Chapter 22 Honor
Honor
Mum looks like a tiny bird, propped up against her pillows in bed with her nasal cannula in place. It’s an instant, and sobering, reality check after my fun little flirtation with Noah downstairs. This is why I’m here. To care for my dying mother. Not to pick up guys.
I kiss her forehead and inhale the botanical scent of Honor Chapman Skincare.
Trust Mum to keep up her skincare routine on her deathbed.
She probably has the nurses applying anti-ageing serums and giving her facial massages.
Somehow, the knowledge that she still gives some shits is reassuring. It means she’s hanging on for now.
I pull up a chair next to the bed. ‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
She flutters her eyes closed and considers. She’s always given thoughtful answers to the most perfunctory questions.
‘Physically or mentally?’
‘Both, I suppose.’ I take her hand, slide my thumb across the thin layer of skin. It’s bruised by the multitude of cannulas she’s endured in recent weeks.
‘Well. Physically, I seem to be “going downhill”, as they say. I don’t have much appetite. Except for fruit and cake. The cake here is very good.’
‘Right. What does Elena say about that?’
‘She says not to stress; just to listen to my body. They’re giving me drips to keep me hydrated when they need to.’
‘Good. You in pain?’
‘They’re managing it. I’m fine.’ Mum taps the discreet morphine button next to her and sinks deeper into her pillows. ‘The morphine is giving me terrible constipation, though. They had to give me an enema yesterday.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ The gritty, messy side of illness is not my strong suit. Thank Christ Mum’s now being looked after by trained professionals in a place that’s properly equipped to deal with all this crap (literally). ‘You poor thing. It adds insult to injury, doesn’t it?’
‘It was very liberating, actually. I don’t know why they get such a bad rap. I feel so much better.’ She pats her stomach.
‘Excellent. Moving on. And mentally? How are you finding being here?’ I don’t want to exhaust Mum with too many questions, but this has been a huge move for her.
‘It’s... less odd than I expected. If I allow myself to dwell too much on being in a hospice—well, it’s terrifying.
But if I merely accept that I’m spending time in this delightful place, I’m all right.
Just about. The pace is pleasant—restful, but with enough little treats thrown in to keep my spirits up.
Elena’s a good girl. She pops in a lot. But I miss Noah.
’ She winks at me. ‘On which note, tell me about France.’
‘Only if you’re sure you have the energy?’
‘Darling. We both know I’ll never get to France again. I’ll be leaving this place feet-first. Now, humour me and paint me a picture.’
‘If you’re sure.’ I reach into my Birkin and pull out my iPad. ‘I took so many photos and videos for you. You’d love the house. Elaine’s taste is just as exquisite as you’d imagine.’
And so I walk Mum through the footage. A video tour I took of the house; the view from my room; the vista that runs from Elaine and Pierre’s beautiful terrace down to the pool and beyond it to the sparkling, intoxicating Mediterranean sea.
There are endless videos of the kids pulling stunts in the pool. Diving competitions and synchronised swimming and basketball with an inflatable ball and a floating inflatable hoop.
‘Why on earth is Jackson there?’ Mum points with a shaky finger.
‘He came to surprise us. It was sweet, really. Rollo was thrilled.’
‘Did he let anyone else get a word in once he’d showed up?’
‘He was fine, Mum.’ Guilt makes me magnanimous towards my husband. ‘Everyone seemed pleased to see him. He definitely got the party started.’
There are no incriminating photos of Noah on any of my devices, just a few shots of him in group photos.
My favourite is one of him and me on the sofa, the night he seduced me.
Serena took it before dinner, so he and I were both still in foul moods over Jackson’s media coverage at that point in the evening, but I have on my Missoni dress, and his arm rests along the back of the sofa in my direction.
He’s tanned, and brooding, and so fucking hot.
I’ve looked at that photo a million times since we got back yesterday, casting myself back to that moment of oblivion before he undressed me on the daybed and changed everything. I’d give anything, right now, to be back there.
‘Do you think Noah had a good break?’ Mum asks. ‘We missed him around here. He’s so delightful—like a ray of sunshine.’
Noah had a great break, and almost as many orgasms as me, before my husband showed up and ruined it all.
‘I think so. He seemed pretty switched off from work. And he was great with the kids.’
At that precise moment there’s a soft rap on the open door, and Mum comes to life as if someone’s stuck an epi-pen in her.
‘Noah!’
My head spins around. Noah stands in the door frame, one arm up against the frame in the same sexy stance he adopted when Ally and I first came for our recce. He shoots me a panty-melting grin.
‘Ladies. I hope I’m not interrupting. Just thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing, Stephanie.’
Mum wipes a strand of hair off her face and smiles coquettishly. Dear Lord. Is no one immune to this man’s charms?
‘We were just talking about you, dear. Honor was showing me some photos of your holiday. Did you have fun? Come in! Come in.’
He sticks his hands in his pockets and saunters into the room. I hope naked lust is not written all over my face.
‘It was very special, thank you.’ A fleeting, but smoking, glance at me. ‘It’s a wonderful part of the world.’
‘And your parents are incredibly generous hosts.’ I smooth my dress over my thighs.
‘They do a good job; I’ll give them that. Though sitting on a few hectares of grapes helps. But are you being well looked after, Stephanie? You haven’t drunk us dry, I hope, while I’ve been away?’
He stands next to me as he chats through things with Mum. He’s so close I can feel the heat of his body. He laughs, and banters, and reassures, and I drink it all in. I have to get this man to myself within minutes.
When he’s excused himself and headed back downstairs, Mum turns to me, mouth pursed.
‘You should have married someone like him.’
I sigh. ‘Tell me about it.’
NOAH
Paying my respects to Stephanie was a pathetic ruse to see Honor.
I’ve been knocked sideways since she came in.
I was winding up a tour of the facility with some private equity guys when she walked through that door and took the breath out of everyone’s lungs.
I knew exactly what she was doing with that casual smile and that fucking incredible dress, and boy was I there for it.
When she’d sashayed upstairs after giving me (and everyone else) the full benefit of her easy-access rear zip, the finance guys turned back to me.
‘Holy fuck,’ one of them said. ‘That’s Honor fucking Chapman.’
‘It is.’ My tone was stiff. They’d better not say anything disrespectful about her here, on my turf, while she’s here to visit her mother.
‘She is smoking. Jesus! God, she gets better with age. Did you say her mum was here?’
‘I can’t discuss our guests, I’m afraid. Now, let me send the prospectus over to you by email and you can shoot back any questions you may have.’
‘The zip on that dress,’ another one grits out. ‘Asking for trouble.’
I get them the hell out of there and retreat to my office, sinking deeply into my chair. I put my head in my hands. Jesus Christ. I’d spent less than twenty-four hours with Honor before the reminders that I was playing with fire started to shoot like bullets.
Her famous husband arriving. Not just famous, but A-list famous and in possession of one of the most infamous and desired (by men and women) bodies on the planet.
Jackson’s a regular on the cover of Men’s Health and GQ, for God’s sake.
He’s a sex symbol, and I’ve had the balls to move in on his wife.
And then came the airport shenanigans. If I was under any delusion I could embark on an affair with one of the most photographed women in the world, the James family’s welcome at Heathrow Terminal Five was a rude awakening.
Honor and Jackson couldn’t even sit on a plane without their security having to bat away unwanted attention and surreptitious photo attempts from fellow passengers.
The paparazzi were another level of intrusion, though. I’ve seen them often enough on TV, but I’ve never been close to them, never seen someone I care about as the target of their relentless, crass, and obtrusive attention.
This couple is watched. The Heathrow photos are splashed across every front page today.
They live their lives in a bloody goldfish bowl.
They’ve made sacrifices and taken decisions to achieve this level of fame that I can’t compute.
I should be running for the hills. Whatever fucked-up marriage Honor and Jackson have created for themselves, I should want no part in it.
But then I see her. Her. Honor, in all her insanely beautiful and surprisingly fragile glory.
This morning she’s my old fantasy come to life, dressed to kill as if she’s about to sit back on that ITV sofa and devour a politician for breakfast. She saw she had the eyes of every guy in that hallway and she lapped it up. That little performance was perfection.
But I’ve also known her lying naked in my arms, the walls she builds around herself destroyed, and those, her most vulnerable moments, awaken the strongest emotions in me. That’s when I find her most captivating.
Who am I kidding? She’s captivating every.
Single. Moment. And no matter how much celebrity bullshit surrounds her, I’m already incapable of walking away.
What she sees in me is anyone’s guess. I’m particularly unsure after a couple of days observing Jackson James by the pool in all his Action Man glory.
I keep myself in decent shape, but I can’t begin to compete with Jackson on that front.
No, Honor wants—needs, even—something else from me, and I’m walking a tightrope that’s going to grow narrower the further I let myself get involved.
Adoration, yes. I promised to adore her and tend to her when I made my initial “pitch”.
I’m pretty sure it’s my obvious appetite for her that’s allowed her to relax and succumb to me so easily.
But I have the sense that I can’t allow our dynamic to get too one-sided. Honor has people crawling all over her, all the time. Everyone wants a piece of her. The last thing she needs is another fawning minion.
When I took control that night by the pool, she was putty in my hands. I was adoring, yes, but I also took charge, and it seemed to me she submitted gladly. Perhaps she’s sick of running the show. Perhaps she likes it when I take over and bring her along for the ride.
So, while I may feel like falling at her feet and worshipping this heaven-sent woman like a lovesick idiot, lovesick idiots are ten-a-penny in Honor Chapman’s world.
I’m better off holding myself back, however I can, and keeping her interested.
Restoring the power balance. And, as an extra benefit, protecting my heart.