What if he decided to head straight for the airport, put as much distance between them as possible? It was what he’d done when Candy had let him down.
She froze. Was it possible that he’d only just come back? That he’d never received her letter?
No. That wasn’t possible. Despite her promise to him-to herself-she’d cracked, had asked him if he’d got it. She’d never forget his dismissive nod. And a long time later, “I’m sorry…”
None of this made sense. She had to talk to him. She dialled Enquiries for the number of his London apartment, but inevitably, it was unlisted. And there was no point in calling his office on a Saturday night. But she did that too. If he was there he didn’t pick up.
There was nothing for it but to drive to London and confront him, face to face. Scooping up one of the sandwiches Mrs Kennedy had made and grabbing up her keys from the kitchen table, she ran for her car.
Tom let himself into his apartment. It was immaculate. Everything was pristine. Characterless. Empty.
As different from Longbourne Court as it was possible for it to be. In a week that rambling house had become his home. A place where he felt totally at ease.
But it would be forever linked to Sylvie. Everything he touched, every room, would bring back some memory of a smile, a gesture.
He’d never be able to walk into the morning room without remembering what he’d said to her.
Would never see violets blooming in the wood without the scent bringing back that moment when he’d come so close to reaching out to her. Betraying himself.
He tossed the keys on the table. Rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to bring some life, some warmth back to his skin.
Picked up one of the piles of mail that his cleaner had put to one side. She’d clearly tossed everything that was obviously junk mail and had sorted the rest into two piles. The stuff she knew was important she’d put in one, anything she was doubtful about in the other.
There wasn’t that much, considering how long it was since he’d been home, but all his business and financial stuff went to the office and most of his personal stuff too.
He began to shuffle through the envelopes, lost interest and tossed them back on the table, where they slithered on the polished surface and fell on the floor.
About to walk past, leave them, he saw a familiar square cream envelope, took a step back and then bent to pick it up.
It might have been coincidence that it was exactly the same as the envelope that he’d taken to the post office for Sylvie. It might have been if the handwriting hadn’t been the same.
When had she written to him?
There was no stamp. No postmark. No way of knowing how long it had lain here waiting for him to return. She must have delivered it by hand. She must have come here, pushed it through his letter box, waited for an answer that had never come.
She’d asked him if he’d got her letter and he’d thought she’d meant the one returning the money but he knew that it was this letter she’d been talking about and, with a sudden sense of dread, he pushed his thumb beneath the flap and, hand trembling, took out the single sheet of paper and opened it.
‘No!’
The word was a roar. A bellow of pain.
He didn’t wait to read the rest but grabbed the phone, put a call through to the house. It rang and rang and then the answering machine picked up. ‘There’s to be no damn wedding tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me, Sylvie? No wedding!’
Then he tried her cellphone, but only got a voicemail prompt. He repeated his message, then added, ‘I’m coming right back…’
Then, in desperation, he called the Kennedys’ cottage.
Her car refused to start. Her beloved, precious little car that had never once let her down, chose this moment to play dead. The lights. She’d driven through a patch of mist and had turned the lights on. And had forgotten to turn them off.
It took her ten minutes at a trot to reach the Kennedys’ cottage.
‘Don’t you fret, Sylvie,’ Mrs Kennedy said. ‘You just sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Mr Kennedy’s at a darts match, but the minute he comes home he’ll get his jump-leads and fix your car for you.’
‘I can’t wait. I’ll have to call a taxi.’
‘I’ll do that while you get your breath back.’
There was a half an hour wait and, while Mrs Kennedy went off to make ‘a nice cup of tea’, she decided to try and call Tom again, but her phone, which had been working overtime all day, chose that moment to join her car and give up the ghost.
‘Stupid, useless thing,’ she said, flinging it back into her bag, too angry to cry.
It was nearer an hour before she heard the taxi finally draw up outside the cottage and she didn’t wait for the driver to knock but just grabbed her bag, kissed Mrs Kennedy and ran down the path to the gate.
And came to a full stop.
Leaning against the fearsome Aston, arms folded, was Tom McFarlane. And he didn’t look happy.
She opened her mouth. Saw what he was holding and closed it again.
Apparently satisfied, he straightened, opened the car door and said, ‘Get in.’
He didn’t sound happy either and while, as recently as sixty seconds ago, she’d been fuming with impatience to see him, talk to him, that suddenly felt like the most dangerous idea in the entire world.
‘You’ve got everything wrong, Tom,’ she said, her feet apparently glued to the path.
‘Nowhere near as wrong as you, Sylvie.’
‘I don’t actually think that’s possible,’ she said, finally snapping.
He was angry? Well, she wasn’t exactly dancing with delight either and, freed by righteous indignation, she swept down the path and, ignoring the open car door, she walked away from him and his car. She’d rather walk…
‘Sylvie!’ It was a demand rather than a plea. Then, with a sudden catch in his throat, ‘Sylvie, don’t do it…’ She faltered. ‘I’m begging you. Please…’
She stopped and, when he spoke again, he was right behind her.
‘Please don’t marry Jeremy Hillyer.’
It was true, then. He’d really thought she was going to marry Jeremy.
‘But you’ve been helping me all week,’ she said. ‘Coming up with great ideas for the wedding. This afternoon you wrote me a note wishing us all the best. What’s different now?’
‘Everything. I thought the baby was his. I was coming home two months ago. Coming to see you. I didn’t know if you’d even talk to me but I had to try. I was in the airport, the boarding card in my pocket when I saw you smiling out of the cover of
‘But I wrote to you, Tom. I told you about the baby. I asked you if you’d got it.’
‘I thought you meant the one about the money. My secretary emailed me to tell me that you’d returned it, asking me what to do with it, and I realised what you must have thought. It wasn’t like that, Sylvie. I’d always intended to pay you in full. The cheque I wrote, put in my pocket, was for your whole fee.’
‘Oh.’
‘I told her to give it to charity, if that’s any consolation.’ Then, ‘I didn’t get this letter until this evening, Sylvie. I didn’t know about our little girl…’
She blinked. ‘That’s impossible. I put it through your door myself. Two weeks after…’ She gestured helplessly at the gentle swell of her belly.
‘Which would have been perfect if I’d been there. I’ve been out of the country for six months, Sylvie. I only stopped to pick up my passport and then I caught the first plane with a free seat, just to put some space between us.’
‘Um…I thought you were going to Mustique…’
