The Wedding Girl Read online

`No,' said James. `Well.' He paused. `You weren't to know. I haven't been exactly forthcoming about it.'

  `I suppose there's been enough going on at home.'

  `You could say that,' said James. Isobel grinned at him.

  `I bet you're glad to get away from it all, really.'

  `I'm not getting away from anything,' said James. `Harry Pinnacle's already been on the phone to me this morning, requesting a meeting at lunchtime. No doubt to talk about the costs of this whole fiasco.' He pulled a face. `Harry Pinnacle snaps his fingers and the rest of the world has to jump.'

  `Oh well,' said Isobel. `Good luck.'

  By the door, James paused.

  `Who would you have married, anyway?' he said. `And had your three kids with?'

  `I dunno,' said Isobel. `Who was I going out with? Dan Williams, I suppose.' James groaned.

  `Darling, I think you made the right choice.' He suddenly stopped himself. `I mean the baby isn't ...'

  `No,' said Isobel, giggling in spite of herself. `Don't worry. It's not his.'

  Simon woke feeling shattered. His head ached, his eyes were sore, his chest felt heavy with misery. From behind the curtains was coming a sparkling shaft of winter sunlight; from downstairs wafted the mingled smells of the wood fire burning in the hall and freshly ground coffee in the breakfast room. But nothing could soothe his grief, his disappointment and, above all, his sharp sense of failure.

  The angry words he had spat at Milly the night before still circled his mind with as much clarity as though he had uttered them only five minutes ago. Like a scene learned from a play. A scene which, it now seemed, he should in some way have predicted. A stab of mortified pain hit him in the chest, and he turned over, burying his head under the pillow. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Why had he ever let himself believe he could achieve a happy marriage? Why couldn't he just accept the fact that he was an allround failure? He'd failed dismally at business and now he'd failed at marriage, too. At least, thought Simon bitterly, his father had actually made it to the altar. At least his father hadn't been let down, two nights before his bloody wedding day.

  An image came to him of Milly's face the night before: red, tear-stained, desperate with unhappiness. And for a moment he felt himself weakening. For a moment he felt like calling her up. Telling her he still loved her, that he still wanted to marry her. He would kiss her poor swollen lips; take her to bed; try to forget all that was past. The temptation was there. If he was honest with himself, the temptation was huge.

  But he couldn't do it. How could he marry Milly now? How could he listen to her making promises she'd made before to someone else; spend the rest of his life wondering what other secrets she might be concealing? This was no small rift that might be patched up and healed. This was a gaping, jagged chasm which changed the whole order of things; turned their relationship into something he no longer recognized.

  Without meaning to, he recalled the summer evening when he'd asked her to marry him. She'd behaved impeccably: crying a little, laughing a little; exclaiming over the ring he'd given her. But what had she really been thinking? Had she been laughing at him? Had she ever taken their intended marriage seriously? Did she share any of his ideals at all?

  For a few minutes he lay miserably still, tormenting himself with images of Milly, trying to reconcile what he now knew about her with his memories of her as his fiancee. She was beautiful, sweet, charming. She was untrustworthy, secretive, dishonest. The worst thing was, she hadn't even seemed to realize what she'd done. She'd dismissed it, as though being married to another man were a trifling matter, to be brushed over and ignored.

  An angry hurt began to throb inside him, and he sat up, trying to clear his mind; trying to think of other things. He pulled open the curtains and, without seeing the beautiful view before him, quickly began to get dressed. He would throw himself into work, he told himself. He would start again, and he would get over this. It might take time, but he would get over it.

  Briskly, he walked downstairs, and into the breakfast room. Harry was sitting at the table, hidden behind a newspaper.

  `Morning,' he said.

  `Morning,' said Simon. He looked up suspiciously, ready to detect a note of mocking or ridicule in his father's voice. But his father was looking up at him with what seemed genuine concern.

  `So,' he said, as Simon sat down. `Are you going to tell me what this is all about?'

  `The wedding's off.'

  `So I gather. But why? Or don't you want to tell me?'

  Simon said nothing, but reached for the coffee pot. He had stormed in the night before, too angry and humiliated to talk to anyone. He was still humiliated; still angry; still inclined to keep Milly's betrayal to himself. On the other hand, misery was a lonely emotion.

  `She's already married,' he said abruptly. There was a crackling sound as Harry thrust down his paper.

  `Already married? To who, for God's sake?'

  `Some gay American. She met him ten years ago. He wanted to stay in the country, so she married him as a favour. As a favour!'

  `Well, thank God for that,' said Harry. `I thought you meant really married.' He took a sip of coffee. `So what's the problem? Can't she get a divorce?'

  `The problem?' said Simon, gazing at his father incredulously. `The problem is that she lied to me!' The problem is that I can't trust anything else she says! I thought she was one person and now I've discovered she's someone else. She's not the Milly I knew.'

  Harry stared at him in silence.

  `Is that it?' he said at last. `Is that the only reason it's all off? The fact that Milly married some dodgy guy, ten years ago?'

  `Isn't that enough?'

  `Of course it's not enough!' said Harry furiously. `It's not nearly enough! I thought there was something really wrong between you.'

  `There is! She lied to me!'

  `I'm not surprised if this is the way you're reacting.'

  `How do you expect me to react?' said Simon. `We had a relationship built on trust. Now I can't trust her any more.' He closed his eyes. `It's finished.'

  `Simon, just who the fuck do you think you are?' exclaimed Harry. `The Archbishop of Canterbury? Why does it matter if she lied to you? She's told you the truth now, hasn't she?'

  `Only because she had to.'

  `So what?'

  `So it was perfect before this happened!' shouted Simon desperately. `Everything was perfect! And now it's ruined!'

  `Oh grow up!' thundered Harry. Simon's chin jerked up in shock. `Just grow up, Simon! And for once in your life stop behaving like a self-indulgent, spoilt brat. So your perfect relationship isn't as perfect as you thought. So what? Does that mean you have to chuck it away?,

  `You don't understand.'

  `I understand perfectly. You want to bask in your perfect marriage, with your perfect wife and kids, and gloat at the rest of the world! Don't you? And now you've found a flaw, you can't stand it. Well, stand it. Simon! Stand it! Because the world is full of flaws. And frankly, what you had with Milly was about as good as it gets.'

  'And what the hell would you know about it?' said Simon savagely. He stood up. `What the hell would you know about successful relationships? Why should I respect a single word you say?'

  `Because I'm your fucking father!'

  `Yes,' said Simon bitterly. `And don't I know it.' He kicked back his chair, turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Harry staring after him, cursing under his breath.

  At nine o'clock, there was a ring at the doorbell. Isobel, who had just come down into the kitchen, screwed up her face. She padded out into the hall and opened the front door. A large white van was parked outside the house and a man was standing on the doorstep, surrounded by white boxes.

  `Wedding cake delivery,' he said. `Name of Havill.'

  `Oh God,' said Isobel, staring at the boxes. `Oh God.' She bent down, lifted one of the cardboard lids, and caught a glimpse of smooth white icing; the edge of a sugar rose. `Look,' she said, standing up again. `Than
k you very much. But there's been a slight change of plan.'

  `Is this the wrong address?' said the man. He squinted at his piece of paper. `One Bertram Street.'

  `No, it's the right address,' said Isobel. `It's the right address.'

  She gazed past him at the van, feeling suddenly depressed. Today should have been a happy day, full of excitement and anticipation and bustling, last-minute preparations. Not this.

  `The thing is,' she said, `we don't need a wedding cake any more. Can you take it away again?'

  The man gave a sarcastic laugh.

  `Carry this lot around in my van all day? I don't think so!'

  `But we don't need it.'

  `I'm afraid, my dear, that's not my problem. You ordered it if you want to return it, that's between you and the company. Now, if you could just sign here' he thrust a pen at her 'I'll get the rest of the boxes.' Isobel's head jerked up.

  `The rest? How many are there, for God's sake?'

  `Ten in all,' said the man, consulting his piece of paper. 'Including pillars and accessories.'

  `Ten,' echoed Isobel disbelievingly.

  `It's a lot of cake,' said the man.

  `Yes,' said Isobel, as he disappeared back to the van. 'Especially between four of us.'

  By the time Olivia appeared on the stairs, the white boxes had been neatly piled in a corner of the hall.

  `I didn't know what else to do with them,' said Isobel, coming out of the kitchen.

  She glanced at her mother and blanched. Olivia's face was a savage mix of bright paint and deathly white skin. She was clinging tightly to the banisters and looked as though she might keel over at any moment.

  `Are you OK, Mummy?' she said.

  'I'll be fine,' said Olivia with a strange brightness. `I didn't get much sleep.'

  `I shouldn't think any of us did,' said Isobel. `We should all go back to bed.'

  `Yes, well. We can't, can we?' said Olivia. She smiled tautly at Isobel. `We've got a wedding to cancel. We've got phone calls to make. I've made a list!'

  Isobel winced.

  `Mummy, I know this is really hard for you,' she said.

  `It's no harder for me than anyone else,' said Olivia, lifting her chin. `Why should it be harder for me? After all, it's not the end of the world, is it? After all, it was just a wedding!'

  `Just a wedding,' said Isobel. `To be honest, I don't think such a thing exists.'

  Mid-morning, there was a knock on Milly's door.

  `Are you awake?' said Esme. 'Isobel's on the phone.'

  `Oh,' said Milly dazedly, sitting up and pushing her hair back off her face. Her head felt heavy; her voice sounded like a stranger's. She looked at Esme and tried to smile. But her face felt dry and old and her brain felt as though it was missing a cog. What was going on, anyway? Why was she at Esme's house?

  `I'll get the cordless phone,' said Esme, and disappeared.

  Milly sank back on her pillow and stared at Esme's pistachio ceiling, wondering why she felt so lightheaded, so unreal. And then, with a dart of shock, she remembered. The wedding was off.

  The wedding was off. She ran the idea experimentally round her head, waiting for a stab of grief, a renewed rush of tears. But this morning her eyes were dry. Her mind was calm; the sharp emotions of the night before had been rounded over by sleep. She felt more startled than upset; more disquieted than griefstricken. She could scarcely believe it. The wedding-her huge, immovable wedding wasn't going to happen. How could it not happen? How could the centre of her life simply disappear? She felt as though the peak to which she'd been climbing had suddenly vanished, and she'd been left, clinging to the rocks and peering disorientedly over the edge.

  `Here you are,' said Esme, suddenly appearing by her bed. `Would you like some coffee?'

  Milly nodded, and took the phone.

  `Hi,' she said in a scratchy voice.

  `Hi,' came Isobel's voice down the line. `Are you OK?'

  `Yes,' said Milly. `I suppose so.'

  `You haven't heard from Simon?'

  `No.' Milly's voice quickened. `Why? Has he-'

  `No,' said Isobel hurriedly. `No, he hasn't. I just wondered. In case.

  `Oh,' said Milly. `Well, no. I've been asleep. I haven't spoken to anyone.'

  There was a pause. Milly watched as Esme pulled back the curtains and fastened them with thick braided tie-backs. The day was bright, sparkling with frost. Esme smiled at Milly, then walked softly out of the room.

  `Isobel, I'm really sorry,' said Milly slowly. `For landing you in it like that.'

  `Oh, that,' said Isobel. `Don't worry. That doesn't matter.'

  `I just got rattled. I just Well. You know what it was like.'

  `Of course I do. I would have done exactly the same.'

  `No you wouldn't,' said Milly, grinning faintly. `You've got a zillion times more self-control than me.'

  `Well, anyway, don't worry,' said Isobel. `It hasn't been a problem.'

  `Really? Hasn't Mummy been lecturing you all day?'

  `She hasn't had time,' said Isobel. `We're all too busy.'

  `Oh,' said Milly, wrinkling her brow. `Doing what?'

  There was silence.

  `Cancelling the wedding,' said Isobel eventually, her voice full of distress.

  `Oh,' said Milly again. Something heavy sank inside her stomach. `Oh, I see. Of course.'

  `Oh God, Milly, I'm sorry,' said Isobel. `I thought you would realize.'

  `I did,' said Milly. `I do. Of course you have to cancel it.'

  `That's partly why I phoned,' said Isobel. `I know this is a dreadful time to ask. But is there anyone else I need to call? Anyone who isn't in the red book?'

  `I don't know,' said Milly. She swallowed. `Who have you told already?'

  `About half our guests,' said Isobel. 'Up to the Madisons. Harry's people are doing his lot.'

  `Wow,' said Milly, feeling stupid, irrational tears coming to her eyes. `You didn't hang about, did you?'

  `We couldn't!' said Isobel. `Some people would have been setting off already. We had to put them off.'

  `I know,' said Milly. She took a deep breath. `I know. I'm just being stupid. So. How are you doing it?'

  `We're going down the list in the red book. Everybody everybody's being really nice about it.'

  `What are you telling them?' said Milly, winding the sheet round her fingers.

  `We've said you're ill,' said Isobel. `We didn't know what else to say.'

  `Do they believe you?'

  `I don't know. Some of them.'

  There was silence.

  'OK,' said Milly at last. `Well, if I think of anyone I'll call you.

  `When are you coming back home?'

  `I don't know,' said Milly. She closed her eyes and thought of her room at home. Presents and cards everywhere; her honeymoon case open on the floor; her wedding dress hanging up in the corner, shrouded like a ghost. `Not yet,' she said. `Not until-'

  `No,' said Isobel after a pause. `Fair enough. Well, look. I'll come round and see you. When I've finished.'

  `Isobel-thanks. For doing all this.'

  `No problem,' said Isobel. `I expect you'll do the same for me one day.'

  `Yes.' Milly managed a wan smile. `I expect so.'

  She put the phone down. When she looked up, she saw Esme at the door. She was holding a tray and looking thoughtfully at Milly.

  `Coffee,' she said, putting the tray down. `To celebrate.'

  `Celebrate?' said Milly disbelievingly.

  `Your escape.' Esme came forward, holding two porcelain mugs. `Your escape from matrimony.'

  `It doesn't feel like an escape,' said Milly.

  `Of course it doesn't,' exclaimed Esme. `Not yet. But it will. Just think, Milly you're no longer tied down. You can do anything you choose. You're an independent woman!'

  `I suppose,' said Milly. She stared miserably into her coffee. `I suppose.

  `Don't brood, darling!' said Esme. `Don't think about it. Drink your coffee and watch some nice televi
sion. And then we're going out for lunch.'

  The restaurant was large and empty, save for a few single men, reading newspapers over their coffee. Rupert gazed about awkwardly, wondering which one was Martin. Black jeans, he'd said. But most of them were wearing black jeans. He felt over-smart in his own suit and expensive shirt.

  After he'd left chambers the night before, he'd walked mindlessly for a while. Then, as morning began to approach, he had checked into a seedy Bayswater hotel. He had lain awake, staring up at the stained ceiling. After breakfast at a cafe he'd taken a taxi home and crept into the house, praying that Francesca would already have left. Feeling like a burglar, he'd taken a shower, shaved and changed his clothes. He'd made a cup of coffee and drunk it in the kitchen, staring out into the garden, then had put the mug in the dishwasher, looked at the clock and picked up his briefcase. Familiar actions; an automatic routine. He had felt, for an instant, almost as though his life were carrying on as before.

  But his life was not the same as before. It would never be the same as before. His soul had been wrenched open and the truth had been pulled out, and now he had to decide what to do with it.

  `Rupert?' A voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked up. Standing up at a nearby table was a young man dressed in black jeans. He had close cropped hair and a single ear-ring and looked very obviously homosexual. In spite of himself, a shiver of dismay went through Rupert and he cautiously advanced.

  `Hello,' he said, aware that he sounded pompous. `How do you do.'

  `We spoke on the phone,' said the young man. His voice was soft and singsong. `I'm Martin.'

  `Yes,' said Rupert, clutching his briefcase tight. He felt suddenly petrified. Here was homosexuality. Here was his own hidden, unspoken side, duplicated in front of him for all to see.

  He sat down, and shifted his chair slightly away from the table.

  `It was good of you to come up to London,' he said stiffly.

  `Not at all,' said Martin. `I'm up at least once a week. And if it's important . . .' He spread his hands.

  `Yes,' said Rupert. He began to study the menu intently. He would take the letter and if possible a telephone number for Allan, then leave, as soon as possible.