The Wedding Girl Page 20

  When they'd roared off round the corner she began to walk away from Esme's house, telling herself to go straight home. But she couldn't quite face returning to the claustrophobic, sad atmosphere of the kitchen; couldn't face sitting down and making yet more awkward phone calls to curious strangers. Now that she was out in the fresh air, she wanted to stay out and stretch her legs and enjoy the sensation of not having a telephone clamped to her ear.

  She began to walk briskly back towards town, feeling a mild sense of irresponsibility, as though she were bunking off school. At first she strode without considering where she was heading, merely enjoying the feel of her legs stretching out with every stride, the lightness of her arms swinging at her sides. Then, as a sudden thought struck her, she paused and, propelled by a curiosity she recognized as ghoulish, she turned off the main road, towards St Edward's Church.

  As she stepped into the porch, she almost expected to hear bridal music playing on the organ. The church was filled with flowers; the pews were empty and waiting; the altar was shining brightly. Slowly she walked up the aisle, imagining the church filled with happy, expectant faces; imagining what it would have been like, parading behind Milly in a bridesmaid's dress, watching as her sister made the ancient vows that everyone knew and loved.

  As she reached the front she stopped, and noticed a pile of white, redundant orders of service stacked at the end of a pew. With a stab of sadness, she reached for one-then, as she saw the two names printed on the cover, blinked in surprise. Eleanor and Giles. Printed in nasty, loopy silver lettering. Who the hell were Eleanor and Giles? How had they muscled in on the act?

  `Bloody parasites!' she said aloud.

  `I beg your pardon?' A man's voice came from behind her, and she whipped round. Walking up the aisle towards her was a young man in a cassock.

  `Do you work here?' said Isobel.

  `Yes,' said the young man.

  `Well, hello,' said Isobel. `I'm Milly Havill's sister.'

  `Ah yes,' said the priest embarrassedly. `What a shame. We were all very sorry to hear about that.'

  `Were you?' said Isobel. `So what happened? Did you think you might as well put Milly's expensive flowers to good use?'

  `What do you mean?' Isobel gestured to the orders of service.

  `Who's this bloody Eleanor and Giles? How come they've been given Milly's wedding day?'

  `They haven't,' said the curate nervously. `They're getting married in the afternoon. They booked it a year ago.'

  `Oh,' said Isobel. She looked at the order of service, then put it down again. `Well, all right then. I hope they have a happy day.'

  `I'm really very sorry,' said the curate awkwardly. `Maybe your sister will be able to get married at some time in the future. When she's straightened everything out.'

  `It would be nice,' said Isobel. `But I doubt it.' She glanced once more round the church, then turned on her heel to leave.

  `Actually, I was about to lock up,' said the curate, hurrying after her. `It's a precaution we often take when there are flower arrangements in the church. You'd be surprised what people steal these days.'

  `I'm sure,' said Isobel. She stopped by a pillar, plucked a single white lily from a twining arrangement, and breathed in the sweet aroma. `It really would have been a beautiful wedding,' she said sadly. `And now it's all destroyed. You people don't know what you've done.' The young curate bridled slightly.

  `As I understand it,' he began, `this was a case of attempted bigamy.'

  `Yes,' said Isobel. `But no one would have known. If your Canon Lytton had just turned a blind eye, and hadn't said anything '

  `The couple would have known!' said the curate. `God would have known!'

  `Yes, well,' said Isobel tersely. `Maybe God wouldn't have minded.'

  She strode out of the church with her head down, and walked straight into someone.

  `Sorry,' she said, looked up, then stiffened. Harry Pinnacle was standing in front of her, wearing a navy blue cashmere overcoat and a bright red scarf.

  `Hello, Isobel,' he said. He glanced over her shoulder at the curate, who had followed her out. `Terrible business, all this.'

  `Yes,' said Isobel. `Terrible.'

  `I'm on my way to meet your father for lunch.'

  `Yes,' said Isobel. `He mentioned it.'

  There was a clanking sound as the curate pulled the church door closed; suddenly they were alone.

  `Well, I must be off,' muttered Isobel. `Nice to see you.'

  `Wait a minute,' said Harry.

  `I'm in a bit of a hurry,' said Isobel, and she began to walk away.

  `I don't care.' Harry grabbed her arm and pulled her round to face him. `Isobel, why have you been ignoring all my messages?'

  `Leave me alone,' said Isobel, twisting her head away.

  `Isobel! I want to talk to you!'

  `I can't,' said Isobel, her face closing up. `Harry, I just . . . can't.'

  There was a long silence. Then Harry dropped her arm.

  `Fine,' he said. `If that's what you want.'

  `Whatever,' said Isobel in a dead voice. And without meeting his gaze, she thrust her hands in her pockets and strode off down the street.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  by the bar, beer in hand, when James arrived at the Pear and Goose. It was a small pub in the centre of Bath, packed with cheerful, anonymous tourists.

  `Good to see you, James,' he said, standing up to shake hands. `Let me get you one of these.'

  `Thanks,' said James. They both watched silently as the barman filled a pint glass with beer, and it occurred to James that this was the first time the two of them had ever met alone.

  `Cheers,' said Harry, raising his glass.

  `Cheers.'

  `Let's sit down,' said Harry, gesturing to a table in the corner. `It's more private over there.'

  `Yes,' said James. He cleared his throat. `I imagine you want to talk about the practicalities of the wedding.'

  `Why?' said Harry, looking surprised. `Is there a problem? I thought my people were sorting it all out with Olivia.'

  `I meant the financial aspect,' said James stiffly. `Milly's little revelation has cost you a small fortune.' Harry waved a hand.

  `That's not important.'

  `It is important,' said James. `I'm afraid it's not within my means to pay you back fully. But if we can come to some arrangement '

  `James,' interrupted Harry. `I didn't ask you here so we could talk about money. I just thought you might like a drink. OK?'

  `Oh,' said James, taken aback. `Yes. Of course.'

  `So let's sit down and have a fucking drink.'

  They sat down at the corner table. Harry opened a packet of crisps and offered it to James.

  `How is Milly?' he said. `Is she OK?'

  `I'm not sure, to be honest,' said James. `She's with her godmother. How's Simon?'

  `Stupid kid,' said Harry, crunching on crisps. `I told him he was a spoilt brat this morning.'

  `Oh,' said James, unsure what to say.

  `The first sign of trouble, he runs away. The first hitch, he gives up. No wonder his business failed.'

  `Aren't you being a little harsh?' protested James. `He's had a huge shock. We all have. It's hard enough for us to deal with, so what Simon must be feeling . . .' He shook his head.

  `So you really had no idea she was married,' said Harry.

  `None whatsoever.'

  `She lied to you all.'

  `Every single one of us,' said James soberly. He looked up, to see Harry half grinning. `What? You think it's funny?'

  `Oh come on,' said Harry. `You've got to admire the girl's chutzpah! It takes a lot of guts to walk up the aisle knowing you've got a husband out there just waiting to trip you up.'

  `That's one way of looking at it,' said James.

  `But not your way.'

  `No.' James shook his head. `The way I see it, Milly's thoughtlessness has caused a lot of trouble and distress to a lot of people. Frankly, I'm ashamed to think she's my
daughter.'

  `Give the girl a break!V

  `Then give Simon a break!' retorted James. `He's the innocent one, remember. He's the wronged one.'

  'He's a high-handed, moralistic little dictator. Life has to go a certain way, otherwise he's not interested.' Harry took a slug of beer. `He's had it far too easy for far too long, that's his trouble.'

  `You know, I'd say just the opposite,' said James. `It can't be easy, walking in your shadow. I'm not sure I'd be able to do it myself.'

  Harry shrugged silently. For a while neither of them spoke. Harry took a large gulp of beer, paused for a second, then looked up.

  `How about Isobel?' he said casually. `How's she reacted to all of this?'

  `As usual,' said James. `Gave very little away.' He drained his glass. `Poor old Isobel's got enough on her plate as it is.'

  `Work problems?' Harry leaned forward.

  `Not just work.'

  `Something else, then? Is she in some kind of trouble?' A flicker of a smile passed over James's face.

  `You've hit the nail on the head,' he said.

  `What do you mean?'

  James stared into his empty beer glass.

  `I don't suppose it's any great secret,' he said after a pause, and looked at Harry's frowning face. `She's pregnant.'

  `Pregnant?' A look of utter shock came over Harry's face. 'Isobel's pregnant?'

  `I know,' said James. `I can't quite believe it myself.'

  `Are you sure about this?' said Harry. His hand gripped his beer glass tightly. `Could it be a mistake?'

  James smiled at him, touched by his concern.

  `Don't worry,' he said. `She'll be OK.'

  `Has she spoken to you about it?'

  `She's keeping her cards pretty close to her chest,' said James. `We don't even know who the father is.'

  `Ah,' said Harry, and finished his beer.

  `All we can do is support her in whatever decision she makes.'

  `Decision?' Harry looked up.

  `Whether to keep the baby or ... not.' James shrugged awkwardly and looked away. A strange expression passed over Harry's face.

  `Oh, I see,' he said slowly. `I see. Of course that would be an option.' He closed his eyes. `Stupid of me.'

  `What?'

  `Nothing,' said Harry, opening his eyes again. `Nothing.'

  `Anyway,' said James. `It isn't your problem.' He looked at Harry's empty glass. `Let me get you another.'

  `No,' said Harry. `Let me get you one.'

  `But you've already '

  `Please, James,' said Harry. He sounded suddenly dejected, James thought. Almost sad. `Please, James. Let me.'

  Isobel had walked as far as the Garden for the Blind. Now she sat on an iron bench, watching the fountain trickle endlessly into the little pond and trying to think calmly. Inside her mind, like a circular film, she saw Harry's expression as she'd left him; heard his voice again and again. The continuous repetition should, she thought, have dulled the pain inside her, should have left her numb and free to analyse her situation logically. But the pain would not be dulled; her mind would not still itself. She felt physically torn apart.

  They had met for the first time only a few months before, at the party to celebrate Simon and Milly's engagement. As they'd shaken hands, a startled recognition had passed between them; both their voices had trembled slightly, and, like mirror images, they had each turned away quickly to talk to other people. But Harry's eyes had been on her every time she turned, and she had felt her entire body responding to his attention. The next week, they had met surreptitiously for dinner. He had smuggled her back into the house; the next morning, from his bedroom window, she had seen Milly in the drive waving goodbye to Simon. The month after that they had travelled to Paris on separate planes. Each encounter had been exquisite; a fleeting, hidden gem of experience. They had decided to tell no one; to keep things light and casual. Two adults enjoying themselves, nothing more.

  But now nothing could be light; nothing could be casual. There was no longer any neutral. Whichever way she turned, she would be taking an action with huge consequences. One tiny, unwitnessed biological event meant that, whatever she chose to do, neither of their lives would be the same again.

  Harry didn't want a baby. He'd made that perfectly clear to her. If she went ahead and had the child, she would be on her own. She would lose Harry. She would lose her freedom. She would be forced to rely on the help of her mother. Life would become an unbearable round of drudgery and coffee mornings and mindnumbing baby babble.

  If, on the other hand, she got rid of the baby . . .

  A slow pain rose through Isobel's chest. Who was she kidding? What was this so-called choice? Yes, she had a choice. Every modern woman had a choice. But the truth was, she had no choice. She was enslaved to herself to the maternal emotions which she'd never known she possessed; to the tiny self growing within her; to the primal, overpowering desire for life.

  Rupert sat on a bench in the National Portrait Gallery, staring at a picture of Philip II of Spain. It was a good two hours since Martin had said goodbye, clasping Rupert's hand and exhorting him to call whenever he felt like it. Since then, Rupert had wandered mindlessly, not noticing where he was going, not noticing the crowds of shoppers and tourists who kept bumping into him; unaware of anything except his own thoughts. From time to time he had stopped at a public phone and dialled Milly's number. But each time the line had been busy, and a secret relief had crept through him. He didn't want to share Allan's death with anyone else. Not yet.

  The letter was still in his briefcase, unopened. He hadn't yet dared to read it. He had been too afraid both that it wouldn't live up to his expectations and that it would. But now, under Philip's stern, uncompromising stare, he reached down, fumbled with the clasps of his briefcase and brought the envelope out. A stab of grief hit him as, again, he saw his name written in Allan's handwriting. This was the last communication that would ever exist between them. Part of him wanted to bury the letter unopened; keep Allan's last words unread and unsullied. But even as the thought passed through his mind, his shaking hands were ripping at the paper, and he was pulling out the thick, creamy sheets, each covered on one side only with a black, even script.

  Dear Rupert,

  Fear not. Fear not, said the angel. I'm not writing to you just so that you'll feel bad. At least not consciously. Not much.

  In truth, I'm not sure why I'm writing at all. Will you ever read this letter? Probably not. Probably you've forgotten who I am; probably you're happily married with triplets. My occasional fantasy is that any moment you'll appear through the door and sweep me into your arms while all the other terminally ill patients cheer and bang their walking sticks. In reality, this letter will probably end up, like so many other once-meaningful pieces of the world's fabric, in a garbage truck, to be recycled into somebody's breakfast. I rather like that idea. Allan flakes. With added optimism and a tinge of bitterness.

  And yet I keep writing as though I'm sure that one day you'll trace a path back towards me and read these words. Perhaps you will, perhaps you won't. Has my addled mind got it wrong? Have I elevated what we had to a significance it doesn't deserve? The proportions of my life have been curtailed so dramatically, I know my view of events has become somewhat skewed. And yet against all the odds-I keep writing. The truth is, Rupert, I cannot leave this country, let alone this world, without somewhere recording a farewell to you.

  When I close my eyes and think of you, it's as you were at Oxford-though you must have changed since then. Five years on, who and what is Rupert? I have my own ideas, but am unwilling to reveal them. I don't want to be the asshole who thought he knew you better than you know yourself. That was my mistake at Oxford. I confused anger with insight. I mistook my own desires for yours. What right did I have to be angry with you? Life is afar more complicated picture than either of us realized back then.

  What I hope is that you're happy. What I fear is that if you're reading this letter you're prob
ably not. Happy people don't trawl through the past looking for answers. What is the answer? I don't know. Perhaps we would have been happy if we'd stayed together. Perhaps life would have been sweet. But you can't count on it.

  As it turns out, what we had might have been as good as it was ever going to get. So we broke up. But at least one of us had a choice about that, even if it wasn't me. If we'd left it until now, neither of us would have had a choice. Breaking up is one thing; dying is something else. Frankly, I'm not sure I could cope with both at once. It's going to take me long enough to get over my death as it is.

  But I promised myself I wouldn't talk about dying. That's not what this is about. This isn't a guilt letter. It's a love letter. just that. I still love you, Rupert. I still miss you. That's really all I wanted to say. I still love you. I still miss you. If I don't see you again then . . . I guess that's just life. But somehow I'm hoping I will.

  Yours always

  Allan

  Some time later, a young teacher arrived at the door of the gallery, surrounded by her swarming class of cheerful children. They had intended to spend the afternoon sketching the portrait of Elizabeth I. But as she saw the young man sitting in the middle of the room, she swiftly turned the children round and shepherded them towards another painting.

  Rupert, lost in silent tears, didn't even see them.

  Harry arrived back that afternoon to find Simon's car parked in its usual place outside the house. He went straight up to Simon's room and knocked. When there was no answer, he pushed the door open slightly. The first thing he saw was Simon's morning suit, still hanging up on the door of the wardrobe. In the wastepaper basket was a copy of the wedding invitation. Harry winced, and pushed the door shut again. He paused for a moment, then retraced his steps down the stairs and along the corridor to the leisure complex.

  The swimming pool was gleaming with underwater lighting, music was softly playing, but no one was swimming. In the far corner, the steam room door was misted up. Without pausing, Harry strode to the steam room and opened the door. Simon looked up, his face reddened and vulnerable with surprise.