Tilly Bagshawe - The Bachelor - Racy, pacy and very funny!

‘After that Guillermo’s going to be keeping an eye on things.’

Flora looked as if her head might be about to fly off her body.

‘Guillermo? That would be Guillermo with no experience, not to mention no bloody talent, would it? Guillermo who you just happen to be sleeping with?’

‘That’s enough, Flora.’ Graydon’s voice was like ice. ‘My private life is not your concern. I’m prepared to make a lot of allowances for a talent like yours. But you needn’t start thinking you’re indispensable.’

Flora turned away from him. She was shaking, but now it was as much from fear as from anger. This was unfair. This was so unfair. Graydon’s private life shouldn’t be her concern. But he made it her concern when he stole jobs from under her nose and handed them on a plate to one of his toy boys.

On the other hand, this was his company, his brand. He could sack her in an instant if he wanted to. She knew she’d gone too far.

‘I’m sorry.’ When she turned back around there were tears in her eyes. ‘You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. But Hanborough Castle … It’s the project of a lifetime.’

‘A lifetime is a long time. There’ll be other Hanboroughs, my dear,’ Graydon said, handing her a tissue, sympathetic and avuncular again now that Flora had been suitably brought to heel. ‘It might not seem that way now, but there will.’

Flora looked at him, stricken. ‘No, there won’t,’ she said quietly. ‘Other projects, maybe even other castles. But not like this.’

Graydon James said nothing.

Flora was right. Hanborough Castle was the most romantic, most stunning house he had ever come across in his long and illustrious career. Restoring it truly was a once-in-a-lifetime commission.

If only it were in New York, he’d have done it himself.

Flora left the room, and Graydon did his best to stop the nagging doubts from creeping in.

That intoxicating little slut Guillermo had better be worth it.

Eva Gunnarson stood by the drawing-room window at Hanborough, watching Henry stride across the lawn, followed by the two Americans.

It was hard not to laugh looking at the three of them: Henry, so masculine and handsome and English in his dark green corduroys and brushed cotton shirt, leading the way, while Graydon James and his pretty-boy sidekick, Guillermo, scurried along behind him like two gaudily dressed puppies.

Working as a model, Eva spent much of her professional life around gay men. But it was a long time since she’d met anybody quite as camp as Graydon. He’d arrived last night, wearing what could only be described as a rhinestone boiler suit and shoes with a little heel, like a flamenco dancer’s. He was only staying a week – after that the younger designer would be overseeing things for a month or two – but had nonetheless arrived with eight matching suitcases in hand-stitched leather, his initials stamped on to each one in solid gold.

‘Have you ever seen such a flamer?’ Henry asked Eva in bed last night, in a distinctly horrified tone. Henry was very old-school when it came to things like that. Time was when men were men, and pansies things that grew in the field …

‘What did you expect?’ Eva smiled. ‘This is Graydon James. Everyone knows he makes Elton John look macho.’

‘Do you think he’s … you know? With that other chap?’

Eva laughed loudly. Henry’s face was hilarious. As if he’d just seen a particularly revolting spider crawl out from under the covers.

‘I have no idea. But try not to think about it, darling. Just remember why you hired them. Graydon James is the best in the world.’

This was true. It was Brett Cranley who’d recommended Graydon for the Hanborough Castle job, but Henry had known Graydon by reputation long before that. The whole world knew Graydon James. Just having his name attached to your project gave a property a cachet that translated into millions of dollars of added value.

Graydon was the best, and Henry Saxton Brae only ever worked with the best.

Watching Henry now, pointing out some architectural feature or other to the great designer, Eva felt a surge of love for him. It had been a difficult week. She’d been so cross with him for bailing on the village fete that they’d ended up giving one another the cold shoulder for days.

Work was Henry’s excuse for everything. As he was the one who’d moved them all the way out here, Eva felt that the least he could do was to help her in her efforts to fit in.

‘You embarrassed me!’ she told him.

Henry just shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t be so easily embarrassed. It was only a stupid raffle.’

‘Stupid to you, maybe. But you made a commitment, Henry.’

‘Seb was there, wasn’t he? He was happy to do it. No one cares except you, Eva.’

In the end, as usual, it had been Eva who’d cracked first, even though Henry was in the wrong. He could keep up the silent treatment indefinitely, but Eva needed affection and companionship the way a plant needed sunlight and water. She’d reached over and touched his arm in bed one night, and of course then he’d pounced on her like a cat on a mouse and proceeded to have sex with her with the sort of crazed intensity only Henry was capable of. Over the two years they’d been together, Eva had learned to draw immense comfort from the desperation of Henry’s lovemaking. He approached her body every time like a man who’d just come out of prison. There was a profound neediness there, which was reassuring given how arrogant and aloof Henry could be in other ways.

He’s a complicated person , Eva told herself. But he loves me. And I love him.

I understand him.

In Eva’s opinion, it was Henry’s childhood that was responsible for what some people might see as his character flaws. Growing up as the second, neglected son of a great old family had left him with a burning impetus to succeed, to make his own way. All those years training to make it as a tennis star had taught him iron discipline, but they’d also taught him to be selfish, to trample down the competition whatever it took. Eva blamed his being sent away to boarding school at seven for his emotional coldness, and his parents’ divorce for his manipulative side.

‘Give it a rest, Sigmund,’ Henry would say, whenever she brought these theories up. Henry wasn’t a big believer in psychoanalysis, especially not when practised by his own girlfriend. He’d fallen for Eva because she was stunning, and because she loved him unconditionally. But if she needed something to fix, she should take up charity work. Or buy a model aeroplane kit. Henry used to love those at school.

A buzzing on the side table made Eva jump.

Henry’s mobile.

She picked it up without thinking and touched the new WhatsApp message. Instantly she felt her chest tighten and a lump rise up in her throat. The thumbnail picture was of a busty, dark-haired girl Eva had never seen before. Marie J. The message read:

‘Where r u handsome? Missed u this week. Again. When u back in London? M’, followed by a whole string of emoji winks and hearts, the sort of thing a schoolgirl would send.