The Wedding Girl Page 3

  `It's all relative, darling.'

  They were nearing a little parade of expensive boutiques; as they approached the first softly lit window, they both stopped. Inside the window was a single mannequin, exquisite in heavy white velvet.

  `That's nice,' murmured Milly.

  `Not as nice as yours,' said Olivia at once. `I haven't seen a single wedding dress as nice as yours.'

  `No,' said Milly slowly. `Mine is nice, isn't it?'

  `It's perfect, darling.'

  They lingered a little at the window, sucked in by the rosy glow of the shop; the clouds of silk, satin and netting lining each wall; the dried bouquets and tiny embroidered bridesmaids' shoes. At last Olivia sighed.

  `All this wedding preparation has been fun, hasn't it? I'll be sorry when it's all over.'

  `Mmm,' said Milly. There was a little pause, then Olivia said, as though changing the subject, `Has Isobel got a boyfriend at the moment?'

  Milly's head jerked up.

  `Mummy! You're not trying to marry Isobel off, too.'

  `Of course not! I'm just curious. She never tells me anything. I asked if she wanted to bring somebody to the reception ...'

  `And what did she say?'

  `She said no,' said Olivia regretfully.

  `Well then.'

  `But that doesn't prove anything.'

  `Mummy,' said Milly. `If you want to know if Isobel's got a boyfriend, why don't you ask her?'

  `Maybe,' said Olivia in a distant voice, as though she wasn't really interested any more. `Yes, maybe I will.'

  An hour later they emerged from Mario's Coffee House, and headed for home. By the time they got back, the kitchen would be filling up with bed and breakfast guests, footsore from sightseeing. The Havills' house in Bertram Street was one of the most popular bed and breakfast houses in Bath: tourists loved the beautifully furnished Georgian townhouse; its proximity to the city centre; Olivia's charming, gossipy manner and ability to turn every gathering into a party.

  Tea was always the busiest meal in the house; Olivia adored assembling her guests round the table for Earl Grey and Bath buns. She would introduce them to one another, hear about their days, recommend diversions for the evening and tell them the latest gossip about people they had never met. If any guest expressed a desire to retreat to his own room and his mini-kettle, he was given a look of disapproval and cold toast in the morning. Olivia Havill despised mini-kettles and tea-bags on trays; she only provided them in order to qualify for four rosettes in the Heritage City Bed and Breakfast Guide. Similarly she despised, but provided, cable television, vegetarian sausages and a rack of leaflets about local theme parks and family attractions which, she was glad to note, rarely needed replenishing.

  `I forgot to say,' said Olivia, as they turned into Bertram Street. `The photographer arrived while you were out. Quite a young chap.' She began to root around in her handbag for the doorkey.

  `I thought he was coming tomorrow.'

  `So did I!' said Olivia. `Luckily those nice Australians have had a death in the family, otherwise we wouldn't have had room. And speaking of Australians . . . look at this!' She put her key in the front door and swung it open.

  `Flowers!' exclaimed Milly. On the hall stand was a huge bouquet of creamy white flowers, tied with a dark green silk ribbon bow. `For me? Who are they from?'

  `Read the card,' said Olivia. Milly picked up the bouquet, and reached inside the crackling plastic.

  "'To dear little Milly," ' she read slowly. "'We're so proud of you and only wish we could be there at your wedding. We'll certainly be thinking of you. With all our love from Beth, Scott and Adrian."' Milly looked at Olivia in amazement.

  `Isn't that sweet of them! All the way from Sydney. People are so kind.'

  `They're excited for you, darling,' said Olivia. `Everyone's excited. It's going to be such a wonderful wedding!'

  `Why, aren't those pretty,' came a pleasant voice from above. One of the bed and breakfast guests, a middle-aged woman in blue slacks and sneakers, was coming down the stairs. `Flowers for the bride?'

  `Just the first,' said Olivia, with a little laugh.

  `You're a lucky girl,' said the middle-aged woman to Milly.

  `I know I am,' said Milly and a pleased grin spread over her face. 'I'll just put them in some water.'

  Still holding her flowers, Milly pushed open the door to the kitchen, then stopped in surprise. Sitting at the table was a young man wearing a shabby denim jacket. He had dark brown hair and round metal spectacles and was reading the Guardian.

  `Hello,' she said politely. `You must be the photographer.'

  `Hi there,' said the young man, closing his paper. `Are you Milly?,

  He looked up, and as she saw his face, Milly felt a jolt of recognition. Surely she'd met this guy before somewhere?

  'I'm Alexander Gilbert,' he said in a dry voice, and held out his hand. Milly advanced politely and shook it.

  `Nice flowers,' he said, nodding to her bouquet.

  `Yes,' replied Milly, staring curiously at him. Where on earth had she seen him before? Why did his face feel etched into her memory?

  `That's not your wedding bouquet, though.'

  `No, it's not,' said Milly. She bent her head slightly and inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers. `These were sent by some friends in Australia. It's really thoughtful of them, considering-'

  Suddenly she broke off, and her heart began to beat faster.

  `Considering what?' said Alexander.

  `Nothing,' said Milly, backing away. `I mean-I'll just go and put them away.'

  She moved towards the door, her palms sweaty against the crackling plastic. She knew where she'd seen him before. She knew exactly where she'd seen him before. At the thought of it, her heart gave a terrified lurch and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm. Everything's OK, she told herself as she reached for the door handle. Everything's OK. As long as he doesn't recognize me...

  `Wait.' His voice cut across her thoughts as though he could read her mind. Feeling suddenly sick, she turned round, to see him staring at her with a slight frown. `Wait a minute,' he said. `Don't I know you?'

  CHAPTER TWO

  traffic jam on his way home that night, watching the endlessly falling snow and rhythmic sweeping of his windscreen wipers, Simon reached for his phone to dial Milly's number. He pressed the first two digits, then changed his mind and switched the phone off. He had only wanted to hear her voice; make her laugh; picture her face as she spoke. But she might be busy, or she might think him ridiculous, phoning on a whim with nothing to say. And if she was still out, he might find himself talking to Mrs Havill, instead.

  Her mother was the only thing about Milly that Simon would have changed if he could. Olivia was a pleasant enough woman, still attractive, charming and amusing; he could see why she was a popular figure at social events. But the way she treated Milly irritated him intensely. She seemed to think Milly was still a six-year-old helping her choose her clothes, telling her to wear a scarf, wanting to know exactly what she was doing, every minute of every day. And the worst thing was, Simon thought, that Milly didn't seem to mind. She allowed her mother to smooth her hair and say, `Good little girl'; she telephoned dutifully when she thought she might be late home. Unlike her older sister Isobel, who had long ago bought her own flat and moved out, Milly seemed to have no natural desire for independence.

  The result was that her mother continued to treat her like a child, instead of the mature adult she really was. And Milly's father and sister Isobel were nearly as bad. They laughed when Milly expressed views on current issues, they joked about her career, they discussed important matters without consulting her. They refused to see the intelligent, passionate woman he saw; refused to take her seriously; refused to elevate her to grown-up status.

  Simon had tried to talk to Milly about her family; tried to make her see how they patronized and limited her. But she had simply shrugged and said they weren't so bad, and when he'd strengthened his
attack on them, had got upset. She was too good-natured and affectionate a creature to see any faults in them, thought Simon, turning off the main road out of Bath, towards Pinnacle Hall. And he loved her for it. But things would have to alter when they were married, when they set up their own home together. Milly's focus would have to change, and her family would have to respect that. She would be a wife; maybe some day a mother. And the Havills would just have to realize that she was no longer their little girl.

  As he approached Pinnacle Hall he pressed the security code on his bleeper, then sat, waiting impatiently for the gates to swing open heavy, iron gates, with the word `Pinnacle' wrought into the design. Lights were blazing from every window of the house; cars were parked in the allocated spaces and the office wing was still buzzing. His father's red Mercedes was parked bang in front of the house; a big, shiny, arrogant car. Simon loathed it.

  He parked his own Golf in an unobtrusive spot and crunched over the snow-covered gravel towards Pinnacle Hall. It was a large, eighteenth-century house which had been a luxury hotel during the eighties, complete with a leisure complex and a tastefully added wing of extra bedrooms. Harry Pinnacle had bought it when the owners had gone bust and turned it back into a private home, with his company headquarters housed in the extra wing. It suited him, he would tell visiting reporters, to be out of London. He was, after all, getting old and past it. There would be a beat of silence then everyone would laugh, and Harry would grin, and press the bell for more coffee.

  The panelled hall was empty and smelt of beeswax. From his father's study came a light; Simon could hear his voice, muffled behind the door, then a burst of low laughter. Resentment, never far from the surface, began to prickle at Simon's skin, and his hands clenched tightly inside his pockets.

  For as long as he could remember, Simon had hated his father. Harry Pinnacle had disappeared from the family home when Simon was three, leaving his mother to bring up Simon alone. His mother had never elaborated on exactly why the marriage had broken down, but Simon knew it had to be the fault of his father. His overbearing, arrogant, obnoxious father. His driven, creative, incredibly successful father. It was the success that Simon hated the most.

  The story was well known by all. In the year that Simon had turned seven, Harry Pinnacle had opened a small juice bar called Fruit 'n Smooth. It served healthy drinks at chrome counters and was an instant hit. The next year, he opened another, and the year after that, another. The year after that, he began selling franchises. By the mid-eighties, there was a Fruit 'n Smooth in every town and Harry Pinnacle was a multimillionaire.

  As his father had grown in wealth and stature, as he'd leapt from the inside business pages to the front-page headlines, the young Simon had watched his progress with fury. Cheques arrived every month, and his mother always exclaimed over Harry's generosity. But Harry never appeared in person, and Simon hated him for it. And then, when Simon was nineteen, his mother had died and Harry Pinnacle had come back into his life.

  Simon frowned, and felt his nails digging into the flesh of his hands as he remembered the moment, ten years ago, when he'd seen his father for the first time. He'd been pacing the corridor outside his mother's hospital room, desperate with grief, with anger, with tiredness. Suddenly he'd heard a voice calling his name, and he'd looked up to see a face which was familiar from a thousand newspaper photographs. Familiar and yet strange to him. As he'd stared at his father in silent shock, he'd realized for the first time that he could see his own features in the older man's face. And in spite of himself he'd felt emotional tentacles reaching out; instinctive feelers like a baby's. It would have been so easy to fall on his father's neck, to allow the burden to be shared, to accept his overtures and make him a friend. But even as he'd felt himself beginning to soften, Simon had stamped on his feelings and ground them back into himself. Harry Pinnacle didn't deserve his love, and he would never have it.

  After the funeral, Harry had welcomed Simon into his house. He'd given him his own room, his own car; taken him on expensive holidays. Simon had accepted everything politely. But if Harry had thought that by showering him with expensive gifts he would buy his son's affection, he had thought wrong. Although Simon's adolescent fury had soon simmered down, there had arisen in its place a determination to outdo his father on every front. He would run a successful business and make money but, unlike his father, he would also marry happily; bring up his children to love him; become the figurehead of a contented, stable family. He would have the life that his father had never had and his father would envy and hate him for it.

  And so he'd begun, by launching his own little publishing company. He'd started with three specialist newsletters, a reasonable profit and high expectations. Those expectations had never been realized. After three years of struggle his profits were down to nothing; at the end of the fourth year he went into liquidation.

  Humiliation still burned through Simon as he remembered the day he'd had to admit to his father that his business had gone bust; the day he'd had to accept his father's offer, sell his flat and move back into Pinnacle Hall. His father had poured him a deep glass of whisky, had uttered cliches about the rough and the smooth, had offered him a job with Pinnacle Enterprises. Simon had immediately turned it down with a few muttered words of thanks. He could barely look his father in the eye; could barely look anyone in the eye. At that low point he'd despised himself almost as much as he despised his father. His whole being was wrought with embarrassed disappointment.

  At last he'd found himself a job selling advertising on a small, low-profile business magazine. He'd winced as Harry congratulated him; winced as he watched his father leafing through the drab little publication and trying to find some words of praise. `It's not much of a job,' he'd said defensively. `But at least I'm in work.' At least he was in work, at least the days were filled, at least he could begin to pay off his debts.

  Three months after starting on the magazine, he'd met Milly. A year later he'd asked her to marry him. His father had again congratulated him; had offered to help out with the engagement ring. But Simon had refused his offer. `I'll do this my way,' he'd said, and looked his father straight in the eye with a new confidence, almost a challenge. If he couldn't beat his father at business, then he would beat him at family life. He and Milly would have a perfect marriage. They would love each other, help each other, understand each other. Worries would be discussed; decisions would be made jointly; affection would be expressed freely. Children would enhance the bliss. Nothing was allowed to go wrong. Simon had experienced failure once; he never wanted to experience it again.

  Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by another burst of laughter from inside his father's room, a mumble of conversation, and then the sharp ping which meant his father had replaced the old-fashioned receiver of his private-line telephone. Simon waited a minute or two, then took a deep breath, approached his father's door and knocked.

  As Harry Pinnacle heard the knock at his door he gave an uncharacteristic start. Quickly he put the tiny photograph he was holding into the desk drawer in front of him and closed it. Then, for good measure, he locked the drawer. For a few moments he sat, staring at the drawer key, lost in thoughts.

  There was another knock, and he looked up. He swivelled his chair away from the desk and ran his hands through his silvering hair.

  `Yes?' he said and watched the door open.

  Simon came in, took a few paces forward and looked angrily at his father. It was always the same. He would knock on his father's door and would be kept waiting outside, like a servant. Never once had Harry exhorted him not to knock; never once had he even looked pleased to see Simon. He always looked impatient, as though Simon were interrupting crucial business. But that's bullshit, thought Simon. You're not in the middle of crucial business. You're just an arrogant bastard.

  His heart was beating quickly; he was in the mood for a confrontation. But he couldn't bring himself to say any of the words of attack circling his mind.

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sp; `Hi,' he said in a tense voice. He gripped the back of a leather chair and glared at his father, somehow hoping to provoke a reaction. But his father simply stared back at him. After a few moments he sighed, and put down his pen.

  `Hello,' he said. `Good day?' Simon shrugged and looked away. `Feel like a whisky?'

  `No. Thanks.'

  `Well, I do.'

  As he got up to pour himself a drink, Harry caught a glimpse of his son's unguarded face: tense, miserable, angry. The boy was full of anger; he'd been carrying the same anger around ever since Harry had first seen him, standing outside his mother's hospital room. That day he'd spat at his father's feet and stalked away before Harry could say anything. And a wretched guilt had begun to grow inside Harry, a guilt which stabbed him every time the boy looked at him with his mother's blasted eyes.

  `Good day?' he said, lifting the whisky glass to his lips.

  `You already asked that.'

  `Right. So I did.' Harry took a slug of the fiery liquid and immediately felt a little better. He took another.

  `I came,' said Simon, `to remind you about dinner tonight. The Havills are coming.'

  `I remember,' said Harry. He put down his glass and looked up. `Not long now till the big day. Are you nervous?'

  `No, not at all,' said Simon at once. Harry shrugged.

  `It's a big commitment.'

  Simon stared at his father. He could feel a string of words forming at his lips; pent-up words which he'd carried around for years like a constant weight.

  `Well,' he found himself saying, `you wouldn't know much about commitment, would you?'

  A flash of anger passed across his father's face, and Simon felt a sudden fearful thrill. He waited for his father to shout at him, winding himself up to an even angrier response. But as suddenly as it had appeared, the animation vanished from his father's face and he walked away, towards the huge sash windows. Simon felt himself tense up with frustration.