much had changed in all the years since Liz had left home: downstairs in the hall they still had the chart measuring how much the girls had grown every birthday, now with a new column added for Suzie’s two; and on the hallstand, she knew if she dug deep enough into the pile of coats she could probably still find her old school coat in among them.
The whole house was furnished with a mishmash of furniture, some bought second hand, some given, some picked up from the local auction. There was nothing new, nothing matching, with an assortment of chairs around the farmhouse table in the kitchen and a Welsh dresser stacked with odd plates, things Suzie’s kids had made at school and cards that went back to God knows when. While in some ways it was deeply comforting, it wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to inflict on Grant.
Suzie’s house was not an option either – in lots of ways it was worse, with noisy children, dog hair, cat hair, a hall full of gardening tools and furniture which owed far more to shabby than chic. No, a nice little hotel was the best option.
The place she’d booked into had a really good write-up in the Telegraph and had been awarded all kinds of stars and crowns and crossed cutlery for being tiny, hard to find, pernickety about who they let stay and very, very expensive. Grant would adore it.
Liz turned left and right to admire her reflection in the three-paned dressing table mirror. Her new hair extensions really worked. She’d bought a new robe in jade-green silk especially for the weekend – a colour which the girl in the shop had said really brought out the colour of her eyes – although however good it made her look, it was a bit flimsy for Norfolk and Liz wondered if she wouldn’t be better off in the old woolly tartan that still hung on the back of the door in the bedroom she used to share with Suzie.
‘If you would like to re-record your message . . .’ The high-pitched nasal female whine of Grant’s voicemail cut in, breaking her train of thought. Liz frowned and cut off the recording; she didn’t like to think of anyone getting between her and Grant, especially not another woman.
Grant – Grant Forbes. She let the name roll over her tongue. Businessman, entrepreneur, man about town, man with more than one house in more than one country, man with several cars. Man who had sent the maître d’ across a crowded restaurant in Paris with a single rose to ask if he might join her and then wooed her with champagne cocktails – now that was style.
Just the sound of his name made Lizzie smile. It sounded solid and at the same time sexy in a sort of American, cosmopolitan way – and Elizabeth Bingham-Forbes sounded really, really good.
Enjoying the flight of fancy, which had occupied quite a lot of her time over the last few weeks, Liz imagined what it would be like to be Mrs Bingham-Forbes.
‘Do come through and let me introduce you to my husband, Grant,’ Liz would say at the elegant dinner parties she would host for the great and good in their perfect, perfect townhouse in Hampstead. Or maybe they’d have friends to stay down at their country place – there would be staff obviously, and someone to walk the Labradors while they were away. As one fantasy gave way to another, Lizzie held up her showbiz personality of the year award, very slightly teary but not completely overcome, and through a brave, brave smile said, ‘Before I thank anyone else, I want to say a big thank you to my darling husband Grant for believing in me and for always being there for me.’
She could see the pictures in the tabloids now. Their eyes locked in love, lust and utter undying devotion across a crowded room. They’d have to have a table near the stage obviously, or the camera angle wouldn’t work. Liz made a mental note to find out exactly what it took to get a table right at the front at those things.
Grant was perfect. They had been dating for almost five months now. And okay, so maybe he was just a teensy-weensy bit overweight and his teeth weren’t that great, but she had given him the number of a guy who did the most fabulous cosmetic dentistry and sent her dietician his email address. And after Grant had sent the third or fourth bunch of roses Liz had explained to him that the whole red roses thing was a bit tired and sent him the link to the website of a little florist she always used; they knew what she liked.
Grant seemed quite keen too, even though they were both really busy and didn’t get that much time together. They’d been to see some new play written by some chap Grant had been to university with, and a private view at Tate Modern of a sculpture exhibition by some foreign woman with big hair who kept going on about how cuttlefish were a metaphor for disappointment, which apparently wasn’t a joke, even though Liz was absolutely certain she wasn’t the only one who had laughed. They hadn’t quite got around to the whole cosy nights in together yet, but she was sure that would come once she’d got Starmaker ’s new season’s preliminary meetings and photo sessions sorted and out of the way.
They had also been to a couple of premieres and been out to dinner a few times, although Grant had seemed a bit put out when the PR girl from Starmaker had rung half way through the first course to see where to send the photographers.
When Liz had suggested Grant drive up to her parents’ party and meet the family, he had hesitated for a split second, and then said he would really love to come, and then something else, although Liz hadn’t quite caught what he said because the shampoo girl was ready to rinse her off, and Dieter, who looked after her nails, had just brought over the new shade card for her to take a look at.
Liz had emailed Grant the directions and the postcode and then, just in case he still couldn’t find it, had popped round to his house while he was at the office and got his Polish cleaner to let her in so she could programme the route into the sat nav in his new 4x4 and the Audi. Grant had taken the Aston to work, which was a real shame because she had been hoping that that was the one he’d come up to Norfolk in.
Mrs Elizabeth Bingham-Forbes. Lizzie Bingham-Forbes. It sounded so good, so natural, it just rolled off the tongue.
Liz glanced down at her newly manicured hands; obviously it was a way off yet but she was thinking maybe a big solitaire might be nice, with something really special inscribed inside the band. Or maybe there was something antique and elegant in Grant’s family that had been passed down from generation to generation. That would be nice. It would probably need remodelling but people with taste understood that.
If the ratings for Starmaker carried on as they were then they could probably swing a deal with Hello! or OK for the rights to the wedding. It had crossed her mind on the drive up to Norfolk that maybe she should get her agent onto it now – or at least dip a toe in the waters to see if they would be in with a chance.
Lizzie wriggled her fingers in anticipation, then leant forward to look more closely at her face in the magnifying mirror she’d brought with her, turning her head one way and then the other, gently pulling the skin of her cheeks up a little with her fingertips, wondering whether the time had come for a little lift.
One of the make-up artists on the show had recommended she try a new Russian cosmetic dermatologist called Gregor who had been working on a radical new treatment to deal with lip lines, crow’s feet and loss of elasticity. Not that Lizzie had any of those problems yet of course, but Gregor said he was always keen to start early – better to preserve rather than repair – and that she had the most wonderful skin tone and quality for someone of her age.
Lizzie had managed a smile: someone of her age – for God’s sake, she was thirty-four not sixty-four. Anyway, apparently she was an ideal candidate for Gregor’s new treatment, needing just six initial diagnostic consultations and then twelve holistic in-house therapy sessions, followed by a regular regime which he promised Lizzie would help restore, retain, and maintain that springy dewy look that teenagers took for granted.
Lizzie
