiggled our hips and had great fun going in, out, in, out and shaking it all about, before ending up in a conga. I’d carried on until a stitch sent me sinking to the nearest chair, clutching my side. Henry, almost as out of breath, had dropped more elegantly into the next one – he looked like he should be in a black and white Madonna video.

  ‘Your case is at the cottage. Do you want to come back there? The spare room is Marvin-free at the moment, so you’re very welcome to use it.’

  Suddenly I really didn’t want to go back to my little studio. I wanted to curl up on Henry’s spare bed with Talisker, just like old times. ‘Yes please.’ I hoped I wasn’t slurring.

  Henry held the taxi door open for me. He was very good at this door holding lark. Gay men were so nice, I thought. They had lovely manners and they knew what colours went together. I gave an unladylike yawn.

  ‘Come on, Beth. Time you went to bed I think.’ Henry led me up the stairs and into the spare room where Talisker was indeed on the bed. It was almost as if he was waiting for me.

  A glass of water appeared on the bedside table. It was on a coaster, which made me want to giggle.

  ‘Goodnight, Beth,’ I heard Henry’s voice say.

  ‘Nighty-night, Henry,’ I mumbled before unzipping my dress, pulling it off, and getting straight into bed. I closed my eyes. The room didn’t spin so I wasn’t drunk, just a tiny bit squiffy.

  He was a lovely man, Henry. Six foot three or four, slender, and he had the most perfect forearms I’d ever seen on a man. And lovely shoes. He looked to me like he should be tap dancing his way through a 1940s musical. I wondered what it would be like to be his leading lady.

  Oops, I’d have to be careful, otherwise I might end up being a teeny tiny bit in love with Henry. And that wouldn’t be very good, would it? Especially if we’d got to go on a romantic dinner together. He might be charming and have a very cute bottom when he danced, but there was no point in getting any ideas about him. Henry Halliday wouldn’t be interested in anything on my menu.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Gritty eyes from going to bed with my makeup on, a mouth like the inside of a kettle in need of descaling, a headache, and the feeling that there was something I couldn’t quite remember greeted me when I woke up in the morning. Half an hour in the bathroom put most of that right and I felt and, hopefully looked, a bit more human when I went down the stairs. There was a little girl in the kitchen with Henry.

  ‘Amelia, this is Beth.’ Kneeling beside her, Henry introduced me to the little girl I’d seen in the photograph. She looked adorable in her red, green, and white snowman jumper, tinselly bobbles in her milk chocolate coloured, ringlets, making it look like she had bunches of slightly melted Curly Wurlys growing out of her head.

  ‘Hello, Amelia. I like your jumper,’ I looked down at my own. It was more stylish and classier than my usual winter woollies thanks to my clothing allowance, but plain. It was definitely missing a Christmassy touch.

  ‘It’s a snowman.’ She looked up at me uncertainly, clutching Henry’s hand but clearly wanting to show off her Christmas jumper.

  ‘It’s a lovely snowman,’ I agreed. ‘Has he got a name?’

  Amelia put her head on one side for a moment and frowned in concentration, ‘Olaf, only he isn’t from Frozen. This Olaf’s just a normal snowman. He can’t talk.’

  ‘Well, he’s very handsome,’ I smiled at her. She really was the cutest little girl.

  ‘You had a Father Christmas one last year, didn’t you, Amelia?’ Henry ruffled one of her Curly Wurly locks.

  ‘That was when I was a little girl,’ she rolled her eyes at him. ‘I’m four now,’ she told me, letting go of his hand.

  ‘Four!’ I exclaimed, feeling this was probably the right way to react to the news and being rewarded by a giggle and a cheeky grin.

  ‘How old are you?’ She made it sound like a really important question. Still, I suppose when you’re four, any question you ask is really important.

  ‘Amelia!’ Henry pretended to scold her while trying not to laugh. ‘You mustn’t ask ladies how old they are!’

  ‘Why not?’ came the perfectly reasonable reply. I too, was curious as to why it was considered perfectly all right to ask a man his age but not a woman – or a lady, as Henry so delicately called me, putting me in mind of David Walliams in Little Britain, flouncing ab
out in a dress and wig, saying ‘I am a lady!’

  ‘Well,’ he began, looking to me as if he wished he hadn’t started that conversation. ‘It’s not very polite.’

  ‘What’s polite?’

  ‘Polite is when you say “Please” and “Thank you” and “Excuse me”, ’he explained.

  ‘I always say “Please” and “Thank you”,’ she announced proudly.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ I told her. I could see when she grew up there was every chance Henry’s niece was going to be a proper little madam.

  ‘Amelia and I were just about to have brunch, weren’t we?’

  Amelia looked at me as if trying to decide if I knew what brunch was. ‘That’s like breakfast and lunch all mixed up together. You can have boiled eggs and soldiers and fish fingers!’ Clearly I looked like I needed the explanation.

  ‘Wow! That sounds lovely,’ I laughed as much at Henry’s face as at the food combination.

  ‘You will join us, won’t you, Beth?’ Henry asked, busying himself with the coffee maker.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love to. I love boiled eggs and fish fingers!’ I winked at Amelia.

  Half an hour later the three of us were indeed tucking into perfectly soft boiled eggs, toasty soldiers, fish fingers, and tomato ketchup. There were also croissants, pain au chocolat, yoghurts, and a bowl of fruit.

  ‘What’s your favourite ice-cream?’ Amelia looked at me, dipping a fish finger in her egg, sending yolk dribbling down the sides. ‘Mine’s mint choc chick.’

  ‘Mint choc chip,’ Henry corrected her, smiling.

  ‘Why? It hasn’t got chips in it.’

  ‘They’re chips of chocolate,’ he tried again.

  ‘Chips aren’t chocolate, silly. They’re potato. Everybody knows that.’