Free Unsuitable Men by Pippa Wright Page B

myself backwards on to the bed and
leapt immediately back up again, having forgotten that Lance had insisted on decorating my hair with holly for the final shots of the day. I picked the spiky leaves gingerly out of my hair and
released it from the twist that had restrained it for the afternoon.
    I had imagined I’d have a quiet evening on my own at the inn, but Lance had suggested joining me for dinner and, as he had been excellent company all day, I’d happily accepted.
Dining with a stranger seemed infinitely preferable to eating by myself on Valentine’s Day. On my first Valentine’s Day alone for a decade. It wasn’t that Martin and I had made a
big deal of Valentine’s. In fact we’d always stayed in on the night itself because he said all the restaurants put up their prices too much for just one over-commercialized night. His
birthday was in March so we had our big night out then, which made sense since Martin liked to really treat us – it was his money after all – and we couldn’t have afforded to go
to somewhere like Claridge’s on two consecutive months. But I’d loved our quiet Valentine’s nights at home. Just the two of us, with a special meal that I’d made, and maybe
a DVD together afterwards. I didn’t need hearts and flowers to love being with Martin.
    I caught sight of myself in the mirror, shoulders drooping as I sat on the edge of the bed, the corners of my mouth turned down like one of those Venetian masks meant to represent tragedy. Snap
out of it, Rory, I told myself, and forced a smile at my reflection. Martin is no doubt spending Valentine’s with his new girlfriend. You are here, at the Delaval Arms, with an oddly dressed,
enthusiastic American who would probably prefer to be on a date with someone from Grindr. Both of you are making the most of the circumstances. You owe it to Lance Garcia not to droop all over the
table like some half-drowned Ophelia descending into heartbroken despair. It could be worse.
    So I made a special effort, as if I was dressing for a proper date instead of – what? A pity date? A business meeting? The evening ahead was strangely undefined, which was maybe what was
making me feel weird. I always felt safest when I knew what role I was playing, where I fitted into a particular scenario. Although I’d been intimidated by the icy duchess when I’d
interviewed her, I’d known that with enough bowing and scraping, and several compliments on the textiles, I could get her to unbend a little. The duke was easier to work out; he just needed
some jolly-hockeysticks teasing and for me to lavish attention on his black labrador. I was the efficient, knowledgeable journalist from Country House , respectful and slightly awed. By the
end of our interview the duke had invited me to stay for dinner, but the duchess had sharply reminded him of a prior commitment. Thankfully Lance had come to the rescue by insisting on accompanying
me to the Delaval Arms; he was probably looking for an excuse to get away from his aunt’s romantic celebrations. The former Bibi Wishart didn’t strike me as the sort of woman
who’d let her husband get away with a DVD and a night in.
    I realized as I walked down the corridor to the dining room that I had probably taken more trouble over my appearance for this evening with Lance than I had for the last five Valentine’s
nights with Martin. I was freshly showered, wearing heels and a pale-lavender dress from Topshop, and had spent half an hour on my make-up instead of my usual five minutes with a mascara wand and a
lip gloss. I wondered if it was true what Martin had said, that I’d let myself go with him. I hadn’t become obese or stopped shaving my legs or anything, but I had probably stopped
making this sort of an effort since we so rarely went out. Shouldn’t I have tried a bit harder to keep his attention? Shouldn’t I have realized that a man like Martin needed to be proud
of the girl on his arm? I shouldn’t