Ruthless Awakening

by Sara Craven

  She took a deep breath. ‘There—that’s off my chest. Until the next instalment, anyway. And I know there’s going to be one. I feel it.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Rhianna looked at her with fascinated horror. ‘Couldn’t Simon have a word with her?’

  Carrie sighed again. ‘I asked, but Simon’s very defensive about his mother. Says she’s still mourning his father, which I’m sure is true, and that we must make allowances—especially as we’ll be moving so far away.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, as I said, he seems in a world of his own these days.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rhianna picked up her brush and stroked it carefully through her hair, meeting her own watchful gaze in the mirror. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Like nearly missing today’s hair appointment, for one thing,’ Carrie said ruefully. ‘And a few times lately I’ve arranged to ring him at his flat, only he hasn’t been there. Says he forgot, and has stuff of his own to do, anyway.’

  ‘Probably hung over after his stag night and doesn’t want to admit it,’ Rhianna said lightly.

  Carrie stared at her. ‘But his stag party was ages ago. He went to Nassau with a bunch of guys from work. They got this special deal and stayed for a couple of extra days. Surely I told you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rhianna said. ‘Yes, of course you did. I’m an idiot.’

  How could I forget? How could I possibly forget the trip to Nassau, when it was only a couple of days later that I found out about the baby?

  She put down the brush, aware that her colour had risen swiftly, guiltily, again.

  ‘I keep telling myself that it doesn’t matter,’ Carrie went on. ‘That it will all be over soon and Simon and I will be on our own, making a new life for ourselves. That I’ll look back and laugh at all these niggles. Only…’

  ‘Only just for now you’d like to punch Mrs Rawlins’ lights out,’ Rhianna supplied briskly. ‘Perfectly understandable—even commendable.’

  ‘Oh, Rhianna.’ Smiling, Carrie slipped an arm through hers. ‘Thank heavens you’re here. Nothing is going to seem as bad from now on.’

  Oh, God, Rhianna thought, her stomach churning as they went downstairs. I just hope and pray that’s true.

  Her uneasiness increased when the first person she saw in the drawing room was Diaz, lounging in a chair by the open French windows, glancing through a magazine. The new toy, apparently, wasn’t as compelling as she’d hoped.

  As they came in he rose politely and smiled, but his eyes, slanting a glance at Rhianna, were as hard a grey as Cornish granite. She made herself walk calmly past him, choosing a deep easy chair where he’d be out of her sightline.

  But not, unfortunately, eliminated from her consciousness. She was still as aware of him, of his silent, forbidding presence, as if he’d come to stand beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

  She had also placed herself at a deliberately discreet distance from the sofas, where the two mothers were ensconced opposite each other—tacitly acknowledging her position as the outsider in this family gathering, but not so far away that she didn’t notice there was now a large, flat box beside Margaret Rawlins and wonder about it. But not for long.

  ‘Caroline, dear,’ Mrs Rawlins said, as her future daughter-in-law obediently took a seat beside her mother. ‘I was thinking the other day of that old rhyme, “Something old, something new…” and I remembered the very thing. I wore it at my wedding and kept it ever since—thinking, I suppose, that one day I’d have a daughter. But that wasn’t to be, of course. So I’d like you to carry on the tradition instead.’

  She lifted the lid of the box and carefully extracted from the folds of tissue paper inside a mass of white tulle, layer after layer of it, and a headdress shaped like an elaborate coronet, each of its ornamental stems crowned by a large artificial pearl.

  It looked, Rhianna thought dispassionately, like something the Wicked Queen might wear in a remake of Disney’s Snow White. Only not as good.

  In the terrible silence that followed, she did not dare look at Carrie.

  Eventually, Carrie said slowly, ‘Well, it’s a lovely thought, but I wasn’t actually intending to wear a veil, just some fresh flowers in my hair. Didn’t I explain that?’

  ‘Ah, but a bridal outfit is incomplete without a veil,’ said Mrs Rawlins brightly. ‘And although I’m sure your dress is very fashionable and modern, I know Simon is quite old-fashioned at heart, and he will like to see you in something rather more conventional too.’

  She paused. ‘You’ll have to be very careful with the coronet, of course. It’s extremely delicate, and one of the stems is already a little loose.’

  Rhianna found herself looking at Margaret Rawlins with fascination and some bewilderment. She recalled Simon’s mother as a perfectly pleasant woman, a good cook and devoted to her family, who had joined in all the local activities with open enjoyment.

  So how on earth had she come to turn into the Control Monster?

  As for her comments about Simon…

  Was it ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘conventional’ for a bridegroom to have been sleeping with someone else for the past three months? Telling that someone else that he loved her? Inventing that special deal in the Bahamas in order to be with her for a few stolen days? And eventually committing the overwhelming error of making her pregnant?

  My God, she thought, a tiny bubble of hysteria welling up inside her. What a truly great tradition to uphold.

  She glanced at Carrie and saw her looking anguished, while Moira Seymour’s mouth was tight with outrage.

  And then the door opened, and Mrs Henderson came in pushing a laden trolley. The tension, perforce, subsided—if only temporarily.

  It helped that it was a superb tea, with plates of tiny crustless sandwiches, a platter of scones still warm from the oven, accompanied by a large bowl of clotted cream and a dish of homemade strawberry jam, together with a featherlight Victoria sponge and a large, rich fruitcake.

  Mrs Rawlins fussed endlessly about getting the veil back into its protective wrappings before any of it was served—much to Rhianna’s regret. A well-aimed cup of tea would obviously have solved that particular problem for good.

  So she’d have to think of something else.

  As she returned her tea things to the trolley, she casually picked up the coronet and carried it over to the French windows, as if to examine it more closely.

  ‘Oh, do be careful.’ Mrs Rawlins’ voice followed her. ‘As I’ve said, one of the stems is very fragile.’

  ‘So it is, but I’m sure I can fix that,’ Rhianna said brightly, as her fingers discovered that the stem in question had actually become partly detached from the base.

  Well, I’m already the least favourite guest, she thought, so what have I to lose? And she gave it a sharp and effective tweak, before gasping loudly in dismay and turning contritely back to the owner.

  ‘Oh, heavens, it’s come off altogether now.’ Her voice quivered in distress. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Rawlins. I can’t believe I could be so clumsy.’

  ‘Let me see it at once.’ Margaret Rawlins was on her feet, her face furiously and unbecomingly flushed. ‘Perhaps it can be repaired.’

  ‘I doubt it very much.’ Diaz had risen too, unexpectedly, and was crossing to Rhianna’s side, taking the mutilated object from her hand. ‘It looks seriously broken to me. But it’s probably better for this to happen now instead of during the ceremony. That would have been really embarrassing.’ The smile he turned on the agitated Mrs Rawlins was charm personified. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ the older woman returned after a pause, lips compressed. ‘But I don’t know what Simon will say when he hears.’

  Rhianna stared down at the carpet, as if abashed, her long lashes veiling the sudden flare of anger in her eyes. Simon, she thought grimly, has other things on his mind to worry about.

  Fussily, Mrs Rawlins picked up the box with the veil. ‘You had better take this upstairs, Caroline—before there’s another accident,’ she added, with a fu
lminating glance at Rhianna.

  ‘Yes,’ Carrie said without enthusiasm. ‘Yes, of course.’ She glanced appealingly at Rhianna, who picked up the cue and immediately followed her.

  ‘You’re a star,’ Carrie said simply, tossing the box onto the bed in her room. ‘But what the hell am I going to do with a thousand yards of dead white tulle when I’m wearing ivory satin? Look.’

  The dress was lovely, Rhianna thought instantly as it was removed from its protective cover and displayed. A simple Empire line sheath, needing no other adornment but Carrie’s charming figure inside it.

  She considered. ‘What flowers are you wearing in your hair?’

  ‘Roses,’ Carrie said. ‘Gold and cream, like my bouquet.’ She took the veil from the box and lifted it up. ‘But they won’t be substantial enough to hold a weight like this.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to make it manageable.’ Rhianna paused. ‘Got a sharp pair of scissors handy?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Carrie. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Cement my reputation as the arch-vandal of the western world,’ Rhianna told her cheerfully. ‘Simon’s mother will never speak to me again, of course, but that’s a small sacrifice to make.’

  Besides, she would have far more powerful reasons to hate me—if she knew…

  She took the veil from Carrie and placed it on her own head, studying herself in the full-length mirror. ‘Heavens, it swamps me—and I’m taller than you. However, if we just use one layer we’ll be able to see your hair through the tulle, and the flowers will help too, of course. Besides, if I’m careful, it can all be sewn back together afterwards,’ she added, grinning, and gave Carrie an encouraging push towards the door. ‘Now—scissors and sewing kit.’

  Left alone, she picked up the dress with immense care and held it in front of her to see the whole effect. She’d use the veil’s shortest tier, she thought, as it would only reach Carrie’s shoulders and therefore wouldn’t detract from the lovely simplicity of the dress itself.

  At least she hoped so. After all, she’d had enough costumes practically re-made on her to know what worked and what didn’t, she thought drily.

  Then paused, staring at herself, suddenly stricken, as she asked herself what she was doing. Why was she taking this trouble over a wedding that shouldn’t even be happening? How she could be helping her friend marry a man who had already betrayed her so terribly?

  Especially when there was no guarantee that it would never occur again, she thought bitterly. That Simon would suddenly become repentant and faithful.

  But he was the husband Carrie had always wanted—had set her heart on from young girlhood. Had waited for. And this wedding was going to be the culmination of all her sweetest dreams.

  The image in the mirror was suddenly blurred. Rhianna lifted a hand and quickly wiped away her tears before they could fall on the precious satin. Besides, she thought she heard a movement in the passage outside, and she couldn’t risk Carrie coming back to catch her weeping.

  Nor could she take the dream of her friend’s whole life and smash it. She would have to keep the secret. Pretend she had no idea there had been a hidden love affair. No baby so soon and so finally eliminated from the equation.

  And no dream for me, either, she told herself, pain twisting inside her as she put the dress gently back on its padded hanger and covered it.

  Out of all that had happened, she thought, that was the hardest thing to bear. Knowing that she had nothing left to hope for.

  And having to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT OCCURRED to Rhianna that an excuse to stay out of harm’s way in her room was exactly what she’d needed, giving her a chance to catch her breath and regain some of her composure.

  Working with immense care, she’d reduced the mass of tulle by two thirds, and the discarded lengths, their raw edges neatly hemmed, were back in the box.

  Carrie was reluctantly reconciled to the idea of the shortened version, and by the time Simon’s mother discovered what had been done it would be too late. Although the fact that the veil could be subsequently reconstituted in all its voluminous glory might mollify her a little.

  Whatever, thought Rhianna. Carrie and I will be long gone anyway, so she’ll have to fulminate alone.

  But now the time was fast approaching for the next ordeal—a quiet dinner at home with the family. Including, of course, the master of the house.

  ‘The big party’s tomorrow evening,’ Carrie had told her happily. ‘At the Polkernick Arms. We’ve practically taken the place over.’

  Her face had clouded slightly. ‘But Simon can’t be with us tonight. His godfather and his wife are travelling down from Worcestershire a day early, and Margaret’s insisted that he spends the evening at home with them.’

  Rhianna had given an inward sigh of relief. At some point, sooner or later, she and Simon would have to face each other, of course. But she’d prefer that to be much, much later.

  But his absence was not going to make the occasion any easier for her. Because he was not her only problem, she reminded herself unhappily. There was also Diaz to be confronted yet again, and although there might have been a brief moment’s complicity between them in the drawing room earlier, it had been no more than that, and she was totally deluding herself if she believed otherwise.

  He would still be gunning for her. Watching her. Waiting for her to make one false move.

  So she would have to make damned sure that he was disappointed, she told herself grimly.

  And she was armoured for the challenge.

  She’d showered, and changed into a silky skirt the colour of indigo, stopped with a white Victorian-style blouse, high-necked and pin-tucked. Demureness itself.

  She’d drawn her hair back from her face, securing it at the nape of her neck with a silver clasp, and used the lightest of make-up—a coating of mascara to her long lashes and a touch of colour on her mouth. Nothing more.

  She’d accentuated the body lotion used after her shower with a drift of the same fragrance on her throat and wrists, and fixed modest silver studs in her ears.

  Neat, she thought, scrutinising herself in the mirror, but not gaudy.

  She walked over to the window seat to repack Carrie’s sewing basket, and stood for a moment staring out of the window at the grassy headland, the blue ripple of the sea beyond.

  It was the last time she would see it like this, because first thing tomorrow they were coming to put up the marquee. So she would take a long, final look now at this view, so familiar and yet at the same time so alien.

  So many memories too, she thought wryly, and so few of them to be treasured. In fact, she could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. The feel of the short turf, cool beneath her bare feet as she ran. The hot gritty slide of the sand under her burrowing toes down in the cove, and the eventual, blessed shock of the sea against her heated skin. Misty mornings. Blistering afternoons, lying languid in the shade. All pure nostalgia.

  But also tears scalding her eyes, like salt in her throat. And a man’s voice saying almost gently, ‘What’s wrong? There must be something…’

  She stirred restlessly. That particular recollection had to go. It had no place in her memory. Not any more.

  Perhaps this was really why she was here? she thought. To clear her mind of the past and prepare for a future that in so many ways was looking good. The kind of career many actresses her age could only dream of.

  Except her dreams were different, and that was something she had to deal with once and for all.

  To accept that she’d been crying for the moon all these years, and that the man she wanted had his own obligations, his own priorities, creating a void between them that could never be crossed.

  She turned abruptly away from the window. Took several deep, steadying breaths from her diaphragm, as she did before she began an important scene. She opened her door, stepping into the passage—and ran straight into
Simon.

  ‘So there you are.’ Abruptly he took her arm, propelling her back into her room and following. ‘What’s going on, Rhianna? I thought you weren’t going to be here. That’s what you let me believe, anyway.’

  ‘I told you I hadn’t made a decision,’ she defended, rubbing the arm he’d grabbed, aware that she was quivering inside, and a lot of it was temper. ‘What’s the matter, Simon? Conscience troubling you at last?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ His voice was harsh, goaded. ‘I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m not the first man and I won’t be the last to get spooked by the thought of marriage and have a fling before the gates finally shut.’

  ‘A fling?’ she echoed bitterly. ‘Is that what you call it? It’s rather more than that when you tell someone you love her. Make her believe in happy ever after, then dump her, leaving her pregnant with a child she thought you wanted too.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ he said hoarsely. ‘To tell me the termination’s been cancelled after all? Or to make some other kind of trouble?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And—no. Does that put your mind at rest? But understand this, Simon. I’m keeping quiet about this whole hideous mess for Carrie’s sake, not yours. You don’t deserve her, you appalling creep, and you never have. But you’re what she wants.’

  ‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘she isn’t the only one—is she, sweetpea?’ He lifted his hand and stroked it insolently down her cheek.

  Rhianna flinched away as if she’d been burned. ‘Just get out of here,’ she said harshly. ‘And you’d better make Carrie happy, that’s all. Don’t ruin her life as well, you complete and utter swine.’