The words ‘pile in the country’ didn’t quite do justice to the mansion Lucy found herself in somewhere near a tiny village called Peat. Robert had picked up the four of them – Lucy and Hartley, Charles and Claudia – from Dundee airport and taken them across the Tay River to Fife. Hartley had suggested they could fly back from Edinburgh and pop in to see his mum on the way. When he called to make sure she would be there, the housekeeper answered and said she had gone to visit a friend in Inverness and would be away all weekend. But still, the thought had been there and Lucy felt flattered that he wanted to introduce her to his mum. He spoke so fondly of her; she clearly meant a great deal to him.
‘Perhaps if we have time we could visit my family,’ Lucy had ventured. ‘Mum lives half an hour from Dundee airport – or she could come to meet us there for coffee in the departure café.’
Hartley beamed at the suggestion. Lucy could see it meant just as much to him to be asked to meet her mother as it had for her. ‘That would be wonderful, Lucy,’ he had told her.
Driving through St Andrews, Lucy wondered how Prince William had adapted to such a sleepy town after years of partying in London. Ha! He probably loved the tranquillity, the fresh air, the tiny boutique shops and unaffected locals. What was there not to like? Whizzing past the famous Old Course, Lucy found conversation in Robert’s Range Rover flowed easily. They seemed simply to accept she must be a ‘good egg’, as Hartley would say, because he was with her.
Lucy’s boss, Genevieve, had practically salivated when she told her she was taking Friday off so she could have a long weekend in Scotland.
‘Oh really, who with?’
‘Oh Hartley’s friend Robbie has a little place in Fife.’
‘Not Robbie as in Robert Mackenzie?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He split up with a friend of a friend of a friend when he moved to Scotland from London a year or so back.’
Lucy looked over her shoulder to see if anyone else on the floor had noticed her boss’s voice had moved up several octaves.
‘He’s single. Did you know he’s single?’
Lucy smiled and said no as her boss rabbited on like a raver on acid about how she’d once met him… well, said hello… at some charity thing and thought he was gorgeous. Punching Lucy on the shoulder in a sisterly, jokey, but nothing-funny-about-it kind of way, she made Lucy promise to let him know she had a pretty single friend who would be perfect for him.
Since Genevieve had learned of Lucy’s boyfriend, there had been a transformation in her behaviour towards her. Just months ago, she had treated Lucy as the tea girl, with a frequent roll of her eyes followed by, ‘Oh Lucy, I could kill for a skinny latte… would you be a darling?’
The plum jobs like styling a vintage shoot she had either kept for herself, in the hope of snaffling a handbag or dress, or, when she couldn’t be bothered working them herself, she carefully chose who would take her place, normally one of the girls who were well connected and who would repay her by inviting her to a party. Now it was Lucy who was being promised the shoot in Monte Carlo with Elsba, the model being tipped to take over the world, and a luxury skiing trip to write a commentary on slope chic and other glamorous jobs.
Lucy relished doing the best job possible on the increasingly high-profile shoots and interviews she was being given, but Genevieve’s motive for this sudden change of heart grated. Lucy had no doubt her boss would have demoted her to tea girl by now if she could have, but the fact was that Lucy more than deserved her position as a writer. She made any article come to life with her description of clothes, her love of fashion shining through. But there was something about Lucy that made Genevieve uneasy. Rather than applaud her for bringing talent to her department, she had tried to hide from others on the magazine how good Lucy was, taking credit for herself instead where at all possible. But her ruthless ambition to know the Hartleys of this world seemed to have surpassed her dislike of Lucy.
Lucy had lost count of the times Genevieve had asked her a question ridiculously loudly so the other girls could hear. Quite often she bellowed: ‘You’ll never guess who asked me out on a date last night! Go on, guess.’
She insisted the girls guessed. When they had exhausted their mental list of eligible bachelors, Genevieve would shout out the name – some friend of a friend of a minor royal or similar. The girls had never heard of him but pretended to be most impressed. She was, after all, in charge of allocating trips and shoots for the writers. Lucy guessed that’s why she wasn’t on her boss’s list of favourites: she didn’t pander to the inane boasting.
The only person who showed less interest was Carlos. While Lucy was at least polite if indifferent, Carlos would openly mock Genevieve in front of her gaggle of assistants. Even they couldn’t help but stifle giggles when their boss was at the sharp end of his tongue.
‘Oh enough of the “guess which millionaire fancies me today” game. Who the fuck cares?’ he said once in his hardened, mock-macho yet clearly gay New York accent. ‘Get yourself a real man – one who works for a living – and beg him to give you a good seeing to. That would get the coat hanger out of your skinny ass.’
Carlos had nothing to fear from Genevieve – she couldn’t sack him. He was the best at what he did in London and, if it came to a choice, the publishers would choose him over her. Genevieve was exposed as the coward she really was when Carlos had made fun of her; she laughed nervously, pretending Carlos was sharing some in-joke with her.
‘There’s nothing to joke about,’ he told Lucy afterwards. ‘I smelled her out as the bullying phoney she is. I see the way she looks at you – she’s a jealous fake.’
Genevieve had learned from experience not to make boasts in front of Carlos again.
‘Has Hartley shown you his third nipple yet?’ Robert asked, taking his eye off the road for a second to address Lucy with a mischievous look, ending her thoughts of her peculiar boss and bringing her back to the present.
‘Erm, no, Robert – I mean, Robbie.’
Their host had insisted that Lucy call him Robbie, because being called Robert made him feel like he was in trouble.
‘Look, Robbie,’ started an indignant Hartley, ‘I’ve told you before, it’s just a birth mark.’
‘OK, Scaramanga,’ Robbie countered before he and Charles exploded with laughter.
You see, Lucy told herself as she joined in with the laughter, these people were no different. Yes they had more money and opportunities than most. But they also laughed at themselves. Who would have believed it: the upper classes had a sense of humour. Indeed, Hartley had made her laugh more than any man she had ever dated. Put him on a remote island and she had no doubt he could not only survive but also grow his own crops; she was equally sure, though, that he had never put on a load of washing without forgetting to remove a chocolate bar from a trouser pocket or to take out the red top that dyed his cricket whites pink.
Lucy imagined Hartley’s friends thought so highly of their genuine, fun-loving pal that they welcomed a girlfriend who made him happy. Lucy chided herself as a wicked thought flickered through her mind: just maybe they disliked cruel Bridget and were thankful he had found a kinder, nicer replacement. Hurray! Then again, what if they had all glimpsed a softer, lovely side to Bridget? They would have had to look very deep inside, Lucy thought, to see any warmth within the Ice Queen.
In Robbie’s big car, Lucy felt like Alice in Wonderland when she became a giant, speeding along the winding country roads, with miniature white cottages and dinky fields dotted with sheep.
She took in the delicious smell of burning wood as they drove up what she imagined was the drive to Robbie’s house. After a mile or so she wondered if any drive could be so long. How did they maintain the spectacular gardens with perfectly trimmed hedges and rose bushes as far as the eye could see? And then they were there, in front of an awesomely imposing Georgian house. As she entered, she inhaled sharply as she looked up to a grand wooden staircase straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Paintings bigger than her adorned the walls – pictures of distinguished officers and delicate women with ivory complexions and trussed-up bosoms escaping their tiny bodices. Lucy wondered if these people were Robbie’s relatives.
Most of the portraits looked so formal, but one caught Lucy’s eye. A virginal-looking woman, no more than twenty, with blood-red lips, big sad blue eyes and beautiful dark hair which fell in loose ringlets to her waist.
Lucy smiled as she thought of one of her colleagues, Sophie, who wrote for the mag’s diary section. She had had the most gorgeous long, black, silky hair but was so obsessed with having the latest look that she had chopped it as short as possible and dyed it white – all because the supermodel Agyness Deyn was gracing covers with the quirky style. Sophie suited the look – she was stunning, with a size zero frame most of the girls on the floor would kill for – and it made her look funky and edgy. Still, Lucy couldn’t help but look at her at times and lament her glossy locks.
Hartley squeezed her hand. ‘This place has been in Robbie’s family for centuries. His mum and dad are getting on and he’s running the place now.’
‘Oh I see. It’s stunning.’
‘Yes, it is.’ And so are you, Hartley thought. Seeing Lucy in such a splendid new setting was like seeing her for the first time. As he drank in her every detail, he wanted desperately to make love to her, to throw her on the bed upstairs and rip her clothes off. Just what he needed, a bloody erection in front of his friends.
‘Right,’ he barked, while holding Lucy’s brown-leather overnight bag in front of his crotch, ‘shall we drop our bags?’
Marching up the stairs, Hartley told Lucy he knew well the room they would stay in. He had boarded with Robbie and stayed for many a night over the holidays. His own family home in Edinburgh was just an hour’s drive away.
‘Here we are,’ he announced, throwing open a door. ‘Hartley’s room.’
Lucy let out a shriek of delight as she took in the room, which looked like it had been untouched for a century. There was nothing ostentatious about it; it was just quietly grand with a little dark-wood dressing table displaying a lady’s brush and mirror set, and a four-poster bed with delicately embroidered pale blue covers.
She sat on the bed and bounced up and down. ‘I feel like Bridget Jones when Hugh Grant takes her away to a stately home for the weekend.’
‘I’d choose you over Renée Zellweger any day,’ Hartley said, joining her on the bed.
‘Good. And don’t do a Hugh Grant on me and run off with some totty like he did as Daniel Cleaver in the film.’
‘As if, Lucy Lu.’
Hartley caught Lucy’s eye. She saw something she hadn’t seen before. What was it? Leaning towards her, Hartley moved his body to face hers. The power of his kiss stunned her. Desire, that’s what she had seen. Raw lust. He wanted her. Thank God. There had been little more than kissing for weeks. She wanted him too, now.
She pulled him to her as she felt the wonderful throbbing between her legs. Manoeuvring herself on top, she lay on him, kissing him with an intensity she had forgotten or perhaps had never felt before. She felt Hartley’s hand on her blouse, opening her top button and fumbling on the second. To hell with it, she thought, tearing at the front and ripping the fastenings apart.
Lucy couldn’t stop kissing Hartley deeply, moving to his ear. She could tell he liked that and relished his groan and the swelling of a rather impressive erection.
Craning his neck up, Hartley took Lucy’s right breast in his mouth and sucked her nipple while kneading the other with his hand.
‘Oh God,’ Lucy moaned, pulling his T-shirt up and over his head.
‘Lucy, I’ve never wanted anything more.’
‘Mmm…’
Pulling at her belt, Lucy knew she had to have Hartley inside within moments. She had to.
Her thoughts were jarred by a sharp noise, a knock at the door. ‘Guys, chop-chop, I’ve booked an early supper.’ It was Robbie. With a jolt, Lucy, straddling Hartley, turned round.
‘Oh Christ, sorry you two.’
Grabbing her cream blouse, Lucy clutched it to her breasts.
‘Oh that’s OK, we were just, erm…’ Lucy’s voice trailed off.
‘Sucking on Hartley’s third nipple?’
‘Yes, sucking on Hartley’s third nipple,’ she replied meekly.
She collapsed on Hartley’s chest, her face scarlet red.
Hartley lifted his head an inch off the pillow, sheltering Lucy with his strong embrace. ‘Great timing as always, Robbie, you arse.’
‘Sorry, Scaramanga. But we’re running late for dinner.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll be down in ten.’