Don't Marry Thomas Clark Read online

  DON'T MARRY THOMAS CLARK

  Celia Hayes

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  About the Author

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  About Don’t Marry Thomas Clark

  Thomas Clark is a wealthy aristocrat. Sandy Price is from an ordinary family. They grew up spending their summer holidays on the same country estate, but Sandy couldn't stand Thomas and he hasn't crossed her mind since she was a kid and made herself a promise that she would never, ever marry him.

  Years later, an unexpected turn of events brings him back into her life–whether she likes it or not. When Thomas's grandfather dies, his will is opened, and Thomas is faced with a shocking announcement...his grandfather has left him everything, but only on the condition that he settles down and gets married. And who to? The very same Sandy Price! Thomas must find a way to make this happen, otherwise the entire estate will go to charity.

  Sandy is unemployed and trying to renovate a bistro with some friends. But at the last moment the bank withdraws its offer of a loan. So, when she receives a call from Thomas offering her an attractive proposal, she has no choice but to accept...

  Dedicated to Mike Shinoda. Who knows? Maybe he’ll read it and decide that I’m the love of his life. And anyway, it’s my book and I’ll dedicate it to whoever I like!

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Don’t Marry Thomas Clark

  Dedication

  From the diary of Sandy Price

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About Celia Hayes

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  From the diary of Sandy Price

  Canterbury, 22 August, 2002

  Dear diary,

  It’s here – today is the last day of the holidays. We were supposed to spend another week at Garden House, but Dad has been called back to Cork because of work and mum doesn’t want to leave him alone with the washing machine.

  Weather permitting, we leave tomorrow morning.

  The idea of going back to boarding school early should make me sad, but I think I’ve taken it much better than everyone imagined. Poor things, they didn’t know quite how to tell me. At dinner they just babbled on, trying to soften the blow, while I tried to work out what was actually going on, hoping that all their agitation hadn’t been caused by the recent discovery of the contents of my piggy bank. Just try to imagine my parents’ faces when they finally managed to come out with the dramatic revelation and saw me breathe a sigh of relief and race off to my room to pack my suitcases. Did you hear that? Me, packing suitcases! Me, who’d quite happily carry my stuff around in a sack if I could, just to avoid wasting half a day finding a way to fit my panties into my case without it bursting open unexpectedly.

  I know, it wasn’t very nice of me to welcome the news so enthusiastically, not in front of our hosts, but… I just can’t wait to leave. I swear, this is the last time that I’m going to let my parents drag me to Canterbury. It’s not that the place is unpleasant – far from it. There’s no way you could get bored on the Clark estate. Sir Roger has a magnificent stables, there’s a huge pool next to the greenhouse and two days ago they even opened a new tennis court. It would be a brilliant place to spend the summer, if it weren’t for the constant, annoying presence of the count’s grandson. Yes, him again – Thomas Clark. My personal nightmare. And once again, he’s spent the summer tormenting me. Him and his friend, that brain-dead Robby-lapdog-Cooper. The worst thing is that I can’t avoid him. I have to follow him about wherever he goes, unless I’d rather sit through the ‘My Degenerate Daughter!’ show on Channel Desperate Mum every time I decide to think for myself.

  I really don’t understand how he manages to fool everyone. If you ask them, they just go into ecstasies over that flipping snotty penguin.

  He’s perfect. Worse, he is perfect and untouchable. Gentle, friendly, good-looking, athletic, rich, intelligent, studious, a lover of literature, the apple of the eye of any mother in the neighbourhood who’s in search of a son-in-law, and he even does volunteer work for good causes.

  Annoying, in a word. Massively annoying. Because the only reason he does all this is so he can gloat about his superiority. Don’t believe me? OK, I’ll give you an example: late afternoon, my mother comes home after a trip into town carrying a shopping bag or a parcel, or some other thing she is perfectly capable of coping with. And what does His Excellency do? He makes sure that I’m within sight and am ignoring, unaware of or simply indifferent to the situation and then, boom!, off he trots to ask her if she needs help with all the desperate urgency of a Friend of the Earth looking at a whale trapped in an oil slick. End result? ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘Oh it’s no worry.’ ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ ‘It’s my pleasure,’ and then the inevitable finale: the realization by both of us that my petulant progenitor will now spend the entire evening moaning about my lack of manners.

  Not enough for you? OK, another example. Ever heard of adolescence? No, I didn’t choose the word at random. That magical collection of acne, hormones and early dalliances with alcohol that everybody calls the best years of their lives, just to underline the gloomy desolation that follows. Well everybody I know of seems to understand what it is. I live with it, my mother battles it, my father ignores it – but him? No, not him! He went straight from infant school to the geriatric ward in a single chronological leap. I mean, let’s be serious – has anyone ever heard of a teenager on holiday who goes to bed at ten and gets up every morning at six? No. And that’s what I need to make everyone understand: it’s genetically impossible! The explanation? There’s only one, and it’s glaringly obvious: the diabolical creature who sleeps in the room next to mine inflicts two months of sleep deprivation upon himself just to show everyone that I’m hardly able to crawl out of bed before teatime. And you know what the worst thing is? That I’m the only one who sees it.

  Yes, me. It’s like a Greek tragedy. They’re all blind. Can that really be possible? Yes, it can. However much I go on about it, they just don’t see the evil schemer that lurks behind those pleasant smiles.

  On top of that, he never makes a mistake – nobody ever catches him out. But I’m not falling for it. No way! I know him too well. No, absolutely not. I am not going to end up joining the Thomas Clark fan club. Yes, you heard me right… he actually has a fan club! How many of them are there? Twenty? Thirty? They move in packs, swooning at the very sight of him. Jenny has turned into one of them. And to think, I thought she was clever! She’s gone now, we’ve lost her. She spends all her time drooling over him and covering whole pages and pages of her diary with stuff like ‘Jenny 4 Thomas Clark,’ ‘Thomas I love you,’ ‘Jenny + Thomas 4ever.’ Practically her only aspiration is to marry Thomas and spend the rest of her days with him.

/>   Well I’m going to dedicate a couple of lines to the question myself.

  I hereby declare that I will never marry Thomas Clark – not even if he were the last man left on the planet. Not even to preserve the human species from extinction. I will never marry Thomas Clark.

  There, I’ve written it. Phew…

  I’ve got to go now, they’re calling me down to dinner. His nibs isn’t here tonight, thank God. For once I can enjoy the potatoes without having to worry about where I put my elbows!

  Ten years later, in a charming chapel in the verdant county of Kent, with a wave of his chubby hand, Father Declan declaims solemnly, ‘Do you, Sandy Price, take as your lawfully wedded husband present here, Thomas Clark, to love, honour and obey, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do you part?’

  Silence falls among those present, and an inopportune cough echoes from the back rows. All eyes are on her, and it feels as though her answer is anything but certain.

  But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. We’d better go back a few months, to the 13th of May, 2012, shortly after the death of Sir Roger Aaron Clark, who has passed away at the ripe old age of eighty-seven.

  Chapter 1

  Backer & Hill Notary’s Office – 12:30 a.m.

  ‘If we’d all like to sit down,’ suggests Cameron Hill, pointing to the desk.

  Everything feels preordained, each gesture part of a script that has already been written. We are in his office. His little kingdom. A room furnished in an old-fashioned way on the second floor of an elegant building in the City. The heart of London’s bustling economy, the Square Mile, the oldest and yet most modern part of town. A few steps from The Gherkin overlooking Waterloo Bridge, this precious property is the fruit of all his sacrifices. He started off when he was still a kid, doing paperwork for good old Bones at three quid an hour, and today, almost twenty years later, his company can boast the most illustrious clientele in the country.

  ‘Please, Thomas, after you…’ mutters one of those present, in the direction of the youngest.

  A profound sense of exhaustion is audible in his voice. If for Mr. Hill this meeting is the culmination of a brilliant career, for the rest of them it is simply the epilogue of a melancholy farewell. Among the few guests are Rupert Evans, professor of applied physics, retired, William Owen, faithful family butler of the Clark family and Thomas Clark, only grandson of the deceased. Gathered around the table to hear the last will and testament of Sir Roger Aaron Clark, they accept the notary’s invitation in silence and move in unison toward the chairs.

  Cameron waits until they are seated, then takes out a sealed envelope containing his notes and prepares to open it. Inside is the final will and testament of one of the nation’s most valuable assets, but there’s no sign of anxiety in the eyes of the heirs. They are certain it will all be left to the boy, except for a nice golden handshake for William to ensure a prosperous old age after many years of distinguished service.

  Rupert, a long-time friend of the count, is the only one who is ignorant of why he has been invited. ‘Perhaps Roger has decided to give me a couple of old books from his collection?’ he has been wondering more or less since he entered the lift of the building. At that moment, the notary calls in his secretary to ask her not to put any calls through which might interrupt them. He’s a skinny little chap, elegantly dressed, with round glasses, buck teeth and a gaunt face. It’s almost impossible to determine his age, but his attachment to his work is immediately visible from the manic, repetitive, almost obsessive way he tidies up his sheets, pens and folders.

  ‘So…’ he begins, clearing his throat with a cough. ‘I, the undersigned, Sir Roger Aaron Clark, born in Canterbury on February 3, 1925, being in full possession of my faculties, do hereby cancel and revoke any previous arrangement and name as heirs to my heritage Thomas Clark, Rupert Evans and William Owen.’

  At this point he raises his eyes and looks them over, as though afraid that one might have escaped his attention. The first he looks at is Rupert, a stout gentleman with a jovial expression and funny white moustache, wearing a grey suit with a waistcoat and red bow tie. His trousers are kept up by a pair of faded braces and his feet are clad in a pair of worn loafers. William follows. Wrinkled, but with a combative look, he fiddles with the woollen cap he holds in his hands. His clothes are plain but of good quality, and his eyes are lucid and alert. The only smart-looking one is Thomas, a man of thirty-two with raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes who is wearing grey trousers, an expensive blue sports jacket and a striped shirt. He is an exact copy of his grandfather. The same haughty bearing, the same penetrating gaze. Like the others, he waits in silence, occasionally checking his wristwatch. A gesture which denotes impatience and tacitly forces Cameron to continue.

  ‘“Dear William,”’ Cameron resumes. ‘“You have been close to me all these years, holding the dual role of assistant and trusted friend. I know how much you wish to move to America to be with your daughter, and I remember how many sacrifices you made to allow her to study there. It is precisely for this reason that I hereby leave you the sum of one hundred thousand pounds and my apartment in New York, and wish you a peaceful future in the company of your loved ones. Rupert…”’ He pauses a few seconds to ensure he has his full attention. ‘“Rupert…”’ he repeats, catching his breath. ‘“You were like a brother to me. Together we faced the vicissitudes of life and supported one another through moments of great difficulty. We have survived war, disease and disappointment and we have always come out with our heads held high. In memory of all the time spent together and the affection that binds us, I leave to you my collection of antique books, of a value of three hundred thousand pounds.”’

  Upon hearing the news, the professor practically jumps out of his chair, feeling almost like a thief at the thought of accepting such a huge bequest. His mortified eyes search the room for Thomas, who, however, quickly reassures him with a fleeting gesture of the hand, accompanied by an affectionate smile. He agrees with his grandfather’s decision: there is nobody in the world more capable of appreciating that priceless collection than Rupert, and in his place, he would have done the same.

  ‘“As for the rest of my earthly goods,”’ declaims Mr. Hill in the meantime, ‘“I name as my only heir my grandson Thomas Clark, fate having snatched away too early from the affections of his loved ones my son Rudolf.”’

  No surprises, then. Just as everyone expected, the immense wealth of the Clark family goes to Thomas. Not even a mention of the two cousins in Australia, or the daughter of his sister, Rose Hughes. That was predictable: relations between the two families have always been fraught since a furious quarrel which broke out one New Year’s Eve between Roger and Ella Clark’s husband, Louis Hughes. Old stories that have been handed down for decades, constantly embroidered with additional detail. As often happens, no one has ever tried to settle the matter. Quite the opposite, in fact: relatives, friends, acquaintances and even the staff have dedicated all their energies to the express purpose of creating mischief. Why? Who knows? Out of boredom, perhaps, or for entertainment. The result? Brother and sister never spoke again and the tradition was also handed down to the subsequent generations. Rose and Thomas, in fact, have seen one another perhaps two or three times, merely exchanging a hasty greeting to keep up appearances.

  The young man gives a feeble sigh, the only reaction that the news provokes from him. From this moment on, all the count’s businesses officially belong to him, true, but the reality is that he has actually been running them himself for eight years now, an activity that keeps him constantly busy. In less than an hour, in fact, he has an appointment with an industrialist from Boston to discuss issues affecting the airline of which he is the principal shareholder, and he still has to organize his trip to St. Petersburg, where he is expected to finalize the details of an important research foundation he intends to open there. A busy life, which requires him to hurry even when it comes to such delicate matters as these. Looking
at his watch for the umpteenth time, he decides that he has already taken too much time away from work, so he rises from his chair in preparation for thanking the notary and taking his leave.

  ‘Mr. Hill, if that is all, I shall be going,’ he says, holding out a hand in farewell.

  However, Cameron cuts him off. ‘Mr. Clark, I’m afraid that we haven’t quite finished. If you wouldn’t mind…’

  He leaves the sentence hanging in mid-air, while pointing loftily to the chair the young man has just left. His tone is kind but firm, and all Thomas can do is nod and return to his place, wondering whatever else there could be to add.

  ‘Now, where was I?’ asks the notary, while his index finger slips across the paragraphs of the document in search of a clause. ‘Hmm… Ah, here we are!’ he cries when he finds the exact point where he had been interrupted. ‘“Tom, I leave everything in your hands: stocks, property, money and society, but on the condition that you accept one single, overriding condition.”’

  ‘Condition? What condition? What are you talking about?’ asks a bewildered Thomas with a frown. ‘Did he mention anything about it to you?’ he asks the other two, but neither William nor Rupert seems to know anything about it.

  ‘If you will allow me to finish, things will become much clearer,’ breaks in Cameron, displaying some vexation at this latest contretemps. ‘“You are now over thirty years old, and what have you done with your life?”’ he continues, pronouncing each syllable clearly. ‘“Of course, you have shown great skill in managing our affairs. You are a tenacious, capable, intelligent person. You always tackle things head-on and are always ready to step in for the good of the family, but at what cost? I’m tired of seeing you sitting at a desk, alone, staring at a computer screen. I imagine I know what you are thinking right now, but I am not talking about that kind of company, as you well know! I do not want you to throw your life away, but I know that if I limit myself to giving you advice you will not listen to me, so I am therefore obliged to intervene with the only and final means that life leaves me: money. I have therefore decided that you will enter into possession of my assets only after you have married. I imagine you will feel that this is unfair but, trust me, you will thank me one day.”’