The Bride's Baby

‘You are different.’

‘Of course I’m not. And I never miss an edition of Celebrity.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Am I?’ She didn’t bother to reassure him, just said, ‘You’re nothing but an old-fashioned misogynist at heart, aren’t you, Tom?’

‘You can’t get around me with compliments-’

‘And maybe the teeniest bit of a snob?’

‘A snob!’ On the contrary, he was the self-made man whose bride-to-be had decided that, once spending his money-egged on by her old school chum, Miss Smith-had lost its novelty, and the mists of lust had cleared, he wasn’t good enough to marry.

‘An inverted one,’ she elaborated, as if that was any better.

‘I’m a realist, Pam.’

‘Oh, right, that would be the realist who fell off the edge of the earth six months ago, leaving me to hold the fort?’

‘Which disproves your misogynist theory. If I disliked women, why would I leave you in charge while I took some much needed time out? Unlike you, I don’t take three holidays a year. And why would I have appointed you as my CEO in the first place? Besides, I kept in touch.’

‘Because I’m damn good at my job,’ she said, answering the first two parts of his question. ‘But, for your information, the occasional email to keep me up to date with the real estate you’ve been vacuuming up on whichever continent you happened to be at the time so that I could deal with the paperwork, is not keeping in touch.’

‘I’m sure I sent you a postcard from Rio,’ he said. The only one he really remembered was the one he hadn’t sent.

‘“Wish you were here”? Chance would have been a fine thing. Besides, I wanted to know how you were.’ Then, ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘I’m fine, okay!’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘Truly. But I decided that since I was taking a break I might usefully expand my empire while I was about it.’

‘That’s not expanding your empire, it’s called displacement activity,’ Pam said, giving him what his grandmother would have described as an old-fashioned look. ‘If you were a woman, you’d have bought shoes.’

‘Which proves my point about women,’ he said. ‘Real estate is a much better investment.’

‘And, assuming you were thinking at all, which I take leave to doubt,’ Pam continued, ignoring that and returning to the third part of his question, ‘I’d suggest it’s because you don’t think of me as a woman at all.’

‘Which is the highest compliment I could pay you.’

‘Is that right? And you’re surprised that Candy Harcourt dumped you?’

Surprised was not actually the first word that had come to mind. Relieved…Evading the question, he said, ‘So, is this Wedding Fayre your idea of payback for leaving you to do your job?’

‘Well, if I’d known you were going to be here, that would definitely have been a bonus. As it is, like you, I was being realistic. This is business. I am doing my job. Looking after your interests in your absence.’ She gave him a long, hard look. ‘And, as my last word on that subject, I suggest you go down on your knees and thank Candida Harcourt-or should I say The Honourable Mrs Quentin Turner Lyall-for letting you off the hook.’

‘She actually married him?’

‘It’s true love, according to Celebrity.’ Then, when he scowled at the mention of the magazine, ‘Be grateful,’ she said, misunderstanding his reaction. ‘Divorce would have cost you a lot more than the fancy wedding she ran out on.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ He dragged his hair back from his forehead. It immediately flopped over his forehead again. It needed cutting…

‘It’s not you that I doubt.’ She shrugged. ‘Impoverished aristocracy are always a risk. Marrying for money goes with the territory. In the old days they had no choice but to stick with the deal, but these days divorce is just as profitable. Not that I’m suggesting your only attraction was fiscal.’

‘In other words, she was just amusing herself with a bit of rough? Got carried away for a moment…’

Something else she had in common with her old school chum, Sylvie Smith. No wonder she’d cried. He’d only lost Candy while her indiscretion could have lost her the ermine and the guaranteed seat at the next coronation…

Pam raised her hands in a gesture that could have meant anything but, taking the opportunity to change the subject, he indicated the noises off in the entrance hall.

‘I appear to have no choice but to accept that this is a done deal. How long is it going to last?’

‘The Fayre? It’ll all be over by Monday.’

‘A week? I’ve got to put up with pink ribbons on my gates for a week?’ he demanded.

‘Be glad this isn’t Italy-everyone would be congratulating you on the birth of a daughter.’

‘That’s not remotely funny,’ he declared. Anything but.

‘For heaven’s sake, Tom, lighten up.’ Then, more gently, ‘If you’d given me some indication that you were coming home I’d have warned you what was happening. Why don’t you go back to London? Catch up with everyone. Longbourne Court will still be here next week.’

‘Nice idea, but I’ve arranged to meet Mark Hilliard here this morning.’

‘I could put him off until next week.’

‘No,’ he said, hauling himself out of the chair and heading for the door. ‘I want to get started.’ He wanted to subject the house to his will; making it entirely his would draw a line under the whole affair. ‘Give me twenty minutes to take a shower and you can bring me up to date. There is hot water, I take it?’

‘Plenty. I’ll get Mrs Kennedy to make up the bed in the master suite.’

‘Thanks. And if you were serious about the coffee, that would be good too.’

‘I’ll get on to it.’ Then, as he opened the door, she called, ‘Oh, Tom! Wait! Before you go, I should warn you-’

‘Twenty minutes,’ he repeated, closing it behind him, then stood back as two men manhandled a large sheet of plywood through the hall and into the ballroom.

He’d been away for months; there wasn’t a thing that wouldn’t wait another twenty minutes.

He fetched his overnight bag from the car, then headed for the stairs.

His foot was on the first step when the sound of a woman’s voice drifting from the drawing room riveted him to the spot.

‘I like to start with the colours, Lucy.’

He dropped the bag, moved closer. Heard someone else say, ‘This is going to be a spring wedding, so…what? Primroses, daffodils…Yellow?’

‘No.’ The word was snapped out. Then, more gently, ‘Not yellow. April is getting late for daffodils. I did see violets as I drove in through the wood, though. Why don’t you take a tour of the exhibitors and bring me anything and everything you can find from deepest violet through to palest mauve? With just a touch of green, I think.’

‘Anything special?’

‘Ribbons, jewellery, accessories. Ask the florist what he’ll have available. And don’t forget to make a note of where everything came from…’

She had her back to him, standing shadowed by the deep embrasure of the door as she quietly absorbed everything that was going on but, long before she turned, stepped forward into the sunlight streaming in through front doors propped wide open for workmen carrying in a load of steel trestles, he knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

He’d spent an entire afternoon listening to it as they’d gone, item by item, through her account. Watching her unbutton her jacket. Moisten her lips.

All the time he’d been away it hadn’t been Candy’s last-minute change of heart that had kept him from sleeping.

It had been the flush on Sylvie Smith’s cheeks. The memory of long legs, a glimpse of lace.

Her hot body moulded to his.

Her pitiful tears.