An Eligible Bachelor by Veronica Henry Read Free Book Online

excitement withering away, knowing that somehow she was never going to end up back on the stage, that Mick would see to it that she wouldn’t have her moment of glory.
    Later that night she found herself being pulled out of bed by her mother, who’d turned into a screaming, hysterical banshee. She tugged at Richenda’s hair, scratched her face.
    ‘You fucking little slag!’ she screeched. ‘Mick told me you seduced him. Said you couldn’t wait for his cock inside you!’
    Richenda looked at Mick lounging in the doorway, surveying the scene with a mocking detachment. She was shocked by the brazenness of the lie, and was met with a cold, blank stare that told her he wasn’t going to help her out of this situation. Her mother would never believe it if she told the truth, that he’d forced himself upon her.
    Later, as she packed up her things, she found the Jungle Book jumper, still hanging from its needles. It summed up her life so perfectly. Empty promises.
    She ran. Across the fields and on to the main road. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would burst. She pounded up the road through the village, past the post office where she’d seen the sign for the audition, past the pub and into the cul-de-sac of modern homes where she knew the director, Neil Ormerod, lived.
    She ran over the crunchy gravel of the drive to his reassuringly sensible mock-Georgian house with lights that worked and curtains that closed and two neatly parked cars outside and a dog that did as it was told. She rang the bell. It had a merry, welcoming chime, and she felt heartened. He’d give her a bed for a couple of nights, she felt sure of it. He’d been so kind, encouraged her; he really seemed to care.
    Ten minutes later, she was disillusioned.
    ‘You can’t stay here, love,’ he said awkwardly, his eyes flicking behind him. Richenda wasn’t to know that he had a history of affairs with his leading ladies that his wife didn’t take kindly to; that she wouldn’t look upon Richenda as a waif and stray but as a threat. Richenda didn’t make a scene, just turned disconsolately to go.
    ‘Wait!’ he said and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, took out his wallet. He handed her two crumpled five-pound notes.
    ‘I know it’s not much…’ he trailed off, feeling suddenly ashamed. ‘If you get into real trouble, ring me at the office.’ He fumbled in his wallet again and handed her a business card.
    Richenda managed a grateful smile.
    ‘Thank you.’
    For the last time, she took the bus into Reading, where she changed and took a bus to Victoria.
    It was surprising how easy she found life over the next couple of years, and how her existence had equipped her to think on her feet. She’d had the foresight to pinch the family allowance books before she left, which gave her a small lump sum to tide her over. The first thing she did was go into Top Shop and buy herself two new outfits and a pair of shoes, working on the basis that one had to spend money to make money. Then she booked herself an appointment at a smart hairdresser in Covent Garden – she went to the models’ evening, so the price was minimal. By the end of the evening she had a head of shining hair and a job sweeping up and shampooing clients, cash paid and no questions asked. And a new name. When the boss had asked her name, she’d given the stage name she’d invented for herself in bed one night. From that day on, she was Richenda Fox.
    By the end of the week she had feigned a terrible argument with her parents and moved into the flat of one of the stylists who needed help with the rent. She only had a sofa bed to sleep on, but it was better than moving from one late-night café to the next, snatching sleep on her folded arms until she was told to leave.
    For the first time in her life she could relax. She was in control, and didn’t have to live in fear of someone spoiling what she’d worked so hard to achieve. She loved working at the hairdresser’s; the