The Wedding Girl Read online

  Milly edged forward. Her stomach was tense, her skin felt prickly.

  `I've still got an old photograph of you, by the way,' said Alexander. `In your wedding dress, on the steps. It made a good shot. I almost framed it.'

  The room flashed again. Milly felt giddy with fright. Her mind scurried back to that day in Oxford; to the crowd of tourists who had taken photographs of her and Allan on the steps, as she prinked and smiled and encouraged them. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have ...

  `Of course, you look very different now,' said Alexander. `I nearly didn't recognize you.'

  Milly forced herself to look up and meet his eye.

  `You didn't recognize me,' she said. A tiny note of pleading entered her voice. `You didn't recognize me.'

  `Well, I don't know about that,' said Alexander, shaking his head. `Keeping secrets from your future husband, Milly. Not a good sign.' He peeled off his jersey and threw it into a corner. `Doesn't the poor guy deserve to know? Shouldn't someone tell him?'

  Milly moved her lips to speak but no sound came out. She had never felt so scared in all her life.

  `That's great,' said Alexander, looking into the camera again. `But try not to frown.' He looked up at her and grinned. `Think happy thoughts.'

  After what seemed like hours, he came to an end.

  'OK,' he said. `You can go now.' Milly got up from the sofa and stared at him speechlessly. If she appealed to him-told him everything he might relent. Or he might not. A tremor ran through her. She couldn't risk it.

  `Did you want something?' said Alexander, looking up from his camera case.

  `No,' said Milly. For an instant her eyes met his and a bolt of fear went through her. `Thank you,' she added.

  She walked to the door as quickly as she could without looking rushed, forced herself to turn the door knob calmly, and slipped out into the hall. As the door closed behind her, she felt almost tearful with relief. But what should she do now? She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and reached for the phone. By now she knew the number off by heart.

  `Hello,' came a voice. `If you would like to leave a message for Isobel Havill, please speak after the tone.'

  Milly crashed the receiver back down in frustration and stared at it. She had to talk to someone. She couldn't stand this any more. Then a sudden note of inspiration hit her, and she picked up the phone again.

  `Hello?' she said, as it was answered. `Esme? It's Milly. Can I come and see you?'

  Milly's godmother lived in a large, elegant house to the north of the city, set back from the road and enclosed in a walled garden. As Milly walked up the path to her house, Esme opened the door and her two lean, pale whippets bounded out into the snow, jumping up at Milly and placing their paws lightly on her chest.

  `Get down, you brutes,' exclaimed Esme, from the doorway. `Leave poor Milly alone. She's feeling sensitive.' Milly looked up.

  `Is it that obvious?'

  `Of course it isn't,' said Esme. She inhaled on her cigarette and leaned against the door frame. Her dark eyes met Milly's appraisingly. `But you don't normally ring me in the middle of the day with requests for immediate meetings. I imagine something must be wrong.'

  Milly looked into Esme's scrutinizing eyes and suddenly felt shy.

  `Not exactly,' she said. She rubbed the dogs' heads absently. `I just felt like talking to someone, and Isobel's away . . .'

  `Talking about what?'

  `I don't know really,' said Milly. She swallowed. `All sorts of things.' Esme puffed again at her cigarette.

  `All sorts of things. I'm intrigued. You'd better come in.'

  A fire was crackling in the drawing room and a jug of mulled wine was sending fragrant steam into the air. As Milly gave Esme her coat and sank down gratefully into the sofa, she found herself marvelling again that such an urbane, sophisticated woman could be related to her own dull father.

  Esme Ormerod was the second half-cousin of James Havill. She had been brought up in London by a different, wealthier side of the family, and James had never known her well. But then, at around the time Milly was born, she had moved to Bath, and had made courteous contact with James. Olivia, impressed by this new, rather exotic relation of James's, had immediately asked her to be Milly's godmother, thinking that this might promote some intimacy between the two women. It had not done so. Esme had never become intimate with Olivia; she was not, as far as Milly knew, intimate with anyone particularly. Everyone in Bath knew of the beautiful Esme Ormerod. Many had attended parties in her house, admired her unusual clothes and the constantly changing collection of objets strewn around her rooms, but few could boast that they knew Esme well. Even Milly, who was closest to her of all the Havills, was often at a loss to know what she was thinking or what she might say next.

  Neither did she know quite how Esme made her money. Although Esme's branch of the family was wealthy, it was generally agreed that it couldn't be wealthy enough to have fully funded Esme's easy existence for all these years. The few paintings which Esme occasionally sold were, as Milly's father put it, not even enough to keep her in velvet scarfs; apart from that she had no obvious income. The subject of Esme's money was the source of much speculation. One of the latest rumours circulating Bath was that she travelled to London once a month to perform unspeakable sexual acts with an ageing millionaire, who paid her a handsome allowance in return. `Honestly, what rubbish,' Olivia had said when she'd heard the rumour then, in the next breath, `But I suppose it's possible ...'

  `Have one of these.' Esme passed Milly a plate of biscuits, each a beautifully made, individual creation.

  `Gorgeous,' said Milly, hovering between one dusted with swirls of cocoa powder and another strewn with almond flakes. `Where did you get these from?'

  `A little shop I know,' said Esme. Milly nodded, and bit into the cocoa swirls; a heavenly, chocolatey taste immediately filled her mouth. Esme seemed to buy everything from tiny, unnamed shops-the opposite of her mother, who preferred large establishments with names that everyone recognized. Fortnum and Mason. Harrods. John Lewis.

  `So, how are the wedding preparations going?' said Esme, sitting on the floor in front of the fire and pushing back the sleeves of her grey cashmere sweater. The opal pendant which she always wore glowed in the firelight.

  `Fine,' said Milly. `You know what it's like.' Esme shrugged noncommittally, and it occurred to Milly that she hadn't seen or talked to her godmother for weeks, if not months. But that was not unusual. Their relationship had always gone in phases, ever since Milly was a teenager. Whenever things had gone badly at home, Milly would head straight for Esme's house. Esme always understood her; Esme always treated her like an adult. Milly would spend days in her godmother's company, soaking up her thoughts, adopting her vocabulary, helping her prepare interesting meals filled with ingredients of which Olivia had never heard. They would sit in Esme's drawing room drinking pale, chilled wine, listening to chamber music. Milly would feel grown-up and civilized, and vow to live more like Esme in future. Then, after a day or two, she would return home and pick up her old life exactly where she had left off and Esme's influence would amount to little more than the odd new word or bottle of cold-pressed olive oil.

  `So, darling,' Esme was saying. `If it's not the wedding, then what is it?'

  `It is the wedding,' said Milly. `But it's a bit complicated.'

  `Simon? Have you argued?'

  `No,' said Milly at once. `No. I just . . .' She exhaled sharply and put her biscuit down. `I just need some advice. Some .. . hypothetical advice.'

  `Hypothetical advice?'

  `Yes,' said Milly desperately. She met Esme's eyes. 'Hypothetical.'

  There was a little pause, then Esme said, `I understand.' She gave Milly a catlike smile. `Continue.'

  At one o'clock a call came through to Simon's desk from Paris.

  `Simon? It's Isobel.'

  `Isobel! How are you?'

  `Do you know where Milly is? I've been trying to ring her
.' Isobel's voice sounded ridiculously distant and tinny, thought Simon. She was only in Paris, for God's sake.

  `Isn't she at work?' said Simon.

  `Apparently not. Listen, have you two had a row? She's been trying to call me.'

  `No,' said Simon, taken aback. `Not that I know of.'

  `Must be something else then,' said Isobel. 'I'll try at home. OK, well, I'll see you when I get back.'

  `Wait!' said Simon suddenly. 'Isobel -4 want to ask you something.'

  `Yes?' She sounded suspicious. Or maybe that was just his paranoia. Simon always found Isobel a little tricky to deal with. For a start, she always said so little. Whenever he spoke to her he ended up feeling self-conscious under her intelligent scrutiny, and wondering what on earth she thought of him. Of course he was fond of her but he also found her very slightly scary.

  `It was a favour, actually,' he said. `I wondered if you would pick me up a present for Milly.'

  `What sort of present?' said Isobel.

  If it had been Milly, thought Simon, she would have cried `Of course I will!' straight away and then asked for details.

  `I want to get her a Chanel bag.' He swallowed. `So maybe you could choose her one.'

  `A Chanel bag?' said Isobel incredulously. `Do you know how much they cost?'

  `Yes,' said Simon.

  `Hundreds.'

  `Yes.'

  `Simon, you're mad. Milly doesn't want a Chanel bag.'

  `Yes she does!'

  `It's not her style.'

  `Of course it is,' retorted Simon. `Milly likes elegant, classic pieces.

  `If you say so,' replied Isobel drily. Then she sighed. `Simon, is this about your father buying you a flat?'

  `No!' said Simon. `Of course not.' He hesitated. `How did you know about that?'

  `Mummy told me. And she told me about the ear-rings.' Isobel's voice softened. `Look, I can guess it wasn't an easy moment for you. But that's no reason to go and spend all your money on an expensive bag.'

  `Milly deserves the best.'

  `She's got the best. She's got you!'

  'But-'

  `Look, Simon. If you really want to buy Milly something, buy something for the flat. A sofa. Or a rug. She'd love that.'

  There was silence.

  `You're right,' said Simon eventually.

  `Of course I'm right.'

  `It's just . . .' Simon exhaled. `My fucking father!'

  `I know,' said Isobel. `But what can you do? He's a generous millionaire. It's a bummer.' Simon winced.

  `God, you're harsh, aren't you? I think I prefer your sister.'

  `Fine by me. Look, I've got to go. I've got a plane to catch.'

  'OK. Listen, thanks, Isobel. I'm really grateful.'

  `Yeah, yeah. I know. Bye.' And she was gone before Simon could say anything more.

  `All right,' said Milly. She hunched her shoulders up, staring away from Esme, into the flickering fire. `Suppose there was a person. And suppose that person had a secret.'

  `A person,' said Esme, looking at her quizzically. `And a secret.'

  `Yes,' said Milly, still staring at the fire. `And suppose she'd never told anyone about it. Not even the man she loved.'

  `Why not?'

  `Because he didn't need to know,' said Milly defensively. 'Because it was just some stupid, irrevelant thing which happened ten years ago. And if it came out, it would ruin everything. Not just for her. For everybody.'

  `Ah,' said Esme. `That kind of secret.'

  `Yes,' said Milly. `That kind of secret.' She took a deep breath. `And suppose . . .' She bit her lip. `Suppose someone came along who knew about the secret. And he started threatening to say something.'

  Esme exhaled softly.

  `I see.'

  `But she didn't know if he was serious or not. She thought he might just be joking.'

  Esme nodded.

  `The thing is,' said Milly, `what should she do?' She looked up. `Should she tell the . . . the partner? Or should she just keep quiet and hope that she'd get away with it?'

  Esme reached for her cigarette case.

  `Is it really a secret worth keeping?' she said. `Or is it just some silly little indiscretion that no one would mind about? Might this person be overreacting?'

  `No,' said Milly, `she's not overreacting. It's a very big secret. Like a . . .' She paused. `Like a previous marriage. Or something.'

  Esme raised her eyebrows.

  `That is a big secret.'

  `Or something,' repeated Milly. `It doesn't matter what it is.' She met Esme's eyes steadily. `The point is, she's kept it secret for ten years. No one's ever known about it. No one needs to know.'

  `Yes,' said Esme. `I see.' She lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  `So what would you do, if you were that person?' said Milly. Esme blew out a cloud of smoke thoughtfully.

  `What is the risk of this other character giving her away?'

  `I don't know,' said Milly. `Quite small at the moment, I think.'

  `Then I would say nothing,' said Esme. `For the moment. And I would try to think of a way of keeping the other one quiet.' She shrugged. `Perhaps the whole thing will quietly fade away.'

  `Do you think so?' Milly looked up. `Do you really think so?'

  Esme smiled.

  `Darling, how many times have you tossed and turned at night, worried about something, only to find in the morning that there was nothing to fear? How many times have you rushed in with an excuse for some misdemeanour, only to find no one realized you'd done anything wrong?' She took a deep drag on her cigarette. `Nine times out of ten, it's better to say nothing and keep your head down and hope that everything will proceed smoothly. And no one need ever know.' She paused. `Hypothetically speaking, of course.'

  `Yes, of course.'

  There was silence, broken only by the crackle and spitting of the fire. Outside, it had begun to snow again, in thick, blurry flakes.

  `Have some more mulled wine,' suggested Esme. `Before it gets cold. And another biscuit.'

  `Thanks,' murmured Milly. She picked up a disc of smooth clementine fondant and gazed at it. `You don't think I . . . the person should be honest with her partner.'

  `Why should she?'

  `Because . . . because she's going to marry him!' Esme smiled.

  `Darling, it's a nice idea. But a woman should never try to be honest with a man. It's quite impossible.'

  Milly looked up. `What do you mean, impossible?'

  `Of course, one can try,' said Esme. `But essentially, women and men speak different languages. They have ... different senses. Put a man and a woman in exactly the same situation and they'll perceive it entirely differently.'

  `So?'

  `So, they're foreign to each other,' said Esme. `And the truth is, you can't be completely honest with someone you don't properly understand.'

  Milly thought for a few moments.

  `People who've been happily married for years understand each other,' she said at last.

  `They muddle through,' said Esme, `with a mixture of sign language and goodwill and the odd phrase picked up over the years. But they don't understand each other. They don't have access to the rich depths of each other's spirits. The common language simply isn't there.' She inhaled on her cigarette again. `And there aren't any interpreters. Or at least, very few.'

  Milly stared at her. `So you're saying there's no such thing as a happy marriage.'

  `I'm saying there's no such thing as an honest marriage,' said Esme. `Happiness is something else.' She blew out a cloud of smoke.

  `I suppose you're right,' said Milly doubtfully, and glanced at her watch. `Esme, I've got to go.'

  `So soon?'

  `We're having a wedding present given to us at Simon's work.'

  `I see.' Esme tapped her cigarette ash into a mother of pearl dish. `Well, I hope I've been some help with your little problem.'

  `Not really,' said Milly bluntly. `If anything, I'm more confused than before.' Esme smiled amusedly.


  `Oh dear. I'm sorry.' She surveyed Milly's face. `So what do you think your . . . hypothetical person will do?'

  There was silence.

  `I don't know,' said Milly eventually. `I really don't know.'

  James Havill had left the office at lunchtime that day and headed for home. As he let himself in, the house was steeped in a midday quiet, silent apart from the odd creak. He stood for a few moments in the hall, listening for voices. But the house seemed as empty as he had hoped it would be. At this time of day, the guests would be out, sightseeing. Milly would still be at work; the daily woman would have finished. The only person in the house now would be Olivia.

  He climbed the stairs as soundlessly as possible. As he rounded the corner to the second floor his heart began to beat in anticipation. He had planned this encounter all morning; had sat in meetings thinking of nothing except what he would say to his wife that afternoon. What he would say and how he would say it.

  The door to her room was closed. James stared for a moment at the little porcelain plaque bearing the word PRIVATE, before knocking.

  `Yes?' Her voice sounded startled.

  `It's only me,' he said and pushed the door open. The room was warm from an electric fire; too warm, he thought. Olivia was sitting in her faded chintz armchair in front of the television. Her feet were resting on the tapestry footstool she had upholstered herself. A cup of tea was at her elbow, and her hands were full of pale pink silk.

  `Hello,' said James. He glanced at the screen where a black and white Bette Davis was talking frostily to a man with a square jaw. `I didn't mean to disturb you.'

  `Don't worry,' said Olivia. She picked up the remote control and reduced Bette Davis's voice to an almost inaudible murmur. `What do you think?'

  `What do you mean?' said James, taken aback.

  'Isobel's dress!' said Olivia, holding up the pink silk. `I thought it looked a little plain, so I'm just trimming it with some roses.'