The Wedding Girl Page 17

  `Look, I'm sorry, OK!' said Alexander, picking up his bag. `I'm sorry your sister's wedding's off. But you can't blame me!'

  `We can, and we do,' said Isobel, opening the front door. `Now get out!'

  `But I didn't do anything!' exclaimed Alexander angrily, stepping outside. `I just made a few jokes!'

  `You call telling the vicar a fucking joke?' said Isobel furiously, and as Alexander opened his mouth to reply, she slammed the door.

  Olivia walked up the stairs slowly, feeling a flat, dull sadness creep over her. The adrenalin of the early evening was gone; she felt weary and disappointed and prone to tears. It was all over. The goal to which she'd been working all this time had suddenly been lifted away, leaving nothing in its place.

  No one else would ever understand quite how much of herself she'd put into Milly's wedding. Perhaps that had been her mistake. Perhaps she should have stood back, let Harry's people take over with their cool efficiency, and merely turned up on the day, groomed and politely interested. Olivia sighed. She couldn't have done it. She couldn't have watched as someone else put together her daughter's wedding. So she'd gathered herself up and taken the job on and spent many hours planning and thinking and organizing. And now she would never see the fruits of all her labour.

  Isobel's accusing voice rang in her ears and she winced. Somewhere along the line she had become at cross purposes with the rest of the family. Somehow she had become vilified for wanting everything to be just so. Perhaps James was right; perhaps it had become an obsession. But she had only wanted everything to be perfect for Milly. For all of them. And now no one would ever realize that. They wouldn't see the results. They wouldn't experience the joyous, lavish day she'd planned. They would just remember all the fuss.

  She stopped at Milly's bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, and found herself walking in. Milly's wedding dress was still hanging up in its cotton cover on the wardrobe door. When she closed her eyes, Olivia could still see Milly's face as she tried it on for the first time. It had been the seventh dress she'd tried; both of them had known immediately that this was the one. They'd stared silently at the mirror, then, meeting Milly's eye, Olivia had said slowly, `I think we'll have to have it. Don't you?'

  Milly's measurements had been taken and somewhere in Nottingham the dress had carefully been made up again. Over the last few weeks it had been fitted again and again to Milly's figure. And now she would never wear it. Unable to stop herself, Olivia unzipped the wrapper, pulled out a little of the heavy satin and stared at it. From inside the cotton cover, a tiny iridescent pearl glinted at her. It was a truly beautiful dress. Olivia sighed, and before she could descend into maudlin grief, reached for the zip to close the wrapper again.

  James, walking past the door, saw Olivia gazing mournfully at Milly's wedding dress and felt a stab of irritation. He stalked into Milly's room without pausing.

  `For God's sake, Olivia,' he said brutally. `The wedding's off! It's off! Haven't you got that into your head yet?'

  Olivia's head jerked up in shock and her hands began to tremble as she stuffed the dress back into its cover.

  `Of course I have,' she said. `I was just '

  `Just wallowing in self-pity,' said James sarcastically. `Just thinking about your perfectly organized wedding, which is now never going to happen.'

  Olivia zipped up the cover and turned round.

  `James, why are you behaving as though all this is my fault?' she said shakily. `Why am I suddenly the villain? I didn't push Milly into marriage. I didn't force her to have a wedding! She wanted one! All I did was to organize it for her as best I could.'

  `Organize it for yourself, you mean!'

  `Maybe,' said Olivia. `Partly. But what's so wrong with that?'

  `Oh, I give up,' said James, his face white with anger. `I can't get through to you!' Olivia stared at him.

  `I don't understand you, James,' she said. `I just don't understand. Weren't you ever happy that Milly was getting married?'

  `I don't know,' said James. He walked stiffly over to the window. `Marriage. What the hell has marriage got to offer a young girl like Milly?'

  `Happiness,' said Olivia after a pause. `A happy life with Simon.' James turned round and gave her a curious expression.

  `You think marriage brings happiness, do you?'

  `Of course I do!'

  `Well, you must be a bigger optimist than I am.' He leaned back against the radiator, hunched his shoulders, and surveyed her with unreadable eyes.

  `What do you mean?' said Olivia in a trembling voice. `James, what are you talking about?'

  `What do you think I'm talking about?' said James.

  The room seemed to ring with a still silence.

  `Just look at us, Olivia,' said James at last. `An old married couple. Do we give each other happiness? Do we support each other? We haven't grown together over the years. We've grown apart.'

  `No we haven't!' said Olivia in alarm. `We've been very happy together!'

  James shook his head.

  `We've been happy separately. You have your life and I have mine. You have your friends and I have mine. That's not what marriage is about.'

  `We don't have separate lives,' said Olivia, a throb of panic in her voice.

  `Oh come on, Olivia!' exclaimed James. `Admit it. You're more interested in your bed and breakfast guests than you are in me!'

  `No I'm not,' said Olivia, flushing.

  `Yes you are. They come first, I come second. Along with the rest of the family.'

  `That's not fair!' cried Olivia at once. `I run the bed and breakfast for our family! To give us holidays. Little luxuries. You know that!'

  `Well, perhaps other things are more important,' said James. Olivia looked at him uncertainly.

  `Are you saying you want me to give up the bed and breakfast?'

  `No!' said James impatiently. `I just ...'

  `What?'

  There was a long pause. Eventually James sighed. `I suppose,' he said slowly, `I just want you to need me.'

  `I do need you,' said Olivia in a small voice.

  `Do you?' A half-smile came to James's lips. `Olivia, when was the last time you confided in me? When was the last time you asked my advice?'

  `You wouldn't be interested in anything I've got to say!' cried Olivia defensively. `Whenever I tell you anything, you get bored. You start to look out of the window. Or you read the paper. You behave as though nothing I've got to say is of any importance. And anyway, what about you? You never confide in me, either!'

  `I try to!' said James angrily. `But you never bloody listen! You're always rabbiting on about the wedding. The wedding this, the wedding that. And before the wedding there was always something else. Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit! It drives me mad.'

  There was silence.

  `I know I run on a bit,' said Olivia at last. `My friends tell me. They say "Pipe down, Olivia, let someone else speak." And I pipe down.' She gulped. `But you've never said anything. You never seem to care one way or the other.'

  James rubbed his face wearily. `Perhaps I don't,' he said. 'Perhaps I've got beyond caring. All I know is ...' He paused. `I can't go on like this.'

  The words resounded round the tiny room like gas from a canister. Olivia felt the colour drain from her cheeks and a slow, frightening thud begin like a death knell in her stomach.

  `James,' she said, before he could continue. `Please. Not tonight.'

  James looked up and felt a jolt as he saw Olivia. Her cheeks were ashen, her lips were trembling, and her eyes were full of a deep dread.

  `Olivia ' he began.

  `If you have something you want to say to me ' Olivia swallowed '-then please don't say it tonight.' She began to back jerkily away, not looking him in the eye. `Not tonight,' she whispered, and groped behind her for the door handle. `I just . . . I just couldn't bear anything more tonight.'

  Rupert sat at his desk in chambers, staring out of the window at the dark, silent night. On the desk in front of him was a l
ist of phone numbers, some now crossed out or amended; some newly scribbled down. He'd spent the last two hours on the phone, talking to people he'd thought he would never speak to again. An old friend of Allan's from Keble, now at Christ Church. An old tutorial partner of his, now working in Birmingham. Half-remembered acquaintances, friends of friends, names he couldn't even put to faces. No one knew where Allan was.

  But this last phone call had given him hope. He'd spoken to an English professor at Leeds, who had known Allan at Manchester.

  `He left Manchester suddenly,' he'd said.

  `So I gather,' said Rupert, who had already jotted this information down three or four times. `Do you have any idea where he went?' There was a pause.

  `Exeter,' the professor said eventually. `That's right. Exeter. I know, because around a year later, he wrote to me and asked me to send him a book. The address was Exeter. I may even have typed it into my electronic organizer.'

  `Could you ...' Rupert had said, hardly daring to hope. `Do you think . . .'

  `Here we are,' the professor had said. `St David's House.'

  `What's that?' said Rupert, staring at the address. `A college?'

  `I haven't heard of it,' the professor had replied. `Perhaps it's a new hall of residence.'

  Rupert had put the phone down and immediately called Di rectory Enquiries. Now he looked at the telephone number written in front of him. Slowly he picked up the phone and tapped it in. Perhaps Allan would still be there. Perhaps he would answer the phone himself. A strong pounding began in Rupert's chest; his fingers felt slippery around the telephone receiver. He felt almost sick with apprehension.

  `Hello?' A young male voice answered. `St David's House.'

  `Hello,' said Rupert, gripping the receiver tightly. `I'd like to speak to Allan Kepinski, please.'

  `Just a second, please.'

  There was a long silence, then another young male voice came on the line.

  `You wanted to speak to Allan.'

  `Yes.'

  `May I ask who's calling?'

  `My name's Rupert.'

  `Rupert Carr?'

  `Yes,' said Rupert. His hand gripped the receiver tightly. `Is Allan there?'

  `Allan left St David's House five years ago,' said the young man. `He went back to the States.'

  `Oh,' said Rupert. `Oh.' He gazed blankly at the phone. It had never even occurred to him that Allan would go back to the States.

  `Rupert, are you in London?' the young man was saying. `Could we meet up tomorrow by any chance? Allan left a letter for you.'

  `Really?' said Rupert. `For me?' His heart began to pound in sudden exhilaration. It wasn't too late. Allan still wanted him. He would call him up; he would fly to the States if need be. And then-

  Suddenly his attention was distracted by a sound at the door, and his head jerked up. Standing in the doorway, watching him, was Tom. Rupert's cheeks began to flush red.

  `Mangetout on Drury Lane. At twelve,' the young man was saying. `I'll be wearing black jeans. My name's Martin, by the way.

  'OK,' said Rupert hurriedly. `Bye, Martin.'

  He put the phone down and looked at Tom. Humiliation began to creep slowly through him.

  `Who's Martin?' said Tom pleasantly. `A friend of yours?'

  `Go away,' said Rupert. `Leave me alone.'

  `I've been with Francesca,' said Tom. `She's very upset. As you can imagine.' He sat down casually on Rupert's desk and picked up a brass paperweight. `This little outburst of yours has quite thrown her.'

  `But it hasn't thrown you,' said Rupert aggressively.

  `As a matter of fact,' said Tom, `it hasn't. I've come across this kind of confusion before.' He smiled at Rupert. `You're not alone. I'm with you. Francesca's willing to stand by you. We'll all help you.

  `Help me do what? Repent? Confess in public?'

  `I understand your anger,' said Tom. `It's a form of shame.'

  `It's not! I'm not ashamed!'

  `Whatever you've done in the past can be wiped clean,' said Tom. `You can start again.'

  Rupert stared at Tom. Into his mind came his house; his life with Francesca, his comfortable, happy existence. Everything he could have once more if he lied about just one thing.

  `I can't,' he said. `I just can't. I'm not who you all think I am. I was in love with a man. Not misguided, not led astray. In love.'

  `Platonic love-'

  `Not platonic love!' cried Rupert. `Sexual love! Can't you understand that, Tom? I loved a man sexually.'

  `You committed acts with him.'

  `Yes.'

  `Acts which you know to be abhorrent to the Lord.'

  `We didn't do anybody any harm!' cried Rupert desperately. `We did nothing wrong!'

  `Rupert!' exclaimed Tom, standing up. `Can you hear yourself? Of course you did yourself harm. You did yourself the gravest harm. You committed perhaps the most odious sin known to mankind! You can wipe it clean but only if you repent. Only if you acknowledge the evil which you've done.'

  `It wasn't evil,' said Rupert in a shaking voice. `It was beauti- ful.I

  `In the eyes of the Lord,' said Tom coldly, `it was repugnant. Repugnant!'

  'It was love!' cried Rupert. He stood up, so that his eyes were level with Tom's. `Can't you understand that?'

  `No,' snapped Tom. `I'm afraid I can't.'

  `You can't understand how two men could possibly love each other.'

  `No!'

  Slowly Rupert leaned forward. Fronds of his hair touched Tom's forehead.

  `Are you really repulsed by the idea?' he whispered. `Or just afraid of it?'

  Like a cat, Tom leapt backwards.

  `Get away from me!' he shouted, his face contorted with disgust. `Get away!'

  `Don't worry,' said Rupert. `I'm going.'

  `Where?'

  `Do you care, Tom? Do you really care?'

  There was silence. With trembling hands, Rupert picked up his papers and thrust them into his briefcase. Tom watched him without moving.

  `You know you're damned,' he said, as Rupert picked up his coat. `Damned to hell.'

  `I know,' said Rupert. And without looking back he opened the door and walked out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  a thumping headache and grey-green nausea. She lay perfectly still, trying to keep calm; trying to exercise mind over matter until a sudden urge to throw up propelled her from her bed, out of her bedroom door and across the hall to the bathroom.

  `It's a hangover,' she told the bathroom mirror. But her reflection looked unconvinced. She rinsed out her mouth, sat down on the side of the bath and rested her head on her hand. Another day older. Another day more developed. Perhaps it had features by now. Perhaps it had little hands, little toes. It was a boy. Or a girl. A little person. Growing inside her; looking forward to life.

  Another wave of sickness swept through her and she clamped her hand to her mouth. She felt ill with indecision. She couldn't come to a conclusion, couldn't even shape the arguments within her mind. Rationality battled with urges she'd never known she had; with every day her mind seemed to weaken a little. The obvious decision now seemed less obvious; the logical views she'd once readily espoused seemed to be crumbling under a sea of foolish emotion.

  She stood up, tottering slightly, and walked slowly back onto the landing. There were sounds coming from the kitchen and she decided to go down and make herself a cup of tea. James was standing by the Aga as she walked in, dressed in his work suit and reading the paper.

  `Morning,' he said. `Cup of tea?'

  `I'd love one,' said Isobel. She sat down at the table and studied her fingers. James put a mug of tea in front of her and she took a sip, then frowned. `I think I'll have some sugar in this.'

  `You don't normally take sugar,' said James in surprise.

  `No,' said Isobel. `Well. Maybe I do now.' She heaped two spoons of sugar into her mug, then sipped pleasurably, feeling the hot sweetness seep slowly through her body.

  `So,' said James. `Milly was right.
'

  `Yes.' Isobel stared down into the milky brownness of her tea. `Milly was right.'

  `And the father?'

  Isobel said nothing.

  `I see.' James cleared his throat. `Have you decided what you're going to do? I suppose it's early days, still.'

  `Yes, it is early days. And no, I haven't decided.' Isobel looked up. `I suppose you think I should get rid of it, don't you? Forget it ever happened and resume my glittering career.'

  `Not necessarily,' said James, after a pause. `Not unless '

  `My exciting career,' said Isobel bitterly. `My wonderful life of aeroplanes and hotel rooms and foreign businessmen trying to chat me up because I'm always on my own.' James stared at her.

  `Don't you enjoy your work? I thought-we all thought you enjoyed it.'

  `I do,' said Isobel, `most of the time. But sometimes I get lonely and sometimes I get tired and sometimes I feel like giving up for ever. Just like most people.' She took a sip of tea. `Sometimes I wish I'd just got married and had three kids and lived in divorced bliss.'

  `I had no idea, darling,' said James, frowning. `I thought you liked being a career girl.'

  `I'm not a career girl,' said Isobel, putting down her mug loudly. `I'm a person. With a career.'

  `I didn't mean-'

  `You did!' said Isobel exasperatedly. `That's all you think I am, isn't it? My career and nothing else. You've forgotten all about the rest of me.'

  `No!' said James. `I wouldn't forget about the rest of you.'

  `Yes you would,' said Isobel. `Because I do. Frequently.'

  There was a pause. Isobel reached for a packet of cornflakes, looked inside, sighed and put it down. James took a final sip of tea then reached for his briefcase.

  `I must go, I'm afraid.'

  `You're really going to work today?'

  `I don't have much choice. There's a lot going on at the moment. If I don't show my face, I may find my job gone tomorrow.

  `Really?' Isobel looked up, shocked.

  `Not really.' James gave her a half-grin. `Nevertheless, I do have to go in.'

  `I'm sorry,' said Isobel. `I had no idea.'