The Wedding Girl Page 13

  Milly cleared her throat uncomfortably.

  `Did he ...'

  `He loved me,' said Rupert, as though to himself. `That's what I didn't get. He loved me.'

  `Look, Rupert, I'm sorry,' said Milly awkwardly. `About the wine. And everything.'

  `Don't apologize,' said Rupert fiercely. `Don't apologize.' He looked up. `Milly, I'll find Allan for you. And I'll clear up your divorce. But I can't do it in time for Saturday. It isn't physically possible.'

  `I know.'

  `What will you do?'

  There was a long silence.

  `I don't know,' said Milly eventually. She closed her eyes and massaged her brow. `I can't cancel the wedding now,' she said slowly. `I just can't do that to my mother. To everyone.'

  `So you'll just go ahead?' said Rupert incredulously. Milly gave a tiny shrug. But what about whoever it is who's threatening to say something?'

  'I'll . . . I'll keep him quiet,' said Milly. `Somehow.'

  `You do realize,' said Rupert, lowering his voice, `that what you're proposing is bigamy. You would be breaking the law.'

  `Thanks for the warning,' said Milly sarcastically. `But I've been there before, remember?' She looked at him silently for a moment. `What do you think? Would I get away with it?'

  `I expect so,' said Rupert. `Are you serious?'

  `I don't know,' said Milly. `I really don't know.'

  A while later, when the wine was finished, Rupert went and collected two cups of noxious black coffee from the bar. As he returned, Milly looked up at him. His face was clean but his shirt and jacket were still spattered with red wine.

  `You won't be able to go back to work this afternoon,' she said.

  `I know,' said Rupert. `It doesn't matter. Nothing's happening.' He handed Milly a cup of coffee and sat down. There was silence for a while.

  `Rupert?' said Milly.

  `Yes?'

  `Does your wife know? About you and Allan?'

  Rupert looked at her with bloodshot eyes. `What do you think?'

  `But why?' said Milly. `Are you afraid she wouldn't understand?' Rupert gave a short little laugh.

  `That's underestimating it.'

  `But why not? If she loves you ...'

  `Would you understand?' Rupert glared at her. `If your Simon turned round and told you he'd once had an affair with another man?'

  `Yes,' said Milly uncertainly. `I think I would. As long as we talked about it properly ...'

  `You wouldn't,' said Rupert scathingly. `I can tell you that now. You wouldn't even begin to understand. And neither would Francesca.'

  `You're not giving her a chance! Come on, Rupert, she's your wife! Be honest with her.'

  `Be honest? You're telling me to be honest?'

  `That's my whole point!' said Milly, leaning forward earnestly. `I should have been honest with Simon from the start. I should have told him everything. We could have cleared up the divorce together; everything would be fine. But as it is . . .' She spread her hands helplessly on the table. `As it is, I'm in a mess.' She paused and took a sip of coffee. `What I'm saying is, if I had the chance to go back and tell Simon the truth, I would grab it. And you've got that chance, Rupert! You've got the chance to be honest with Francesca before . . . before it all starts going wrong.'

  `It's different,' said Rupert stiffly.

  `No it isn't. It's just another secret. All secrets come out in the end. If you don't tell her, she'll find out some other way.'

  `She won't.'

  `She might!' Milly's voice rose in conviction. `She might easily! And do you want to risk that? Just tell her, Rupert! Tell her.'

  `Tell me what?'

  A girl's voice hit Milly's ears like a whiplash, and her head jerked round in shock. Standing at the entrance to the alcove was a pretty girl, with pale red hair and conventionally smart clothes. Next to her was Rupert's friend Tom.

  `Tell me what?' the girl repeated in high, sharp tones, glancing from Rupert to Milly and back again. `Rupert, what's happened to you?'

  `Francesca,' said Rupert shakily. `Don't worry, it's just wine.'

  `Hi, Rupe!' said Tom easily. `We thought we'd find you here.'

  `So this is Milly,' said the girl. She looked at Rupert with gimlet eyes. `Tom told me you'd met up with your old friend. Milly from Oxford.' She gave a strange little laugh. `The funny thing is, Rupert, you told me you didn't want to talk to Milly from Oxford. You told me to ignore all her messages. You told me she was a nut.'

  `A nut?' cried Milly indignantly.

  `I didn't want to talk to her!' said Rupert. `I don't.' He looked at Milly, blue eyes full of dismay.

  `Look,' she said hurriedly. `Maybe I'd better go.' She stood up and picked up her bag. `Nice to meet you,' she said to Francesca. `Honestly, I am just an old friend.'

  `Is that right?' said Francesca. Her pale eyes bored into Rupert's. `So what is it that you've got to tell me?'

  `Bye, Rupert,' said Milly hastily. `Bye, Francesca.'

  `What have you got to tell me, Rupert? What is it? And you-' She turned to Milly. `You stay here!'

  `I've got a train to catch,' said Milly. `Honestly, I've got to go. So sorry!'

  Avoiding Rupert's eyes, she quickly made her way across the bar and bounded up the wooden steps to the street. As she stepped into the fresh air she realized that she'd left her cigarette lighter on the table. It seemed a small price to pay for her escape.

  Isobel was sitting in the kitchen at 1 Bertram Street, stitching blue ribbon onto a lace garter. Olivia sat opposite her, folding bright pink silk into an elaborate bow. Every so often she looked up at Isobel with a dissatisfied expression, then looked down again. Eventually she put down the bow and stood up to fill the kettle.

  `How's Paul?' she said brightly.

  `Who?' said Isobel.

  `Paul! Paul the doctor. Do you still see much of him?'

  `Oh, him,' said Isobel. She screwed up her face. `No, I haven't seen him for months. I only went out with him a few times.'

  `What a shame,' said Olivia. `He was so charming. And very good-looking, I thought.'

  `He was OK,' said Isobel. `It just didn't work out.'

  `Oh, darling. I'm so sorry.'

  `I'm not,' said Isobel. `It was me who finished it.'

  `But why?' Olivia's voice rose in irritation. `What was wrong with him?'

  `If you must know,' said Isobel, `he turned out to be a bit weird.'

  `Weird?' said Olivia suspiciously. `What kind of weird?'

  `Just weird,' said Isobel.

  `Wacky?'

  `No!' said Isobel. `Not wacky. Weird! Honestly, Mummy, you don't want to know.'

  `Well, I thought he was very nice,' said Olivia, pouring boiling water into the teapot. `A very nice young man.'

  Isobel said nothing, but her needle jerked savagely in and out of the fabric.

  `I saw Brenda White the other day,' said Olivia, as though changing the subject. `Her daughter's getting married in June.'

  `Really?' Isobel looked up. `Is she still working for Shell?'

  `I've no idea,' said Olivia testily. Then she smiled at Isobel. `What I was going to say was, she met her husband at an evening function organized for young professionals. In some smart London restaurant. They're very popular these days. Apparently the place was packed full of interesting men.'

  `I'm sure.'

  `Brenda said she could get the number if you're interested.'

  `No thanks.'

  `Darling, you're not giving yourself a chance!'

  `No!' snapped Isobel. She put down her needle and looked up. `You're not giving me a chance! You're treating me as though I don't have any function in life except to find a husband. What about my work? What about my friends?'

  `What about babies?' said Olivia sharply.

  Colour flooded Isobel's face.

  `Maybe I'll just have a baby without a husband,' she said after a pause. `People do, you know.'

  `Oh, now you're just being silly,' said Olivia crossly. `A child nee
ds a proper family.' She brought the teapot over to the table, sat down, and opened her red book. `Right. What else needs doing?'

  Isobel stared at the teapot without moving. It was large and decorated with painted ducks; they'd used it at family teas ever since she could remember. Ever since she and Milly had sat side by side in matching smocks, eating Marmite sandwiches. A child needs a proper family. What the hell was a proper family?

  `Do you know?' said Olivia, looking up in surprise. `I think I've done everything for today. I've ticked everything off my list.'

  `Good,' said Isobel. `You can have an evening off.'

  `Maybe I should just check with Harry's assistant ...'

  `Don't check anything,' said Isobel firmly. `You've checked everything a million times. Just have a nice cup of tea and relax.'

  Olivia poured out the tea, took a sip and sighed.

  `My goodness!' she said, leaning back in her chair. `I have to say, there have been times when I thought we would never get this wedding organized in time.'

  `Well, now it is organized,' said Isobel. `So you should spend the evening doing something fun. Not hymn sheets. Not shoe trimmings. Fun!' She met Olivia's eyes sternly and, as the phone rang, they both began to giggle.

  `I'll get that,' said Olivia.

  `If it's Milly,' said Isobel quickly, 'I'll speak to her.'

  `Hello, 1 Bertram Street,' said Olivia. She pulled a face at Isobel. `Hello, Canon Lytton! How are you? Yes . . . Yes . . . No!'

  Her voice suddenly changed, and Isobel looked up.

  `No, I don't. I've no idea what you're talking about. Yes, perhaps you'd better. We'll see you then.'

  Olivia put the phone down and looked perplexedly at Isobel.

  `That was Canon Lytton,' she said.

  `What did he want?'

  `He's coming to see us.' Olivia sat down. `I don't understand it.'

  `Why?' said Isobel. `Is something wrong?'

  `Well, I don't know! He said he'd received some information, and he'd like to discuss it with us.'

  `Information,' said Isobel. Her heart started to thump. `What information?'

  `I don't know,' said Olivia. She raised puzzled blue eyes to meet Isobel's. `Something to do with Milly. He wouldn't say what.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  sat silently in their drawing room, looking at each other. On Tom's suggestion, they had both phoned their offices to take the rest of the afternoon off. Neither had spoken in the taxi back to Fulham. Francesca had shot Rupert the occasional hurt, bewildered glance; he had sat, staring at his hands, wondering what he was going to say. Wondering whether to concoct a story or to tell her the truth about himself.

  How would she react if he did? Would she be angry? Distraught? Revolted? Perhaps she would say she'd always known there was something different about him. Perhaps she would try to understand. But how could she understand what he didn't understand himself?

  `Right,' said Francesca. `Well, here we are.' She gazed at him expectantly and Rupert looked away. From outside he could hear birds singing, cars starting, the wailing of a toddler as it was thrust into its pushchair by its nanny. Mid-afternoon sounds that he wasn't used to hearing. He felt self-conscious, sitting at home in the winter daylight; self-conscious, facing his wife's taut, anxious gaze.

  `I think,' said Francesca suddenly, `we should pray.'

  `What?' Rupert looked up, astounded.

  `Before we talk.' Francesca gazed earnestly at him. `If we said a prayer together it might help us.'

  `I don't think it would help me,' said Rupert. He looked at the drinks cabinet, then looked away again.

  `Rupert, what's wrong?' cried Francesca. `Why are you so strange? Are you in love with Milly?'

  `No!' exclaimed Rupert.

  `But you had an affair with her when you were at Oxford.'

  `No,' said Rupert.

  `No?' Francesca stared at him. `You never went out with her?'

  `No.' He would have laughed if he hadn't felt so nervous. `I never went out with Milly. Not in that sense.'

  `Not in that sense,' she repeated. `What does that mean?'

  `Francesca, you're on the wrong track completely.' He tried a smile. `Look, can't we just forget all this? Milly is an old friend. Full stop.'

  `I wish I could believe you,' said Francesca. `But it's obvious that something's going on.'

  `Nothing's going on.'

  `Then what was she talking about?' Francesca's voice rose in sudden passion. `Rupert, I'm your wife! Your loyalty is to me. If you have a secret, then I deserve to know it.'

  Rupert stared at his wife. Her pale eyes were shining slightly; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Round her wrist was the expensive watch he'd bought her for her birthday. They'd chosen it together at Selfridges, then gone to see An Inspector Calls. It had been a happy day of safe, unambitious treats.

  `I don't want to lose you,' he found himself saying. `I love you. I love our marriage. I'll love our children, when we have them.' Francesca stared at him with anxious eyes.

  `But?' she said. `What's the but?'

  Rupert gazed back at her silently. He didn't know how to reply, where to start.

  `Are you in trouble?' said Francesca suddenly. `Are you hiding something from me?' Her voice rose in alarm. `Rupert?'

  `No!' said Rupert. `I'm not in trouble. I'm just ...'

  `What?' said Francesca impatiently. `What are you?'

  `Good question,' said Rupert. Tension was building up inside him like a coiled spring; he could feel a frown furrowing his forehead.

  `What?' said Francesca. `What do you mean?'

  Rupert dug his nails into his palms and took a deep breath. There seemed no way but forward.

  `When I was at Oxford,' he said, and stopped. `There was a man.

  `A man?'

  Rupert looked up and met Francesca's eyes. They were blank, unsuspecting, waiting for him to go on. She had no idea what he was leading up to.

  `I had a relationship with him,' he said, still gazing at her. `A close relationship.'

  He paused, and waited, willing her brain to process what he had said and make a deduction. For what seemed like hours, her eyes remained empty.

  And then suddenly it happened. Her eyes snapped open and shut like a cat's. She had understood. She had understood what he was saying. Rupert gazed at her fearfully, trying to gauge her reaction.

  `I don't understand,' she said at last, her voice suddenly truculent with alarm. `Rupert, you're not making any sense! This is just a waste of time!'

  She got up from the sofa and began to brush imaginary crumbs off her lap, avoiding his eye.

  `Darling, I was wrong to doubt you,' she said. `I'm sorry. I shouldn't mistrust you. Of course you have the right to see anybody you like. Shall we just forget this ever happened?'

  Rupert stared at her in disbelief. Was she serious? Was she really willing to carry on as before? To pretend he'd said nothing; to ignore the huge questions that must already be gnawing at her brain? Was she really so afraid of the answers she might hear?

  `I'll make some tea, shall I?' continued Francesca with a bright tautness. `And get some scones out of the freezer. It'll be quite a treat!'

  `Francesca,' said Rupert, `stop it. You heard what I said. Don't you want to know any more?' He stood up and took her wrist. `You heard what I said.'

  `Rupert!' said Francesca, giving a little laugh. `Let go! I-I don't know what you're talking about. I've already apologized for mistrusting you. What else do you want?'

  `I want ...' began Rupert. His grip tightened on her wrist; he felt a sudden certainty anchoring him. `I want to tell you everything.'

  `You've told me everything,' said Francesca quickly. `I understand completely. It was a silly mix-up.'

  `I've told you nothing.' He gazed at her, suddenly desperate to talk; desperate for relief. 'Francesca-'

  `Why can't we just forget it?' said Francesca. Her voice held an edge of panic.

  `Because it wouldn't be honest!'

/>   `Well, maybe I don't want to be honest!' Her face was flushed; her eyes darted about. She looked like a trapped rabbit.

  Leave her alone, Rupert told himself. Don't say any more; just leave her alone. But the urge to talk was unbearable; having begun, he could no longer contain himself.

  `You don't want to be honest?' he said, despising himself. `You want me to bear false witness? Is that what you want, Francesca?'

  He watched as her face changed expression, as she struggled to reconcile her private fears with the law of God.

  `You're right,' she said at last. `I'm sorry.' She looked at him apprehensively, then bowed her head in submission. `What do you want to tell me?'

  Stop now, Rupert told himself. Stop now before you make her life utterly miserable.

  `I had an affair with a man,' he said.

  He paused, and waited for a reaction. A scream; a gasp. But Francesca's head remained bowed. She did not move.

  `His name was Allan.' He swallowed. `I loved him.'

  He gazed at Francesca, hardly daring to breathe. Suddenly she looked up. `You're making it up,' she said.

  `What?'

  `I can tell,' said Francesca quickly. `You're feeling guilty about this girl Milly, so you've made up this silly story to distract me.'

  `I haven't,' said Rupert. `It's not a story. It's the truth.'

  `No,' said Francesca, shaking her head. `No.'

  `Yes.'

  `No!'

  `Yes, Francesca!' shouted Rupert. `Yes! It's true! I had an affair with a man. His name was Allan. Allan Kepinski.'

  There was a long silence, then Francesca met his eyes. She looked ill.

  `You really ...'

  `Yes.'

  `Did you actually ...'

  `Yes,' said Rupert. `Yes.' As he spoke he felt a mixture of pain and relief as though heavy boulders were being ripped from his back, lightening his burden but leaving his skin sore and bleeding. `I had sex with him.' He closed his eyes. `We made love.' Suddenly memories flooded his mind. He was with Allan again in the darkness, feeling his skin, his hair, his tongue. Shivering with delight.

  `I don't want to hear any more,' Francesca whispered. `I don't feel very well.' Rupert opened his eyes to see her standing up; making uncertainly for the door. Her face was pale and her hands shook as they grasped the door handle. Guilt poured over him like hot water.