A Class Act

by Kate Lace

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A passionate tale of love, luxury and falling for the first time. Tilly de Liege may be Lady of the Manor, but it's not quite as fabulous as it sounds - the de Lieges may be high society but they're also flat broke. When boarding school-bound Tilly meets skater boy Ashley from the local comprehensive, it feels like the start of something special. Bur fate - and Tilly's father - are soon conspiring against them. Then moneyed older man Marcus appears on the scene... Are Tilly and Ashley star-crossed lovers or simply poles apart?

Release date: May 21, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 322

Sample

Tilly could hear Judith guiding a group of tourists through the great hall towards the main stairs, just as she was about to nip down them to the estate office and the only working computer in the place with internet access. Shit, it was Tuesday and she’d completely forgotten. And because it was Tuesday, it meant that she was supposed to be helping out with the visitors by standing guard in the long gallery and making sure none of them were demented enough to try and make off with any of the decrepit family heirlooms on display. As if they would; even the dumbest of their visitors would surely have more sense than to clutter up their own houses with the rubbish her family had accumulated over the centuries. She did acknowledge that the Gainsborough might be the exception, but it was the only thing in the entire house worth nicking. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck indoors answering inane questions from some ghastly coach party of Women’s Institute stalwarts, or worse, family groups with kids her own age who would look at her as if she was something out of a freak show. Stuff the computer and downloading some music; that could wait. And stuff doing the job her father had specifically asked her to do; she couldn’t face it, not again, and she was sure the long gallery would be fine without her. Escape was what was called for, and right now.

She dodged back up to the top floor while Judith continued to inform her audience about the first owner of the house, Guy de Liege, ‘pronounced de Lee nowadays’, who had got it in 1080 by sucking up to William the Conqueror. Only she didn’t phrase the last bit quite like that. But it amounted to the same thing, thought Tilly, as she walked along the third-floor landing towards the back stairs. Shame that sucking up to royalty these days didn’t cut any ice. If it did, she might have had a go at throwing herself at William or Harry. Not that she wanted to marry either of them – shit, no. But she wouldn’t mind being a casual shag if it got her a bank account with some cash in it, a nice weatherproof house and a wardrobe full of decent clothes.

She was halfway along the corridor when the heel of her shoe caught in the worn carpet and she almost went flying.

‘Is there nothing in this crummy house that isn’t falling to bits?’ she muttered angrily as she spun round to glare at the offending hole. Like a lot of the soft furnishings, and even more of the structure of the house, it was way past its ‘best before’ date. She made a note to bring the defective carpet to the housekeeper’s attention – maybe Mrs Thompson could patch it up, as there certainly wasn’t the money to replace it.

She turned into the narrow passage that took her to the back stairs. At least there were some bits of the house that the bloody tourists never got to see, well away from the prying eyes of the trippers, and which provided a haven for her, her sisters and her dad. Of course the bits not on show were the bits in the worst shape; the bits with the damp patches, the threadbare carpets, the pale rectangles on the walls where some painting or other had had to be sold to pay to mend the vast expanse of roof, most of which seemed to leak. And of course, as the family’s private rooms were all on the top floor, they got the full benefit of the pails and old hip baths that had been strategically placed to catch the worst of the drips in the winter when the roof’s shortcomings were at their most obvious.

If the tourists only knew how slummy this place really was, thought Tilly savagely. If this were a council house, the tenants would have been moved out years ago and the whole place flattened. Dry rot, wet rot, damp, mould and mildew were just a few of the endless things that they had to wage a perpetual war against, to say nothing of mice, woodworm and death-watch beetle. Unfit for human habitation was probably putting the crumbling wreck in a flattering light. She thought there were rats that lived in better holes than this place, because rats were about the only vermin she could think of that they didn’t have a problem with. A place too crappy even for rats to live in – that must be a first!

She ran down the narrow, uneven back stairs, her feet instinctively making adjustments for the variety of depths of the risers of the six-hundred-year-old steps – the back stairs being a relatively modern addition to the original fabric of the house. She reached the bottom and peered round the partially open oak door to check that the visitors had vacated the great hall and had been swept onwards into the kitchens by Judith.

The kitchens had been made over when Henry VIII was king and had once been the last word in design. They were now one of the main draws for the trippers who came to see over the place. The copper pans around the wall gleamed, a roaring (faux) log fire, complete with a spit big enough to take a whole pig, burned in the gargantuan grate, the huge table groaned with (plastic) produce, and (realistically stuffed, long-dead and preserved) pheasants, hares and deer lay artfully draped over another table as the (waxwork) cook brandished her knife ready to skin and gut them for a feast. Along one wall was a dresser laden with antique glasses, dishes, tureens and bowls, which the family never now used as they couldn’t afford to entertain, despite the fact that the paying visitors were given the impression that the residents still lived in the luxury and style of their ancestors and ate like princes every night.

The reality was that the family cooking was done in a 1960s Formica and quarry-tiled kitchen – which now was more of a health hazard than a leper with plague wandering through IKEA on a crowded Saturday – up on the third floor, which had been installed originally for the maids before the last-but-one round of death duties had stripped the family of every last bit of spare cash. Furthermore, they lived mostly on a diet of mince, fish fingers and tins from the reduced bin at the local supermarket and frequently ate in front of the ancient TV in the tatty sitting room, which, with a portable Calor Gas fire, low ceiling and thick curtains, was the one room in the house they could guarantee to be warm all year round, especially as the dining room radiators didn’t seem to be able to compete with the through-draughts. If only the trippers knew, thought Tilly as she slipped into the great hall and then out of the side door hidden behind a screen, which had primarily been placed there to hide the woodworm in the panelling rather than anything else.

Once outside, she made her way through the pretty but overgrown garden – their one remaining gardener, Thompson, who had to cope with fifteen acres single-handedly, was fighting a permanently losing battle with every weed known to mankind – round to the main entrance.

‘Boo,’ said Daisy, popping up from behind the lavender hedge, her blonde curls dancing and her blue eyes glinting with mischief.

Tilly jumped, her guilty conscience at escaping from her allotted task making her nervous. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ she snapped at her ten-year-old sister. Besides, having escaped from the awfulness of the guided tour, she was in no mood to play stupid games with her siblings.

‘Christ, you’re such a pain when you’re in a mood,’ said Flora, Daisy’s identical twin, appearing from behind the hedge on the other side of the path.

‘It’s Tuesday,’ said Tilly bleakly by way of explanation.

The twins sighed. They’d forgotten what day it was too. ‘It’s always bloody Tuesday,’ grumbled Flora.

‘Except when it’s Thursday, Friday or Saturday. How would the trippers like it if we tramped round their poxy houses?’ asked Daisy.

‘I expect they’d love it; being visited by “wan of the oldest femilees in the countree”,’ said Tilly, doing a perfect impression of Judith’s rather strangled vowel sounds. Her sisters giggled. None of them liked Judith, the senior guide, who gave them grief for not taking more of an interest in their family history and heritage and sprang questions about long-dead relations on them at every opportunity and then looked smug and superior when they couldn’t answer.

‘Aren’t all families old?’ asked Flora. ‘I mean, don’t we all have the same number of ancestors? Aren’t all humans descended from apes or Neanderthals?’

‘Well, you two certainly are,’ said Tilly, although she conceded to herself that her sister had a valid point, not that she’d give the twins the satisfaction of admitting it. Little sisters had to be kept in their place, especially as the twins had a nasty habit of ganging up against her that had to be discouraged at every opportunity. Give them an inch and they’d take a mile. ‘The only reason Judith bangs on about our family is that it’s better documented than most.’

‘And Judith knows all the names.’

Tilly sighed. Didn’t she just. And their nicknames, and their mistresses’ names, and probably the names of their dogs and cats. And their favourite colours. But stuff Judith. Thinking about her and talking to her sisters was just delaying her and making it more likely that she would be caught by her father and forced to help out with the tourists.

‘Still, on the plus side, the house’ll be closed to the public after this week. And thank fuck for that.’ Like a lot of visitor attractions and stately homes, the ‘open’ season stopped at the autumn half-term, before resuming again around Easter. ‘Anyway, sod the visitors, I’m off,’ she said as she moved on down the path.

‘Where are you going?’ the twins shouted in unison at her departing back view.

‘Out.’

‘Where?’

But Tilly didn’t answer. She didn’t want the girls following her. She shoved her hand in the pocket of her skirt to make sure the fags she’d nicked from her father’s packet were still safely there. And the box of matches she’d pinched from the kitchen. And the fiver she’d liberated from the housekeeping. She made her way out of the gardens and on to the vast expanse of gravel at the front of the mansion that lay like a lake between it and the gatehouse. She scrunched her way over it, head down, hoping none of the staff would see her go. Her father would be livid if he found out, because he wanted her on hand as free labour. Well he could shove that, thought Tilly rebelliously. If he wanted her to be there, he ought to pay her. His argument that it was her heritage he was trying to preserve cut no ice with her. She hadn’t asked to be conceived. It was his idea to have kids.

She stood to the side of the kiosk in the gatehouse, out of sight of the cashier’s window, choosing her moment to make her bid for freedom. After a couple of minutes half a dozen punters pitched up wanting to visit and she used the opportunity to fly past.

‘Matilda,’ bawled her father, who was the duty ticket-seller. Shit – that was all she needed. No pretending she’d just forgotten her duty now. He would know from the way she’d deliberately ignored him that she was skiving. But sod it. She’d face the music another time. She raced away, her long, tanned limbs effortlessly covering the yards, over the moat and down the tree-lined avenue that led to the main road and the town.

A few minutes later she leaned, puffing slightly, against the pillar of the huge stone entrance (‘erected by William de Liege in 1783’, as Judith would tell the punters if they enquired – and often even if they didn’t) till her breathing steadied. At least, she thought, there was one advantage to always being utterly broke and not being able to afford designer labels; like almost everyone else in the country she shopped at Primark so was able to blend in with the locals pretty seamlessly. And because there was never the money to allow her to go to the sort of society junkets she saw featured in Tatler or OK!, society junkets that the daughters of her father’s friends and most of her peers at school seemed to go to, she never got her picture taken by the press either. She didn’t think there was anyone in Haybridge who would be able to pick her out as the local posh totty.

She strolled along the road to the bridge over the river and then up the hill and on to the main shopping street that crossed at right angles. Like most towns Haybridge had all the major chain stores, interspersed with occasional boutiques, an independent bookseller, a couple of antique dealers who over the last few years (when the tax man had made threats they hadn’t been able to ignore) had fleeced their dad when he’d been forced to sell the family silver to pay the bills, plus the usual range of fast-food franchises, small supermarket outlets and a bookie.

She slipped in the door of the betting shop, filled out a slip and handed it over to the cashier along with the pinched fiver.

‘Gentrified to win in the three thirty-five at Haydock Park,’ checked the woman behind the counter, barely giving Tilly a look.

‘Yeah.’ She tried to sound bored but was really bricking it that the old bag would ask to see ID to prove she was over eighteen, ID that she didn’t have because she wasn’t. Well, not quite.

The woman entered the bet into the system and handed Tilly her receipt, still hardly glancing at her customer. Relieved, Tilly took it and tucked it carefully back in her pocket along with the matches and the fags. If the nag came in first, she’d get over fifty quid back. On paper it bloody well should, but that was the problem with the gee-gees: predicted form and reality didn’t always match up. At least her family had been good for one thing: her dad and her uncle both knew a lot about horse flesh and had taken her to the races at Haybridge racecourse for as long as she could remember. They’d taught her how to read the form books, and while most of the lessons she’d endured at school had made almost no impression on her brain, every word about blood lines, trainers, form, the going and jockeys had stuck with her. She didn’t always win when she placed a bet, but she made more than she lost. And hopefully this bet wouldn’t be an exception. Not that there was anything she could do now except keep her fingers crossed.

Glancing at her watch, she saw she still had a couple of hours before the horse ran. Skint and bored, she wandered idly along the high street, staring at the enticing things in the shop windows, none of which she could even dream of buying. Even if her horse won, she had other demands on the money – her mobile phone bill for a start. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she wished for the umpteenth time in her life, not to have to worry about money? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be rich? Fat chance of that, though.

She got to the end of the street, at the point where the shops ran out and the rows of terraced houses started, and considered her options. She could go back the way she’d come and do more pointless and frustrating window-shopping, or she could go to the rec and hang out there. The rec seemed marginally the less shit option. And anyway, she still had the fags burning a metaphorical hole in her pocket, and if she hung out there she could have a smoke in peace and quiet. The rec it was then.

Ashley stood at the top of the half-pipe, his skateboard balanced on his left toe, as he contemplated the drop. It wasn’t extreme and he’d seen other, younger kids tip themselves down the vertiginous slide, swoop up the other side and land safely on the opposite platform. Of course it could be done. He just needed to go for it. The trouble was, unlike the kids he’d seen whizzing up, down and over the ramps and pipes of the skate park or grinding along the rails, he hadn’t been a skateboarder since he was old enough to stand. In fact he hadn’t been a skateboarder until a couple of weeks ago, when a mate of his had bet him a tenner that he wouldn’t be able to stay upright on a board for more than a few minutes. Ashley had retorted to Darren that if a ming-mong like him could do it then anyone could. At which point Darren had raised both the stakes and the ante.

The bet was now for twenty quid, and Ashley had to complete a one-eighty and land it.

He glanced nervously around. Unusually for the half-term holiday, the rec was almost deserted, which was why he was going to have a go now. He didn’t want to make a complete fool of himself in front of an audience; certainly not an audience of younger kids. That really would be uncool. There were a couple of young mums pushing their kids on the swings, nattering as they swung the toddlers, ciggies hanging off their lower lips, and a few children of primary-school age playing on the roundabout. Their shrieks and screams as they whirled round reached him over the constant thrum of the traffic on the ring road that ran along one side of the park, but they were too engrossed in their own fun to give him a second glance. This was probably one of the last weeks of the year they’d get the chance to play out, and they were making the most of it. Signs of encroaching winter were all around. The trees that flanked the park were shades of russet, yellow and ochre and the ground beneath was already spotted with fallen leaves. A couple from a nearby sycamore had drifted on to the metal of the ramps and were stuck there like stranded starfish on a beach.

Ashley pulled his attention back to the half-pipe. He took a breath and geed himself up.

‘You going to do it then?’

Ashley whipped round to see who’d spoken.

‘You scared or something?’

Looking up at him was a girl about his age, casually smoking a cigarette. At least she looked about eighteen but you couldn’t really tell these days. There were some kids in Year 9 at school who looked eighteen – and who smoked to make themselves look older still – so he knew it was dead difficult to guess about girls’ ages. But no matter if this girl was eighteen or not, she was a stunner. Really lush. For a moment Ashley just stared at her huge, round blue eyes set wide apart in her delicate face, her mouth pouting seductively around the filter tip of her fag, her neat nose and the whole framed by short, spiky blonde hair. He was so taken aback by her presence and her beauty that he let go of his skateboard, which dropped and slid down the ramp.

The girl giggled and smirked. Ashley jumped down the ramp after the board, his trainers squeaking against the metal. He gathered it up, his mind made up. He’d show her. Back on top of the half-pipe, before he had time to think about it, he balanced his board on the edge of the platform, and then kicked off. There was a split-second whoosh of fear and elation before he knew he was completely out of control and the elation vanished. He saw his board arcing through the air without him as he and it parted company, and then he was plummeting on to the ramp. The thud as he connected with the metal was bone-jarring, and then the screaming pain he felt in his arm and head was subsumed by blackness.

‘It’s all right, son, you’ll be fine. Can you tell me your name?’

Ashley couldn’t get a handle on what the fuck was happening. One minute he’d been trying to impress this fit bird, and now …

‘What’s your name, son?’

Shit, what was his name? God, why did grown-ups always want to know stuff? And what did it matter what his name was? Couldn’t they just leave him alone? It was at that point that he became aware of the pain. Jeez. He wanted to scream out, but somehow he was incapable of anything. A wave of nausea flowed through him, but he felt too weak to even turn his head to one side. He hoped to goodness he wasn’t going to hurl. That was the last thing he needed.

He felt something being put over his face. Having a mask clamped over his nose made him feel even more panicky, but then, oh the relief, the crushing, hideous stabbing in his arm mushed into a dull throb as the gas and air mix took effect. He breathed deeply. Man, this was good shit.

‘We’re going to lift you now, son.’

So? What did these guys want, a medal? But then he realised it was a warning as the pain exploded again and he sank back into unconsciousness.

He woke up feeling groggy and sore and then, almost immediately, befuddled. Where the hell was he? He shut his eyes again while he tried to make sense of the images he’d just seen. He managed to link them with a memory of pain and a vague recollection of hearing two-tones. After about five seconds he reopened his eyes to see if his suspicion that he was in hospital could be confirmed. A vision of utter beauty was bending over him.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Hnnnn,’ he managed to groan back.

‘How are you feeling?’

Ashley made an enormous effort, licked his lips and said, ‘Rough.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

Ashley thought a stiff drink, painkillers and an explanation would be good but he didn’t have the strength or the energy to articulate any of his desires. ‘Na,’ he croaked.

‘Would you like some water?’

‘Ya.’

‘It’s all right. They’ve set your arm. You’re allowed fluids now,’ said the beauty.

‘Huh?’

‘You broke your arm. Skateboarding.’

Ashley remembered. And the beauty had been there. She’d seen him make a prat of himself. ‘Oh.’ He became aware of a hideous stabbing ache in his left arm. He reached over with his right hand and felt it – it was encased in plaster.

‘That plaster cast is only temporary. They’re going to give you something lighter in a few days,’ she offered helpfully. She held out an appointment card for the fracture clinic with the date for his next consultation already marked on it. Ashley just looked at it, so she laid it on the bed. Then, ‘I’ll get your water.’

The girl disappeared and reappeared about thirty seconds later with a paper cone of cold water. She slipped her arm under Ashley’s neck and lifted his head up very gently. Any discomfort Ashley felt was completely negated by the feeling of euphoria at being nestled against the girl’s chest. He drank gratefully, draining the cup quickly. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was.

‘More?’

Ashley nodded. Actually, the worst of his thirst had been slaked, but he wanted to rest his cheek against her tits just one more time. Almost worth breaking his arm for.

She returned again, and once more Ashley was tucked against her breasts as he sipped the water as slowly as he could. But there was only so long he could drag out the moment. He sighed as he drained the last drop.

‘What time is it?’ he asked as the girl laid him gently back down.

‘Half six.’

‘Half six? Bugger.’

‘Sorry,’ she replied, like it was her fault it was getting late. ‘Problem?’

‘My mum’ll be worrying. I told her I was only going out for a while. Said I’d be back in time for her to go out.’

‘I can ring her if you like.’ The girl produced her mobile.

‘My phone’s in my trouser pocket,’ he said. ‘Assuming I didn’t land on it and break that too. And,’ he added looking into her amazing blue eyes, ‘if you want to take a chance and find it.’

The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘You must be feeling a whole lot better. That’s a chat-up line I’ve not heard before.’

Ashley grinned weakly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Tilly.’

‘Nice name.’

Tilly shrugged. ‘’S all right.’ She forbore to tell him that it was short for Matilda, a name she loathed and abhorred with a vengeance. She didn’t care that there had been Matildas in her family since before the ink on the Dead Sea Scrolls had dried; it was still a pants name.

‘Ashley. I’d shake hands but …’

‘But you’re a cripple.’

Tilly reached forward and slowly slipped her hand into Ashley’s pocket.

‘It’s the other one,’ he said, after she’d felt around in it.

Tilly withdrew her hand and stood up. ‘Want a slap?’

‘You wouldn’t. I’m an invalid.’

‘You’re a randy invalid,’ she said. She walked around the trolley in the cubicle and delved in and out of his other pocket in a second, finding the phone almost instantly. ‘What’s your mum under? “M” for Mum or “H” for home?’

‘Mum.’

Tilly pressed the buttons and then put the phone into Ashley’s good hand. Ashley in turn expressed as succinctly as he could the facts – he’d had a fall, broken his arm, was in hospital, was still alive and hoped to be going home shortly. Even Tilly, standing at the end of his bed, could hear the shrieks and exclamations from his mother, followed by anger that he’d only just thought to phone her.

‘I’m sorry, Mum. Yes, I know I promised. No, Mum. I’m fine and I can walk home from here. No, you don’t need to come and pick me up. Honest. Look, I’ve got a friend with me … No, no one you know. I’ll ask her to walk with me so she can pick me up if I pass out. No, Mum, that was a joke. I’ll let you know when I’m leaving. Yeah, yeah …’ Ashley held the phone away from his ear and pulled a face at Tilly. She grinned back. Shit, she was so pretty when she smiled. Ashley said goodbye and disconnected. ‘She was cool.’

‘Yeah, right.’ The sarcasm in her voice was obvious. ‘And yes, I’ll walk you back.’

‘No. No need. I just said that to get my mum off my back.’

‘’S OK.’

‘Nah. Honest.’ Ashley really didn’t want Tilly to see his house. He wasn’t exactly ashamed of it. His mum kept it pretty well, considering . . .