It was funny, Lucy considered, that when you were in those first magical months of a relationship, boredom vanished. All those times alone – tedious tube journeys, impatient waits for late appointments – no longer existed when your mind kept floating off to replay every detail from the night before.
Lucy found herself thinking about the night she met Hartley just a few weeks ago, one Friday sometime after midnight at Annabel’s members’ club for London’s elite.
It attracted a different crowd from the trendy celeb hangouts. There were more of the well-to-do blue-suit brigade than must-be-seen designer-label junkies.
On the night Lucy had met Hartley, she had been for dinner at Nobu with Amy, her best friend from Oxford University, whose Kashmiri parents had gifted her the most exquisite looks. Lucy could never tire of hearing her soft but distinct Manchester accent, from the city her parents had moved to shortly before she was born. Amy, with her sparkling skin, shiny black bob and wide hazel eyes, had graduated with a First but had never taken up the high-salary job she had always imagined her degree would lead to.
She had hooked up with a politics student called James de Vosse in their second year and now they were engaged. James was an old Etonian whose upbringing was poles apart from Amy’s. Somehow they seemed to work together but Amy had confided that she was worried about becoming a Stepford Wife like so many of the women in James’s set. Lucy was sure this would never happen. They had known each other for thirteen years and Amy hadn’t compromised who she was one bit. She had her own mind, roots and style, which would never leave her.
After seeing off a bottle of Chablis over edamame, tuna sashimi and black cod, they giggled as they looked around the restaurant and tried to figure out what cupboard Boris Becker had chosen for his famous quickie with a stranger, which had lasted all of two minutes and resulted in his love child.
Instead of winding down with green tea, they had decided on a nightcap at Annabel’s. Amy called James, who had membership, and asked him to phone ahead to ensure the girls were not turned away.
Once inside, Lucy found herself surrounded by the set she had become so used to at the magazine: the aloof group of girls who had known each other from birth. Most of them were born with a title, or would marry someone who could give them one. Their outfits ranged from understated black Miu Miu dresses decorated with a string of pearls, to long flowing skirts with tight angora or cashmere cardigans.
‘Do you think that, in the eyes of the law, wearing anything by H&M would be a crime?’ Lucy whispered to Amy at the bar, where they ordered two vodka martinis.
Lucy looked so different to the other girls, like she’d just stepped out of a magazine spread, yet somehow she was also the most natural-looking woman in any room.
Other girls provided the background to a scene in which she seemed always to be bathed in a radiant spotlight. Most enchanting of all was that Lucy seemed to have no knowledge of her magnetic presence. She was elegant and dignified but never cocksure or blasé.
Lucy’s calf-length Matthew Williamson berry-pink-satin skirt clung to her curves in the style of a glamorous fifties star, and a crisp fitted white shirt from Zara was virtually indistinguishable from the new Prada range – even to the most cynical fashionista’s eye.
A fashionable thick black belt which covered her entire midriff, matched with black Manolo heels, completed the flawless look.
On the inside, Annabel’s was surprisingly similar to many clubs in cities up and down the country. After walking down a narrow corridor Lucy and Amy came to the square bar, where Hartley and his friends were gathered round an ice bucket of champagne. In front of the bar were cosy booths framing a dance floor.
The mood was relaxed and low-key, the room bathed in dim orange light, giving an intimate air.
Lucy knew exactly who Hartley was when she spotted him at the bar. She had read a piece in her magazine a few months earlier on the country’s most eligible bachelors and he had topped the list.
Hartley lived in London, where he ran a charitable foundation, but spent at least a week each month in Scotland. Lucy’s own family lived in Broughty Ferry near Dundee; it was on the east coast, like Edinburgh, and was just over an hour’s drive from the capital. Of course, it was no wonder they hadn’t met before. They may both have boarded at English schools and called Scotland ‘home’ but their worlds were so different. Hartley probably didn’t have a single friend outside the blue-blooded set he had grown up with.
Lucy stood back and talked to Amy while a gaggle of girls tittered and vied for his attention. She noted that in the flesh this sought-after young man was rather attractive.
He had the classic physical characteristics of the upper class. Standing at six foot, Hartley had dishevelled dark blond hair framing a cheery, rosy-cheeked face. His eyes held a boyish charm, and even the dim lights failed to hide a jovial twinkle. He reminded Lucy of a man in a grand painting – the kind you see in castles. He could have come straight out of the seventeenth century with an old-fashioned aura no amount of trendy clothes or haircuts would transform. He looked like he’d just finished riding on a chilly day and come inside for a whisky to warm up. Hartley’s clothes were the staple Ralph Lauren casual uniform of chinos, open-necked shirt, V-necked fine wool jumper and Missoni boat shoes, mirrored on his old school chums.
Lucy thought he looked rather kind; but he was probably pompous, like so many of the over-privileged twits she’d met on the London fashion circuit, accompanying their stony-faced girlfriends who were on their fifth ‘gap year’ since leaving university.
Lucy turned to chat to Amy, who was asking for fashion advice about an outfit to wear to an ex’s wedding. What girl wouldn’t want to look good enough to eat on an ex’s big day?
Turning her full attention to Amy, Lucy assured her friend she would look nothing short of mouth-watering for the occasion and she had just the dress at home for her.
Lucy’s indifference to Hartley, mixed with her natural beauty, attracted him. Within twenty minutes of her arrival, Hartley had introduced himself. This was most out of character for the Earl of Balmyle, who was used to sharing jokes with his chums or making polite chit-chat with the girls in their circle, most of whom he had known since he was a boy.
Hartley was unpractised at the art of approaching ‘new’ people, preferring the easy comfort of old pals.
‘Hello, are you having a good evening?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. I’m Hartley. Pleased to meet you.’
Accepting his hand, Lucy smiled, tilting her head slightly. ‘Hello, Hartley. I’m Lucy. And this is my good friend Amy.’
Buoyed by a few glasses of Krug, he realized he was having fun chatting to Lucy. Amy was utterly unaware of who their new companion was. She smiled politely after shaking hands and excused herself to go to the Ladies.
When Amy returned, Lucy and this chap Hartley were laughing. Encouraging, Amy thought. Lucy had been single for over a year since finishing with John, a disarmingly handsome professional rower who used his boyish charm to seduce her. He had adored Lucy. Well, for the first few months. Then his restless nature had surfaced. By their first anniversary, his rowing times had reached a worrying low, while his betrayals and boozy nights out were at an all-time high. Lucy was devastated when she learned of the other girls and told him it was over. She had been down for months afterwards, her confidence at a low.
It was time Lucy had some male attention; it was just what she needed. And this guy looked respectable and sweet. Amy winked knowingly at her friend and announced she had to leave for fear of being a terrible wreck at a breakfast meeting.
Lucy decided there was no harm in staying a little while and settled into an easy conversation with Hartley. She had been prepared to find him arrogant but he had an unexpected warm magnetism. There was something about his slightly bumbling character she found endearing. Lucy was fascinated to hear how he tried to be self-sufficient when at home on his family estate in Scotland; she found it strangely sexy that he could work the land to live, that he didn’t need anything from anyone else.
Hartley stopped suddenly and smiled. Catching Lucy’s confusion he leaned in close. ‘What a pleasure it is to meet someone who wants to listen. Don’t you find so many people want only to talk about themselves?’
Lucy laughed.
‘So, do you live in London?’
‘I do.’ Lucy smiled. ‘In Kensington. But I’m actually from Scotland too. My family live in Broughty Ferry. Do you know it?’
‘Of course – the little seaside place next to Dundee? It’s beautiful. It used to be a fishing village, no?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I went out to Fat Sam’s nightclub in Dundee once when I was staying with my friend Robbie over the water in Fife.’
‘Ah Fat Sam’s – it used to be my regular haunt during uni holidays.’
‘Ha! You sound about as Scottish as me,’ Hartley teased. ‘What happened to your accent?’
‘I grew up there but moved to Kent, to boarding school, when I was thirteen. I guess I just adopted the accent around me.’
Hartley nodded. ‘It’s a bit of a bugger speaking like this in Scotland; no one believes you’re a bloody Scot, more like a Sassenach. And it takes me an age to get served at the bar – too posh to be understood apparently.’
Lucy threw her head back and laughed at the thought of the Earl repeating himself over and over again in Fat Sam’s. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the girls at the bar look over to see who had caught the Earl’s attention.
Touching Lucy lightly on her arm he whispered conspiratorially: ‘I love London, Lucy, but it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t think life starts and ends here.’
Lucy nodded. ‘And London is kept wonderful by having other beautiful places to escape to.’
‘Exactly.’ Hartley clinked his glass with Lucy’s and caught her eye for a few magical seconds.
Checking her watch, Lucy realized she had been talking to Hartley for almost an hour.
‘I really must be off. Like Amy, I too have work in the morning.’
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I only hope I haven’t been too much of a bore.’
Flicking her golden hair, Lucy laughed, dazzling him with her white smile. ‘Not at all, it was lovely to meet you.’
When he asked gingerly if he might call her, Lucy obliged with a calm smile, which hid her elation at Britain’s most eligible bachelor wanting to add her number to his little black book. She corrected herself inwardly, knowing the real reason she was happy was that she liked him and wanted to see him again.
Lucy couldn’t help but feel flattered. Hartley must be so used to girls hanging on his every word. He had his pick of the women who socialized in his circle.
But maybe, just maybe, he liked her… well… for her and not for trying desperately to impress him with talk of members’ clubs and skiing in Aspen.
Oh God, wait until she told her boss. Lucy considered the possibilities. Either Genevieve would insist Lucy became her new best friend and ask her to be her ‘plus one’ for all the big parties. Or she would spread it around their offices that Lucy was social climbing. Maybe she shouldn’t tell her. After all, it might seem a little boastful. Then again, watching Genevieve, who was a tremendous snob and name-dropper, choke on her celery stick (‘it contains less calories than you use to digest it’) over lunch might just be worth it. Anyway, Hartley may tire of her. He could be overwhelmingly underwhelmed by her lack of travel, multiple gap years and inherited titles. Yet, so far, he seemed to like her just the way she was.