The Second Bride (4 page)

Jo hurried through her bath, pulled on a T-shirt and dived into bed, determined to erase the events of the past few hours from her mind. There was no point in dwelling on it, telling herself she should have protested louder, fought harder—done
something.
Because she hadn't. Quite simply, it had been impossible to resist the man she'd fallen in love with the first time she'd ever set eyes on him. She could only hope that after tonight he still had no idea how she felt.

While Claire was alive she'd worked hard to preserve the fiction that Jo Fielding and Rufus Grierson would never be friends. On Rufus' part, of course, this had been true enough. He probably hadn't given her a thought all this past year while he was grieving for Claire. Jo shivered. The last thing Rufus Grierson had intended was making love to her tonight, she knew perfectly well. He had come to deliver the earrings and just talk about his dead wife with someone who— in an entirely different way—had loved Claire as much as he did.

For a woman who cried once in a blue moon, Jo told herself bitterly, tonight, of all nights, had not been a good time to emote all over Rufus Grierson. Not that she'd chosen to cry. It had just happened. But if she hadn't cried Rufus wouldn't have taken her
in
his arms to
comfort
her, and she wouldn't have lost control—and neither would he. She groaned aloud and turned out the light, needing the dark.

Sleep was hard to come by. To her fury the moment Jo closed her eyes she kept reliving the entire disturbing episode from beginning to end, and at last lay staring, wide-eyed, into the darkness, searching for something to occupy her mind, to blot out the sheer magic of a pleasure she'd never experienced before.

In college there'd been Linus Cole, the postgraduate student who'd dazzled the little freshman with his attentions, and introduced her to what he'd referred to with relish as 'the pleasures of the flesh'. Then, instead of producing a ring as she'd naively expected, he went off to take up his fellowship at Cambridge without a backward glance. Thereafter Jo had firmly kept the rest of marauding student manhood at arm's length. It was much later on in her career that she met Edward Hyde, and for a while had even become engaged to him.

Jo sighed. She'd been madly in love with Linus, and very fond of Edward, but neither of them had come remotely near giving her the pleasure experienced tonight with Rufus. She ground her teeth, tossed and turned, got up and made herself some tea, went back to bed, and still couldn't sleep. And in her efforts to blot out Rufus' lovemaking she let herself think instead of the last time they'd met—a harrowing occasion she normally tried not to think of at all.

It had
been a hot August day of bright sunlight and clear blue skies: weather more suitable for a wedding than a funeral.

For the first time in their acquaintance, the two people facing each other across the open grave had something in common. They were the only dry-eyed mourners as the clergyman read the service of committal. Jo stood, rigid, enduring, dazed by the utter unreality of the situation. On such a glorious day it was so hard to believe that Claire—beautiful, warm, loving Claire—had gone for ever. The scent of recently scythed grass lay heavy in the air, bringing back memories of long summer holidays when both schoolgirls had
savoured
every moment before the autumn term put an end to summer idleness.

Contributions to charity had been requested instead of flowers, but a single floral tribute lay on the gleaming oak lid of the coffin. Jo stared numbly at the replica of the wedding bouquet that Claire had carried two years earlier when she'd married the man who stood, still as a statue, on the opposite side of the grave. Jo kept her eyes averted from his grief. She looked down steadfastly on the
madonna
lilies and yellow rosebuds, and shivered as the first handful of earth hit the coffin.

At last it was over. Jo waited her turn among the mourners, then held out a hand to Rufus Grierson and murmured
a
conventional
word
of condolence.
He
took the hand for a moment in a hard grasp, said something appropriate in clipped, disciplined tones. Jo moved on to exchange embraces with Claire's devastated parents, and, much against her will, promised to go back to the imposing Victorian house where Claire had grown up. Refusing a lift, she set off alone.

Hot in the navy linen dress borrowed from her sister, Jo walked slowly, sure she would cry at last once she was alone. But the relief of tears never came. She had dreaded the ritual of muted voices over
canapés
and sherry, but knew it would give some small measure of comfort to Claire's parents. For the past week they had been caught up, like Rufus, in the
organisation
of funeral arrangements. But Jo was sure their loss would finally strike home when all was quiet and the last guest had gone. It would be the same for Rufus, of course, but he could one day find himself another wife. The Beaumonts could never replace their only child. There wasn't even a grandchild to give them solace, despite Claire's desperate desire to get pregnant.

'I'm not even thirty yet, Jo,' she'd said, just a few short weeks earlier. 'There's all sorts of treatment I still haven't tried. I've got loads of time.'

But Claire had run out of time one fine summer morning.

Jo came to with a start as a car glided to a halt just ahead of her. 'I'll give you a lift,' said Rufus, leaning over to open the passenger door for her.

The last thing Jo's battered emotions needed was a ride in a car alone with Rufus. She got in reluctantly, and fastened the seat belt. 'I thought you were with the others,' she said, her heart contracting at the bleak, weary look on his face.

'I needed to be on my own for a while.'

'Yes,' agreed Jo
sombrely
. 'I was walking for the same reason.' She turned to him hastily. 'Though I appreciate the lift, of course.'

'No need to be polite, Jo,' he snapped, then touched a hand fleetingly to hers in apology. 'Sorry. I'm on edge.'

As well he might be, thought Jo with compassion, glad when the car turned down the narrow lane towards the Beaumonts' house. Rufus parked the car at the end of a long line of others and Jo got out to walk beside him along the familiar driveway to the open front door.

'God, I wish this were over,' said Rufus, with sudden, quiet violence.

'So do I.' Jo's teeth sank into her quivering bottom lip.

He looked down into her face, and breathed out slowly. 'Of course you do.' To her surprise he took her hand and held it tightly for a moment. 'All right?'

She nodded mutely, and his face relaxed a little.

'Come on, then. Let's face the music.'

The Beaumonts were in the hall, in unconscious parody of a receiving line at a wedding. They were more composed, Gloria Beaumont's eyes still red, but dry now under the stylish black hat. Ted Beaumont, large and bluff as a rule, but oddly diminished today, wrung Rufus's hand in silence, and Jo hugged Claire's mother close in wordless sympathy, then offered to help the maid with the food.

'Oh, my dear, would you?' said Gloria in gratitude.

'I'll see to the drinks,' said Rufus.

Keeping herself occupied helped Jo to deal with the situation. And, she suspected, it was the same for Rufus. Elegant as always in
sombre
bespoke tailoring, he circulated with glasses and decanters, evading long exchanges with any group other than his family. Jo served guests with delicious
titbits
and stifled a searing dart of pain when she found they came from the bakery who'd once provided cream cakes for two hungry schoolgirls. As she moved through the room Jo's fragile composure was tested to the utmost by condolences from people who knew how close she'd been to Claire.

At last Ted Beaumont closed the door on the final,
sombre
face with a sigh of relief, and urged Jo to stay to dinner.

'Sorry, I can't,' said Jo, desperate to get away. 'I'm working tonight.'

'Couldn't they give you the night off in the circumstances?' pleaded Gloria Beaumont.

Jo shook her head, feeling guilty. 'Two of the others are on holiday. I can't really let them down. I should have been working at lunchtime today as it was.'

Rufus frowned. 'I thought you worked in the evenings.'

'As I said—it's holiday time. I've been filling in.' Jo smiled apologetically. 'The extra money comes in useful.'

'At least let Rufus drive you home,' said Ted. 'I would myself, but I've had a drop too much to drink.'

Jo shook her head. 'No, really. I need some fresh air before my stint at the
Mitre.'
And, more than fresh air, she needed time to herself to say her last, private goodbyes to Claire.

Rufus saw her out and accompanied her down to the gates, his eyes bloodshot and his face
colourless
, despite the heat.

'Are you sure about walking?' he asked. 'Let me run you home.'

'It's very kind of you, but I'd rather walk. I
need
to walk,' she added unsteadily.

The evening sun outlined Rufus' hair with fire as he looked down at her. 'You look exhausted. And you've lost weight.'

'It's the dress. It's a size too big—and I look terrible in navy. I borrowed it from my sister. None of my things were suitable for the—the occasion.' Abruptly Jo came to the end of her tether. 'Goodbye, Rufus. I really must go.'

'I'll ring you,' he said.

'That's probably not a good idea—'

'As you wish,' he said instantly.

She watched, dismayed, as every vestige of warmth vanished from his face. She had meant it wasn't a good idea for the time being. Not for ever. But something in Rufus' manner made it impossible to explain.

He inclined his head formally. 'I'll say goodbye, Jo.'

She gave him a depressed little nod, hesitated, then turned and walked away, utterly dejected.

It was better this way, she told herself firmly. A clean break with Rufus was best all round. She must forget him. Even with Claire dead Jo knew she had no hope of succeeding her friend in Rufus' affections. Claire had been beautiful both by nature and to look

at, her only aim in life to please the husband who was so much her intellectual superior. Jo knew she could never be like that. She was neither as beautiful as Claire nor as compliant. She would find it impossible to live her life merely as an extension of some man- even a man like Rufus Grierson. Yet, to be fair, Claire had been ideally happy with her marriage, apart from her inability to give Rufus a child.

Weariness put an end to Jo's introspection. The early-evening sunshine was hot as she trudged down the road, and the headache she'd been holding at bay homed in as she let go the iron control she'd exerted all afternoon. But still the tears refused to flow—for Claire, or for Rufus.

It would have done her good to cry that day, she thought now, in the sleepless dark of the present. It might have eased her aching sense of loss.

At the age of ten Jo Fielding had won a scholarship to the expensive school where she met Claire Beaumont on the first day and began a friendship which ended only with Claire's death. The bond between two such very different children was a mystery to everyone who knew them. Claire had needed special, expensive tuition to help her pass the entrance examination to the highly academic school, while Jo, almost a year younger, had done so well that her scholarship paid the fees for her entire school career. Claire was tall for her age, well behaved, blonde and rounded, her school uniform always immaculate, Jo inches shorter, wiry, brown-skinned, black-haired and mischievous and rarely tidy from the moment she left home.

Eventually Claire went to a finishing school in Switzerland and Jo to university to read English, but their relationship survived surprisingly well. Inevitably they saw less of each other, but when they were both in Pennington they picked up where they'd left off and spent as much time as they could together, swapping boasts about boyfriends and roaring with laughter over anecdotes from their vastly disparate lives.

Claire learned cordon bleu cooking, the art of entertaining, and how to make the most of her already dazzling looks. Her flawless skin and blue eyes were framed by corn-
coloured
hair cut by a master hand, and she wore simple, understated clothes with world- famous labels.

Jo shared a chaotic household with several students of both sexes and ate junk food, all her spare cash spent on books. Her wiry, boyish figure soon became skinny, and her dark hair, worn long to save expense, lost its gloss. She studied hard, enjoyed tutorials, and sat for hours with her peers in the students' union over half a pint of lager, arguing hotly about putting the world to rights. To her mother's despair she dressed in leggings teamed with sweaters from charity shops and cadged cast-offs from her sisters for her bar job at the Mitre during vacations.

The twins, who by this time both had high-powered jobs in banking, despaired of turning their ugly duckling of a sister into a swan, then one day
realised
they didn't have to. Jo achieved a very good degree, followed it with a course in computers, then got a job with the
Pennington Gazette.
From then on she paid more attention to clothes, rounded out on her mother's cooking, and, though never as opulently curved as Claire, at least looked like the female she was, rather than her sisters' skinny little brother.