Wedding Girl (17 page)

They're very popular these days. Apparently the place was packed full of interesting men.'

Ì'm sure.'

`Brenda said she could get the number if you're interested.'

`No thanks.'

`Darling, you're not giving yourself a chance!'

`No!' snapped Isobel. She put down her needle and looked up. `You're not giving me a chance! You're treating me as though I don't have any function in life except to find a husband. What about my work?

What about my friends?'

`What about babies?' said Olivia sharply.

Colour flooded Isobel's face.

`Maybe I'll just have a baby without a husband,' she said after a pause. `People do, you know.'

Òh, now you're just being silly,' said Olivia crossly. À child needs a proper family.' She brought the teapot over to the table, sat down, and opened her red book. `Right. What else needs doing?'

Isobel stared at the teapot without moving. It was large and decorated with painted ducks; they'd used it at family teas ever since she could remember. Ever since she and Milly had sat side by side in matching smocks, eating Marmite sandwiches. A child needs a proper family. What the hell was a proper family?

`Do you know?' said Olivia, looking up in surprise. Ì think I've done everything for today. I've ticked everything off my list.'

`Good,' said Isobel. `You can have an evening off.'

`Maybe I should just check with Harry's assistant ...'

`Don't check anything,' said Isobel firmly. `You've checked everything a million times. Just have a nice cup of tea and relax.'

Olivia poured out the tea, took a sip and sighed.

`My goodness!' she said, leaning back in her chair. Ì have to say, there have been times when I thought we would never get this wedding organized in time.'

`Well, now it is organized,' said Isobel. `So you should spend the evening doing something fun. Not hymn sheets. Not shoe trimmings. Fun!' She met Olivia's eyes sternly and, as the phone rang, they both began to giggle.

Ì'll get that,' said Olivia.

Ìf it's Milly,' said Isobel quickly, 'I'll speak to her.'

`Hello, 1 Bertram Street,' said Olivia. She pulled a face at Isobel. `Hello, Canon Lytton! How are you?

Yes . . . Yes . . . No!'

Her voice suddenly changed, and Isobel looked up.

`No, I don't. I've no idea what you're talking about. Yes, perhaps you'd better. We'll see you then.'

Olivia put the phone down and looked perplexedly at Isobel.

`That was Canon Lytton,' she said.

`What did he want?'

`He's coming to see us.' Olivia sat down. Ì don't understand it.'

`Why?' said Isobel. Ìs something wrong?'

`Well, I don't know! He said he'd received some information, and he'd like to discuss it with us.'

Ìnformation,' said Isobel. Her heart started to thump. `What information?'

Ì don't know,' said Olivia. She raised puzzled blue eyes to meet Isobel's. `Something to do with Milly.

He wouldn't say what.'

CHAPTER NINE

RUPERT AND FRANCESCA sat silently in their drawing room, looking at each other. On Tom's suggestion, they had both phoned their offices to take the rest of the afternoon off. Neither had spoken in the taxi back to Fulham.

Francesca had shot Rupert the occasional hurt, bewildered glance; he had sat, staring at his hands, wondering what he was going to say. Wondering whether to concoct a story or to tell her the truth about himself.

How would she react if he did? Would she be angry? Distraught? Revolted? Perhaps she would say she'd always known there was something different about him. Perhaps she would try to understand. But how could she understand what he didn't understand himself?

`Right,' said Francesca. `Well, here we are.' She gazed at him expectantly and Rupert looked away.

From outside he could hear birds singing, cars starting, the wailing of a toddler as it was thrust into its pushchair by its nanny. Mid-afternoon sounds that he wasn't used to hearing. He felt self-conscious, sitting at home in the winter daylight; self-conscious, facing his wife's taut, anxious gaze.

Ì think,' said Francesca suddenly, `we should pray.'

`What?' Rupert looked up, astounded.

`Before we talk.' Francesca gazed earnestly at him. Ìf we said a prayer together it might help us.'

Ì don't think it would help me,' said Rupert. He looked at the drinks cabinet, then looked away again.

`Rupert, what's wrong?' cried Francesca. `Why are you so strange? Are you in love with Milly?'

`No!' exclaimed Rupert.

`But you had an affair with her when you were at Oxford.'

`No,' said Rupert.

`No?' Francesca stared at him. `You never went out with her?'

`No.' He would have laughed if he hadn't felt so nervous. Ì never went out with Milly. Not in that sense.'

`Not in that sense,' she repeated. `What does that mean?'

`Francesca, you're on the wrong track completely.' He tried a smile. `Look, can't we just forget all this?

Milly is an old friend. Full stop.'

Ì wish I could believe you,' said Francesca. `But it's obvious that something's going on.'

`Nothing's going on.'

`Then what was she talking about?' Francesca's voice rose in sudden passion. `Rupert, I'm your wife!

Your loyalty is to me. If you have a secret, then I deserve to know it.'

Rupert stared at his wife. Her pale eyes were shining slightly; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

Round her wrist was the expensive watch he'd bought her for her birthday. They'd chosen it together at Selfridges, then gone to see An Inspector Calls. It had been a happy day of safe, unambitious treats.

Ì don't want to lose you,' he found himself saying. Ì love you. I love our marriage. I'll love our children, when we have them.' Francesca stared at him with anxious eyes.

`But?' she said. `What's the but?'

Rupert gazed back at her silently. He didn't know how to reply, where to start.

Àre you in trouble?' said Francesca suddenly. Àre you hiding something from me?' Her voice rose in alarm. `Rupert?'

`No!' said Rupert. Ì'm not in trouble. I'm just ...'

`What?' said Francesca impatiently. `What are you?'

`Good question,' said Rupert. Tension was building up inside him like a coiled spring; he could feel a frown furrowing his forehead.

`What?' said Francesca. `What do you mean?'

Rupert dug his nails into his palms and took a deep breath. There seemed no way but forward.

`When I was at Oxford,' he said, and stopped. `There was a man.

À man?'

Rupert looked up and met Francesca's eyes. They were blank, unsuspecting, waiting for him to go on.

She had no idea what he was leading up to.

Ì had a relationship with him,' he said, still gazing at her. À close relationship.'

He paused, and waited, willing her brain to process what he had said and make a deduction. For what seemed like hours, her eyes remained empty.

And then suddenly it happened. Her eyes snapped open and shut like a cat's. She had understood. She had understood what he was saying. Rupert gazed at her fearfully, trying to gauge her reaction.

Ì don't understand,' she said at last, her voice suddenly truculent with alarm. `Rupert, you're not making any sense! This is just a waste of time!'

She got up from the sofa and began to brush imaginary crumbs off her lap, avoiding his eye.

`Darling, I was wrong to doubt you,' she said. Ì'm sorry. I shouldn't mistrust you. Of course you have the right to see anybody you like. Shall we just forget this ever happened?'

Rupert stared at her in disbelief. Was she serious? Was she really willing to carry on as before? To pretend he'd said nothing; to ignore the huge questions that must already be gnawing at her brain? Was she really so afraid of the answers she might hear?

Ì'll make some tea, shall I?' continued Francesca with a bright tautness. Ànd get some scones out of the freezer. It'll be quite a treat!'

`Francesca,' said Rupert, `stop it. You heard what I said. Don't you want to know any more?' He stood up and took her wrist. `You heard what I said.'

`Rupert!' said Francesca, giving a little laugh. `Let go! I-I don't know what you're talking about. I've already apologized for mistrusting you. What else do you want?'

Ì want ...' began Rupert. His grip tightened on her wrist; he felt a sudden certainty anchoring him. Ì

want to tell you everything.'

`You've told me everything,' said Francesca quickly. Ì understand completely. It was a silly mix-up.'

Ì've told you nothing.' He gazed at her, suddenly desperate to talk; desperate for relief. 'Francesca-'

`Why can't we just forget it?' said Francesca. Her voice held an edge of panic.

`Because it wouldn't be honest!'

`Well, maybe I don't want to be honest!' Her face was flushed; her eyes darted about. She looked like a trapped rabbit.

Leave her alone, Rupert told himself. Don't say any more; just leave her alone. But the urge to talk was unbearable; having begun, he could no longer contain himself.

`You don't want to be honest?' he said, despising himself. `You want me to bear false witness? Is that what you want, Francesca?'

He watched as her face changed expression, as she struggled to reconcile her private fears with the law of God.

`You're right,' she said at last. Ì'm sorry.' She looked at him apprehensively, then bowed her head in submission. `What do you want to tell me?'

Stop now, Rupert told himself. Stop now before you make her life utterly miserable.

Ì had an affair with a man,' he said.

He paused, and waited for a reaction. A scream; a gasp. But Francesca's head remained bowed. She did not move.

`His name was Allan.' He swallowed. Ì loved him.'

He gazed at Francesca, hardly daring to breathe. Suddenly she looked up. `You're making it up,' she said.

`What?'

Ì can tell,' said Francesca quickly. `You're feeling guilty about this girl Milly, so you've made up this silly story to distract me.'

Ì haven't,' said Rupert. Ìt's not a story. It's the truth.'

`No,' said Francesca, shaking her head. `No.'

`Yes.'

`No!'

`Yes, Francesca!' shouted Rupert. `Yes! It's true! I had an affair with a man. His name was Allan. Allan Kepinski.'

There was a long silence, then Francesca met his eyes. She looked ill.

`You really ...'

`Yes.'

`Did you actually ...'

`Yes,' said Rupert. `Yes.' As he spoke he felt a mixture of pain and relief as though heavy boulders were being ripped from his back, lightening his burden but leaving his skin sore and bleeding. Ì had sex with him.' He closed his eyes. `We made love.' Suddenly memories flooded his mind. He was with Allan again in the darkness, feeling his skin, his hair, his tongue. Shivering with delight.

Ì don't want to hear any more,' Francesca whispered. Ì don't feel very well.' Rupert opened his eyes to see her standing up; making uncertainly for the door. Her face was pale and her hands shook as they grasped the door handle. Guilt poured over him like hot water.

Ì'm sorry,' he said. `Francesca, I'm sorry.'

`Don't say sorry to me,' said Francesca in a jerky, scratchy voice. `Don't say sorry to me. Say sorry to our Lord.'

`Francesca . . .'

`You must pray for forgiveness. I'm going-' She broke off and took a deep breath. Ì'm going to pray too.'

`Can't we talk?' said Rupert desperately. `Can't we at least talk about it?' He got up and came towards her. `Francesca?'

`Don't!' she shrieked as his hand neared her sleeve. `Don't touch me!' She looked at him with glittering eyes in a sheetwhite face.

Ì wasn't '

`Don't come near me!'

'But-'

`You made love to me!' she whispered. `You touched me! You-' She broke off and retched.

'Francesca-'

Ì'm going to be sick,' she said shakily, and ran out of the room.

Rupert remained by the door, listening as she ran up the stairs and locked the bathroom door. He was trembling all over; his legs felt weak. The revulsion he'd seen in Francesca's face made him want to crawl away and hide. She'd backed away from him as though he were contaminated; as though his evilness might seep out from his pores and infect her, too. As though he were an untouchable.

Suddenly he felt that he might break down and weep. But instead he made his way unsteadily to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. As he unscrewed the cap he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes were veined with red, his cheeks were flushed, his face was full of miserable fear.

He looked unhealthy inside and out.

Pray, Francesca had said. Pray for forgiveness. Rupert clutched the bottle tighter. Lord, he tried. Lord God, forgive me. But the words weren't there; the will wasn't there. He didn't want to repent. He didn't want to be redeemed. He was a miserable sinner and he didn't care.

God hates me, thought Rupert, staring at his own reflection. God doesn't exist. Both seemed equally likely.

A bit later on Francesca came downstairs again. She had brushed her hair and washed her face and changed into jeans and a jersey. Rupert looked up from the sofa, where he was still sitting with his bottle of whisky. It was half empty, and his head was spinning but he didn't feel any happier.

Ì've spoken to Tom,' said Francesca. `He's coming round later.' Rupert's head jerked up.

`Tom?'

Ì've told him everything,' said Francesca, her voice trembling. `He says not to worry. He's known other cases like yours.' Rupert's head began to thump hard.

Ì don't want to see Tom,' he said.

`He wants to help!'

Ì don't want him to know! This is private!' Rupert felt a note of panic edging into his voice. He could just imagine Tom's face, looking at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Tom would be revolted by him. They would all be revolted by him.

`He wants to help,' repeated Francesca. Ànd darling ...' Her tone changed and Rupert looked up in surprise. Ì want to apologize. I was wrong to react so badly. I just panicked. Tom said that's perfectly normal. He said ' Francesca broke off and bit her lip. Ànyway. We can get through this. With a lot of support and prayer . . .'