Chapter 21 Honor
Honor
The airport was a shit-show. Over the years, I’ve acclimatised to the intrusion of the paparazzi, but I dread them most when the press has a particularly juicy scandal to hold over us.
And given our success at keeping most of Jackson’s sex life definitively out of the public domain, this scandal is journalistic crack.
Those guys shouted questions at us that my children should not hear. Dickheads. They went over Rollo’s head, to a certain extent, but Serena was upset in the car, and Jackson had to explain to her that the press was once again making up silly stories about his work to sell newspapers.
She seemed to have bought it for now, but she was extra clingy to both of us yesterday evening.
Poor little thing. Allowing the press access to a carefully curated edit of our family life is one thing, but exposing Serena and Rollo to that kind of highly stressful, conflict-ridden situation is the part of our fame I wrestle with the most. It’s at times like this that the sensation of having made a Faustian pact haunts me.
Worse, I couldn’t help but see the whole farce unfold through Noah’s eyes yesterday.
He’s a normal guy—overachieving, but normal—for whom a charade like that at the airport is just insane.
It must have felt to him like travelling with a circus.
He’s obviously fully aware of our level of fame, and of the downsides of his getting involved with someone whose personal life is apparently fair game for the public.
But I can’t help but worry that having a front-row seat to how events played out yesterday will have been a massive turnoff for him.
I respond, as always, by overzealously tackling the things I can control.
I’m up at five-thirty the following morning to work off my French carb consumption in our basement gym.
Rider, my ex-military PT, subjects me to a punishing routine of combat HIIT which leaves me collapsed on my gym mat, begging for mercy.
Next, it’s a shower and blow-dry before I pack on as many hydrating and resurfacing treatments as I think my skin can take.
The flight and the wine consumption of the past few days have taken their toll—my skin is patchier and less plump than normal.
Two years ago, Honor Chapman Cosmetics expanded into Honor Chapman Skincare, and this is the area that really fascinates me.
My love of cosmetics was born out of years learning at the hands of makeup artists when I was on TV, but makeup is the ultimate example of managing symptoms, not causation.
Yes, it’s fun to play and to change up my look—I adore makeup—but the more success a woman has treating the underlying condition of her skin, the less makeup she’ll need.
My skincare range is based on the concept of modular building blocks that help women (and the growing number of men who use them) feel confident enough to reduce the amount of makeup they “need” as a crutch to leave the house each day.
It’s growing far faster than our cosmetics line, and it could even be a candidate for a spin-off at some point.
A dedicated men’s skincare line is also in the works—with Jackson as the proposed face of the brand, naturally.
I sit at the kitchen island and work away as Carmen processes the kids for camp, my various facial acids working away equally hard before I put my clothes and makeup on.
Because today, I’m going to need whatever tools are at my disposal.
Today, I need to remind Noah why I’m worth every second of the hassle of sneaking around with someone who’s deemed public property.
Today, I’m going to give him the Honor Chapman of his med school crush.
I can’t wait to see him. It’s ridiculous, and immature, and enormous fun to be sitting in the car as it edges towards Notting Hill. That stomach-churning mix of excitement and lust and will-he-won’t-he is so high-school, and yet that’s exactly how I feel.
Last night, I lay in bed next to Jackson and replayed every heady, decadent moment from the south of France.
Chateau des Anges is now burnt on my brain as the backdrop for the most magical thing to have happened to me in years.
I arrived there exhausted and under attack, and I left wrapped in the cloak of my delicious secret: a beautiful, talented and thoroughly lovely man wanted me and was extremely skilled at showing me just how much.
But since we parted ways in the shit-show that was Heathrow yesterday, I’ve begun to doubt myself. To doubt his commitment.
‘Excited to see lover-boy?’ Di asks from the front.
‘Fuck off.’ I make a face that Di returns in the mirror. Thank God for Di. If I didn’t have someone to confide in, I’d die. It’s very likely I’ll break and tell Ally the first chance I get.
‘I approve of him. I never thought you’d have it in you, but hats off to you for taking up with someone normal. He’s gorgeous.’
‘What kind of person did you think I’d take up with?’
‘I don’t know—an ageing playboy, perhaps, who’d wow you with his huge yacht in Cap Ferrat.’
‘Please. Give me more credit than that.’ I gaze out the window as we roll through Hyde Park. It’s been such a wet summer that the grass is weirdly green. It should be totally scorched by now.
‘It suits you, you know.’
‘What does?’
‘Sex with someone other than Jackson. You have this… soft look about you. It’s good. Whatever Dr McDreamy is doing with those magic doctor's hands of his, he’s obviously doing it right.’
‘It’s categorically none of your business what he’s doing. But Noah has many magical body parts, I’ll have you know.’ I grin out the window, but Di catches it.
‘Oooh! Look at that smug smirk! You lucky bitch. Honestly, your therapist should have told you to do this years ago. You’d have saved a shitload of time and money.’
‘True.’
‘Seriously, Honor. Enjoy yourself. How many tissues have I wasted on you over the years? It’s good to see you taking something for yourself for once, instead of moping around and waiting for whatever scraps Jackson can be arsed to throw you.’
‘You’d definitely have more fun driving Jackson, that’s for sure.’
‘No kidding. The things Ty must have witnessed in the back of that car.’ She glances in the mirror. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, you’re right. There’s a reason the BMW has wipe-clean seats.’
’See? You’re making jokes! Let me know if you and McDreamy need a ride later. Like, to his shag-pad? I have the Dettol wipes right here.’ She waves a pack.
‘You’re revolting. I’m off to visit my dying mother, remember?’
‘Of course you are. You always were a good multi-tasker. Give my love to Steph.’ A pause. ‘And Noah. You look gorgeous. Go get him.’
A nurse lets me into the hospice and I nod to Di, who’ll wait in the car.
I smooth down the inevitable car creases on the front of my dress.
I’ve gone for a designer upgrade of the type of dress I wore most days on TV: an impeccably fitted, sleeveless sheath in palest pink wool crepe.
It skims me perfectly everywhere, exuding good taste but leaving little room for doubt as to what lies beneath.
I’ve even blow-dried my hair differently.
It’s not tonged like usual, but more of a Park Avenue Princess blow-dry: exactly how I used to wear it on TV (minus a lot of hair spray).
Noah may not pick up that detail, but he will recognise the general vibe.
If TV presenter Honor is who he’s lusted after (and wanked over), TV presenter Honor is who he’ll get.
I step through the threshold, and there he is, right in front of me.
Oh, God.
He’s with a small gaggle of guys in suits in the hallway, and Noah himself is wearing a white shirt, suit trousers and a tie.
Because this is Noah, his top button’s undone and he’s rolled his sleeves up.
His heavenly French tan glows against the white fabric and I stare at him like a starving woman as he clocks me.
I’m not the only person who’s dressed up today.
I want to pull that tie loose and bite that bottom lip.
Now. He’s utter perfection. The only thing missing is a stethoscope slung around his neck.
He runs a hand through his dark hair and shoots me the most enormous grin. I suspect it’s involuntary; he tries to rein it in in front of his buddies but he seems incapable of lessening the wattage.
‘Honor. Good morning.’
His tone is more formal than the smile on his face.
Two can play at that game. The other guys turn around and I catch their double-take: a classic reaction I’m well used to.
I smoothly slide my oversized sunglasses up onto my head and adjust the dusky pink Birkin on my arm.
Smile blandly at him. My mouth is definitely twitching.
‘Noah. How nice to see you again.’
Every guy in that hallway is staring shamelessly at me right now.
It’s usually creepy, but at this moment it’s perfection.
There’s nothing more heady to a man than knowing he gets to have what every other man wants.
These guys are doing my job for me: convincing Noah I’m a prize worth enduring a little (or a lot) of hassle for.
‘Are you’—Noah clears his throat—‘visiting your mother?’
‘I am.’ I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘See you later, perhaps. If your meeting is over when I’m done.’
And off I sashay up the stairs, knowing that every pair of eyes in that hallway will be on my arse just now, and that Noah will be making the glorious discovery that my dress has a zip running all the way down the back.