Authors: Gillian White
Perhaps, after they’re married, she and Billy should kill Fabian. That would be the best way forward, to retrieve her freedom and everything else she’d ever dreamed of in one fell swoop.
Ange hiccuped. ‘Anyway, I want to see this flat you’ve got right at the top,’ she said. ‘A secret place where nobody else is allowed to go.’
‘Hardly that. You make it sound far more exciting than it is,’ said Fabian, dismissively. ‘But of course you can see it if that’s what you want.’
The door to the building was opened for him, he had bleeped the security guards to expect him. They almost bowed as he and Ange swung by and took the lift to the penthouse floor.
‘This is my office,’ said Fabian, picking up the papers he needed. He’d have sent for them, normally, but they were so near it seemed silly to put someone out. ‘Rather crusty and boring I’m afraid.’
Tasteful. Formal. Massively expensive. She was careful not to act too impressed, after all, she must remember she, too, is a person of means. ‘There’s so much green in here,’ said Ange, spinning round on an emerald carpet. ‘So many plants. So many big fat lampstands. So much sky.’
‘The lampstands are jade,’ Fabian said matter-of-factly. ‘Ming dynasty. And this is the flat, up this small flight of stairs.’ He unlocked the door and she followed him in, her heart knocking against her chest. She’d got him this far, now how the hell did she get him to go that little bit further… all the way?
He’d shown no signs of wanting to do so, that was the worrying part. Holding hands, and a peck on the cheek was as far as they’d got so far.
‘I’m hot,’ she said. ‘Can we open the windows and step out there? The view of London is amazing! As if we’re seeing it from the air.’
‘Certainly. Champagne?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, Fabian,’ she giggled, nuzzling up to him, making sure he would feel her body through her dress. ‘Let’s make this a special night. We’re so rarely alone together.’
Fabian quite understood that a visit to Aunty Val’s Hampstead house was out of the question but he found it harder to accept why there could be no meeting, no contact anywhere, not even on neutral ground, before the wedding. And could he be expecting Ange’s only relative to put her hand in her pocket to pay for the whole affair, Ange being the bride?
There was certainly no suggestion of it, but all the same, Ange felt uneasy.
‘This woman brought you up single-handed. She must adore you. She’ll be bereft when you leave her, all alone in that house with nobody to look after her. Surely she wants to know who it is who’s taking you away from her. Surely I could help to reassure her.’
‘No, Fabian,’ said Ange. ‘I don’t think you realise just how strange Aunty Val can be.’
‘Well, my relatives aren’t exactly run of the mill,’ he said, still insisting. ‘I really do feel I should make some contact before…’
‘Well why don’t you write her a note and I’ll take it to her.’
‘I could post it. That might seem more of a gesture.’
‘No, she won’t look at the post…’
He looked askance at Ange. ‘Well who is going to deal with that once we are married?’
‘I’m afraid I am going to have to see quite a lot of her, even then,’ said Ange apologetically.
‘But we’ll often be at Hurleston together, I hope, hundreds of miles away.’
‘Well, I will just have to keep visiting London. That’s all there is to it. There’s just no other answer.’
Fabian paused. Ange could see he was wary of raising the subject. ‘I did wonder, it’s only a thought and only you can possibly know if this would be acceptable or not, don’t be upset, Angela, but would your aunt consider moving into a private home?’
Ange was shocked. Aunty Val became quite real, all of a sudden, and in need of a sterling defence. ‘An old folks home? With halfwits tottering and dribbling around her?’
Fabian tutted impatiently. ‘Nothing like that. Surely you know I would never suggest a place like that. No, I mean a genteel residential home somewhere in Surrey, perhaps, where she would be taken care of, remove most of the weight from your shoulders. I mean, you’re madly busy yourself, you must find it difficult to have to cope with your aunt on top of all the other stresses in your life.’
Now was Ange’s chance. Ange’s chance to bring up the subject of money at last. She gave Fabian a rueful look. ‘I have a reasonable salary, and, of course, the income from my parents’ insurance. Aunty Val has the house, of course, but not much more. The fees for such a place would be huge and quite honestly, Fabian, I’m not sure our finances could stretch to that. After all, Aunty Val’s not ill, not in the physical sense, she could live for years and years…’
‘I sincerely hope she does,’ said Fabian. ‘But if there aren’t enough funds to meet it, I would be more than happy to deal with it.’
‘She wouldn’t consider it,’ said Ange, her ideas racing, her brain ticking over like a machine trying to work out how best to make the most of his offer. ‘She’d know she was taking money from somebody else. She might be peculiar, very peculiar, but she’s not daft. She has her pride. No, Fabian.’
A determined man, and used to getting his own way, he continued to try and persuade her. ‘Perhaps you could just mention the idea to her, not of me paying, of course, but of her going away, somewhere she could take some of her own furniture.’
‘And her parrot?’
‘Naturally. Of course her parrot. Somewhere with beautiful grounds and interesting companions.’
‘Aunty Val hates company.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Fabian crossly. ‘You’ve already made that perfectly clear. But the kind of place I have in mind would respect her privacy. She could stay in her room and never come out if that’s what she really wanted. And as for the pride aspect of it, we could pretend you were paying. There’s nothing to stop you being given a sudden rise, is there?’
‘You are very kind, Fabian,’ said Ange stiffly. ‘And I’ll mention the idea to her, but I don’t hold out much hope. She is a most independent woman.’
‘Just like you,’ said Fabian, giving her one of his fond pecks on the cheek.
‘So you’re going for gold on Thursday night, is that it then?’ asked Billy.
‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’
‘So that he believes my kid is his?’
‘Yes. Billy, how many times must we go through this?’
‘And you’re going to let this jerk go all the way?’
‘Well, you can hardly get pregnant otherwise,’ said Ange, sarcastically. ‘What d’you want me to do? Ask him to come in a test-tube and then disappear into the bathroom waving a syringe? I think he might get wise to that, he might think that was a little odd, don’t you?’
‘So that’s what the underwear is all about?’
Up until now she’d gone on her dates wearing her day to day greying bra and pants. Her best bra had one strap sewn up, the elastic had almost gone in her knickers and Angela Harper was supposed to be an expert in lingerie, a connoisseur, no less, with all the world’s designers to choose from.
Not many nearly-new shops she’d been into sold fancy lingerie. Not many people would choose to wear somebody else’s knickers. She could, of course, pretend to be coy and take her clothes off herself, but that might not be possible, once Fabian’s basest urges were aroused.
For once Billy came up trumps. ‘Tina used to give those naughty parties. She used to sell all kinds—vibrators and thongs and frilly crap to nymphomaniacs in places like Epping and Potters Bar. She might know where you could get your hands on something fancy.’
‘Thanks, Billy,’ Ange was genuinely grateful. Perhaps he was on her side after all. Perhaps, now the wedding was in sight, he could see some sense in the whole operation.
She went with Tina to the nearest phonebox which was actually working and Tina ordered, by special delivery, a matching set, suspender belt and camiknickers which, she assured Ange, were top of the range and you really couldn’t tell that they weren’t pure silk. ‘But what the hell d’you want them for?’ she asked, laughing dirtily. ‘Surely Billy doesn’t need any assistance in that direction?’
‘No, he does not,’ said Ange, dryly. ‘I can’t tell you any more at the moment but…’
‘You’re on the game!’
‘Sod off, Tina. Just make the call. Come on.’
The suspender belt and camiknickers arrived by White Arrow. Sale or return. In spite of the plain brown packaging she thought the delivery man looked at her oddly. Ange unpacked them, opening the Cellophane carefully for later reuse, and fingered them lovingly. Once she and Fabian were married she knew she’d have to acquire a whole range of underwear, and nightwear, and how would she fill her wardrobes at the Cadogan Square house, or Hurleston for that matter, where a walk-in dressing room called a boudoir gaped emptily, situated next to the massive bathroom with a lavatory as ornate and sturdy as a throne. The few clothes she had managed to buy so far would look ridiculous spaced out on hangers, like the spindly bones of a finished salmon. The new underwear was a classy bluey-grey, the ‘in colour’ according to Tina, and funnily enough the same shade as the tatty bra and knickers Ange was so ashamed of.
As it happened Ange needn’t have gone to the bother.
It was hard work and she’d never worked hard at sex before. And it took so long. She thought her hand would drop off her arm her wrist ached so much. She’d never had to touch Billy, well, not in this endless way. Billy did everything himself, no need of any extra stimulation. She knew she didn’t have to play the virgin, Fabian would expect her to be experienced, being a woman of the world and travelled. She finally came to the conclusion that Fabian was actually shy, and scared, and unsure what to do with his body, this man who had been twice married, and, Ange suspected, not knowing, had had many affairs before.
It was even a slog getting him off the leather sofa and through to the bedroom. She’d been looking forward to trying this bed, not the heavy four-poster at Hurleston, with the thick rose-coloured hangings, but a film star’s dream… gleaming brass, and frilly fresh white cotton.
She had to take care not to appear as a wanton hussy, she knew he would have hated that, the few remarks he had let slip about his first two wives suggested that they were a couple of vamps in bed. But nor could she act reluctant or coy, as she had hoped, such a simpler role.
She had to pretend Fabian was Billy.
The act itself took only seconds.
Much grunting and groaning, and he kept his pyjamas on throughout, it was Ange who felt quite exhausted.
She took long and steamy advantage of the scented Jacuzzi in the adjoining bathroom, both before and after—hence the removal of her own clothes and the waste of Tina’s efforts. And her neighbour had gone to some trouble on her behalf, considering she was due in court any day now as a result of a further visit from the brutish Ed.
Yes, poor Tina has troubles enough of her own.
Back in the flat the following day, and as Ange washes through her little bits of borrowed lingerie, careful not to snag the material, and using specially purchased Dreft, she concentrates on the plan which has been forming in the back of her head.
It is risky, unscrupulous, but totally necessary. She has to get a wardrobe together, and then there’s the question of the wedding dress itself.
Silk, satin, muslin, rags.
Somewhere she has a copy of the Prince Regent key, strictly against the rules, of course, but necessary. Two people can’t possibly live with one key between them and the management should have realised that.
Since the Harpers left, Ange is pretty certain their old room will not have been let. The new government policy is to get families out of bed and breakfast, they have finally clicked that the price is too high. Gradually the top floor has been emptying of its long-term customers.
Ange knows her way round the floors and endless corridors of the Prince Regent like the back of her hand, she also knows their weekly routine and is well aware of their staffing difficulties. Whatever she decides to do she must do it quickly. There is only one week left before her wedding day.
T
HE DAY DAWNS, AS
days do, no matter how much you’re dreading them. And is Fabian Ormerod, forty-five years old and no longer in his prime—the most hard-headed businessman you are ever likely to meet, with all his aristocratic wealth and his conservative values—making a fool of himself? He cannot count the times he has asked himself this question since his foolhardy proposal only two weeks ago hundreds of feet in the air above Bristol.
So why did he do it?
Why in blazes didn’t he wait,
or at least suggest a lengthy engagement? Give himself a chance to get to know this girl from nowhere? I mean, good God, she hasn’t even invited one friend to the ceremony and surely she must have hundreds.
But she’s so outstandingly lovely. So easy to be with. So thrilled, it would seem, with his company and in an odd way she is quite unlike any other woman he has ever met before. Unique. Natural and unspoilt.
Planned as a small, low-key affair, in the lives of the rich and the famous a private event seems well-nigh impossible. The press are mustered outside Kensington Register Office in force, and the police, keeping back some bloody fool anarchist types who have decided to picket the event waving their ludicrous placards. You’d think they’d wash, bearing in mind the free advertising opportunity they’re getting. Still droning on about Fabian’s wages and comparing it, this time, with the salaries of junior doctors.
When Angela arrives, ten minutes late, in an ordinary London cab, Fabian’s misgivings disappear. She is a vision in ivory satin, wearing a bonnet of flowers tied with ribbons under her chin. A fairy-tale bride from a picture book with a basket of flowers on her arm. The flashbulbs pierce the dullness of the morning, cameramen threaten to block her way, but Angela smiles like a film star, charms them all, there’s some quiet dignity about her that makes the men in black leather jackets step back a pace to allow her through.
Fabian’s family and friends, well over a hundred of them, are inside waiting—they considered it best in view of the unexpected mass of people outside. The police are left to deal with the crowd. He, alone, waits for his bride at the top of the steps, so proud that she is coming towards him, so glorious does he feel when she takes his outstretched hand. Ffiona was pretty enough, an English rose, Helena was certainly striking, but this woman is quite remarkable.