The Wedding Girl Page 21

  `Dad?' he said, peering through the thick steam. `What are you

  `I need to talk to you,' said Harry, sitting down on the moulded plastic bench opposite Simon. `I need to apologize.'

  `Apologize?' said Simon in disbelief.

  `I shouldn't have yelled at you this morning. I'm sorry.'

  `Oh,' said Simon, looking away. `Well. It doesn't matter.'

  `It does matter,' said Harry. `You've had a big shock. And I should have understood that. I'm your father.'

  `I know you are,' said Simon without moving. Harry gazed at him steadily for a moment.

  `Do you wish I weren't?'

  Simon said nothing.

  `I wouldn't blame you,' said Harry. `Some fucking father I've been.' Simon shifted awkwardly on his seat.

  `You ,

  `Don't feel you have to be polite,' interrupted Harry. `I know I screwed up with you. For sixteen years you never see me, then suddenly bam! I'm in your face all the time. No wonder things have been a bit tricky. If we were a married couple, we'd be divorced by now. Sorry,' he added after a pause. 'Sensitive subject.'

  `It's OK.' Simon turned and gave him an unwilling grin, then, for the first time, registered his father's appearance. `Dad, you know you're meant to take your clothes off?'

  'That's for a steam bath,' said Harry. `I came in here for a conversation.' He frowned. 'OK, so I've said my piece. Now you're supposed to tell me I've been a wonderful father, and I can rest easy.

  There was a long pause.

  `I just wish . . .' began Simon at last, then stopped.

  `What?'

  `I just wish I didn't always feel like a failure,' said Simon in a rush. `Everything I do goes wrong. And you . . . By the time you were my age, you were a millionaire!'

  `No I wasn't.'

  `It said in your biography ...'

  `That piece of shit. Simon, by the time I was your age, I owed a million. Fortunately, I found a way of paying it back.'

  `And I didn't,' said Simon bitterly. `I went bust.'

  'OK,' said Harry, `so you went bust. But at least you never sold out. At least you never came crying to me to bail you out. You stayed independent. Fiercely independent. And I'm proud of you for that.' He paused. `I'm even proud you gave me back the keys to that flat. Pissed off but proud.'

  There was a long pause, punctuated only by the two of them breathing in the steamy air, and the odd spatter as a shower of warm drops fell to the floor.

  `And if you have a go at working things out with Milly,' continued Harry slowly, `instead of walking away-then I'll be even prouder. Because that's something I never did. And I should have done.'

  There was silence for a while. Harry leaned back, stretched his legs out and winced. `I have to say,' he said, `this is not a nice experience. My underpants are sticking to my skin.'

  `I told you,' said Simon.

  `I know you did.' Harry looked at him through the steam. `So, are you going to give Milly another chance?' Simon exhaled sharply.

  `Of course I am. If she'll give me another chance.' He shook his head. `I don't know what I was thinking of last night. I was stupid. I was unfair. I was just a ...' He broke off. `I tried calling her this afternoon.'

  `And?'

  `She must have gone out with Esme.'

  `Esme?' said Harry.

  `Her godmother, Esme Ormerod.'

  Harry looked up with raised eyebrows.

  `That's Milly's godmother? Esme Ormerod?'

  `Yes,' said Simon. `Why?' Harry pulled a face.

  `Strange woman.'

  `I didn't know you knew her.'

  `Took her out to dinner a few times,' said Harry. `Big mistake.'

  `Why?' Harry shook his head.

  `It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago.' He leaned back and closed his eyes. `So she's Milly's godmother. That surprises me.'

  `She's some cousin or something.'

  `And they seemed such a nice family,' said Harry in half-jesting tones. Then he frowned. `I'm serious, you know. They are a nice family. Milly's a lovely girl. James seems a very decent guy. I'd like to get to know him better. And Olivia . . .' He opened his eyes. `Well, what can I say? She's a fine woman.'

  `You said it.' Simon grinned at his father.

  `I just wouldn't like to meet her on a dark night.'

  `Or any night.'

  There was a short silence. Water dripped onto Harry's head and he winced.

  `The only one I'm not sure about,' said Simon thoughtfully, `is Isobel. She's a bit of an enigma. I never know what she's thinking.'

  `No,' said Harry after a pause. `Neither do I.'

  `She's nothing like Milly. But I still like her.'

  `So do I,' said Harry in a low voice. `I like her a lot.' He stared silently at the floor for a few moments, then abruptly stood up. `I've had enough of this hell. I'm going to take a shower.'

  `Try taking your clothes off this time,' said Simon.

  `Yes,' said Harry. `Clever.' And he gave Simon a friendly nod before closing the door.

  By the time Rupert rose stiffly to his feet, put Allan's letter away and made his way out of the gallery, it was late afternoon. He stood in Trafalgar Square for a bit, watching the tourists and taxis and pigeons, then turned and began to walk slowly to the tube. Every step felt unsure and shaky; he seemed to have lost some vital part of himself that kept him balanced.

  All he knew was that the one certainty he'd had in life was gone. The grounding force, to which his life had been nothing but counterpoint, had vanished. It now seemed to him that everything he'd done over the last ten years had been part of an internal battle against Allan. And now the battle was over and neither of them had won.

  As he rode in the train back to Fulham he stared blankly ahead at his reflection in the dark glass, wondering with an almost academic curiosity what he might do next. He felt tired, ragged and washed up, as though a storm had deposited him on a strange shore with no clear way back. On the one hand there was his wife. There was his home and his old life and the compromises he'd come to take as second nature. Not quite happiness, but not quite misery either. On the other hand, there was honesty. Raw, painful honesty. And all the consequences that honesty brought.

  Rupert passed a weary hand over his face and gazed at his blurred, uncertain features in the window. He didn't want to be honest. He didn't want to be dishonest. He wanted to be nothing. A person on a train, with nothing to decide, nothing to do but listen to its trundling sound and watch the unconcerned faces of other passengers reading books and magazines. Postponing life for as long as possible.

  But eventually the train reached his stop. And, like an automaton, he reached for his briefcase, stood up, and stepped onto the platform. He followed all the other commuters up the steps and into the dark winter evening. A familiar procession moved down the main road, decreasing in size as people peeled off down side streets, and Rupert followed them, slowing down as he neared his street. When he reached his own corner he stopped altogether, and for a moment considered turning back. But where would he go? There was nowhere else for him to go.

  The lights were off in his house, and he felt a tiny relief as he opened the gate. He would take a bath and have a couple of drinks and perhaps by the time Francesca arrived home, his mind would be clearer. Perhaps he would show her Allan's letter. Or perhaps not. He reached in his pocket for his key and put it in the lock, then stopped. It didn't fit. He took it out, looked at it, and tried again. But the lock was impervious, and when he looked more closely, he could see signs of handiwork around the keyhole. Francesca had changed the lock. She'd shut him out.

  For a few seconds he could not move. He stared at the door, shaking with fury and a sharp humiliation. `Bitch,' he heard himself saying in a strangled voice. `Bitch.' A sudden stab of longing for Allan hit him in the chest and he started to back away from the door, his eyes clouding with tears.

  `Are you OK?' A cheerful girl's voice came from across the road. `Are you locked out? You can phone from here, i
f you like!'

  `No thanks,' muttered Rupert. He glanced at the girl. She was young and attractive and looked sympathetic-and for a moment he felt like falling onto her shoulder and telling her everything. Then it occurred to him that Francesca might be watching him from inside the house, and he felt a shaft of panic. Quickly, clumsily, he began to walk away, down the street. He reached the corner and hailed a taxi without knowing where he was going.

  `Yes?' said the driver as he got in. `Where to?'

  `To ... to . . .' Rupert closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them and looked at his watch. `To Paddington station.'

  At six o'clock there was a ring at the front door. Isobel opened it, to see Simon standing on the doorstep holding a large bunch of flowers.

  `Oh it's you,' she said in unfriendly tones. `What do you want?'

  `To see Milly.'

  `She isn't here.'

  `I know,' said Simon. He looked anxious and strangely well scrubbed, thought Isobel, like an old-fashioned suitor. The sight almost made her want to smile. `I wanted to check her godmother's address.'

  `You could have telephoned,' said Isobel uncompromisingly. `You didn't need to drag me to the door.'

  `Your phone was engaged.'

  `Oh,' said Isobel. She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame, unwilling to let him off. `So. Have you come down off your mountainous horse yet?'

  `Just shut up, Isobel, and give me the address,' said Simon irritably.

  `I don't know,' said Isobel. `Does Milly want to talk to you?'

  `Oh, forget it,' said Simon, turning and going back down the steps. `I'll find her myself.'

  Isobel stared at him for a few seconds, then called, `It's Walden Street. Number 10.' Simon stopped walking, and turned to look at her.

  `Thanks,' he said. Isobel shrugged.

  `That's OK. I hope . . .' She paused. `You know.'

  `Yup,' said Simon. `So do I.'

  The door was answered by Esme, wearing a long white bathrobe.

  `Oh,' said Simon awkwardly. `Sorry to disturb you. I wanted to speak to Milly.' Esme scanned his face, then said, `She's asleep, I'm afraid. She drank quite a lot at lunchtime. I won't be able to wake her.'

  `Oh,' said Simon. He shifted from one foot to the other. `Well . . . just tell her I called round, would you? And give her these.' He handed the flowers to Esme and she looked at them with faint horror.

  `I'll tell her,' she said. `Goodbye.'

  `Perhaps she could give me a ring. When she's up.'

  `Perhaps,' said Esme. `It's up to her.'

  `Of course,' said Simon, flushing slightly. `Well, thanks.'

  `Goodbye,' said Esme, and closed the door. She looked at the flowers for a moment, then went into the kitchen and put them into the rubbish bin. She went upstairs and tapped on Milly's door.

  `Who was that?' said Milly, looking up. She was lying on a massage table and Esme's beautician was rubbing a facial oil into her cheeks.

  `A salesman,' said Esme smoothly. `He tried to sell me some dusters.'

  `Oh, we get those people, too,' said Milly, relaxing back onto the table. `They always come at the worst time.' Esme smiled at her.

  `How was your massage?'

  `Wonderful,' said Milly.

  `Good,' said Esme. She wandered over to the window, tapped her teeth for a few moments, then turned round.

  `You know, I think we should go away,' she said. `I should have thought of it before. You don't want to be in Bath tomorrow, do you?'

  `Not really,' said Milly. `But then . . . I don't really want to be anywhere.' Her face suddenly crumpled and tears began to ooze out of the sides of her eyes. `I'm sorry,' she said huskily to the beautician.

  `We'll drive into Wales,' said Esme. `I know a little place in the mountains. Fabulous views and Welsh lamb every night. How does that sound?'

  Milly was silent. The beautician dabbed tenderly at her tear stains with a yellow liquid from a gold embossed bottle.

  `Tomorrow will be difficult,' said Esme gently. `But we'll get through it. And after that . . .' She came forward and took Milly's hand. `Just think, Milly. You've been given a chance which hardly any woman is given. You can start again. You can remould your life into whatever you want.'

  `You're right,' said Milly, staring up at the ceiling. `Anything I want.'

  `The world is yours to reclaim! And to think you were about to settle for becoming a Mrs Pinnacle.' A note of scorn entered Esme's voice. `Darling, you've had such a narrow escape. When you look back on all of this, you'll be grateful to me, Milly. You really will!'

  `I already am grateful,' said Milly, turning her head to look at Esme. `I don't know what I would have done without you.'

  `That's my girl!' said Esme. She patted Milly's hand. `Now you just lie back and enjoy the rest of your facial-and I'll go and pack the car.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  home that evening the lights were low and the house silent. He hung up his coat and grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, then noiselessly pushed open the door to the kitchen. The table was covered in forlorn wedding debris and coffee cups, and Olivia was sitting in the dim stillness, her head bent forward, her shoulders hunched and defeated.

  For a few moments she didn't see him. Then, as though he'd spoken, she raised her head. Her eyes met his apprehensively and flickered quickly away; her hands rose defensively to her face. James stepped forward awkwardly, feeling like a schoolroom bully.

  `So,' he said, putting his briefcase down on a chair. `It's all done.' He looked around. `You must have had a hell of a day, putting the world and his wife off.'

  `Not so bad,' said Olivia huskily. `Isobel was a great help. We both . . .' She broke off. `What about your day? Isobel told me you've been having trouble at work. I . . . I didn't realize. I'm sorry.

  `You couldn't have realized,' said James. `I didn't tell you.'

  `Tell me now.'

  `Not now,' said James wearily. `Maybe later.'

  `Yes, later,' said Olivia, her voice unsteady. `Of course.' James raised his gaze to hers and felt a dart of shock as he saw the fear in her eyes. `Let me make you some tea,' she said.

  `Thank you,' said James. 'Olivia---'

  `I won't be a moment!' She stood up hurriedly, catching her sleeve on the corner of the table, then wrenched it free as though desperate to turn away from him, towards the sink, the kettle; familiar inanimate objects. James sat down at the table and picked up the red book in front of him. He began to leaf idly through it. Page after page of lists, of ideas, self-reminders, even small sketches. The blueprint, he realized, for something quite spectacular.

  `Swans,' he said, stopping at a starred item. `You weren't really going to hire live swans for the occasion?'

  `Swans made of ice,' said Olivia, brightening a little. `They were going to be full of . . .' She halted. `It doesn't matter.'

  `Full of what?' said James. There was a pause.

  `Oysters,' said Olivia.

  `I like oysters,' said James.

  `I know,' said Olivia. She picked up the teapot with fumbling hands, turned to put it on the table and slipped. The teapot crashed loudly onto the quarry tiles and Olivia gave a small cry of distress.

  `Olivia!' exclaimed James, leaping to his feet. `Are you all right?' Pieces of broken china lay on the floor amid a puddle of hot tea; rivulets were running between the tiles towards his feet. The yellow-rimmed eye of a duck stared up at him reproachfully.

  `It's broken!' said Olivia in anguish. `We've had that teapot for thirty-two years!' She bent down, picked up a piece of the handle and stared at it disbelievingly.

  `We'll get another one,' said James.

  `I don't want another one,' said Olivia shakily. `I want the old one. I want . . .' She suddenly broke off and turned round to face James. `You're going to leave me, aren't you, James?'

  `What?' James stared at her in shock.

  `You're going to leave me,' repeated Olivia calmly. She looked down at the jagged piece of teapot an
d her hand tightened around it. `For a new life. A new, exciting life.'

  There was a still pause, then James exhaled in sudden comprehension.

  `You heard me,' he said, trying to gather his thoughts. `You heard me. I hadn't realized . . .'

  `Yes, I heard you,' said Olivia, not looking up. `Isn't that what you wanted?'

  `Olivia, I didn't mean-'

  `I assume you've been waiting until the wedding was over,' broke in Olivia, turning the piece of teapot over and over in her fingers. `You probably didn't want to ruin the happy event. Well, the happy event's been ruined anyway. So you don't have to wait any longer. You can go.' James looked at her.

  `You want me to go?'

  `That's not what I said.' Olivia's voice roughened slightly; her head remained bowed. For a long while there was silence. On the other side of the room, the last brown rivulet of spilled tea slowly came to a standstill.

  `The trouble at work,' said James suddenly, walking to the window. `The trouble that Isobel was talking about. It's a restructuring of the company. They're relocating three departments to Edinburgh. They asked me if I'd like to move. And I said . . .' He turned round. `I said I'd think about it.' Olivia looked up.

  `You didn't mention it to me.'

  `No,' said James defensively. `I didn't. I knew what your answer would be.'

  `Did you?' said Olivia. `How clever of you.'

  `You're rooted here, Olivia. You've got your business and your friends. I knew you wouldn't want to leave all of that. But I just felt as though I needed something new!' Pain flashed across James's face. `Can you understand that? Have you never wanted to escape and start again? I felt trapped and guilty. I thought maybe a new city would be the answer to my malaise. A fresh view every morning. Different air to breathe.'

  The kitchen was silent.

  `I see,' said Olivia eventually, her voice clipped and brittle. `Well then, off you go. Don't let me hold you up. I'll help you pack, shall I?W