Richard gazed at her face for a few moments.
“Gillian said something very similar to me,” he said at last.
“Gillian,” said Fleur, “is a wise woman.”
“Where’s Zara?” said Antony, bored with obscure adult talk. He looked around. “Zara?”
“Zara, sweetie,” said Fleur impatiently. “Get out of the car.”
Slowly, cautiously, Zara climbed out of the Rolls-Royce. She stood still for a moment like a hostile cat, looking around as though suddenly unsure of her surroundings. Antony was reminded of the first time he’d seen her.
“OK,” she said, catching his eye. “Well, we’re back.” She scuffed her foot on the ground. “You know. If you want us.”
“Of course we want you!” said Antony. “Don’t we, Dad?”
“Of course we do,” said Richard.
He gently let go of Fleur’s hands and went over to Zara.
“Come on, Zara,” he said kindly. “There’s someone inside who very much wants to meet you.”
“Who?” said Fleur at once.
“I think you know who, Fleur,” said Richard, looking straight at her.
For a moment they gazed challengingly at each other. Then, as if in acquiescence, Fleur gave a tiny shrug. Richard nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, and turned back to Zara.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on, little Zara. We’ve had our turn. It’s your turn now.” And putting his arm tenderly round Zara’s narrow, bony shoulders, he led her slowly into the house.
THE END
Keep reading for a sneak peek of more Madeleine
Wickham novels you won’t want to miss!
THE WEDDING GIRL
Available in hardcover from Thomas Dunne Books
At the age of eighteen, in that first golden Oxford summer, Milly was up for anything. Now, ten years later, Milly is a very different person. Engaged to a man who is wealthy, serious, and believes her to be perfect—she is facing the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable. Milly’s past is locked away so securely she has almost persuaded herself that it doesn’t exist—until, with only four days to go, her secret catches up with her . . . And when “I do” gives you déjà vu, it could be a problem.
SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS
Available in Griffin Trade Paperback edition
When two families arrive at a villa in Spain for their vacation, they get a shock—it has been double-booked. An uneasy week of sharing begins, and tensions soon mount in the soaring heat. But the temperature isn’t solely to blame: There’s a secret history between the families—and as tempers fray, an old passion begins to resurface . . . With her trademark style of keen insight and razor-sharp wit, Madeleine Wickham will keep you on the edge of your seat. So sit back, grab a cool drink, and get ready for a wonderfully wicked trip you’ll not soon forget!
COCKTAILS FOR THREE
Available in Griffin Mass Market edition
Each month, three staffers of The Londoner gather at a nearby lounge for a night of cocktails and gossip. But the events of one April evening will have permanent repercussions for the trio. Madeleine Wickham combines her trademark humor with poignant insight to create an edgy, romantic tale of secrets, strangers, and a splash of scandal.
The Wedding Girl
A group of tourists had stopped to gawp at Milly as she stood in her wedding dress on the registry office steps. They clogged up the pavement opposite while Oxford shoppers, accustomed to the yearly influx, stepped round them into the road, not even bothering to complain. A few glanced up towards the steps of the registry office to see what all the fuss was about, and tacitly acknowledged that the young couple on the steps did make a very striking pair.
One or two of the tourists had even brought out cameras, and Milly beamed joyously at them, revelling in their attention; trying to imagine the picture she and Allan made together. Her spiky, white-blond hair was growing hot in the afternoon sun, the hired veil was scratchy against her neck, the nylon lace of her dress felt uncomfortably damp wherever it touched her body. But still she felt light-hearted and full of a euphoric energy. And whenever she glanced up at Allan—at her husband—a new, hot thrill of excitement coursed through her body, obliterating all other sensation.
She had only arrived in Oxford three weeks ago. School had finished in July—and while all her friends had planned trips to Ibiza and Spain and Amsterdam, Milly had been packed off to a secretarial college in Oxford. “Much more useful than some silly holiday,” her mother had announced firmly. “And just think what an advantage you’ll have over the others when it comes to job-hunting.” But Milly didn’t want an advantage over the others. She wanted a suntan and a boyfriend, and beyond that, she didn’t really care.
So on the second day of the typing course, she’d slipped off after lunch. She’d found a cheap hairdresser and, with a surge of exhilaration, told him to chop her hair short and bleach it. Then, feeling light and happy, she’d wandered around the dry, sun-drenched streets of Oxford, dipping into cool cloisters and chapels, peering behind stone arches, wondering where she might sunbathe. It was pure coincidence that she’d eventually chosen a patch of lawn in Corpus Christi College; that Rupert’s rooms should have been directly opposite; that he and Allan should have decided to spend that afternoon doing nothing but lying on the grass, drinking Pimm’s.
She’d watched, surreptitiously, as they sauntered onto the lawn, clinked glasses, and lit up cigarettes; gazed harder as one of them took off his shirt to reveal a tanned torso. She’d listened to the snatches of their conversation which wafted through the air towards her and found herself longing to know these debonair, good-looking men. When, suddenly, the older one addressed her, she felt her heart leap with excitement.
“Have you got a light?” His voice was dry, American, amused.
“Yes,” she stuttered, feeling in her pocket. “Yes, I have.”
“We’re terribly lazy, I’m afraid.” The younger man’s eyes met hers: shyer, more diffident. “I’ve got a lighter; just inside that window.” He pointed to a stone mullioned arch. “But it’s too hot to move.”
“We’ll repay you with a glass of Pimm’s,” said the American. He’d held out his hand. “Allan.”
“Rupert.”
She’d lolled on the grass with them for the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sun and alcohol; flirting and giggling; making them both laugh with her descriptions of her fellow secretaries. At the pit of her stomach was a feeling of anticipation which increased as the afternoon wore on: a sexual frisson heightened by the fact that there were two of them and they were both beautiful. Rupert was lithe and golden like a young lion; his hair a shining blond halo; his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face. Allan’s face was crinkled and his hair was greying at the temples, but his grey-green eyes made her heart jump when they met hers, and his voice caressed her ears like silk.
When Rupert rolled over onto his back and said to the sky, “Shall we go for something to eat to night?” she’d thought he must be asking her out. An immediate, unbelieving joy had coursed through her; simultaneously she’d recognized that she would have preferred it if it had been Allan.
But then Allan rolled over too, and said, “Sure thing.” And then he leaned over and casually kissed Rupert on the mouth.
The strange thing was, after the initial, heart-stopping shock, Milly hadn’t really minded. In fact, this way was almost better: This way, she had the pair of them to herself. She’d gone to San Antonio’s with them that night and basked in the jealous glances of two fellow secretaries at another table. The next night they’d played jazz on an old wind-up gramophone and drunk mint juleps and taught her how to roll joints. Within a week, they’d become a regular threesome.
And then Allan had asked her to marry him.
Sleeping Arrangements
It was too hot to work, thought Chloe, standing back and pushing tendrils of wispy fair hair off her forehead. Certainly too hot to be standing in this
airless room, corseting an anxious overweight girl into a wedding dress which was almost certainly two sizes too small. She glanced for the hundredth time at her watch, and felt a little leap of excitement. It was almost time. In only a few minutes the taxi would arrive and this torture would be over, and the holiday would officially begin. She felt faint with longing, with a desperate need for escape. It was only for a week—but a week would be enough. A week had to be enough, didn’t it?
Away, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. Away from it all. She wanted it so much it almost scared her.
“Right,” she said, opening her eyes and blinking. For a moment she could barely remember what she was doing, could feel nothing but heat and fatigue. “Well, I’ve got to go—so perhaps we could leave it there for today? If you do want to go ahead with this particular dress—”
“She’ll get into it,” cut in Mrs. Bridges with quiet menace. “She’ll just have to make an effort. You can’t have it both ways, you know!” Suddenly she turned on Bethany. “You can’t have chocolate fudge cake every night and be a size twelve!”
“Some people do,” said Bethany miserably. “Kirsten Davis eats what she likes and she’s size eight.”
“Then she’s lucky,” retorted Mrs Bridges. “Most of us aren’t so lucky. We have to choose. We have to exercise self-control. We have to make sacrifices in life. Isn’t that right, Chloe?”
“Well,” said Chloe. “I suppose so. Anyway, as I explained earlier, I am actually going on holiday today. And the taxi’s just arrived to take us to Gatwick. So perhaps if we could arrange—”
“You want to look like a princess! Every girl wants to make the effort to look her best on the day she gets married. I’m sure you did, didn’t you?” Mrs. Bridges’s gimlet gaze landed on Chloe. “I’m sure you made yourself look as beautiful as possible for your wedding day, didn’t you?”
“Well,” said Chloe. “Actually—”
“Chloe?” Philip’s mop of dark curly hair appeared round the door. “Sorry to disturb—but we do have to get going. The taxi’s here . . .”
“I know,” said Chloe, trying not to sound as tense as she felt. “I know it is. I’m just coming—” when I can get rid of these bloody people who arrive half an hour late and won’t take a hint, her eyes silently said, and Philip gave an imperceptible nod.
“What was your wedding dress like?” said Bethany wistfully as he disappeared. “I bet it was lovely.”
“I’ve never been married,” said Chloe, reaching for her pinbox. If she could just prise the girl out of the dress . . .
“What?” Mrs. Bridges’s eyes darted to Bethany, then around the room strewn with snippets of wedding silk and gauze, as though suspecting a trick. “What do you mean, you’ve never been married? Who was that, then?”
“Philip’s my long-term partner,” said Chloe, forcing herself to remain polite. “We’ve been together for thirteen years.” She smiled at Mrs. Bridges. “Longer than a lot of marriages.”
And why the hell am I explaining myself to you? she thought furiously.
Because three fittings for Bethany plus six bridesmaids’ dresses is worth over a thousand pounds, her brain swiftly replied. And I only have to be polite for ten more minutes. I can bear ten minutes. Then they’ll be gone—and we’ll be gone. For a whole week. No phone calls, no newspapers, No worries. No-one will even know where we are.
Gatwick Airport was as hot, crowded, and noisy as it had ever been. Queues of charter-flight passengers lolled disconsolately against their trolleys; children whined and babies wailed. Tannoy voices almost triumphantly announced delay after delay.
All of it washed over the head of Hugh Stratton, standing at the Regent Airways Club Class check-in desk. He felt in the inside pocket of his linen blazer, produced four passports and handed them to the girl behind the desk.
“You’re travelling with . . .”
“My wife. And children.” Hugh pointed to Amanda, who was standing a few yards away with the two little girls clutching one leg. Her mobile phone was clamped to her ear; as she felt his gaze she looked up, took a few steps towards the desk and said, “Amanda Stratton. And these are Octavia and Beatrice.”
“Fine,” said the girl, and smiled. “Just have to check.”
“Sorry about that, Penny,” said Amanda into the mobile. “Now before I go, let me just check the colours for that second bedroom . . .”
“Here are your boarding passes,” smiled the girl at Hugh, handing him a sheaf of wallets. “The Club Class lounge is on the upper level. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thank you,” said Hugh. “I’m sure we will.” He smiled back at the girl, then turned away, pocketing the boarding passes, and walked towards Amanda. She was still talking into her mobile phone, apparently oblivious that she was standing bang in the path of passengers queuing for Economy check-in. Family after family was skirting around her—the men eyeing up her long, golden brown legs, the girls looking covetously at her Joseph shift dress, the grannies smiling down at Octavia and Beatrice in their matching pale blue denim smocks. His entire family looked like something out of a colour supplement, Hugh found himself thinking dispassionately. No imperfections, nothing out of place.
“Yup,” Amanda was saying as he approached. She thrust a manicured hand through her dark, glossy crop, then turned it over to examine her nails. “Well, as long as the linen arrives on time . . .”
Just a sec, she mouthed at Hugh, who nodded and opened his copy of the Financial Times. If she was on the phone to the interior decorator, she might be a while.
It had emerged only recently that several rooms in their Richmond house were to be redecorated while they were in Spain. Which ones precisely, Hugh still wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure quite why any of the house needed redoing so soon—after all, they’d had the whole place gutted and done up when they’d bought it, three years ago. Surely wallpaper didn’t deteriorate that quickly?
But by the time Amanda had brought him on board the whole house-doing-up project, it had been obvious that the basic decision—to do up or not to do up?—had already been made, presumably at some level far higher than his. It had also become crystal clear that he was involved only in a consultatory capacity, in which he had no powers of veto. In fact, no executive powers at all.
At work, Hugh Stratton was Head of Corporate Strategy of a large, dynamic company. He had a parking space in front of the building, a respectful personal assistant, and was looked up to by scores of young, ambitious executives. Hugh Stratton, it was generally acknowledged, had one of the finest grasps of commercial strategy in the business world today. When he spoke, other people listened.
At home, nobody listened. At home, he felt rather like the equivalent of the third-generation family shareholder. Permitted to remain on the board because of sentiment and the family name, but frankly, most of the time, in the way.
Cocktails for Three
Candice Brewin pushed open the heavy glass door of the Manhattan Bar and felt the familiar swell of warmth, noise, light, and clatter rush over her. It was six o’clock on a Wednesday night and the bar was already almost full. Waiters in dark green bow ties were gliding over the pale polished floor, carrying cocktails to tables. Girls in slippy dresses were standing at the bar, glancing around with bright, hopeful eyes. In the corner, a pianist was thumping out Gershwin numbers, almost drowned by the hum of metropolitan chatter.
It was getting to be too busy here, thought Candice, slipping off her coat. When she, Roxanne, and Maggie had first discovered the Manhattan Bar, it had been a small, quiet, almost secretive place to meet. They had stumbled on it almost by chance, desperate for somewhere to drink after a particularly fraught press day. It had then been a dark and old-fashioned-looking place, with tatty bar stools and a peeling mural of the New York skyline on one wall. The patrons had been few and silent—mostly tending towards elderly gentlemen with much younger female companions. Candice, Roxanne, and Maggie had boldly ordered a round of cocktails and then sever
al more—and by the end of the evening had decided, amid fits of giggles, that the place had a certain terrible charm and must be revisited. And so the monthly cocktail club had been born.
But now, newly extended, relaunched, and written up in every glossy magazine, the bar was a different place. These days a young, attractive after-work crowd came flocking in every evening. Celebrities had been spotted at the bar. Even the waiters all looked like models. Really, thought Candice, handing her coat to the coat-check woman and receiving an art deco silver button in return, they should find somewhere else. Somewhere less busy, less obvious.
At the same time, she knew they never would. They had been coming here too long, had shared too many secrets over those distinctive frosted martini glasses. Anywhere else would feel wrong. On the first of every month, it had to be the Manhattan Bar.
There was a mirror opposite, and she glanced at her reflection, checking that her short, cropped hair was tidy and her make-up—what little there was of it—hadn’t smudged. She was wearing a plain black trouser suit over a pale green T-shirt—not exactly the height of glamour, but good enough.
Maggie Phillips paused outside the doors of the Manhattan Bar, put down her bulky carrier bag full of bright, stuffed toys, and pulled unceremoniously at the maternity tights wrinkling around her legs. Three more weeks, she thought, giving a final tug. Three more weeks of these bloody things. She took a deep breath, reached for her carrier bag again, and pushed at the glass door.
As soon as she got inside, the noise and warmth of the place made her feel faint. She grasped for the wall, and stood quite still, trying not to lose her balance as she blinked away the dots in front of her eyes.
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