Falling for the Bridesmaid

by Sophie Pembroke

  ‘Strong and black, please,’ Tom replied. Actually, he normally preferred it somewhere in between, but he wasn’t taking the chance of failing the Rick Cross coffee test. Or any other tests he threw his way before Rick actually opened up to him and gave him the material he needed.

  Rick nodded as he poured. ‘Good choice. Now, about today.’ He handed Tom a tiny steaming espresso cup with an apologetic smile that made Tom’s heart sink. There were going to be no interviews today, he just knew it.

  This was always the risk in coming here. Staying at Huntingdon Hall gave Tom unprecedented access, yes. But it also gave the subject the illusion of limitless time—and plenty of excuses to dodge sitting down and talking to him.

  Tom did not have limitless time, and he needed this story.

  ‘I was hoping we could make a start on some questions about what the Lemons are doing now,’ Tom said, hoping the allure of potential publicity for the new album would draw him in. ‘I’ve got a couple of possible slots in magazines and supplements coming up, and it would be good to let people know what’s next for the band.’

  ‘Rose would kick me if she heard me turning down the publicity, but I’m afraid I have some commitments today that I need to take care of before I can sit down with you.’ Rick reached for his own coffee mug—which, Tom noticed, had milk in it, damn him. ‘Sorry, Tom. I’ll be back this afternoon, though. And I’ll get Sherry to book some time with you too, as well as the boys from the band. I want us to get the bulk of the first few interviews down over the next week or two, so we’ve all got more time to focus on the Benefit Concert when it comes around. That sound okay to you?’

  ‘That’s...great, actually.’ So much for the old man trying to avoid the interviews. Maybe Rick Cross was as serious about this book as Tom hoped after all. ‘And I can probably find something to entertain me around here this morning.’

  He hadn’t meant to look at Violet, but somehow his gaze just sort of slid over in her direction. Her blonde hair looked darker—was it wet?—and strands were curling around her face. In jeans and a bright blue T-shirt, without make-up, she looked a lot younger than she had the night before. And, from the redness around her eyes, more vulnerable.

  What had she been discussing with her father before he walked in? Suddenly, Tom wished he’d stopped outside to eavesdrop.

  ‘You can help Violet go through all Rose’s files!’ Rick sounded immensely pleased with himself at the idea. ‘Get up to speed on all the plans for the Benefit Concert. I just know my Violet is going to knock this one out of the park.’

  He reached across and squeezed his daughter’s shoulder, and she gave him a rather weak smile in return.

  ‘Still, everyone needs a little help sometimes, right, honey?’ Rick went on.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ With a deep breath, Violet straightened her shoulders visibly and looked him in the eye. ‘So, Mr Buckley, how about it? You up for a challenge?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Tom drained his espresso and smiled, unsure if the challenge was the concert or understanding the woman sitting in front of him.

  * * *

  ‘Okay. So...Will said that Rose left everything she had to do with the Benefit Concert in here.’ Violet approached the door to the seldom used study on the first floor with more than a little trepidation. She hadn’t been in this room since it was their homework room, years ago. Since she’d handed in her dissertation, she hadn’t so much as opened the door.

  It was Rose’s room, not hers. As close as the twins were, Violet had to admit that they’d lived very separate lives over the last few years. With Rose in New York, that distance had only grown.

  Oh, they still talked about pretty much everything. Violet still knew her sister’s mind and heart, and she knew that if she needed anything Rose would be there in a heartbeat. But their lives were different. Rose jetted around the world, building her career working for The Screaming Lemons’ PR, but also cultivating her passion making jewellery. The wedding rings she’d crafted for Seb and Daisy, and the bracelet she’d designed and made for their mother, were amongst the most beautiful things Violet had ever seen. Rose had real talent, and Violet knew that Will would encourage that—especially now Rose had made the decision to give up the PR side of things and follow her dreams.

  Maybe it was time for Violet to do that too, she thought as she pushed open the door. Starting with the Benefit Concert.

  ‘Huh.’ Behind her, Tom stared over her shoulder. ‘Did Will say where, exactly?’

  It was a valid question. Violet’s heart sank as she took in the piles of paperwork, the overflowing files and the stack of wedding magazines on the desk. Poor Rose had been swamped for the last month or more, with preparations for the band’s latest tour, album promotion and not to mention planning their parents’ vow renewal service and party. No wonder she hadn’t had time to tidy up.

  Well, that just made step one in the ‘get-back-out-there-and-show-the-world-what-Violet-Huntingdon-Cross-is-really-made-of’ plan all the more obvious.

  ‘We need to start with a clean sweep,’ she said, picking up Rose’s battered, precious black planner from the middle of the piles covering the desk. ‘We’ll sort through everything in here, clear up and find all the relevant stuff, then set up my office in here. Will sent me the link to the Dropbox folder Rose was using for all the electronic stuff, and she’s given me access to the email account she uses for the Benefit Concert each year. So I should have everything I need to get started...’

  ‘Once you can find the desk,’ Tom finished for her.

  ‘Yeah.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Sorry. This probably isn’t what you were hoping to do this morning.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Not entirely. But this afternoon should make up for it. And it doesn’t have to be a total waste. I can ask you some basic interview questions while we’re working.’ He pulled out his smartphone and scrolled through to an app with a microphone logo. ‘You don’t mind being taped, right?’

  Violet’s body froze, her back so stiff she thought it might snap. At least he was asking, she supposed. She hadn’t been given that courtesy last time.

  ‘I think maybe today we should just focus on getting this office sorted.’ She knew her voice was stilted, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. ‘If I’m going to be on the record, I want to be sure I’m giving your questions my full attention.’ That way, it would be harder for him to sneak in trick questions, or twist her words around later. She’d spent some time, after everything, researching the best way to deal with the media. Of course, when every question was about a sex tape, there was only so much you could do. But she knew more now than she had at nineteen and that knowledge gave her a little confidence, at least.

  She could deal with Tom Buckley. As long as she kept her wits sharp.

  ‘Okay. Fair enough.’ Tom slipped the phone back into his pocket and Violet’s shoulders dropped back to their usual level. If he had any idea why his request had her so rattled—and surely he must—Tom didn’t show it. He was a professional, she supposed. ‘So, where do we start?’

  Violet surveyed the room. ‘The desk? I mean, that’s probably going to have her most recent stuff on it. And once we’ve cleared that, at least we have somewhere to work.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Shifting a pile of papers and a red polka dot cardigan from the leather chair on the visitor’s side of the desk, Tom grabbed the first stack of files from the edge of the desk and took a seat.

  Selecting her own pile, Violet settled into the desk chair and started to read.

  ‘So, is your sister always this messy when she works?’ Tom asked, and Violet’s hackles instantly rose.

  ‘She’s been incredibly busy recently,’ Violet said. ‘I’m sure that, if she were here, she’d know exactly where everything was, though. She’s very efficient.’

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ Tom dropped his first file onto the floor. ‘That’s my “wedding vow renewal” pile, by the way. I guess that must have taken up a lo
t of her time. You all helped, though?’

  ‘Where we could,’ Violet replied. Of course, with Daisy suffering from first trimester woes, and herself relegated to flower arranging, it had mostly been Rose. As usual. ‘Mum was pretty burnt out from organising Daisy and Seb’s wedding, so she left a lot of it to Rose. I took care of the flowers, though.’

  Tom’s gaze flicked up to meet hers, faint disbelief marring his expression. ‘You arrange flowers?’

  ‘I do.’ Violet looked back down at the file in her hands. This, at least, had to be a safe topic. No one expected the Sex Tape Twin to spend her weekends fiddling with oasis and floristry wire in the church hall, right? ‘I took over the local church flower committee a few years ago now.’

  That, of course, had been a local scandal in its own way—she was too young, too inexperienced, or just had too much of a reputation. But, whatever anyone said, that scandal hadn’t made the national press, at least.

  ‘Huh. I always imagined church flower ladies were...’ Tom trailed off and Violet raised her eyebrows at him as she waited for him to finish the sentence. ‘Married?’ he said finally, as if asking her to tell him what to say to get out of the conversation.

  Violet huffed a laugh and reached for the next file. ‘Married. That’s the best you could do?’

  ‘Well, okay, fine. I thought they were older, more boring, greyer and considerably less beautiful than you.’

  Despite the warmth filling her cheeks, Violet resisted the urge to say, You think I’m beautiful?

  He’d just think she was fishing for compliments, anyway.

  ‘As it happens, I’ll have you know that floristry is more popular than ever.’ She had no idea if that were actually true, but it sounded good. ‘Young women across the country are taking courses in flower arranging.’ Probably.

  ‘Did you?’ Tom asked. ‘Take a course, I mean?’

  ‘Not...exactly.’ Damn. There went the legitimacy of her words.

  ‘So how on earth did you get to be head of the church flower committee? I’ve watched enough rural British murder mysteries to know that kind of job is usually enough to kill over.’

  ‘We live in Buckinghamshire, not Midsomer,’ Violet pointed out. ‘We haven’t had a murder in the village in almost seventy years.’

  ‘Still, I bet there was a queue of blue-haired ladies waiting to take over. Weren’t they a tad annoyed when you swanned in and stole it from right under their noses?’

  Well, yes, of course they had been. But Tom made it sound as if she’d just rocked up and demanded she be given the job because of who her parents were, just like some people she’d known back in the day had demanded access to exclusive nightclubs. And usually been let in, too.

  ‘I’d been trained up by the last head of the committee for five years,’ Violet said, trying not to notice the lump that still formed in her throat when she thought about Kathleen. ‘When she got sick, she insisted that I take over. She dictated arrangements to me over the phone, made me bring her photos to show her I was doing it right. When she died...I was voted in the day after the funeral.’ Kathleen had actually tried to leave her the position in her will, but of course it hadn’t been hers to give. So there had to be a ballot of the whole committee—which she’d won by just one vote.

  Still, Violet hoped she’d won over the doubters over the last few years. God knew, she’d achieved very little else. Until now. It might be a bit of a jump from flower arranging to concert arranging but, come hell or high water, she’d prove herself here just like she had on the committee.

  ‘But you obviously wanted it.’ Tom tilted his head to one side as he studied her. It made Violet want to flinch, so she worked really hard at keeping her muscles still instead. He wanted her to flinch, she was sure of it. And she wasn’t giving Tom Buckley anything he wanted.

  ‘It meant a lot to Kathleen that I take it on,’ she said evenly. ‘And I get a lot of pleasure from working with flowers.’

  He nodded absently, as if taking everything she said as accepted truth. But then he fixed her with his clear green eyes and said, ‘So, tell me. How did the daughter of rock royalty go from starring in her very own porno to arranging the Easter flowers?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VIOLET WENT VERY still for a moment, the fingers clutching her file almost white from tension. Tom sat back and waited. He knew this part. In any usual interview, this was the bit where the subject tried to recall all the advice from the PR guru on how to spin their misdeeds in the best possible light.

  And Miss Violet Huntingdon-Cross had clearly had some ambitious PR advice, probably from her twin sister, actually. Keep your head down, take on some charity work, or work in the community. Rehabilitate your character until everyone forgets the part about how they saw you naked on the internet, mid pretty boring sex.

  Was this why Rick had pushed for him to help her out with the Benefit Concert? Tom had no doubt that Rick’s first concern was publicity for the band, but maybe the relaunch of his eldest daughter as an upstanding member of society was a nice side benefit. Hell, maybe that was why he was doing all this now. With two daughters married, he could happily portray them as settled down and mature—and Violet could ride in on their coat-tails.

  Except Tom had seen her lose it in the middle of an airport café. He’d glimpsed the real passionate, wild Violet—and he really wasn’t buying the Sunday school teacher act.

  ‘I thought we agreed that this wasn’t the time for an interview,’ Violet said, her voice stiff and prim.

  Tom shrugged. ‘It’s not. I’m not recording anything. Just asking an idle question.’

  ‘Sure.’ Violet’s mouth twisted up into a bitter smile. ‘I bet we’re off the record and everything, right? No, thanks. I know how that works.’

  ‘If I say something is off the record, I mean it.’ Tom sat up straighter, bristling a little at the implication. ‘Your dad brought me here because he knows my reputation as a fair, honest, accurate reporter. I’m not trying to trick you into anything here, Violet.’

  He’d worked too hard at building up that reputation—after the story that made his name—to risk it now, over one blonde wild child. If his mother were still alive, even she’d have to admit that he’d turned it around. He was respectable now, dammit.

  Violet met his gaze, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable. She’d probably practised that look in the mirror, too. ‘Okay, then,’ she said finally, giving him a small nod.

  But she didn’t answer his question. Instead, she turned back to the file in her hand, giving it her full attention as a little crease started to form between her eyebrows. Tom wanted to ask her what she was reading—until he realised there was a much more pressing question to be answered.

  ‘What did you mean, when you said you “know how that works”?’

  Violet shrugged, not looking up. ‘You know. Off the record is only valid until someone says something worth breaking the rules for.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ The defence of his profession was automatic—even as he admitted to himself that for some reporters it was entirely true. The sort of reporter who would hack voicemails or intercept emails didn’t care very much about a verbal agreement about ‘the record’. Hell, it was barely more than a social convention anyway, a nicety to make interview subjects feel more comfortable.

  But he’d stuck by that convention for his entire career, bar one story. And he didn’t intend to ever break it again.

  ‘Really?’ Violet raised her pale brows at him in disbelief. ‘You really believe that all reporters honour the privacy of things said off the record?’ She shook her head without waiting for an answer. ‘The only way to be safe is to assume that you’re on the record at all times. Whatever anyone says.’ The way she said it, the conviction she gave the words...this wasn’t just some advice from a media expert. This was the mantra Violet lived her life by—or at least it was now.

  ‘When talking to reporters?’ Tom asked, wanting her to admit to what he suspected. �
�Or when talking to anybody?’

  Her gaze slipped away from his. ‘Depends on who you’re talking to. And whether you trust them not to sell your story to the papers.’

  ‘And who do you trust that much?’ Tom had an inkling it would be a very short list.

  ‘Who do you?’ Violet threw his own question back at him, and he blinked in surprise.

  ‘Trust me, no one is interested in any story about me.’ Just the idea of it made him laugh. He was a reporter, always behind the scenes, shedding light on other people’s lives. No one ever needed to examine his—and he really didn’t want them to.

  ‘Just suppose they were. Hypothetically.’ Violet leant forward and, even with the desk between them, her piercing stare made her feel uncomfortably close. ‘Imagine that something happened in your life—you won the lottery, or wrote the next Harry Potter, or married a celebrity, whatever. Suddenly everyone in the world wants to know your secrets. Who would you still tell the truth to?’

  No one. The thought felt empty and hollow even as it echoed through his brain. There was no one he trusted with that much of him. No one he’d tell about his hopes and dreams—and no one he’d trust with his failures or regrets.

  Oh, he had friends, plenty of them. Enough in every country that he always had someone he could meet for dinner, or go out for drinks with. And he’d had girlfriends, too—also plenty. The fact he didn’t have one right now made absolutely no difference to the trusted person question. He hadn’t told any of the previous ones any more than he thought they needed to know. His mother had probably been the last person he’d trusted that way, and she was a long time gone. Not to mention the fact that even telling her the truth hadn’t ended so well.

  He wasn’t the story. He never was. That was kind of the point of being a reporter.

  ‘Never happen,’ he said as breezily as he could. ‘My utter unremarkableness is one of the main reasons I’ve managed to build up a successful career as a music journalist. So, go on, your turn. Who do you trust that much? Rose, I imagine. And Daisy and your parents. Who else?’