The Runaway Bridesmaid

by Daisy James

With his arm resting nonchalantly on the open, tinted window of his black Mercedes sports car, Austin displayed a smile good enough to grace any toothpaste advert, obviously enjoying what he saw.

  As Rosie slipped her stocking-clad legs into the passenger seat, she appreciated the pungent aroma of wood-spice cologne mixed with the tannin of the leather. She chanced a glimpse at her date for the evening, respecting the effort Austin had gone to. Whilst his profile was still sharp, clean-shaven and handsome, his blond hair had been teased into a trendy surfer-dude style in honour of a Friday night out. His attire was immaculate: black designer jeans and pale pink Paul Smith shirt.

  They drove in silence until the Mercedes flashed by the majestic entrance gates to Brampton Manor Hotel and Spa. Its driveway snaked endlessly towards the Italianate-style, formal front terrace, lined with old-fashioned lampposts – each emitting a soft peach glow.

  ‘What an architectural gem we have in our midst. I wish I could afford a day’s pampering in the spa,’ Rosie offered to break the silence.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a real shame the family had to take in paying guests. I’d have suggested we eat there but I don’t like the head chef.’ Austin smirked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  They drove swiftly, the powerful car swallowing the miles with ease. After forty minutes they arrived at a tiny hamlet on the border of Devon and Somerset. The bistro pub displayed a hand-crafted sign announcing The Horse and Hounds, and the best French cuisine in Devon.

  Austin held out a chair for Rosie to sit down at the table, forcing her to reconsider her doubts as to his manners. He ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne for her, and she downed the first glass with relish to calm her nerves. With a dose of Dutch courage administered, she began to relax whilst Austin sipped at his iced Perrier. When she queried his choice of beverage he explained that excessive alcohol intake caused bitter introspection which he preferred to avoid if possible.

  Conversation flowed freely over their starter of foie gras pate with grapefruit chutney and, despite their differences in upbringing, they found acres of common ground – intellectually and politically they were a good match. Rosie thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to discuss with someone the topical stories of the day and the respective futures of corporate Britain and the US after the recession had finally blown itself out. They found they both harboured ambitious plans for their future careers and a single-minded intention of personal fulfilment.

  But the evening wasn’t all business. Austin confessed his love of cricket and regaled her with a number of hilarious anecdotes from recent Sunday gatherings at the local village cricket club where he and his friends dreamed of one day playing a match at Lord’s, the official home of cricket.

  ‘My one ambition, when I was a boy growing up in Bath, was to play cricket for England. Unfortunately, the demands of the law shunted those dreams to the side-lines but, thankfully, not into obscurity.’

  Rosie’s third glass of Cristal dulled Austin’s sharp edges and she became aware of the curl of golden hairs on his forearms, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, and, when she imagined him bedecked in his cricket whites, her stomach lurched. It was a wonderful feeling. Under Austin’s attentive scrutiny she felt desirable for the first time in a long time, well, since Carlos. Giles had made her feel like she was a precious piece of jewellery, a prize to be worn on his arm as part of his sartorial uniform, not attractive in her own right but as an extension of him, an accessory really. She realised Austin was still talking, his sensual blue eyes sparkling as he raised them in question.

  ‘Pardon me?’ Rosie refocused.

  ‘Would you be up for a trip to watch a match one Sunday afternoon? I confess the rules of cricket are a little weird to US spectators, I’m afraid, but I’ll happily talk you through them. Oh, and I’ll collect you. I know you still have no motorised transport.’

  Rosie thought fondly of Bernice’s rickety bicycle which she’d scrubbed and oiled and pressed into action to collect her daily groceries from Susan’s shop and, on the odd occasion when she was feeling energetic, undertaken the five-mile round-trip to Carnleigh where Emily lived, to visit the Post Office and local pub with her.

  ‘Thanks, Austin. I’d love that.’

  Their eyes met, but the waitress who set down their desserts – a passionfruit sorbet for Austin, a golden glitter-sprinkled ginger cupcake with home-made vanilla bean ice cream for Rosie – in front of them interrupted the moment.

  Okay, thought Rosie, delighted her silent, posthumous promise to her aunt to date had started out so well. And with a handsome English lawyer to boot – she couldn’t have planned it better. Austin’s manners were impeccable, he was interesting and engaging and she’d thoroughly enjoyed his company. There really was very little to distinguish Austin from the guys who frequented the corridors of the financial hothouses back in New York. Except the accent, of course. She could listen to him talk, even about cricket, all evening. She couldn’t wait to call Lauren to tell her that she might have met her ‘prince’ without having to kiss any frogs at all! The word ‘kiss’ sent a frisson of excitement through her chest. There was bound to be a goodnight kiss to look forward to!

  But was this wise? her inner oracle raised its inconvenient head above the parapet. Hadn’t she learned her lesson about dating preppy, corporate guys with Giles? And she lived in Manhattan, this wouldn’t be a long-distance romance, it would be inter-continental!

  When they returned to the Mercedes, this time Austin did hold the door open for her and Rosie slid, a little wobbly, into the leather seat, exposing an larger-than-intended expanse of sheer thigh. She felt Austin’s eyes linger for a few long moments before he twisted the key in the ignition. She experienced a delicious swirl of attraction deep in her belly.

  ‘So, how long have you decided to stay at the cottage, Rosie?’

  ‘I’m not sure; another couple of months, I think. The garden is starting to look great again, don’t you think?’

  Was he enquiring because he wanted to ask her on a second date? She’d leap at the chance. She’d found his company stimulating, especially bearing in mind she had spent the last few weeks impersonating a lonely spinster in a dilapidated cottage in rural Devon with only Emily and the flowerbeds for company.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. Ollie had been true to his word and arrived on his decrepit bike every Sunday afternoon and they had laboured companionably in the front garden, the pungent fragrance of lavender and sage accompanying their toil.

  The lodge’s ‘drive-by appeal’ was much improved. She intended to repaint the blistered front door the same scarlet chosen by Bernice next Saturday. She smiled across at Austin, his large hand resting loosely on the gearstick, his strong profile outlined against the inky sky. It had been a long time since she’d invited a man into her home for coffee and, as a wave of desire snaked her abdomen, she decided Austin would be the first since Carlos.

  ‘Yes, I did notice that the cottage is looking smart, Rosie. You have been working hard!’

  She smiled at his compliment. ‘Thanks, Austin.’

  ‘Mm, but you do know it’s a complete waste of time and effort and, if you’re paying the gardener, your money too.’

  Rosie thought she glimpsed a faint twist at the side of Austin’s mouth as he concentrated on the dark ribbon of tarmac ahead, whipping the Mercedes confidently around the winding country lanes towards Brampton.

  ‘It’s unlikely the work you have undertaken will enhance the value of the property, either. As you know, Mr Dixon’s offer is still on the table. In fact, I wasn’t intending to mention business this evening, but as he has been the only interested purchaser I urge you not to lose him. It’s a difficult market out there, as I’m sure you know, and you’d be a fool to let Brian’s offer slide. He’s a cash buyer too, so the sale could be wrapped up in the next four to six weeks.’

  ‘I know. I seem to be thinking with my gut and not my brain at the moment. It sounds trite, but the lodge holds a kind of m
agical aura for me. Even the physical labour in the garden is enjoyable. I've discovered so much about the plants and horticulture from Ollie, but I also found one of my aunt’s journals in the…’

  ‘Look, Rosie, as you have instructed me to act in your aunt’s estate, it’s my professional duty to advise that you consider this offer very seriously. Brian Dixon does have other properties on his target list. Can I remind you that when we met at the will reading you were adamant about your reasons to sell? Are they still valid?’

  ‘Well, yes, but…’

  ‘Then I recommend you grab this opportunity, take the cash buyer option and you can give your sister her share of the inheritance, too.’ Austin’s voice was laced with authority and business-like determination.

  It was true, she had forgotten Freya. ‘You’re right, Austin. I promise to think it through and I’ll call you next week. Okay?’

  ‘Good, good.’ Austin patted her knee and a spasm of electricity shot northwards. She settled into the soft calf-leather seat and started planning her moves when she invited him in for coffee. Or should she offer him something a little stronger as a nightcap? That would mean he wouldn’t be able to drive home and…

  As they drew into the street, Rosie glanced over to Susan’s shop where she saw the older woman drawing her bedroom curtains, her pale face illuminated by the moonlight. Suddenly, all thoughts of inviting Austin in for anything, even an injection of caffeine, fled her mind to be replaced with shame at her brazen intentions to extend the evening. After all, this was a first date, she reminded herself, what had she been thinking! She swivelled in her seat intending to peck him on the cheek.

  ‘Let me know when that cricket match is?’

  ‘Sure. Looking forward to it.’

  Austin leaned over to brush his lips over hers and she enjoyed the sparkle of desire that spread through her veins and tingled at her extremities. She would look forward to it too. She leapt out of his Mercedes, unsure whether her light-headedness was due to the unfamiliar indulgence of alcohol or the emotions Austin had stirred in her. Whatever the cause, it felt good and she craved a repeat like a dieter deprived of her fix of chocolate.

  She let herself into the cottage and, as she slumped down onto the chintz sofa, flicking off her Louboutins, a schoolgirl giggle erupted from her mouth and her spirits danced. She found herself kicking her naked heels in the air like a toddler having a tantrum in the supermarket aisles.

  But this was no tantrum – she felt amazing!

  Chapter Twenty

  July dawned with a whimper rather than a roar. At first light the morning dew laced the grasses and ferns like diamond chains but now the droplets disappeared into spirals of vapour in the warmth of the haze-veiled sun which failed to escalate to full throttle. The lavender rippled in the gentle breeze, releasing its fragrant tang to float in the summer air.

  Rosie had spent a long Sunday morning pruning the privet hedges which skirted the boundary of Thornleigh Lodge and, even if she did say so herself, the cottage’s kerb appeal was chocolate-box smart. Only one patch of the front garden remained to be tackled, the border under the lounge window, and it was this tangle of vegetation that would benefit from her attention after lunch.

  With her frayed straw hat squashing her locks, and buttocks raised high in the air, she set to work – her enthusiasm escalating as she anticipated the completion of what had seemed a gargantuan task two months ago. She was also feeling fitter and more toned than she ever had and her knowledge of all things green had soared.

  ‘Hi! Great view!’

  Rosie lifted her shoulders and sat back on her heels, shielding her eyes as she turned towards her unexpected visitor, his silhouette tinted with the burnished copper of summer sun. She rolled her eyes, despite the flutter in her chest.

  ‘Oh, lovely greeting. Pleased to see you too, Rosie. How was your date with Amorous Austin?’ Grabbing a trowel, Charlie took up position on his knees next to Rosie and began digging in the soil to release the weeds. His proximity prickled at her skin. She cast a sidelong glance from under the rim of her hat at his face; a hint of stubble brushing his jawline, his cute nose splashed with a smattering of freckles. She caught the playful gleam in his eye.

  ‘The date went just fine, since you ask.’

  ‘Just fine? I hope when I take a girl out on a date, she describes it as better than “just fine”!’

  Rosie didn’t want to discuss dating etiquette with Charlie, so she changed the subject. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. They keeping you busy up at the hotel?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve been up in London. I’m allowed to escape whenever my presence is not required, you know. I share a flat with a couple of starving actors in Pimlico.’ His eyes, the colour of liquid tar, slid to her face, expecting a reaction.

  Their closeness disturbed Rosie. Her nerve endings tingled with physical attraction. Charlie exuded sex appeal and she was not sure whether he was oblivious to its effect or encouraged its spread.

  ‘Sooo, are you in lerve?’ He pulled a disgusted face and his cheeks dimpled. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to pry into other people’s love lives?’

  ‘Oh, he’s the love of your life now, is he?’

  She flashed him an impatient look for his juvenile behaviour.

  ‘Well, he does seem to be your type.’

  ‘What do you mean, “my type”?’

  ‘You know, corporate, Hooray-Henry type, career-obsessed, money-orientated. Knows what he wants and goes for it, regardless of whose toes he breaks on the steep stomp to the top, eye-permanently-fixed-on-the-bottom-line type of guy.’ Charlie’s pithy comments clearly summed up his view of Austin and his fraternity.

  Rosie thought of the barren wasteland of her love life in Manhattan. ‘You couldn’t be further from the truth.’ She stood up, staring down at his crown of curls, her hands resting on her hips as he knelt before her.

  ‘Sorry, Rosie. It’s just that Austin Meadows handled a property sale for one of my mother’s elderly friends when she was forced to accept she needed residential care. Richmond Morton collected a hefty fee for the sale of her home. His career is money, his hobby is money, his life is money. Just be careful, that’s all.’ His nostrils flared in dislike at the recollection.

  Charlie stood to face her, his curls brushing his thick eyelashes, his hands stuck into the front pockets of his scruffy black Levis. Rosie’s lips curled at the corners as she glanced down at her own attire and she giggled. What a pair of country bumpkins they were.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask! You obviously haven’t worked in the hospitality industry.’ Charlie followed her into the lodge’s kitchen. ‘Mm, what a mouth-watering aroma. What are you baking this time, Nigella?’

  ‘It’s another one of the recipes from Aunt Bernice’s Bake Yourself Better journal – lemon meringue pies.’ Rosie indicated the book which lay open on the scrubbed pine table.

  ‘May I?’ asked Charlie, his chocolate brown eyes raised in question.

  ‘Be my guest,’ smiled Rosie, delighted at his genuine curiosity in her aunt’s work.

  ‘Lemon Meringue Pies for Sunshine-Filled Skies. I just love the title,’ smiled Charlie as he continued to read out her aunt’s words from the journal.

  ‘These little pies are filled with sunshine! I can’t make a batch without smiling at the zinging yellow filling that never fails to brighten up the day. And the lemons themselves are packed with many nourishing vitamins and antioxidants that are very good for you. Who can resist the indulgence of a jug of freshly squeezed lemonade in the summer sunshine? My mouth is watering just think of it. And don’t they say lemons repel mosquitoes, too? But even in the rain these delicious pastries will bring a tingle to your tongue. Why not bake a batch, Rosie, and smile ?’

  ‘It’s lovely. And she goes on to set out the recipe which, I might add, seems to be working, don’t you think? Just look at the sky!�
�� Charlie snatched one of the delicate little pies from the wire cooling rack and bit into the soft interior. ‘Mmm, a harmonious collision of taste, texture and smell. Delicious! You know, I have a publisher friend who would love to take a peek at your aunt’s recipe journal. I happened to mention it to him after I saw your attempt to murder her sweet basil biscuit recipe. Bake Yourself Better is a fabulous concept. One which he reckons will strike a chord with a wide range of readers – amateur bakers, self-help obsessives, even rom-com addicts. You do know that baking is the new therapy for the pursuit of happiness, don’t you?’

  ‘Cake and chocolate and meringue as therapy? Sure, I can definitely see the sense in that,’ she giggled as she crammed one of the little pies into her mouth, crumbs spilling down her chin and onto the table. ‘I’m not sure about the book publisher though. Let me think about it, eh?’

  ‘No problem, the ball’s in your court. So, is it okay if I pinch some rosemary and coriander from the garden for the hotel kitchen – I have a couple recipes of my own I need to tweak.’

  ‘Of course, help yourself.’

  Rosie smiled at Charlie’s infectious enthusiasm for experimenting with fresh new flavours in the Brampton Manor kitchen. He might not be head chef yet, but with his passion for cooking it would only be a matter of time, she was certain. Part-time kitchen helper one day, Michelin-starred chef the next! Why not?

  ‘Bet you’ve got a queue of guys to date back in New York, eh? One long social whirl, is it? Can’t wait to get back and away from this dull backwater? Why are you still doing the rural banishment thing, anyway?’

  Rosie shot him a glance and was shocked to find her eyes smart with hot tears.

  ‘What? What’s up? What have I said?’

  Rosie shook her head, biting down hard on her lower lip as she liberated two Budweisers from her aunt’s ancient refrigerator.

  ‘Go on, Rosie, tell me. It’ll do you good. Spill what horror has maimed your heart. When you escape back to NYC you can forget you ever told me, can’t you?’