Page 33 of The Upper Crush

Glancing away, she took a sip of her drink. A speck of foam clung to her soft lips. He wanted to lick it off.

There was a tentative knock at the door and he leapt up, urgent alarms going off inside him.

‘Stay here,’ he growled at Max and Estelle, then went to the door and opened it a crack.

His eyes briefly closed at the sight of his mother, holding a plate of shop-bought cakes.

‘How’s it—’ she began.

Shaking his head to cut her off and using his body as a shield, he slipped into the corridor.

‘Mum,’ he whispered urgently. ‘You and Dad have got to keep to your side of the house.’

Taking her arm, he ushered her away.

‘But it’s your first day with Lady Foxbrooke, babe.’ She held the plate up. ‘I bought you your favourites.’

Memories flashed through his mind, as clear as the day they were formed. There was a time in James’s life when Mr Kipling’s French Fancies were the very definition of ‘posh’. The appearance in the house of the pretty little sponges covered in coloured fondant icing had signified his mother was trying to impress someone, and James had always hoped there would be one left over for him. On his seventh birthday, as well as having a cake in the shape of a football pitch, James had been allowed to eat a French Fancy for every year of his life, and it had seemed the ultimate treat.

However, by the time he turned eight, he’d learned ‘chav cakes’ were as naff and lower-class as the people who bought them.

Still, his mouth watered at the sight.

‘How’s it going?’ his mum continued.

James propelled them both through the door marked ‘No Entry’ into the main house.

‘It’s been less than half an hour,’ he ground out.

‘Is it clean enough for Lady Foxbrooke? I ran the hoover around first thing, but she showed up in wellies. Shall I wash them for her? Give the cloakroom floor a quick mop?’

‘No!’ He took a breath, trying to control his irritation. ‘Mum, please. The cleaners who do the main house are going to do the offices as well.’

‘But they don’t do a good enough job,’ she fretted, the skin around her heavily made-up eyes creasing. ‘And she’s so posh!’

‘Mum, Estelle lives at a stables. She’s surrounded by horses, dogs, rats—’

‘Rats? Oh, my Christ, babe. You serious?’

He nodded, remembering the smaller of her two dogs carrying a rat as long as it was.

Beverley Hunter-Savage rearranged her shocked features into a reassuring smile. ‘Well, they must be classy rats then. What with her being a lady and all that.’

James resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Mum, I appreciate the concern, but you know what we agreed. Please, can you stick to this side of the house?’

For a second, her smile slipped, then it was back. ‘Of course, babe.’ She held the plate up. ‘One for the road?’

His mouth controlled his hand before his brain could catch up, selecting a pink one and popping it whole into his mouth. As his teeth sank through the fondant icing and his tongue found the vanilla buttercream hidden underneath, he hummed with pleasure.

Beverley beamed. ‘You sure you don’t want to take these back with you?’

He shook his head as he chewed. The Honourable Lady Estelle Foxbrooke wasn’t a Mr Kipling kind of woman.

‘Okay then, I’ll take them to Elyse and your dad.’ Raising onto her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’ve got this, babe. We’re so proud of you.’

James swallowed the cake and a feeling of unease. He could do this. He was James Hunter-Savage. Nothing could crack the façade he’d created.

7

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