by Jane Moore
When he told her she was pregnant, her initial shock had soon dissipated to make way for delight. She’d never contemplated a baby, but now it had happened it felt like the most natural thing in the world to go through with it.
Two weeks later she was considering dropping in at the foundry to see David—she’d never had his address—when he knocked at her door late one night. As he lunged for her, she placed her hand against his chest and pushed him away. He looked surprised.
“David,” she smiled, “I have some news.”
“What?” he mumbled, trying to nuzzle her neck.
“We’re going to have a baby.”
He stopped nuzzling. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve been to the doctor’s for a test.”
“I see.”
“Are you pleased?” She took his hand.
His face had clouded and he was biting his lip. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it and gave her a quick smile. “I’m thrilled.” Then he pushed her back on the sofa, made love to her, and got up to leave. He promised to call her at the store the next day to make an arrangement for the coming weekend.
After a couple of weeks had passed, with no word from him, she had walked down to the foundry and asked the foreman where she might find David Wood. He told her Wood had left suddenly just over a week ago, and no one had a forwarding address.
She never heard from him again.
Even now, after all these years, Alice experienced a stab of pain at the memory. The anguish wasn’t for herself, she’d got over it years ago, but for Faye. Although her daughter said his absence had never troubled her, Alice was tormented by the idea that every woman should have a loving father by her side when she got married. She had resolved to be the best possible mother on Faye’s wedding day, and that meant voicing any doubts was out of the question.
An old muscular pain flared up in her right leg, and she stopped walking, tilting her face towards the morning sun. Looking back over her shoulder she could see the château jutting through the trees.
“Time to head back,” she muttered to herself. The return journey would be steeper and more strenuous on her leg.
“Is that you, dear?”
“No, Mum, it’s Princess Michael of Kent.” Faye dumped her handbag on the chair by the door. Her mother asked her the same question every time, and she was running out of famous names for sarcastic retorts.
She walked into the cramped kitchen where her mother was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. She was halfway through the Evening Standard crossword, spectacles perched on the end of her nose.
“Hello. Good day?” Alice looked up and smiled.
“Not bad. Not good.” It was the same answer she gave most days. “I’m off for a bath.” As she walked back down the corridor, she glanced at a framed photograph of her mother holding her when she was just a few months old; Faye was wearing a hideous, hand-knitted turquoise dress with matching bonnet.
For the most part, they got on well, but like most mothers and daughters a little distance was preferable. Living with Alice drove Faye to almost daily distraction. It was the little comments that did it, the ones that mothers can’t help making. “Oooh, you’re not going out with wet hair, are you, dear?” or “You really shouldn’t work so hard, you know.”
Faye would simply take a deep breath and mutter, “Mum, give it a rest.”
Of course, living with Alice also had major pluses: the home-cooked meals, the clean bedding, the clothes regularly washed and ironed—leaving aside the Prada cashmere sweater Alice had put into the machine, which would now fit a garden gnome.
It was a long way off purgatory, but Faye would still have preferred her own place. Trouble was, she couldn’t afford London prices, so Alice’s terraced house in East Sheen was her only option. Just a few miles outside central London, she had easy access to her modeling jobs and to a social life in town.
“Faye darling, I really don’t think you should be going out like that,” stuttered Alice one night, as her fifteen-year-old daughter was going out of the door in knee-high boots and a skirt that just skimmed her bottom.
“Shut up, Mum. You’re just an old fuddy-duddy,” she’d retorted.
As the door slammed, Alice had realized this was one of the times when she missed having a man about the house. If Faye had had a father, he would have stopped her going out dressed so provocatively.
By sixteen, she’d outgrown her rebellious phase and decided to get a Saturday job in the local TopShop. She loved clothes, and she got to chat to lots of different people, albeit briefly. It also provided her with a bit more pocket money than the weekly five pounds Alice scraped together.
Two weeks into the job, she was serving at the till when a woman walked up and handed over her business card. She worked for a modeling agency and said she thought Faye had “a certain something.”
After lots of heartfelt chats about the importance of a good education, Alice had reluctantly agreed to let her take on the occasional small promotional assignment outside school hours. At first she chaperoned her, but soon Faye was doing so much that it became impossible for Alice to tag along every time. It also meant that she discarded any ideas of taking A levels, preferring to earn money straight away.
By seventeen, she was taking on more lucrative fashion shoots for magazines. Alice was nervous that her daughter was entering such a shallow industry full-time and so young, but the money meant that they didn’t have to worry continually about where the next penny was coming from.
However, it also meant Faye had replaced her mother’s willing compliance with the sycophancy of makeup artists and photographic assistants who fulfilled her every whim.
Consequently, she still had a lot of growing up to do.
Saturday, June 29
10:20 a.m.
“Feeling any better?” Tony looked at Mark questioningly as they strolled round the symmetrical gardens of the château. Huge topiaries lined the perfectly straight path that stretched in front of them, and in the distance, two rowing boats bobbed on the lake. The sun was just starting to gain strength.
“Marginally,” said Mark, although he didn’t. He was finishing off the last of a huge bacon baguette he’d ordered from room service. “Although being targeted by Alice on the way out didn’t help. She’s fretting about everything going smoothly.”
“I got collared by her too,” said Tony.
“She’s terribly sweet,” Mark continued, “but I don’t think there’s enough going on in her life. She worries about the slightest thing.”
“I suppose all mothers do on their daughter’s wedding day.”
“Well, she’s got no reason to—Faye and I will be together forever.” Mark took the last scrap of bacon out of his sandwich, ate it, and lobbed the bread into a nearby bush.
“Mark—” Tony stopped abruptly as his brother’s hand appeared in front of his face.
“If you’re going to say something negative, don’t. I’m not in the mood.” It felt strange standing up to Tony for once, but Mark was determined nothing would spoil the day.
But Tony ignored him. “Some things need to be said, particularly at such a crucial time.”
Mark stopped walking and let out an irritable sigh. “Like what, Tony? What exactly is it that you’d like to say?” He stuck his hands on his hips. “Let’s get it out of the way now so that I can get on with enjoying my day.”
Tony put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. Unusually, for such a consistently assured man, he looked pensive. He scraped his shoe back and forth on the pathway. “What if you found out something about her that you didn’t know?”
“Like what?” Mark said suspiciously.
Tony shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked away towards the château. “Just something about her that she hadn’t told you, something significant.”
“Like what? That she used to be a man?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Chrissakes, where are you going with this? You clearly thi
nk you know something about Faye that I don’t, so just spit it out and be done with it.”
Tony had now scraped a visible rut in the gravel path. He stared into the middle distance over Mark’s shoulder. “It’s just something I saw last night . . .” He trailed off awkwardly.
Mark’s expression changed from irritation to curiosity. “What was it?”
Several seconds passed and Tony said nothing.
“Tony, I asked you what you saw,” said Mark, more urgently.
“I was going to the gents’ when I . . .” Tony took stock of what he was trying to say. “She was in a little locker room with Nat.”
They were still and quiet enough for a bird to land just three feet from them. It flew off as soon as Mark spoke. “And?” His cheeks were flushed and his pupils had dilated. “What were they doing?”
Tony chewed his lip, something he’d done as a child when he felt uncomfortable. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he had his hand here.” He extended his arm and placed a hand on Mark’s ribcage. “She sprang away from him when she saw me.”
Mark’s face betrayed no emotion. “Is that it?” he asked quietly.
“Sorry?”
“You saw them talking, and he had his hand here.” Mark copied the move. “Is that it?”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much, but she looked pretty guilty when she saw me. And sneaking off with your ex-boyfriend isn’t ideal behavior on the night before your wedding, is it?”
Mark laughed hollowly. “Oh, get real, this isn’t the bloody Dark Ages! Men and women are allowed to be friends, you know. Talking to a member of the opposite sex isn’t a crime. Not unless you’re a jealous paranoiac, anyway, and I’m not.”
“True. But she told me he still has feelings for her.”
“She told you that?” Mark looked surprised. “Why?”
“Because I asked her what was going on.”
“I see.” Mark dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “What exactly did she say about these . . . er . . . feelings?” He looked a little less cocksure about his fiancée’s “chat” with her ex-boyfriend.
“Dunno.” Tony looked uninterested. “She just said he’d dragged her into the locker room to tell her he still had feelings for her.”
“Well, there you go!” Mark’s face had brightened. “Just because some ex still has feelings for her—and let’s face it, what man wouldn’t?—doesn’t mean she’s going to respond. She was just giving him the polite brush-off.”
“Hmmm . . .” Tony looked unconvinced. “I wish I could share your charming optimism about life, I really do.”
“Well, I don’t believe in being suspicious about everything.” His face became serious. “Unless there’s something else you heard or saw that you’re not telling me?”
“Nope, that was pretty much it. But, as I said, irrespective of who took who in there, or who said what, I still don’t think it was wise behavior on the part of a woman who’s about to get married.”
Mark looked straight at him. “But it’s not about what you think, is it? You’re not the one marrying her.”
Tony didn’t say anything: he simply shrugged in an “it’s your life” fashion.
Mark started walking towards the orangery at the bottom of the château gardens. “Is that what all the fuss was about last night? You know, when you asked her if she’d ever been unfaithful to me? You were bloody out of order saying that in front of our guests.”
“I know. And I apologized. But Faye didn’t look too bothered and I suspect she can be quite volatile. I’m sure she’s embarrassed herself enough times with her own behavior.”
Mark nodded slowly. “Oh, I get it. You’ve been talking to Brian, haven’t you?”
“Brian?” Tony looked puzzled. “No, I haven’t. But, from that, I assume he’s witnessed an example of her volatility.”
Mark flushed, cross with himself for having opened his mouth too soon. “Yes,” he acquiesced. “They don’t really get on, but it’s only because they’re quite similar.”
Tony looked at him skeptically. “If you’re saying that Brian would describe her as a little temperamental, I’d already worked that out for myself. I’ve met lots of women like her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like her. She’s sparky, great company, and bloody amazing to look at. But those are her good points. It’s the bad ones I’m worried about.”
“Everyone has their bad points,” said Mark, sullenly. “Even you.”
Tony held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m riddled with them, mate, I know that. But you’re not marrying me. Faye’s feisty and unpredictable and it takes a certain person to harness that and—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mark cut in irritably. “And I’m not that person. Not according to Tony the bloody oracle anyway.”
A hotel maid shuffled past them, her arms stuffed with creased bed linen, and mumbled, “Bonjour.”
Tony waited until she was out of earshot before he said, “Take it as a compliment. What I’m saying is that you don’t have the necessary tough streak to deal with her.”
“What should I do, then? Just give her a good slap every so often?” Mark’s tone was heavily sarcastic.
Tony ignored it. “I’m talking about mental toughness, as you well know. Faye’s like one of those high-maintenance thoroughbred horses who think they call all the shots. You have to play a long, hard game, and while you never truly control them, and vice versa, you at least reach a compromise.”
Mark made no attempt to hide his incredulity. “You’re comparing dating women to taming horses?” he scoffed. “And there I was thinking you lived in the PC capital of the world.”
“Look, forget political correctness Mark,” Tony said irritably. “This is your life we’re talking about. You can be as modern as you like, but relationships are hard enough as it is and if you marry someone whose personality clashes with yours it’s going to be disastrous.”
“Opposites attract,” Mark retorted.
“Indeed they do. They shag each other senseless, wait for the honeymoon period to be over, then split up because they don’t get on out of the bedroom. They don’t get married.”
“We don’t clash very often, and certainly not dramatically,” said Mark.
“That, I suspect, is because you let her get away with any bad behavior. Anything for a quiet life, eh? After a while, your silence will be seen as weakness and she’ll end up despising you for it.” He lowered his voice. “The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.”
Mark stared wordlessly ahead, then tilted his face towards the sunshine filtering through the clouds. He showed no sign of responding.
Tony’s brow was furrowed in thought. “Even Shakespeare wrote about it,” he continued. “The Taming of the Shrew—ever read it?”
Mark shook his head, looking glummer by the second.
“No man could get through to Kate until old Petrucchio came along and started dishing out the same treatment to her that she gave to others.” Tony looked at Mark to see if he was listening. “It was the only language she understood and before long she fell madly in love with him.”
“That’s all very fascinating,” Mark mumbled, “but two wrongs don’t always make a right.”
Tony raised his eyes heavenward. “Don’t be so bloody idealistic all the time! I’m not suggesting we all have to go through life behaving appallingly to each other, I’m just saying that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. You know, show them you won’t put up with irrational monstrousness.”
“What’s to say I don’t? You’ve spent one evening in our company and already you think you’re an expert on our relationship?”
Tony stepped into the spectacular orangery, its lavishly decorated ceiling depicting God and the angels, whose wings were picked out in gold leaf. He admired it for a few moments, while he waited for his brother to follow him. A small wooden bench was positioned
against the far wall, and Mark strolled over to it and sat down.
Tony moved towards him, but stopped a few paces away. “I don’t think I’m an expert,” he said, “but I know you inside out and she has a dominant personality.”
“And you think I’m a pushover.”
“No, I don’t think that at all. Kate’s feisty and you and she had a great relationship. You rose to any challenge together and you were equals. I just don’t get the same feeling about you and Faye. You seem in her thrall, much more acquiescent than you were with Kate.”
“Like you and Melissa?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, let’s face it, she never stood up to you. You dominated her. She dressed how you wanted her to, gave up most of her friends to follow you everywhere, and basically worshipped the ground you walked on.”
The blood drained from Tony’s face and his expression hardened. “You shouldn’t speak ill of Melissa, she’s got nothing to do with this,” he said quietly.
“I wasn’t aware I was speaking ill of her,” Mark replied. “I don’t regard being a nice person who’s madly in love with their partner as a weakness, but you clearly do.”
“My relationship with her is irrelevant.”
“Oh I see.” Mark stood up and walked past him. He stopped a couple of feet away. “You can pass comment on my relationship, but yours is strictly off-limits. That’s the deal, is it?”
The two brothers faced each other, Mark determined, Tony thoughtful but impassive. After several tense seconds in which neither spoke, Mark glanced at his watch and headed for the door. As he reached it, he stopped and turned back. “Read my lips, Tony. In just under five hours’ time, I will be saying, ‘I will,’ with Faye at my side. If you can’t handle that, I suggest you leave now.”
He bowed his head, stepped outside, and started to walk back to the hotel.
Saturday, June 29
10:25 a.m.