Was that disappointment? Not the explanation she’d been looking for? Hoping for?
‘Food,’ she said, accepting it. ‘Something a man so wonderfully gifted with a potato masher must surely know all about.’
‘A man who lives alone needs to know how to cook.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that was a problem. Surely women are fighting over the chance to feed you, prove themselves worthy.’
‘Not the kind of women I date,’ he said.
And she blushed. He loved how she did that.
‘This should be right up your street, then,’ she said, ducking her head as she pushed the glossy menu brochure across the table to him. Then, holding on to it, she asked, ‘What would be your perfect wedding breakfast?’
There had been something intense about the way she’d said that, about the look she gave him. As if there was some deeper meaning. As if she was trying to tell him something.
‘Probably nothing in here,’ he admitted, waiting-although what for he could not have said.
She shrugged as she finally released it. ‘Surprise me.’
He picked it up, but couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wasn’t glamorous in the way that Candy had been glamorous. But she had some quality that called to him. A curious mixture of strength and vulnerability. She was a woman to match him, a woman he wanted to protect. A combination that both confused him and yet seemed to make everything seem so simple.
Except for the fact that she was carrying another man’s child. A man who’d run out on her when she’d needed him most. And apparently had to do nothing more than turn up to pick up the threads and carry on as if nothing had happened.
‘The deal is that I check out the menu, you eat,’ he said.
For a moment he thought she was going to argue, but then she picked up her fork, using the food as a shield to disguise the fact that she was blushing again. Something she seemed to do all the time, even though she’d responded to him like a tiger. The woman was a paradox. One he couldn’t begin to understand. Didn’t even try. Just waited until he was sure that she was eating, rather than just pushing the food around her plate, before he gave his full attention to the simpler task of choosing a menu for her wedding, just as, twelve months ago, she’d been choosing one for his.
Sylvie, watching Tom flicking through the sample menus, rediscovered her appetite. Somehow, talking to him, she’d finally managed to bury every last remnant of the hurt that Jeremy had caused her.
Learning that he’d met someone else in America, was getting married, the arrival of each of his children, had been a repetition of the knife plunge to her heart, each as painful as that first wound inflicted on the day he’d told her that they needed ‘a little space’. That he was going away for a while just when she’d needed him most.
Maybe if he hadn’t been her first love, her only love, she’d have got over it sooner. As it was, no one had touched her until Tom McFarlane had walked into her office and, with just one look, had jump-started her back into life, just as the garage jump-started her car when the battery was flat.
There would be no more tears over Jeremy Hillyer. Tom McFarlane had erased every thought of him; she’d scarcely recognised him when he’d turned up at that reception. Not because he’d aged badly, far from it. But because it was so easy to see him for the shallow man he’d always been.
No more tears for the girl she’d been either.
They’d threatened for a moment, but Tom had been there and they’d dried off like a summer mist.
The trick now would be to avoid shedding any over him.
He looked up from the brochure and, with an expression of disgust, said, ‘Is this really what people are expected to eat at weddings? Fiddly bits of fish. Girl food. We’ve got to be able to do better than that.’
We. The word conjured up a rare warmth but she mustn’t read too much into it. Or this.
‘The idea is that it’s supposed to look pretty on a plate,’ she said.
‘For
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Whose wedding is this?’ he demanded, disgusted. ‘What would you really choose? If you didn’t have to pander to the whims of a gossip magazine?’
Whoa…Where had that come from? It wasn’t just irritation, it was anger. As if it really mattered.
‘They are paying a lot of money to have their whims pandered to,’ she reminded him. ‘Besides, there are the Wedding Fayre exhibitors to think of. This is their big chance.’
‘It’s your wedding. You should have what you want.’
That did make her laugh. ‘If only, but I don’t think ten minutes with the registrar in front of two witnesses, followed by a fish and chip supper would quite fill the “fantasy” bill, do you?’
‘That’s what you’d choose?’
‘Quick, simple. Sounds good to me.’ Then, because his expression was rather too thoughtful, ‘That’s classified information, by the way.’
‘Of course. I realise how bad it would be for business if it got out that the number one wedding planner hated weddings.’
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘Didn’t you? Or are you saying that it’s only your own wedding that you can’t handle?’
‘I can handle it!’ Of course she could handle it. If she wasn’t here. If he wasn’t here. ‘It’s just that it’s all been a bit of a rush. I can’t seem to get a hold of it. Find my theme.’
‘Why don’t you wait until after the baby arrives? Isn’t that what most celebrities do these days?’
‘I’m not a celebrity,’ she snapped. ‘And the Wedding Fayre is this weekend.’
‘There’ll be other fayres.’
‘People are relying on me, Tom, and when I make a commitment, I deliver. It’s a done deal.’
‘So you’re going through this hoopla just for the sake of a donation to charity?’
‘It’s a really big donation, Tom. We’ll be able to do so much with the money. And I really do want to help local businesses.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
‘I thought we’d already agreed that it wasn’t, but who am I to judge?’ He sounded angry, which was really stupid. Her fault for making such a fuss, but before she could say so, apologise, he said, ‘Fish and chips?’
‘Out of the paper. Or sausage and mash. Something easy that you can eat with friends around the kitchen table.’
‘Well, it certainly beats anything I’ve seen in here,’ he agreed, tossing the menu brochure back on the pile of stuff she’d gathered during the afternoon. ‘I didn’t know there were so many ways of serving salmon.’
She groaned. ‘I loathe salmon. It’s just so…so…’
‘Pink?’ he offered, breaking the tension, and they both grinned.
‘That’s the word.’ Then, ‘Come on.’ She stood up, began to gather the plates. ‘Let’s clear this away and then we’ll go and take a look at the attics.’
‘Forget the attics. Go and sit down. I’ll bring you some coffee.’
She leaned back a little, pushed back a heavy strand of hair that had escaped the chiffon scarf and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve been running around all day. You need to put your feet up. Rest.’
‘Well, thanks for that, Tom. You’ve just made me feel about as attractive as a-’
‘You
‘That would be fat.’
‘Blooming.’
‘Just another word for fat.’
‘Glowing,’ he said, putting his hands on the table and leaning forward. ‘Apart from the dark smudges under your eyes that suggest you’re not getting enough sleep.’
‘Tired and fat. Could it be any worse?’
‘Well,’ he said, appearing to consider her question, ‘maybe you’re a little thinner about the face.’
About to protest, she caught the gleam in his eye and realised that he was teasing.
