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Relieved to see Alex and Camilla deep in conversation with her father across the room, she took a seat as far away from them as possible on the sofa.
As she made polite conversation with Lady Blandford, Holly took a small square of Cheddar skewered with a frilly toothpick and a very lengthy sip of Prosecco.
“I don’t know how you young people deal with that dreadful traffic every day!” the earl’s wife was saying. “It’s such a waste of one’s valuable time.”
“Yes, the traffic out of the city today was awful,” Holly agreed. “Do you go to London often?”
Her ladyship gave a shudder. “Oh, heavens, no. I make it a point to avoid London at all costs.”
“I’m sure that’s very wise of you, Lady Blandford.”
Holly looked up to see Alex standing before them, a drink in hand.
“London has its faults,” Holly agreed, irritated by his habit of popping up unexpectedly, like the Cheshire cat. “But as someone once said, he who grows tired of London grows tired of life.”
“Samuel Johnson.” Alex raised his brow. “Unfortunately, unlike in Sam’s day, London also means traffic, and train delays, and congestion charges.”
“Oh, don’t be so negative, darling.” Camilla came to stand beside Alex and linked her arm possessively through his. “I absolutely adore the City.”
“Ms Shawcross, I believe?” Lady Blandford enquired, and half rose to extend a regal hand. “It’s a pleasure.” She glanced at Holly. “Ms Shawcross is an MP, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.” So Red Thong was a Member of Parliament as well as Alex Barrington’s girlfriend, Holly realized. The surprises just kept on coming.
“Speaking of which,” Camilla said as she consulted her watch, “I’ll need to leave soon. I’ve a surgery in the morning. I have to make an early night of it, I’m afraid.”
Holly regarded her with interest. “A surgery? Oh — so you’re a doctor, as well as an MP?” Evidently Camilla Shawcross had more abilities than Superwoman.
“A doctor? Oh, my goodness, no!” she said, and let out a peal of laughter. “What a ridiculous notion.”
“A surgery is a clinic held with an MP’s constituents to discuss issues of concern,” Alex explained. “It normally takes place on Saturday, since Parliament sits during the week.”
“Oh.” Hot with embarrassment, Holly pasted an intelligent look on her face and nodded. Inwardly, she seethed. Camilla had an uncanny ability to make her feel incredibly stupid — particularly in front of Alex Barrington.
“I’ll say goodnight, then,” Camilla announced. “It was lovely to meet you, Lady Blandford.” She gave Holly a brief nod. “Goodnight, Ms James.”
“Shall I walk you to your car?” Alex asked.
“No, it’s not necessary.” She added huskily, “After all, we’ll see each other again, soon enough.” She brushed her lips against Alex’s cheek, gave him an intimate smile, and left.
Holly stood up, intent on making her own excuses. Suddenly she wanted nothing so much as to flee back to the safety of her room with its posters of horses and boy bands. She felt out of her depth and invisible whenever Camilla Shawcross was around.
“Would you like a canapé?” Holly’s mother asked as she approached them with another tray. “I have some delicious prawns on offer.”
“Thank you.” Alex nodded politely and took one. “Holly?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m good.”
“Well! I can see you two are getting on like a house on fire.” Cherie smiled at Alex. “I don’t know if you remember, but Holly used to tuck her little pug up in the pram and push him round your garden when she was little. She told me she wanted to marry you when she grew up,” she confided, “and have lots of babies—”
“Mum,” Holly cut in, scarlet with embarrassment, “I was five. I also ate Marmite-and-jam sandwiches and wore the same dress every day, neither of which I do any longer. Let me help you with that tray, shall I?”
She followed her mother into the kitchen and hissed, “Please don’t talk about babies and marriage in front of Alex! It’s mortifying. You’re as subtle as…as Ted Nugent.”
“There’s nothing like a gentle nudge where men are concerned,” Cherie said firmly. “Besides, he’s a vast improvement over that dreadful musician you were seeing.”
“You’ll be happy to know that Mick and I broke up. He and his amplifiers have departed from my life — permanently.”
“Well, I’m not sorry to hear it. You can do so much better, darling. Here, take this out and circulate.”
So saying, her mother thrust a tray with cheese and pineapple cubes skewered onto a grapefruit into Holly’s hands.
“What on earth is that naff thing?” Holly asked as she eyed the tray with distaste.
“It’s a cocktail hedgehog. Offer it to Henry first.” And she nudged Holly out of the door.
Well, Holly reasoned as she circulated with the cocktail hedgehog, Alex hadn’t said anything to indicate he’d seen the BritTEEN interview. Surely he would have confronted her by now.
Ergo, she reasoned as Mrs Henley finally appeared to call everyone in to dinner a few minutes later, there was really no need to tell him about it yet, was there?
No need at all.
Chapter 14
At dinner, Holly found herself seated between Alex and Lady Blandford.
This isn’t so bad, she decided, and began, by degrees, to relax a bit. After all, Camilla Shawcross was gone, she had Alex all to herself at dinner, and she hadn’t heard a word back from Sasha.
Which meant, Holly hoped, that her off-the-record interview disaster with Alex wasn’t, perhaps, such a disaster after all? If it was, Sasha would surely have called her back by now.
Alex reached inside his jacket pocket and leaned over. “Don’t tell anyone, Ms James, but I’m having a quick look at my messages before the soup arrives.”
Holly, smoothing the napkin on her lap, froze. “Messages?”
“Yes. I’m expecting an email, rather an important one.” He began tapping the screen.
“No!” she squeaked, panicked. “You can’t do that!”
“I can’t do what?”
“You can’t look at your messages!”
He looked at her oddly. “Why on earth not?”
“Because…it’s rude, that’s why. Incredibly rude!”
“It’ll only take me a second, I promise.”
Oh, crikey, Holly thought as her panic escalated, if Alex played her voice message now, he’d know that his off-the-record comments had been published in BritTEEN. He’d be livid. He’d tell everyone at the table what she’d done, and they’d all think she was a proper berk—
“I can’t get a signal,” he grumbled after a moment.
“Oh, yes, you’ll find that, living out here in the country, WiFi can be as unreliable as the Lib Dems,” Alastair remarked. A ripple of laughter went round the table.
“Let me try,” Holly urged, and held out her hand for the phone.
Alex frowned. “Perhaps if I just hold it up a bit, I might get one or two bars…”
In an agony of despair, Holly eyed his mobile. “That’s the new myPhone, isn’t it?” she asked, and lunged for it. “Look at what a lovely, big screen it has! Let me have a look, please!”
But he held it fast. “Ms James, I’d really rather you didn’t touch my phone—”
“Don’t worry. I only want to look at it.”
She reached out and attempted to wrestle it away from him, but he held fast. “Just — let me — see — the bloody — thing!” she hissed.
Unfortunately, as Holly grappled with Alex to wrest control of his mobile, it flew out of their hands and sailed aloft, landing with a dull splash in the tureen of vichyssoise that Mrs Henley had just set out on the table.
There was a moment of horrified silence.
“My vichyssoise!” Mrs Henley gasped.
“My phone!” Alex exclaimed, and half rose from his seat. “You’ve ruined it!”
“I’m certain it’s fine,” Holly assured him, although secretly she had her doubts. She leaned forward and fished the mobile, dripping with creamy leek, potato, and chicken stock, out of the tureen and held it up gingerly. “See? It’s perfectly okay. A little vichyssoise never hurt anything.”
Alex snatched it away from her. “Bloody hell,” he snapped as he sat back down, “you’re mad. Bonkers. If you’ve ruined my phone, you’re buying me another.”
“Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Just wipe it off and pop it in a zip-top bag with a bit of rice for a few hours. It’ll be right as rain by tomorrow. Hopefully.”
He glared at her. “In the meantime, no thanks to you, I have no mobile phone, and no one can reach me, nor can I reach anyone else.”
“I’m doing you a favour,” Holly reassured him. “Think about it — no unwanted calls from your boss! No sales pitches! No awkward conversations with that not-so-great-looking girl you met at the wine bar last night!”
“And no unwanted conversations with my stark raving mad dinner partner, either,” Alex snapped, and turned pointedly away to converse with the woman on his right.
“Mrs Henley, have we another starter to serve our guests?” Cherie murmured anxiously as the cook reached out to remove the vichyssoise tureen from the table.
“I’ll go and fetch the oxtail soup.” Mrs Henley scowled. “I made it for tomorrow’s luncheon, but it’ll do, I reckon.” Grumbling, she exited the dining room.
A few minutes later, a tureen of oxtail soup replaced the vichyssoise, and Holly turned to Lady Blandford. “Mrs Henley’s oxtail soup is really good. Would you like some?”
“I would indeed! I adore oxtail soup.”
And as Holly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and listened to her ladyship drone on about her failures and successes with the various recipes for oxtail soup she’d tried over the years, relief swept over her.
Alex might be furious with her at the moment, and he might think her completely mad, but his irritation wouldn’t last. And his phone really would dry out eventually.
And best of all, she’d succeeded in keeping Alex Barrington from hearing her message. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Despite Mrs Henley’s fears, there were plenty of eggs for breakfast the next morning. Holly helped herself to a generous portion of soft-boiled eggs and toast soldiers from the sideboard. And what the hell, she decided, even though she normally shunned meat, that bacon looked really good, too…
“Good morning, Ms James.”
Holly looked up guiltily, bacon clamped in the tongs she held over her plate, to see Alex entering the dining room. He wore jeans and a faded blue-and-green striped rugby shirt, and he looked…well…fit. Very, very fit.
She noticed he also still looked a bit put out.
“Hello.” Holly indicated the empty dining room. “It looks like we’re the only ones up so far.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s a bit early.” He eyed her plate, heaped liberally with eggs, toast, tomatoes, and bacon. “Hungry this morning, are you?”
She glared at him. “It’s rude to comment on one’s eating habits, you know.”
“Sorry. It’s just that I never knew a girl who ate like a footie player before.” He joined her at the sideboard, picked up a plate, and asked conversationally, “So, do you punt for Arsenal, or United?”
“Ha ha. If we go for a walk with the dogs this morning, believe me, you’ll need every single calorie.”
“I see. Consider me suitably chastened. At any rate,” he added as he took his filled plate and sat down across from her at the dining-room table, “it’s refreshing to see a girl with an appetite. No food issues here.” He picked up a bottle of HP Sauce and poured it liberally over his eggs and fried potatoes.
She raised her brow. “I see you drown everything in brown sauce.”
“It’s rude to comment on one’s eating habits. Or so I’m told.”
“Did you put your phone in a zip-top bag with rice, like I told you?” she asked as she dunked a toast soldier in egg.
“I did. I’ll check it later today.” He eyed her over his toast. “You’d best hope it works, Ms James.”
“It will.” She studied his half-eaten plate of food. “Well, hurry up and eat. The day’s wasting.”
When they finished breakfast, they went into the foyer to let the dogs out of doors for a ramble across the fields. Delirious with joy, the mastiffs streaked across the grass, racing each other and gambolling like children, until Holly whistled for them to settle down. The weather was glorious, all blue skies and mild breezes, as she and Alex set out after them.
“Are you and Camilla an item?” she asked casually.
He glanced at her. “God, no. She was my plus-one for the drinks party last night. That’s all.”
“Yet you had her thong in your pocket at the interview.”
Alex came to a stop. “I told you, that was just a silly wager.”
“And does Camilla know about your ‘silly wager’?” Holly didn’t know why — she didn’t even like Camilla Shawcross — but she was nonetheless outraged on her behalf.
“No! Of course she doesn’t know.”
She crossed her arms against her chest. “Do you keep trophies from all of your…conquests, Mr Barrington?”
“Am I being cross-examined?” he asked evenly. “Because that’s what it sounds like.”
“I just think it’s reprehensible, that’s all. Tucking a woman’s thong in your suit pocket—”
“It wasn’t like that. And it wasn’t Camilla’s.”
Holly eyed him sceptically. “No? Whose was it, then? Or do you have an assortment of thongs from your many conquests?”
He let out an exasperated breath. “It wasn’t anyone’s. I—” he scowled “—I went into Agent Provocateur and I bought it.”
“You bought it? You mean—”
“I mean,” he admitted, “that I haven’t actually slept with Camilla Shawcross. I only wanted my co-workers to think I had. So I bought the thong and took the tags off, and tucked it in my pocket. It worked a treat.”
“So you lied!” she exclaimed. “You lied to win the wager.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like to lose.”
“I’d forgotten that about you,” Holly said suddenly. She leaned forward to open the dog gate when they arrived at the first stile. “We were arguing in the sandbox once, about whether we could dig through to China, I think — and you lost the argument. You were so furious you threw cat poo at me.”
“It was dried cat poo,” he pointed out, and paused. “It was my way of showing that I liked you.”
“Really? Well, I hope you’ve learned more acceptable ways since then to show you like someone,” she said tartly.
Alex came up behind her and closed the gate. “I have, actually,” he said, his voice gone husky. “Much more enjoyable ways, too…”
Holly looked up at him. His eyes were a lovely velvety brown. He stood inches away, and his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. She tilted her head back and parted her lips in anticipation of his kiss…
When her bloody mobile rang. Sasha.
“Sorry,” Holly apologized as she held up her mobile, “but I have to take this.”
“Well, at least you have that option, unlike me.”
Dismay coloured her voice. “Alex, truly, I’m sorry about your phone—”
“I’m kidding, Holly. Go on, take your call.” He turned away, whistling for the dogs. They capered eagerly after him as he headed up the hill.
“You’re in serious trouble, Holly,” Sasha said without preamble. “Valery is furious. You’ve opened BritTEEN up to a potential lawsuit with your interview. Has Henry seen it yet?”
“Henry?” Holly echoed blankly.
“Henry Barrington, you idiot!” Sasha snapped.
“Oh. You mean Alex. No, he…” she paused as he caught her eye from halfway up the hill and waved “…he doesn’t know, yet.”
“We’ll talk about what’s to be done as far as damage control on Monday. Valery wants to see you, first thing. I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sasha added with satisfaction, “if you don’t get sacked over this.”
“I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t put those comments in, Sasha,” Holly said desperately. “I swear I didn’t—”
But Sasha had already rung off. Cow.
With shaking hands, Holly re-pocketed her phone and hurried off after Alex and the dogs. She had to tell him the truth — which, let’s face it, wouldn’t go over well. How to explain to Alex that, because of a tiny glitch, all of BritTEEN’s readers in England, Scotland, and Wales — and possibly their parents — thought he condoned teen sex on the first date?
How indeed? She couldn’t tell him. Not yet, anyway.
“Is everything okay?” Alex called out as she approached.
“Yes,” she said, slightly breathless after her climb up the last half of the hill. “Work stuff. It’s not much farther to the village, just across the field.”
“Good, we can burn off some of that breakfast. And the dogs don’t have the slightest inclination to head back yet, anyway.” He draped his arm around her shoulders. “Nor do I.”
The mastiffs brushed against Holly’s legs, jumping up, leaving muddy paw prints on her capris and yelping with joy as she fell into step alongside Alex. But she scarcely noticed. She was aware of nothing but his arm around her and his hip bumping now and again against hers as they walked.
Suddenly Caesar spotted a squirrel and went racing after it. Holly, knocked off balance as the other dogs barrelled past her to join Caesar in the chase, lost her footing and fell. An immediate, searing pain shot through her ankle.
“Holly!” Alex exclaimed. He knelt down beside her, his face creased in concern. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. But I’ve given my ankle a twist.”
“Can you stand on it?”
“Give me a hand up, and I’ll try.”
Alex took her hands in his and helped her up; she balanced on her good foot. “Good. At least you’re vertical now.”
“I bet you’ve never said that to a girl before.”
“No. Never,” he agreed.
Gingerly Holly lowered her other foot. An instant, shooting pain made her wince and blurt out a rude word. “Sorry,” she apologized through gritted teeth. “Hurts,” she added unnecessarily.
“Right, then,” Alex decided, “I’ll carry you the rest of the way. How close are we to the village?”
“Not far, maybe ten minutes. You can’t carry me,” Holly protested. “I won’t let you. I can manage—”
But it was too late; he was already lifting her up. She linked her arms around his neck and dropped her gaze, embarrassed at his sudden close proximity. After all, she barely knew this man; yet here he was, carrying her across the buttercup-strewn field like a Saxon warrior, taking his bride-prize back home to his castle…
“Damn it, woman,” Alex said companionably as he navigated the second stile, “did you have to eat quite so much at breakfast this morning?”
She looked at him, indignant. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No. I’m just saying I wish you’d made do with a plate of dry toast or a boiled egg, instead of packing it in like Wayne Rooney at a buffet.”
“If I weren’t in so much pain right now,” she informed him through gritted teeth, “I’d throw cat poo at you.”
They reached the village a short time later. Holly directed Alex to the newsagent’s, where he lowered her to a chair just inside the door and went off in search of paracetamol and a bottle of water. She rubbed her ankle. It was throbbing, and swelling up horribly…
Her eyes came to rest on the newsstand. The latest issue of BritTEEN, emblazoned with the bright yellow tagline “One Outrageous Question with Hottie Henry”, sat in the middle of the shelf. Alex was just steps away; if he turned around, he’d surely see it.
Please, Holly silently begged the magazine gods, please don’t let him see it…
The magazine gods must’ve listened, because Alex walked past the newsstand and went straight to the till.
He returned to Holly. “Here you go,” he said, and opened the paracetamol and tipped a couple of pills into her outstretched hand. “Now—” he frowned “—how do we get you back to the house?”
Holly took the bottle of water from him and swallowed the pills. “Well, we can’t take a taxi, not with the dogs. And Dad went to fetch Hannah early this morning.”
“I noticed an estate car parked round the back of your house when we left.”
“It’s Mrs Henley’s. She’ll be far too busy fixing lunch to come and get us.”
“Well, I’ll call the house just the same, and see if someone else can fetch us—”
But calling proved unnecessary when Mrs Henley’s teenage daughter, Lucy, came into the newsagent’s and offered to take them back. “I’m headed that way anyhow,” she told Holly. “I work half-days on Saturday, helping with the lunch service and the clearing up. Mum likes her chocolate,” she added as she grabbed up a Bounty and a Dairy Milk from the confectionery display.
“Thanks,” Holly said gratefully. “Do you have room for three dogs, as well?”
“No problem.” She indicated an ancient VW Kombi parked just outside. “Go ahead and hop in. I just have to pick up a couple of things. Be out in two ticks.”
The Kombi — painted a virulent shade of lime green and plastered with stickers of flowers — earned a distrustful look from Holly but besotted enthusiasm from Alex.
“This is fantastic!” Alex exclaimed as he opened the double doors. “It’s got a Canterbury Pitt conversion.”
Holly looked at him blankly. “A what?”
“A custom conversion,” Lucy explained as she joined them. “A table goes in the middle, but it’s stowed; and I’ve a cooker, and a poptop with two bunks above, for sleeping.” She waited as Holly, Alex, and the dogs clambered inside, then slid behind the wheel. “’Course, it’s old, so it breaks down a lot.”
“Great,” Holly muttered.
“Not to worry,” Lucy assured her as she started the engine. “Daisy won’t get you back home very fast, but she will get you there.”
The stench of diesel filled the air as Lucy put the van in gear, and, true to her word, with a judder and a toot of the horn, they were off.
Chapter 15
“Let’s take you up to your room,” Lucy told Holly when they arrived, “so you can have a nice lie-in and keep the weight off that foot.”
“I don’t need a nice lie-in! I’m fine.” Before Holly could protest any further, Alex scooped her up in his arms and headed up the stairs, Lucy trailing behind.
“Lucy’s right,” Alex informed her. “You need to stay off that foot.”
She glared at him. “And you need to stop acting like Rhett Butler.”
“I’m sure Scarlett O’Hara never ate half a carton of eggs, three pieces of toast, and a rasher of bacon for breakfast,” he retorted.
“Holly!” her mother exclaimed as she emerged from the baize door that led to the kitchen. “What’s happened?”
Alex came to a stop halfway up the stairs. “She had a fall. She’s twisted her ankle. It’s nothing serious.”
“Tell that to my ankle,” Holly said through gritted teeth. “Argghh! It hurts.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, darling.” Cherie tutted. “Your dad’s just texted to say he and Hannah should be here in time for lunch. One of her friends brought her to Hertfordshire, so it’s trimmed an hour and a half from his journey… Mrs Henley’s roasted a chicken and a lovely leg of lamb. Will you join us, or shall I have her send up a tray?”
“A tray, please. Thanks, Mum.”
Alex followed Holly’s directions to her bedroom and lowered her on the bed. He reached behind her to plump up the pillows. “There. Comfy?”
Holly nodded. “Perfect.” Her foot throbbed; the paracetamol obviously hadn’t taken effect yet.
“I’ll go downstairs and fetch some Epsom salts,” Lucy told her from the doorway. “That foot needs a proper soak. Here,” she added as she handed some magazines to Alex. “Give these to Holly. They’ll help pass the time. I got ’em at the newsagent’s just now.”
“Thanks.” Alex took a seat in the faded chintz armchair by Holly’s bed and began idly flipping through the pile. “Your competition,” he said, lifting up copies of Shout and Bliss to show her. “‘How to Avoid a Dodgy Date’,” he read, and frowned. “I could’ve used this one at university. I once went out to dinner with a girl who smelt suspiciously of marijuana and ordered one of everything on the menu.”