Free An Eligible Bachelor by Veronica Henry Page B

him on the nose as a hairdresser descendedonce again to smooth down her already immaculate locks. Satisfied with her handiwork, the hairdresser turned to Guy, wielding her scissors.
    ‘Could I just chip in to a few of your ends, give you a few layers, then put in some sculpting mousse?’
    ‘Definitely not,’ grinned Guy, running his hands through his curls. ‘I’ve given it a good wash with some Vosene this morning.’
    The hairdresser narrowed her eyes, not sure if she was being wound up.
    ‘Leave him,’ said Richenda, who was having eyelash extensions put on. ‘I don’t want him looking like David Dickinson. Anyway, the public might as well know the horrible truth.’
    Guy had trailed round with long-suffering good humour, as the photographer ushered them excitedly from fireplace to sweeping staircase to gazebo.
    ‘I’ve never sat in this bloody gazebo in my life,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s a bloody charade.’
    ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ murmured his fiancée, ‘but this is the price you have to pay for asking me to marry you.’
    ‘He’s got ten more minutes then I’m going for a pint,’ said Guy, squinting into the glaring October sunshine.
    Now, the two were enjoying their first outing as an officially engaged couple. The first hour had been taken up with congratulatory kisses and handshakes and back-slapping from people Guy had known all his life, and Richenda had been introduced to all of them. Now, however, everyone had forgotten the novelty and the two of them were regarded as just another pair of guestswhose duty it was to have as good a time as possible. Dinner had been eaten, jackets were off and cigars were being lit, and the chairman of the committee was auctioning off the many items donated by local businesses in order to swell the money raised to renovate the kitchens at the hospice.
    Guy had already unsuccessfully bid for a free pint every night for a year at any of the Honeycote Ales pubs. He’d drunk a bottle of Merlot and was itching to bid for something else. The mood amongst the bidders was of spirited competition, with everyone eager to outdo each other – not out of ostentation, but because the chairman was good at his job.
    ‘The next lot,’ announced the chairman, ‘is a bespoke cake, decorated to your requirements. Donated by our very own domestic goddess, Honor McLean –’
    At this point there was a resounding cheer from Honor’s table and she had to stand up and take a bow.
    ‘– who, I’m reliably informed, also does freezer fills – whatever they are, sounds rather uncomfortable – and dinnerparty puddings. So, those of you who have an imminent celebration – birthday, anniversary, wedding …’
    This last he said meaningfully, with an arch look over to Guy, and another resounding cheer went up. Guy grinned, and turned to Richenda.
    ‘I’ll have to bid for this now. We are going to need a wedding cake.’
    Richenda opened her mouth to protest. She’d already decided on the cake she wanted, a towering concoction of white chocolate cherubs and rose leaves, hideously expensive but quite, quite stunning. But now was not thetime to argue. Guy was obviously keen to bid for something. Hopefully he’d forget about it in the run-up. Or she could pretend she had forgotten. They’d be able to use the cake for something else – if he bid successfully.
    Three minutes later, the cake was his.
    ‘Three hundred and seventy quid!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’ll be the most expensive wedding cake ever.’
    Richenda didn’t tell him that the one she had her eye on was over a thousand. The important thing was that the money had gone to a good cause. And she’d already decided that the most gracious thing to do would be to donate the cake to the hospice when they had the ceremonial opening of their refurbished kitchen. It would look lovely in the photos in the local paper.
    The auction was soon over, and the chairman, smoke steaming from his calculator, announced delightedly