That night was the start of something big.
It surprised them both, but within a few months they were going steady, and it was pretty much agreed that soon Nula was going to stop being plain Nula Perkins and start being Mrs Charlie Stone.
So this was what the world was like, the world beyond the stifling borderline poverty she’d lived in for much of her life. Charlie introduced Nula to luxury and she lapped it up. He seemed to be known in all sorts of places, was greeted like an old friend in most of them. He took her to fabulously posh events, kitted her out at one of the swish Bond Street boutiques with a dress and matching hat, then took her to Ascot for the flat races on Thursday, which was Ladies Day. It turned out he actually owned a racehorse.
‘I keep it in training in a place near Newbury,’ he told her.
He wasn’t lying, either. The trainer came and shook his hand and said Cordon Off had a chance today. The horse came third, but still. They stayed for the Gold Cup and she saw the Queen. She couldn’t believe it.
Charlie took her to Henley for the Regatta, had the best tickets for Wimbledon, flew her out first class with him to see Graham Hill win the Monaco Grand Prix. This was such a different world from the plain, dull one she’d been born into. The job at Woolies was a thing of the past now, and she spent most of her time – scandalously – staying over at Charlie’s place or roaring around the country with him in his new Rolls-Royce, staying at five-star hotels. She barely ever went home and she didn’t give a single shit about that, either. And all the while – much to her surprise – Charlie was the perfect gentleman. It was separate rooms, every time.
This was bliss.
It was fabulous.
This was her life now, and she loved it.