Wedding Girl (6 page)

In just a few days' time she would be donning her designer outfit and smiling at massed rows of cameras and watching as all her friends and acquaintances and jealous relatives goggled at the lavishness of Milly's reception. It would be a beautiful day, a day they would all carry in their thoughts for ever. Like some wonderful movie, thought Olivia happily. Some wonderful, romantic Hollywood movie.

James Havill arrived at the front door of Pinnacle Hall and tugged at the heavy wrought-iron bell-pull.

As he waited for an answer he looked around and frowned. The place was too beautiful, too perfect. It was a cliche of opulence, more like some ghastly Hollywood movie than a real place. If this is what money can buy, he thought dishonestly, then you can keep it. I'd rather have real life.

The front door was, he realized, slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. A fire was blazing cheerily in a huge fireplace and the chandeliers were all lit up, but no one was about. He gazed cautiously around, trying to distinguish the panelled doors from each other. One of these doors was the huge drawing room with the deers' heads. He remembered it from previous visits. But which was it? For a few seconds he dithered, then, suddenly irritated with himself, he stepped towards the nearest door and pushed it open.

But he'd got it wrong. The first thing he saw was Harry. He was sitting at an enormous oak desk, listening intently to a phone conversation. He raised his silvery head at the sound of the door opening, narrowed his eyes, then waved James away in irritation.

`Sorry,' said James quietly, backing out.

`Mr Havill?' came a low voice behind him. Ì'm sorry I didn't answer the door more quickly.' James turned to see a blond girl he recognized as one of Harry's assistants behind him. Ìf you'd like to come with me . . .' she said, tactfully guiding him out of the room and closing the study door.

`Thank you,' said James, feeling patronized.

`The others are in the drawing room. Let me take your coat.'

`Thank you,' said James again.

Ànd if you need anything else,' said the girl pleasantly, `just ask me. All right?' In other words thought James resentfully don't go wandering about. The girl gave him a smooth smile, opened the door of the drawing room and ushered him in.

Olivia's pleasant dreamworld was interrupted as the door suddenly opened. She quickly smoothed down her skirt and looked up with a smile, expecting to see Harry. But it was the pretty blond girl again.

`Your husband's here, Mrs Havill,' she said, and stepped aside.

Into the room walked James. He'd come straight from the office; his dark grey suit was crumpled and he looked tired.

`Been here long?' he said.

`No,' said Olivia with a forced cheerfulness. `Not very.'

She rose from her seat and walked towards James, intending to greet him with a kiss. Just before she reached him, the girl tactfully withdrew, and closed the door.

Olivia stopped in her tracks, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Physical contact between herself and James had, over the last few years, become something which only happened in front of other people.

Now she felt awkward, standing this close to him without an audience; without a reason. She looked at him, hoping he would help her out, but his face was blank; she couldn't read it. Eventually she leaned forward, flushing slightly, and gave him a peck on the cheek then immediately stepped backwards and took a gulp of champagne.

`Where's Milly?' said James in an expressionless voice.

`She's popped off to make a telephone call.'

Olivia watched as James helped himself to a glass of champagne and took a deep swig. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, stretching his legs out comfortably in front of him. Olivia gazed down at his head. His dark hair was damp from the snow but neatly combed, and she found herself running her eyes idly along his side parting. Then, as he turned his head, she quickly looked away.

`So,' she began then stopped and took a sip of champagne. She wandered over to the window, pulled open the heavy brocade curtain and looked out into the snowy night. She could barely remember the last time she'd been alone in a room with James; certainly couldn't recall the last time they'd talked together naturally. Topics of conversation passed through her mind like shrinkwrapped food on a conveyor belt, each as unappealing and difficult to get into as the next. If she told James the latest piece of Bath gossip, she would have to begin by reminding him who all the main characters were. If she told him about the wedding shoe fiasco, she would first have to explain the difference between duchesse satin and slub silk. Nothing she could think of to say seemed quite worth the effort of starting.

Once, long ago, their conversation had flowed like a seamless length of ribbon. James had listened to her stories in geniune amusement; she'd laughed at his dry wit. They'd entertained each other, had fun together. But these days all his jokes seemed tinged with a bitterness she didn't understand, and a tense boredom crept over his face as soon as she began to speak.

So they remained in silence, until finally the door opened and Milly came in. She gave James a brief, strained smile.

`Hello, Daddy,' she said. `You made it.'

`Did you get through to Isobel?' said Olivia.

`No,' said Milly shortly. Ì don't know what she can be doing. I had to leave another message.' Her eye fell on the tray. Òh good. I could do with a drink.'

She took a glass of champagne and raised it. `Cheers.'

`Cheers!' echoed Olivia.

`Your good health, my darling,' said James. All three drank; there was a little silence.

`Did I interrupt something?' said Milly.

`No,' said Olivia. `You didn't interrupt anything.'

`Good,' said Milly without really listening, and walked over to the fire, hoping no one would talk to her.

For the third time, she'd got through to Isobel's message machine. As she'd heard the tinny tones she'd felt a spurt of anger, an irrational conviction that Isobel was there and just wasn't answering. She'd left a brief message, then remained staring at the phone for a few minutes, biting her lip, hoping desperately that Isobel would call back. Isobel was the only one she could talk to-the only one who would listen calmly; who would think of a solution rather than lecturing.

But the phone had remained silent. Isobel hadn't called back. Now Milly's hand tightened around her champagne glass. She couldn't stand this niggling, secret panic. On the way over to Pinnacle Hall she'd sat silently in the car, gathering reassuring thoughts around herself like sandbags. Alexander would never remember, she'd told herself again and again. It had been a two-minute encounter, ten years ago.

He couldn't possibly remember that. And even if he did, he wouldn't say anything about it. He would just keep quiet and get on with his job. Civilized people didn't deliberately cause trouble.

`Milly?' Simon's voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped guiltily.

`Hi,' she said. `Did you send your fax all right?'

`Yes.' He took a sip of champagne and looked more closely at her. Àre you OK? You're looking tense.'

Àm I?' She smiled at him. Ì don't feel it.'

`You're tense,' persisted Simon, and he began to massage her shoulders gently. `Worrying about the wedding. Am I right?'

`Yes,' said Milly.

Ì knew it.'

Simon sounded satisfied and Milly said nothing. Simon liked to think that he was in tune with her emotions; that he knew her likes and dislikes; that he could predict her moods. And she'd got into the habit of agreeing with him, even when his assertions were wildly inaccurate. After all, it was sweet of him to have a go. Most men wouldn't have bothered.

And to have expected him to get it right all the time would have been unreasonable. Most of the time she herself was unsure exactly how she was feeling. Emotions shaded her mind like colours on a palette some lingering, some momentary, but all blended together in an inseparable wash. Whereas Simon's moods seemed to march through him, distinct and uniform, like a row of children's building blocks.

When he was happy, he smiled. When he was angry, he frowned.

`Let me guess what you're thinking,' murmured Simon against her hair. `You're wishing it was just the two of us tonight.'

`No,' said Milly honestly. She turned round and looked straight up at him, breathing in his musky, familiar scent. Ì was thinking how much I love you.'

It was nine-thirty before Harry Pinnacle strode into the room. `My apologies,' he said. `This is unforgivable of me.'

`Harry, it's utterly forgivable!' exclaimed Olivia, who was by now on her fifth glass of champagne. `We know what it's like!'

Ì don't,' muttered Simon.

Ànd I'm sorry about earlier,' said Harry to James. Ìt was an important call.'

`That's quite all right,' said James stiffly. There was a slight pause.

`Well, let's not hang about,' said Harry. He turned politely to Olivia. Àfter you.'

They slowly made their way across the hall, into the dining room.

Àll right, sweetheart?' said James to Milly as they sat down round the magnificent mahogany dining table.

`Fine,' she said, and gave him a taut smile.

But she wasn't, thought James. He'd watched her knocking back glasses of champagne as though she were desperate; watched her jump every time the phone rang. Was she having second thoughts? He leaned towards her.

`Just remember, darling,' he said in an undertone. `You don't have to go through with it if you don't want to.'

`What?' Milly's head jerked up as though she'd been stung, and James nodded reassuringly.

Ìf you change your mind about Simon-now, or even on the day itself-don't worry. We can call the whole thing off. No one will mind.'

Ì don't want to call the whole thing off!' hissed Milly. Suddenly she looked close to tears. Ì want to get married! I love Simon.'

`Good,' said James. `Well, that's fine then.'

He sat back in his chair, glanced across the table at Simon and felt unreasonably irritated. The boy had everything. Good looks, a wealthy background, an annoyingly calm and balanced personality. He quite obviously adored Milly; he was polite to Olivia; he was thoughtful towards the rest of the family. There was nothing to complain about. And tonight, James admitted to himself, he was in a mood for complaint.

He'd had a grisly day at work. The engineering firm in whose finance department he worked had undergone restructuring in recent months. Endless rumours had that day culminated in the announcement that there would have to be four junior redundancies in his department. The news was supposed to be confidential but it had obviously spread: as he'd left the office, all the younger members of the team had still been hunched dutifully over their desks. Some had kept their heads down; others had looked up with scared eyes as he passed. Every single one of them had a family and a mortgage.

None of them could afford to lose their job. None of them deserved to.

By the time he'd arrived at Pinnacle Hall he'd felt unspeakably depressed by the whole thing. As he had parked his car he had made up his mind that when Olivia asked how his day had been, he would, for once, tell her the truth. Perhaps not everything straight away, but enough to make her concerned; enough to make her realize what a burden he was struggling with. But she had not asked and a certain pride had stopped him from volunteering his story; from admitting to her his vulnerability. He didn't want his wife turning her mind to him as if he were just another one of her charity projects. Abandoned ponies, handicapped children, a miserable husband.

He should, thought James, be used to Olivia by now. He should be used to the fact that she was not very interested in him; that her life was full enough of other concerns; that she paid more attention to the problems of her chattering girlfriends than she ever did to him. After all, they had managed to carve out a stable, workable life together. If they weren't soul-mates there was at least some sort of symbiosis between them. She had her life and he had his and where they overlapped they were always perfectly amicable. James had resigned himself to this arrangement long ago, had thought it would be all that he ever needed. But it wasn't. He needed more; he wanted more. He wanted a different life, before it was too late.

Ì'd like to propose a toast.'

Harry's voice interrupted James's thoughts and he looked up, frowning slightly. There he was. Harry Pinnacle, one of the most successful men in the country, and his own daughter's prospective father-in-law. James was aware that this alliance made him the envy of his peers and knew that he should be pleased at Milly's future financial security. But he refused to rejoice in the fact of his daughter becoming a Pinnacle; refused to bask, as his wife did, in the fascinated curiosity of their friends. He'd heard Olivia on the phone, dropping Harry's name into the conversation, assuming an intimacy with the great man that he knew she did not have. She was milking the situation for all it was worth-and her behaviour made him curl up with shame. There were days when he wished Milly had never met the son of Harry Pinnacle.

`To Milly and Simon,' declaimed Harry, in the gravelly voice which made all his utterances sound more significant than everyone else's.

`To Milly and Simon,' echoed James, and picked up the heavy Venetian glass in front of him.

`Simply delicious wine,' said Olivia. Àre you a wine expert as well as everything else, Harry?'

`Christ, no,' replied Harry. Ì rely on people with taste to tell me what to buy. It's all the same to me.'

`Now, I don't believe that! You're too modest,' exclaimed Olivia. James watched in disbelief as she reached over and patted Harry intimately on the hand. Just who did she think she was? He turned away, slightly sickened, and caught Simon's eye.

`Cheers, James,' he said, and raised his glass. `Here's to the wedding.'

`Yes,' said James, and took a huge gulp of wine. `To the wedding.'

As he watched everyone drinking his father's wine, Simon felt a sudden tightening in his throat. He coughed and looked up.

`There's someone missing here tonight,' he said. Ànd I'd like to propose a toast to her.' He raised his glass. `To my mother.'