Read Online Beggar Bride by Gillian White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gillian White
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much easier to keep staff happy when you haven’t got a wife home all day to cause trouble.
‘So, Sir Fabian,’ enquires Miss Hubbard, hurrying through the last bits and pieces at the end of another long day. ‘Can you confirm to me that there are only three seats required by your party at Covent Garden on Friday?’
‘I can indeed confirm that, Ruth.’
‘In that case I will leave the spare ticket at reception downstairs as Miss Harper requested. I did say I would post it to her but she seemed to think it would be easier…’
‘Fine, Ruth, fine.’
Fabian stretches his legs. He’ll shave when he gets home, and shower, he needs freshening up before he dines at the club with his old friend Jerry Boothroyd—another good reason for being without a wife. Freedom. Freedom to make up your mind at the last minute. Freedom to dine with who you like. Freedom to choose your own time and place, and wear what you damn well please.
But he is remembering the interfering Ffiona. Helena, that ghastly creature, gave him rather too much freedom for his liking. There is a limit, damn it, otherwise freedom swiftly becomes neglect. She was never in. Never home. Always about some blasted tomfoolery, digging her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, upsetting the neighbours with her anti-blood sports campaigning, with her organic crop demands, her noisy windmills and her humane farming nonsense. Hah, what a damn fool he was. But, by Jove, that’s a mistake he won’t make again in a hurry.
There is no getting away from the past even when you’re relaxing comfortably with a friend in the buttoned-brown-leather-and-smoky, manly environment of the club. No women allowed in here yet, thank God, none of that nonsense.
‘They have asked me,’ says Fabian, glancing at Jeremy to gauge his reaction, ‘to go on Desert Island Discs.’
‘That’s very flattering,’ says the portly Jerry. ‘I didn’t know you were such a popular personality.’
‘Contentious,’ says Fabian, toying with his duck. ‘Not popular. Infamous rather than famous thanks to the spite of the media. I’m not at all sure that I am a suitable subject. I suppose there are those who would be fascinated to know what music one of the most highly paid men in England would choose. The great mysterious sum of my existence wrapped up in eight records.’ He picks up his wine and stares glassily through it. ‘Success? It makes me feel old, Jerry. Old and spent. I don’t know if I’m ready to sum up anything at this stage of my life.’
‘Forty-five isn’t old. You’re still in your prime, old man. You’ll have to plump for something classy,’ says Jerry, a blob of apple sauce standing out vividly on his puce chin. ‘Either that or shock ’em with the hokey-cokey or some more ribald ditty. It’s when they start asking if you’ve any regrets that you really have to keep an eye open for the grim reaper.’ A good number of Jeremy’s peas have found their way to the pristine cloth. He considers them sightlessly. ‘Is there anything? D’you already have regrets?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ asks Fabian, conscious of his past stretching back and back. He and Jerry were at Winchester together. ‘If you’re honest. And I hope I will never be braggart enough to croon with such insensitivity, I did it my way.’ Fabian gives a rueful smile as he regards his best friend. Jeremy went in for the law and is now a respected and lucrative barrister, head of chambers, married for twenty years to a woman who he obviously still adores, three sons to carry on his name, to take fly-fishing on the Dee, to vie with on the Italian slopes, share his love of yachts.
‘But you’re certainly not a new man.’ Jerry raises his glass as if in belated congratulations.
‘Far from it. Although Helena would have preferred me to be.’
‘But not Ffiona?’
‘Oh no. Ffiona was the old-fashioned type. No pampering was ever sufficient for the sweet and fluffy Ffiona. She liked her men
‘So, Sir Fabian,’ enquires Miss Hubbard, hurrying through the last bits and pieces at the end of another long day. ‘Can you confirm to me that there are only three seats required by your party at Covent Garden on Friday?’
‘I can indeed confirm that, Ruth.’
‘In that case I will leave the spare ticket at reception downstairs as Miss Harper requested. I did say I would post it to her but she seemed to think it would be easier…’
‘Fine, Ruth, fine.’
Fabian stretches his legs. He’ll shave when he gets home, and shower, he needs freshening up before he dines at the club with his old friend Jerry Boothroyd—another good reason for being without a wife. Freedom. Freedom to make up your mind at the last minute. Freedom to dine with who you like. Freedom to choose your own time and place, and wear what you damn well please.
But he is remembering the interfering Ffiona. Helena, that ghastly creature, gave him rather too much freedom for his liking. There is a limit, damn it, otherwise freedom swiftly becomes neglect. She was never in. Never home. Always about some blasted tomfoolery, digging her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, upsetting the neighbours with her anti-blood sports campaigning, with her organic crop demands, her noisy windmills and her humane farming nonsense. Hah, what a damn fool he was. But, by Jove, that’s a mistake he won’t make again in a hurry.
There is no getting away from the past even when you’re relaxing comfortably with a friend in the buttoned-brown-leather-and-smoky, manly environment of the club. No women allowed in here yet, thank God, none of that nonsense.
‘They have asked me,’ says Fabian, glancing at Jeremy to gauge his reaction, ‘to go on Desert Island Discs.’
‘That’s very flattering,’ says the portly Jerry. ‘I didn’t know you were such a popular personality.’
‘Contentious,’ says Fabian, toying with his duck. ‘Not popular. Infamous rather than famous thanks to the spite of the media. I’m not at all sure that I am a suitable subject. I suppose there are those who would be fascinated to know what music one of the most highly paid men in England would choose. The great mysterious sum of my existence wrapped up in eight records.’ He picks up his wine and stares glassily through it. ‘Success? It makes me feel old, Jerry. Old and spent. I don’t know if I’m ready to sum up anything at this stage of my life.’
‘Forty-five isn’t old. You’re still in your prime, old man. You’ll have to plump for something classy,’ says Jerry, a blob of apple sauce standing out vividly on his puce chin. ‘Either that or shock ’em with the hokey-cokey or some more ribald ditty. It’s when they start asking if you’ve any regrets that you really have to keep an eye open for the grim reaper.’ A good number of Jeremy’s peas have found their way to the pristine cloth. He considers them sightlessly. ‘Is there anything? D’you already have regrets?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ asks Fabian, conscious of his past stretching back and back. He and Jerry were at Winchester together. ‘If you’re honest. And I hope I will never be braggart enough to croon with such insensitivity, I did it my way.’ Fabian gives a rueful smile as he regards his best friend. Jeremy went in for the law and is now a respected and lucrative barrister, head of chambers, married for twenty years to a woman who he obviously still adores, three sons to carry on his name, to take fly-fishing on the Dee, to vie with on the Italian slopes, share his love of yachts.
‘But you’re certainly not a new man.’ Jerry raises his glass as if in belated congratulations.
‘Far from it. Although Helena would have preferred me to be.’
‘But not Ffiona?’
‘Oh no. Ffiona was the old-fashioned type. No pampering was ever sufficient for the sweet and fluffy Ffiona. She liked her men
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