Hartley had been such a sweetie about the whole Ascot affair. On the day Lucy found herself front-page news, she had met him at Claridge’s.
She and Max had squealed like children over the story.
‘Luce, Bridget is the bloody queen bee of London’s society girls,’ Max had told her. ‘No one does this to her. But my butter-wouldn’t-melt sister has stuck one to the po-faced cow. Luce, I’m so proud.’
Carlos, Lucy’s best friend at the magazine, could barely contain his excitement. Lucy had met the one and only Carlos Santiago on her second-ever styling job for the magazine. He was a renowned PR, having made his name working for a large company that represented the likes of Madonna, Sir Paul McCartney and Kylie Minogue in Los Angeles before starting his own firm – Why Not? – with his boyfriend, Raymondo. They specialized in representing up-and-coming models, and keeping damaging headlines about their wild antics out of the papers.
The publishing house that owned Lucy’s magazine and a few others – a lifestyle monthly and upmarket interior design quarterly among them – had made Carlos an offer he couldn’t refuse to look after the PR for all their publications. So he worked from Lucy’s office four days a week while Raymondo took charge of their other clients.
Lucy was astounded by how gorgeous Carlos was when they first met. From the stories she had heard about his reputation for getting results she had expected a gruff, ageing tyrant. You didn’t get to be known as the best damage-limitation PR in London by being a pushover.
But he looked more like a male model. His body could pass for a footballer’s: neat but solid and muscular. His clothes looked effortlessly thrown together yet immaculate. Carlos Santiago wore the labels, not the other way round, unlike so many women and men desperate to get the look of the moment.
Everyone wanted to know him and yet feared him in equal measure. With his name, Lucy thought he might have been Italian or Spanish but he was a black New Yorker who took no shit. Lucy guessed (Botox or face peels aside) he was not yet forty. Everything from his Armani pinstriped charcoal suit to his baby-pink Prada cravat and tan leather Gucci lace-ups looked perfect on his solid yet understated frame. He wasn’t all bulk and biceps like the gym goons but there was no denying that even under a suit Carlos was in shape.
His features were a curious mix of great-looking guys, Lucy had decided. There was a hint of a young Denzel Washington, with a smattering of Jude Law – though neither comparison did him justice. And Carlos’s eyes were simply mesmerizing, an impossibly bright green. He insisted they were entirely natural, nothing to do with coloured lenses, but Lucy noted the slight playful tone to his voice.
Only when he opened his mouth was it obvious that he was gay and American, with a strong Brooklyn accent. His voice was a funny mix of ‘New Yowk’ movie star with a bit of the George Michael lisp and dramatic rolling of the eyes thrown in whenever possible. Lucy wondered at first if it was a big joke, if he was doing his very best gay impression. But no, it was Carlos. And Lucy was delighted he was her work buddy. He was as straightforward as Genevieve was false and Lucy admired his natural talent for assessing a situation and grasping what had to be done.
They had hit it off when they’d met and he asked her where she’d got her emerald-green neck scarf.
‘Topshop.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Lucy laughed. ‘No, really. Topshop. Hi, my name’s Lucy.’
‘Your name is Gorgeous, girlfriend,’ he told her. ‘Anyone who teams Topshop with Chloé and works it like Claudia Schiffer has my vote. Want to get some sushi?’
And from that moment Lucy knew she had at least one friend she could trust at the magazine.
The morning Lucy made front-page news, he had called and screamed down the phone: ‘You’re a fucking star! It’s always the quiet ones. You showed that bitch. Well done, baby. Champagne on me. Tell me all about it… no, don’t… can’t chat. Raymondo’s kid from his marriage when he was straight is here. He’s three and he’s a friggin’ psychopath. Save me every detail and I’ll call later, OK? Ciao.’
Lucy couldn’t help but share a small sense of achievement with Max and Carlos. Amy had text-messaged her too: ‘My best friend the socialite, huh? U go girl! X’.
But by the time her afternoon meeting with Hartley had come, Lucy was terrified.
What if he thought she’d courted the publicity? Gone out of her way to get attention?
She needn’t have worried. He seemed to know exactly what had happened without her mentioning a thing. And he was so apologetic that she had had to encounter his vile ex.
When she arrived at Claridge’s, Lucy had been escorted by a member of staff to a table for two. There had been no sign of Hartley.
The huge drawing room was almost full, mainly with ladies meeting up to talk about their friends. These were women in their sixties who looked amazing – thanks to a lifetime of pampering, Lucy guessed. You could almost tell some had got rid of their wrinkles with a facelift or two but the work was so discreet it left no trace, unlike the Los Angeles wind-swept look.
Lucy tried to concentrate on an enormous chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling and the imposing portraits of royals and dignitaries, but her mind was racing with thoughts of that morning’s news.
Hartley was one of the most private people Lucy knew. He had never bragged of his wealth, title or connections and hated the idea of his personal life becoming public. Lucy, who also was intensely private, admired this for he certainly had plenty to boast about.
He had told her over dinner at the Michelin-starred Chinese restaurant Hakkasan how he’d fallen out with a close friend with whom he had boarded since he was nine because of the friend’s obsession with fame.
‘He’d stagger out of clubs every night knowing that photographers would talk about him – after all, he is the son of the woman who married a royal,’ Hartley had told her. ‘I thought that was stupid but he was my friend. What I couldn’t forgive was when he tipped off some diary writer about where I was holding my birthday party. He knows my family. Having photographers camped outside was an intrusion – and it was not long after my father had died. That was unforgivable. I still speak to him but we’ll never be close again.’
Lucy liked Hartley’s principles and the fact that his morals shaped the way he led his life.
Lucy wasn’t like that friend. She hated the idea of fame, of being followed everywhere, of life becoming a circus. Although she had to admit she hadn’t minded the Mail on Sunday headline one bit. But perhaps the fracas at Ascot had made it seem the only reason she was dating Hartley was… Oh God, what would he think?
Lucy loved Hartley’s passion for his work. He had set up the Balmyle Foundation, a project which helped under-privileged youths get the training they needed to have a better start in life.
He spent three days a week in the small Chelsea offices off the Kings Road he had bought, and employed two full-time staff dedicated to raising funds and setting up projects to train apprentices who had dropped out of school with no qualifications. Normally it was down to family problems. Hartley had told Lucy about one girl whose mum was a heroin addict. Since her daughter was six, the mother had used her to pick up her drugs packages while she lay spaced out at home. By the time the girl was thirteen she was addicted too, having been offered her first hit by her mum. She was also being abused by her mother’s boyfriend but, when she tried to tell her, her mum had slapped her across the face and called her a lying, jealous whore. She ran away aged fifteen and a year later came to the Balmyle Foundation for help. Two years on she was now clean and halfway through a secretarial studies course at college. Hartley used the girl, called Vanessa, as a shining example of what the Foundation could do. She often gave speeches at the fund-raising balls he held, her story never failing to touch the hearts of guests whose upbringing had been a million miles from her dark world. They forgot about sipping fine port and champagne to listen to her.
More than once Lucy had seen Hartley’s eyes well up over dinner as he spoke of the lives he had helped change – and his frustration that he couldn’t help hundreds more.
As well as the money he raised, he donated a tenth of his own income from various estates to his charity. Most endearing of all, he never boasted of his personal donations to friends – or indeed how hard he worked behind the scenes to raise cash. Even most of his close friends had no idea how much he gave and Lucy was touched he had bashfully confided in her. He knew more of the suffering of people whose lives could not be more different to his own than any of the pretentious waifs parading in Prada on her editorial floor.
Sometimes she caught herself daydreaming about a future with him. If only she could be like her sister, who lived for the next party, not looking and planning ahead. But it was hard to throw caution to the wind when you had been hurt before. She had trusted her ex blindly and felt such a fool for doing so. But Hartley had behaved impeccably and he was good company. Lucy found herself checking for text messages on her phone throughout the day, her heart leaping if Hartley’s name appeared. He was clearly smitten by her, for now at least, hanging on her every word and showering her with flowers and compliments. Not all men are shits, Lucy told herself – something her sister had often reminded her of after ‘that cheating bastard’ John.
Lucy had not given up on finding her soulmate. But, having turned thirty one, perhaps it was time she thought about stability, a lifelong partner.
The fact Lucy hadn’t slept with Hartley was good, she reassured herself. Each time he had dropped her off at her Kensington flat they’d kissed, softly at first, with the tiniest touch of tongues. This had developed into passionate kissing, pressing into each other’s bodies.
At first, Lucy had pulled away, perhaps out of fear of letting herself go. But the last time they had kissed it had been Hartley who broke off.
Maybe he was showing restraint out of respect and taking things slowly. Or maybe, as Max had suggested with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes, he was gay. Lucy had laughed. She would bet their Kensington flat on that not being a possibility. Each time they pulled up to her flat he had made her small pink nipples harden and she had felt a tingle between her legs that spread all over her body in anticipation of what was to come.
The last time she had seen him, Hartley had walked her to the door of her flat after supper and a gentle kiss had grown until both of them lost control for a few blissfully wild seconds, Lucy feeling excited at the warmth of his strong body pressing against hers. Hartley kissed her hard, pressing his mouth on to hers, letting his teeth sink into her bottom lip and creating a delightful second of pain, of wanting. God, she loved feeling wanted by him. Her longing heightened as Hartley brushed his hand over the thin material covering her hard nipples, sending a thousand tingles round her body. But as quickly as they had lost themselves in each other, the moment ended abruptly when a neighbour approached to let herself in through their communal main door. They had both composed themselves, flummoxed and red, Hartley giving a very proper and terribly British kiss as he said goodbye.
The extent of her desire for Hartley had taken Lucy by surprise.
‘Hello, Lucy Lu.’ Hartley’s booming voice came over her shoulder, making her jump.
Hartley had taken to calling her this pet name – and hearing it she instantly knew he was not angry with her.
Lucy, blushing slightly, smiled and stood up to kiss him on the cheek.
Settling down into their gilt-edged, pink-and-cream-striped armchairs, Hartley gave Lucy a wink.
‘Battle of the socialites, huh?’
Lucy wished she could control the redness spreading across her cheeks.
‘Darling, don’t look so worried. I know what Bridget is like and I can imagine she was quite vile to you.’
Hartley regretted ever going out with Bridget. Their families had known each other for ever and Bridget had always had a terrible reputation among his friends as a spoiled child who could be exceptionally rude. But when they met at a ball she had been utterly charming. She told Hartley she was often misunderstood, that she had been a brat but had grown to appreciate how lucky she was and would love to give something back. Perhaps she could play a small role in Hartley’s charity work. He had warmed to Bridget and been determined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Before he knew it, Hartley was in a rather serious relationship with Bridget, who seemed to have endless plans for his weekends with her set, his set, with both of their families. He didn’t mind really; she kept telling him she was just like his mother – quite the home-maker, always keen to please.
But Hartley soon began to realize she was nothing like his mother, for he could never use the words kind, generous and loving to describe Bridget. Her charm offensive began to falter until she was often just plain offensive. Once, after a few too many drinks, she told Hartley how she had sabotaged a friend’s chances of gaining membership to an exclusive polo club in Windsor by telling the president a few grossly exaggerated tales of him behaving badly at parties. Hartley was astonished by her poison. He knew he had to get out, no matter how often she told him they were two of a kind and a perfect match in every way.
‘I’m so dreadfully sorry you had to go through that. All because of me, really. Do you forgive me?’
The relief on Lucy’s face was visible. ‘Of course I do. I was worried you’d think this was my fault.’
Lucy was overcome by a wave of emotion. Though they had been dating for less than a month, Hartley seemed to know instinctively who she really was, to trust her.
‘Oh shush, Lucy Lu. I know what Bridget is like. You must wonder why I dated her. The thing is she was so nice to me at times. She really cared about our relationship.’ Hartley looked lost for words as he thumbed a button on his light blue Gant shirt. ‘But, well, I began to see another side. I… I knew she wasn’t, you know, the One.’
Reaching over, Hartley squeezed her hand.
Unlike some men she had dated before, he hadn’t professed his undying love after two dates. He was warm and kind but had inherited the stiff upper lip of his upper-class roots.
What Hartley did – a squeeze of the hand, a warm look in his eye – meant more to Lucy than an outburst of phony emotion.
Perhaps she could love this man. Truly and deeply. She sensed he wanted to look after her, to protect her. How silly, she told herself, to be getting carried away so soon into their relationship. But didn’t somebody once say that every girl visualized her wedding dress if the first date went well?
For as long as she could remember, Lucy had wanted to get married and have a family. She craved the security of a lifelong relationship; she had never known what it was to have the love of her own mother and father under one roof. She had been blessed with parents who loved her, indeed a mum who would do anything for her, and she thought of Fergal more as a second dad than her stepfather. But still, the situation had made her determined to get it right.
In retrospect, that’s why she had stayed with her ex for so long. She felt a sense of loyalty, wanted to make it work and build something with him. This longing seemed to have made her blind for far too long to the fact that – as Max would say – he was an utter shit.
Lucy felt sure she would like the feeling of safety and security she was already starting to feel. Hartley was a simple, honest soul – not like John.
Lucy lost herself in the moment before realizing Hartley was asking her something.
‘Lucy, I hope you don’t think me too forward but, well…’ Hartley suddenly seemed unsure of himself. ‘My friend Robbie has a place in Fife – he moved back recently from London. Charles and his girlfriend, Claudia, are going to stay with him for the weekend in a few weeks time… Lucy, I’d, erm, very much like to join them. With you.’
Now it was Hartley who was blushing.
‘Of course, I understand if you think it’s too much.’ Hartley looked at the floor as his voice trailed off.
‘Hartley,’ Lucy said softly, smiling when his eyes met hers, ‘it would be my pleasure.’
He broke out into a relieved smile and laughed heartily.
‘And I have an invitation for you,’ Lucy went on. ‘Clarissa has invited us for dinner. I kind of promised we’d go.’
Hartley looked at Lucy. What had he done to deserve this beautiful, thoughtful girl?
She didn’t seem to know how devastatingly gorgeous she was. No man in the room could keep his eyes off her. Yet she seemed blissfully unaware, making him feel like the centre of her world.
God, he hoped she felt a fraction of the feelings for him that he felt for her.
Those hips, that tiny waist, her long graceful neck. He felt the familiar tingling in his groin that came whenever he thought of her. He scrutinized her floral dress. Square-necked with not a hint of cleavage and a hemline below her knee. Refined and modest. So why was it the sexiest dress he’d ever seen?
No, he must act like a gentleman. Lucy was different from any girl he’d known. She wasn’t obsessed with trading names of mutual friends, or finding out what societies and clubs he could introduce her to.
Hell, she was the first woman whom he’d really laughed with. She made fun of him, ruffling his hair and telling him his voice made the Queen sound common. She was constantly teasing him that no matter how long he took to get ready he always had the look of a dishevelled bumbler – and she told him that was one of her very favourite things about him. She was so stylish and feminine – more elegant than any titled girl he’d met.
He couldn’t wait to take her home to Edinburgh, a city she seemed to love just as much as he did.
Lucy knew Edinburgh well. She’d lost count of the times she’d visited the castle on school holidays with her mum and Max. And she had seen a different side to the city when she had visited as a student and stayed with friends studying at the university. Walks to Murrayfield to see Scotland play England at rugby, and invariably lose in the Six Nations cup; taking in the wonderful smell of beer hops that settled like a welcoming blanket over the city. Like Hartley, she had climbed the Pentlands and Arthur’s Seat. She had done her Christmas shopping in Jenners and Harvey Nics too. Maybe they had passed each other and never known.
She was constantly surprising him. Like last weekend, when he had complained he was feeling a little tired and longed to get back to Scotland for a few days.
She told him she knew just the cure. She would pick him up in fifteen minutes and he was to have a bag with a towel and swimming shorts ready. They had driven to Hampstead Heath where Lucy took him to a large fresh-water pool she told him was a mixed-sex swimming area until October, when it got too cold.
‘Come on!’ She had tugged on his arm like a child to get changed.
Together they had jumped into the freezing pond. Lucy had laughed hysterically at the look of horror on Hartley’s face when he hit the water.
‘Don’t worry; you’ll heat up in a moment. Keep swimming. The shock to your system will do you good.’
And it had. Hartley had felt invigorated – partly down to the swim, partly down to Lucy. They had had lunch in a nearby pub garden and ordered scampi and chips. Lucy, wearing no make-up, looked more beautiful than ever. She challenged him to the scampi competition – a long-running challenge she played with Max. The winner was the one who counted the most bits of battered scampi on their plate; the loser had to buy the drinks. Lucy had won with twelve pieces, telling him proudly her record was nineteen. She had decided to try a pint of Guinness for the first time and, after a gulp, declared it her new tipple of choice. She laughed as she thought of her twig-thin colleagues at the magazine sipping champagne and eating carrot sticks at parties, and watching aghast as Lucy downed her daily calorie intake with pint after pint of the tasty black liquid.
‘Would you still love me with a beer belly?’ Lucy had blushed furiously the moment she realized she had blurted out ‘love’. They hadn’t come close to talking of love.
Leaning over the wooden beer-garden table Hartley had kissed her firmly on the lips: ‘I would love you even more.’
Hartley stirred his tea and smiled, enjoying the muted background noise of chattering and clinking cups around him. He knew already he wanted Lucy to be more than a fleeting girlfriend.
He could offer her a life of luxury and riches; she would never have to work and could have anything she desired.
He wanted to pin her down now and kiss those plump pink lips, to make love to her. The way she smelled was like a drug he wanted to inhale for ever. To kiss every inch of her creamy soft skin, her full breasts; to hold her to him while they made love.
But no, she would want to wait. And she was worth waiting for.
‘Do I get to chaperone you to this dinner?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well then, Lucy Lu, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’