The Independent Bride

by Sophie Weston

  ‘Yes, it’s all right, Martin. We had the release last week. She sent it in with her acceptance.’

  Martin gave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. There will be plenty of bidders.’

  Steven breathed hard. ‘Now, listen to me,’ he said in the voice that he had used only a couple of times in Kplant’s history. Nobody who heard it ever forgot it.

  It even stopped Martin Tammery for a moment. He took one look at Steven’s fierce expression and decided to put an approach to the regional news programmes on hold for a while.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bidders?’ said Steven in a frighteningly still voice.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Too late, Martin saw the trap in front of him. He did the best he could. ‘Erm—the two of you together are really good television. Nothing like a duel for keeping the punters tuned in.’

  ‘Punters?’ echoed Steven. He looked stunned. ‘That’s what she said.’

  Martin had missed Pepper’s diatribe, but the assistant looked so guilty that he got the point. ‘Don’t get excited, Steven—’

  ‘Oh, my God. She was right, wasn’t she? You’re going to splice bits together to make it look as if I did insult the woman. And then you’re going to sell the damned clip to some scandal hour.’

  Martin hurrumphed in deep offence. ‘It’s a very educational programme—’

  Steven waved that aside with contempt. ‘I want to see the whole recording,’ he said grimly. ‘From beginning to end. And I want to see it now.’

  Martin made a valiant stand for independence. ‘Not just at the moment, Steven. I’ve got some calls out—’

  ‘Now,’ said Steven implacably.

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand the timing constraints—’

  ‘No. You don’t understand, Martin. I want to see exactly what I said in there. And exactly how she reacted. Or,’ Steven said quite gently, ‘it won’t be her lawyers you have to worry about. It will be mine.’

  Martin Tammery looked at him for a long, frustrated moment. And believed him.

  They watched the programme in the small viewing suite. When it finished there was total silence.

  Then Steven swallowed audibly. ‘Oh—my—God.’

  Martin tried not to look smug. ‘A duel. I told you. Great television. You are,’ he added, not very tactfully but with perfect truth, ‘very well matched.’

  Steven ignored him. ‘It wasn’t my imagination,’ he said almost to himself. ‘She looked as if I’d hit her.’

  ‘Very interesting bit of body language,’ said Martin rising. ‘I’d say she hates your guts. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to speak to New York.’

  Steven blocked his way.

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I,’ said Steven gently, ‘have not signed my release form. Sell a single centimetre of that footage and I’ll sue the Y-fronts off you.’ He grasped Windflower’s hand, looking down at her remorsefully. ‘I owe you an apology, too. Adults do cry.’

  She nodded, without comment.

  His hold tightened. ‘Come on, Windflower. You and I have got things to put right. Lots of them.’

  Pepper closed the door of the flat behind her and leaned against it, her eyes tight shut. She was shaking. Four hours later and still in shock, she thought dispassionately.

  ‘Pepper?’

  Her eyes flew open, startled. Normally neither of her cousins was home before seven. But Izzy was standing in the kitchen doorway. She looked worried.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened? Has your grandmother been making trouble again?’ said Izzy in quick concern.

  Pepper gave a wry smile. Izzy was a lot more right than she could guess. Up to now it had only been Mary Ellen Calhoun who’d sent her into this chilled, sick state.

  ‘No,’ she said dryly. ‘This time it was someone else calling me a potato. And he did it on daytime television.’

  Izzy blinked. ‘Potato? Television? Oh, yes, it was your talk-show thing today, wasn’t it? But I don’t understand. Why would anyone call you a potato?’

  Pepper held her arms round herself protectively and pushed her shoulders away from the door. ‘That’s my grandmother’s word for it. It’s code. Not subtle. But it sure tells it like it is.’

  Izzy frowned in concern. ‘I don’t understand. We call people a couch potato sometimes. It means they slob around in front of the television and eat chips all day. No one could say you do that.’

  ‘What Grandmother means,’ said Pepper evenly, ‘is that I need to come down three dress sizes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I have no idea what Lord Zog meant. Probably just trying to be nasty.’ She pushed a hand through her damp hair. ‘And he did it, right on the button.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Izzy with quick sympathy. ‘Who is Lord Zog? Boils on the bum to him, anyway. Come and tell all.’

  Pepper allowed herself to be led into the bright, untidy kitchen. She sat at the breakfast bar and pushed the morning’s mail and a bright pot plant to one side. She could not get used to her cousins’ untidiness. Or the constant wicked laughter. Nobody laughed much at the Calhoun mansion. Or their easy, unspoken support for each other, though they could not have been less alike: good, lovely Jemima and wild, rule-breaking Izzy.

  Now, with Izzy bustling about making her the violent orange tea that they drank all the time, quite suddenly Pepper thought, I’m one of them, too.

  Her shoulders had been up round her ears. But at that thought they came down. Izzy put the mug of horrible stuff in front of her and Pepper put her hands round it. She realised that she wasn’t shaking any more.

  ‘How was the big interview?’ said Izzy over her shoulder. ‘Did Terry’s hair artistry do the business for you? Convince them you were a babe with a heart?’

  Pepper gave a sudden choke of laugher. ‘Do you know? I don’t know! I think it went fine.’

  ‘Wow. Only think? I thought this was make or break time?’

  ‘Well, I’ve done so many presentations to venture capitalists I know my speech backwards,’ said Pepper dismissively. ‘And I was so mad I forgot to be nervous.’

  Izzy sat down opposite her. ‘Mad because of—what did you call him? Lord Zog? Who is this man?’

  ‘British male tyrant. Standard issue,’ said Pepper grimly.

  Izzy was entertained. ‘So what did he do to you, exactly?’

  Pepper’s jaw clenched.

  ‘He told me I was too fat. And had too much money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Right there in the studio with two cameras rolling. He said—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, I’m so mad I could spit.’

  ‘I can see you are,’ said Izzy, impressed. ‘I hope you did.’

  Pepper thought about Steven Konig’s face as she left. ‘I did better than that. I called him ungentlemanly,’ she said with relish.

  Izzy stared. ‘That’s telling him!’ she said dryly.

  Pepper came back from her pleasant memory with a jump. ‘Well, he didn’t like it one bit.’

  ‘Er—Pepper, how old is this guy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Thirty-something, I guess. Why?’

  ‘I thought he had to be seventy. Look, a today kind of guy doesn’t give a hoot in hell if you call him ungentlemanly,’ she explained kindly. ‘That’s what equality is all about. Haven’t you noticed?’

  Pepper thought about it. ‘He cared,’ she said positively.

  Izzy shook her head. ‘You are something else. Have you been living in a time warp or something?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Pepper, stung. ‘I just have standards.’

  ‘You have a hole in the head,’ her cousin said frankly. ‘You know, Jay Jay and I were wondering why you didn’t go out with any of the guys you met here. We thought maybe there was someone in New York?’

  Pepper’s pale skin went paler. But she didn’t say anything.

  Izzy sighed. ‘Let me guess. He wasn’t a gentleman eithe
r. Oh, Pepper, what are we going to do with you?’

  Pepper swallowed. ‘Give me a crash course on the dating jungle?’ It was a brave attempt at humour. ‘Not that potatoes have high survival expectations out there anyway.’

  Izzy was shocked. ‘You’re not a potato,’ she said vehemently. ‘You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman.’

  ‘Who needs an exercise programme,’ supplied Pepper broodingly.

  ‘This guy really got to you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He had no right to say what he did. But he was not altogether wrong. I wouldn’t admit that outside this room.’ She looked at Izzy, half-defiant, half-sad. ‘Go on. Tell me the truth. I can take it.’

  Izzy moved restlessly about the kitchen, the mug of tea clasped in her hands like a protective talisman.

  ‘I’m not the person to ask about this,’ she said at last.

  There was a note in her voice which startled Pepper. ‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded.

  Izzy stood at the window, looking out onto the rain-washed balcony. Pepper thought she was not going to answer.

  And then she burst out, as if she could not contain it any longer, ‘Haven’t you noticed? Jemima never has dinner with us. Only takes coffee for breakfast.’

  Pepper was taken aback. ‘Well, she’s a model—’

  ‘And they have to watch their weight. I know. I know. But she hardly eats. And when she does I’m not sure how long it stays eaten,’ Izzy said blackly.

  Pepper was silenced, horrified.

  Izzy pulled herself together with a visible effort. ‘Maybe it’s nothing. Over-protective older sister, probably. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘Oh, Izzy.’ Pepper was full of compassion. ‘If there’s anything I can do…’

  Izzy gave a slightly shaky laugh. ‘Just don’t expect me to sympathise because some Neanderthal talks nonsense about weight, right? Even if they broadcast it worldwide it wouldn’t make any difference. Every right-thinking woman will be on your side.’

  Pepper smiled at her affectionately. But her smile died all too fast.

  ‘I don’t really care that much about what he said, actually. It’s me. My reaction. I think I may have—not reacted well.’

  Izzy was hopeful. ‘You mean you kicked him where it hurts as well as saying he wasn’t a gentleman?’

  She laughed. But it was an effort. ‘I damn near cried,’ she said baldly.

  Izzy knew that was no laughing matter.

  ‘Yeah. Quite. Think about it. I go out pitching for seed corn capital—and some clever researcher is going to say, Hey this woman is so unstable the moment she hits opposition she bursts into tears.’

  Pepper lined up the pot plant dead centre of the kitchen table.

  Concentrating on the task, she said, ‘Would you invest in someone like that? I wouldn’t.’

  Izzy had never asked anyone to invest in her in her life. She tried to think of something comforting to say. It was not easy.

  ‘Well, hey, it’s only business,’ she managed at last.

  Pepper looked up, her brown eyes very serious.

  ‘Not for me, it isn’t, Izzy. I’m a professional or I’m nothing.’

  Izzy was silenced.

  ‘And damn him to hell,’ said Pepper with concentrated fury, ‘Lord Zog made me feel like nothing.’

  Shopping for Windflower was astonishingly easy. Which was just as well, as more than half his mind was still on Pepper Calhoun.

  How dared she call him ungentlemanly? Who did she think she was, with her wild hair and pugnacious chin? She had mocked him from the moment she saw him today. Calling him Lord Zog, for heaven’s sake! Challenging him, too. She had no right to complain if he fought back.

  But—there were still those tears. Whichever way you looked at it, they were down to him. Hell!

  So it really was a relief that efficient Val had mapped out the shopping expedition for them precisely. Steven had no faith that he would have got through it under his own steam. Not even with a child as amazingly co-operative as Windflower.

  In fact she was so co-operative Steven began to wonder if she were well. Surely children were supposed to be more—well—vocal? Friends with children spoke feelingly of sulks and squabbles. But Windflower accepted every tee shirt or pair of trousers with dumb delight.

  In fact, from the moment she had discovered she could have both a pair of jeans and some shorts as well, she’d seemed to go into a trance. She did not ask for anything. She did not reject anything. She just held the clothes against her and stared in the mirror as if she were looking at Wonderland.

  ‘You don’t have to take anything you don’t like, you know,’ he said at last, worried by such total silence.

  She was holding a blue denim waistcoat with a lone star on the pocket. At his words she looked up, her grip tightening. But she still didn’t say anything.

  He looked at the sub-cowboy gear doubtfully. ‘Do you really like it?’

  Windflower nodded vigorously, her eyes huge.

  ‘Then—fine,’ said Steven, giving up.

  They bought shoes. And he was furious all over again when he found that the pair she was wearing had irreparable holes in the sole.

  ‘Must have been like that for quite a while,’ said the assistant, bringing trainers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steven, his mouth thin. ‘Throw them away.’

  Afterwards he said, ‘Now what? Chemist? Bookshop? Hairdresser?’

  Windflower skipped a bit. ‘Hairdressers are for grown-up ladies,’ she said.

  It sounded like a mantra she had learned a long time ago, Steven thought with sympathy.

  She looked at him sideways. ‘Do you like Pepper’s hair?’

  Steven jumped. ‘What?’

  ‘Pepper. Her hair is so cool. I wish I had hair like that. Don’t you think her hair is lovely?’

  He swallowed, disconcerted. Just for a few seconds his mind’s eye was full of waving red curls, gleaming like fire, looking as if they would be electric to touch. He swallowed. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t you like her?’

  He began to feel hounded. ‘I don’t know her. I like her well enough.’

  Windflower did not say anything. But she had a line in silent scepticism that would do credit to a woman four times her age.

  ‘Oh, all right, she annoyed me,’ said Steven, giving in. ‘Haven’t you ever been annoyed with anyone?’

  Windflower digested that. ‘I thought she was nice.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, maybe she is. You can’t always tell with just one meeting.’ He remembered his infinitely regretted shy goddess. ‘Or even two.’

  She walked beside him in silence for a bit.

  ‘So—will we see her again?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Steven, with a lot more emphasis than the question demanded. ‘Yes, we certainly will. And as soon as possible.’

  But it was not as easy as that.

  He called Indigo Television on his cellphone at once, but they were not inclined to help. Martin Tammery was still angry with him for spoiling his story and flatly refused to surrender a contact number.

  ‘We have a duty of care to our guests,’ he said pompously. ‘We cannot hand out their personal details. You might be a stalker.’

  Steven breathed hard. ‘Martin. I have never stalked anyone in my life.’

  ‘She still might not want to talk to you. You did,’ said Martin meanly, ‘call her a fat slob on air.’

  Steven’s control snapped. ‘I did not call her a fat—’ he yelled.

  By this time he and Windflower were on a District Line underground train, heading towards Paddington. Their fellow passengers looked interested. Windflower drummed her heels against the seat and looked round, beaming. She seemed to enjoy the attention.

  Steven moderated his voice. ‘Okay. Don’t give me a number. Will you just pass on a message for me?’

  But Martin was unforgiving. ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

  ‘But she might want to talk to me.�
��

  ‘She knows who you are. If she wants to get in touch she can call Queen Margaret’s. If she doesn’t, I’m not risking a mauling,’ Martin said frankly. ‘Goodbye, Steven.’

  So he’d have to go another way. Well, that would be okay. The woman was an entrepreneur, after all. She had to make herself available to investors. So someone would know how to contact her. How difficult could it be to track one of them down?

  Over the ensuing week he found out. Very difficult indeed.

  Calhoun Carter denied all knowledge of Ms Calhoun’s presence in the UK. They insisted she was still in New York and recommended an e-mail to her office. The e-mail went unanswered. As did his phone calls.

  So he tried the journalist who had seen her on the plane. Sandy Franks had fallen asleep at the New York conference after a particularly good lunch. His report on the afternoon session was pure fiction, primed by Steven’s notes. Sandy Franks owed him.

  But, even owing him, Sandy was not very helpful.

  ‘The Tiger Cub? You’re out of your depth there, old boy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Steven, irritated.

  ‘She bites,’ said Sandy frankly. ‘Not as lethal as her grandmother, the dreaded Mary Ellen. But coming along nicely for her age.’

  ‘She didn’t bite me.’ Steven was rueful. ‘Rather the reverse. I owe her an apology.’

  ‘Then steer clear. Unless you think you can live without your liver.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They bear grudges, the Calhouns. And they like to win. If you’ve beaten her at something, just thank your lucky stars and move on. Fast.’

  Steven thought of the pale face, the stunned eyes. Oh, she’d thrown out a challenge afterwards, all right. Of course she had. But when he had spouted all that damned nonsense about food and excuses she had looked as if he had struck her to the heart. Not like a tiger cub who would claw his liver out. Just a wounded woman.

  And he was the one who had delivered the wound. He hated that. It still brought him awake at nights. A couple of times he had heard himself shouting, ‘No,’ as a dream Pepper crumbled to dust in front of his horrified eyes.

  He wasn’t telling anyone about that dream. Instead he said casually, ‘I’d prefer to see her. Clear the air.’

  ‘You’re mad. Forget her.’