by Liz Fielding
She fastened the last button of her black velvet evening suit and raised her hand to the scooped neckline with its satin bound collar, suddenly realising just how low it was cut. In the boutique, against the flamboyant low-cut evening dresses, it had seemed positively demure. Now she saw her mistake. The jacket emphasized her figure and the skirt displayed rather more of her legs than she had realised. She wondered if Anthony would quite like it but it was too late to change so, with a last, slightly dismayed glance at her reflection, she went to open the door.
In the mad rush to get ready she hadn’t had a single moment to worry about Jack Drayton, but the raindrops clinging to Anthony’s soft brown hair were an instant reminder that outside it was cold and wet.
Her mind’s eye immediately flashed up a picture of him, soaking wet, walking the long cold miles back into the town centre. She immediately banished it, telling herself firmly that it was his own fault if he was wet. She hadn’t asked him to kiss her, and her fingers flew to her lips as if to brush away the memory.
‘I’ll get my coat,’ she said, quickly turning away, but Anthony stopped her.
‘We have a moment, Rosalind. I haven’t given you your birthday present.’ The package he took from his pocket was small. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said and kissed her cheek. Rose held the beautifully wrapped package, anguished with guilt that she could be so distracted by an easy smile and a careless kiss. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to open it?’ he prompted.
She tore at the gold paper and uncovered a jeweller’s box. On the dark blue velvet nestled a tiny gold watch. ‘Oh, it’s lovely, Anthony. Thank you.’ She leaned forward and kissed his mouth, an unexpectedly warm gesture that took him by surprise. She had never taken the initiative in their rather restrained love-making, but confused about the way she had reacted to Jack, she wanted him to take her in his arms and make her forget what had happened.
Instead he took the watch from her hand. ‘I’ll fasten it for you, shall I?’ he asked. Then he frowned. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s lovely, Anthony. I said so.’
‘Then you sighed,’ he said, a little edgily.
‘No,’ she protested. She had simply wanted Anthony to kiss her and drive away the buried Cinderella dream locked in the heart of every woman. The dream of the perfect lover riding out of the mists to claim her. Lancelot. The Young Lochinvar. Romance. Foolishness.
Jack Drayton was no Prince Charming. On the contrary, he was the kind of man careful mothers warned their daughters about. Not that she had needed warning. She had the example of her father as warning enough.
Her partnership with Anthony would be something built on trust, mutual interests, friendship. Not some passionate flight of fancy. She had seen the misery that sort of relationship could cause when it fell apart. Yet as he fastened his expensive gift in place, she found herself wondering a little shakily what it would be like to share a bed with Anthony, what their wedding night would be like. She stared at the top of his head as he bent over her wrist.
Would he undress her, she wondered, touch her body, make love to her with care and tenderness? Or would he disappear into the bathroom and return respectably clad in pyjamas, expecting her to be waiting for him under the covers with the light off?
She lifted her fingers to her lips as her subconscious jolted her with the memory of the taste of Jack Drayton’s mouth on hers and she knew at that moment exactly what it would be like to be loved by him. No time for thought. Only sensation. Shattering, intense sensation.
She jerked edgily from his touch. ‘We’d better go,’ she said, quickly turning away to hide the sudden betraying heat that seared her cheeks at such shocking thoughts. ‘We’ll be late.’
‘There’s a while yet. I left plenty of time. Aren’t you going to put up your hair?’
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror. She only wore her spectacles for close work and now her hazel eyes appeared huge and mysterious in her delicately boned face. Her hair, a calmer tone than the fiery Celtic copper red of her father, the colour of a chestnut brand new from its shell, framed her face in a mass of curls. She looked different tonight. Like her hair, not quite under control.
‘It will take too long.’ Then, because she had sounded a little fierce, she forced a smile. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘It makes you look rather young,’ he objected.
She took his arm. ‘Don’t be silly, Anthony.’ He looked slightly taken aback at her words and she wondered if anyone had ever called him silly before. She had to fight down the totally unexpected desire to giggle but it had been a day full of unexpected emotions. ‘I’m twenty-four today. Positively ancient,’ she quickly added to placate him and it was a relief to see an answering smile lift his mouth.
* * *
Two hours of Shostakovich certainly cured her of any desire to giggle. For a while she tried to concentrate but she found the music difficult and in the end she stopped trying to follow it, letting it wash over her. But inside her head a very different kind of music began to improvise long sliding scales on a tenor saxophone. She closed her eyes and saw a pair of strong hands moving surely over the keys, the street light gleaming on burnished metal and black hair that curled onto a denim collar.
‘Rosalind?’ She opened her eyes to the enthusiastic applause of the audience. She joined in, but Anthony leaned closer and murmured. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
‘Just a slight headache. I closed my eyes. I’m afraid I may have dropped off for a moment.’
He looked at her with concern. ‘I expect you’re hungry. I don’t suppose for a moment you had time to eat anything when you got home.’ Unlike Anthony, whose mother would undoubtedly have been waiting with tea and sandwiches. She wondered briefly what he would do without his mother to anticipate his every need. She found Mrs Harlowe’s slavish devotion just a little hard to take.
Her father, for all his faults, had loved to cook and had never expected to be waited on. Some of her happiest childhood memories were of the time they had spent together in the kitchen preparing his favourite recipes, conspiring to surprise her mother. They had been so close. She had trusted him completely. The thought jabbed at the painful memory of his desertion and she retreated from it, back to the present. To Anthony.
Maybe he would suggest his mother should live with them when they were married. That would solve everything. Maybe, she thought, he would simply suggest she move in with the two of them.
The traitorous thought jarred into her head and she quickly excused herself to reclaim her coat, afraid that he would read it on her face. She didn’t dislike Anthony’s mother, just thought she was rather silly, but living under the same roof might impose more strain on their relationship than it could readily take. Anthony was marrying a career woman and he would simply have to learn to be a little more self-reliant.
But he was right of course. She hadn’t even had time for a cup of tea when she got home. Not that she felt particularly hungry, and the headache that she had invented a moment ago was threatening to become a reality.
The fresh air was a momentary reprieve, but as they got closer to the restaurant and the certainty that Jack Drayton would be there to embarrass her further, she began to feel sick. She pressed her fingers to her temple.
‘Is your headache worse?’ Anthony asked. ‘You haven’t looked yourself all evening and I think I can guess why,’ he added, his voice heavy with meaning.
‘It’s been a bit hectic at work, that’s all.’
‘I know you’ve been busy.’ He leaned across and patted her hand. ‘You’ve done very well. Proved your point,’ he conceded, somewhat magnanimously. He had made no secret of his opinion that he thought she was too young for such responsibility but had been overruled by the senior partners. ‘But soon you’ll be able to take things more easily. I do believe it’s time to set a date for the wedding. We won’t wait too long.’
The surge of happiness that she had anticipated at this mom
ent did not materialise. Instead her head began to throb painfully.
They had arrived at Michel’s and Anthony dropped her by the entrance before parking. She glanced quickly around but there was no sign of Jack Drayton. She should have felt relieved and she was, but it was only the relief of having put off a visit to the dentist. She had the unhappy feeling that he wasn’t the kind of man to give up on something he wanted. And he wanted her. He had said so. His blue eyes had told her so.
They were shown to their seats and uncharacteristically Anthony immediately ordered a bottle of champagne.
‘Anthony, no.’ The combination of headache and champagne would be a disaster.
‘Hang the expense, this is a special occasion.’
‘Well, just a sip. It’s a long time since I’ve eaten.’
‘As you wish,’ he said, irritated by her lack of enthusiasm for his grand gesture.
The evening seemed to be progressing steadily downhill. It had been going downhill this afternoon when Jack Drayton burst into her life. It was all his fault.
‘...Mother to look after you.’ She forced herself to concentrate on what Anthony was saying. ‘No more rushing about when we’re married, Rosalind. You’ll be a lady of leisure. She was saying tonight how much she’s looking forward to it. You’ll be able to go on shopping trips together.’
‘Who?’
‘Mother and you.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been listening to a word I was saying,’ he remonstrated.
‘Yes. Yes I have. But I’ve no wish to be a lady of leisure. I love my job.’ She chose not to comment on the pleasures of shopping with Mrs Harlowe. She had done it once, taking her into the city centre to buy a hat. She hoped never to have to repeat the experience.
‘Of course you do, but you won’t want to carry on working once we’re married.’ He sounded slightly shocked at the notion of his wife working.
It had never occurred to her that Anthony would expect her to stay at home and become simply Mrs Harlowe. The idea filled her with dismay but before she could say anything the champagne arrived and they watched in silence as the waiter opened the bottle and filled two glasses.
Anthony handed one to her. ‘I think we’ve waited long enough, Rosalind. I told Mother we would set the date for the wedding tonight.’ Rose sipped the champagne to moisten lips that were suddenly dry. ‘I thought the first week in May,’ he said.
‘May?’
He frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘An old aunt of my mother’s always said May was unlucky for weddings. My mother was married in May.’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Superstitious nonsense of course.’
‘The first is a Saturday.’
‘May Day.’ She managed a smile. ‘How appropriate.’ And they were closed in the afternoon so it wouldn’t disrupt business… ‘I’ll let Mr Nightingale know that I’ll want some time off.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘Leave all the arrangements with me,’ Anthony said, picking up the menu.
‘No, I can do it,’ — her head seemed to be drifting off somewhere by itself —‘but May doesn’t give us much time to find somewhere to live.’ Although a village house with a walled garden had just come on the books that would be perfect…
He looked puzzled. ‘There’s no need to worry about house-hunting, Rosalind. My house is big enough for the three of us.’
‘Three...?’ She giggled. ‘Three’s a crowd...’ She looked at her glass. It was empty. She was just so dry. ‘Do you think I could have some water?’
Anthony frowned and summoned a waiter. ‘Mother suggested that you come round at the weekend and sort out the rooms with her.’
He’d talked his Mother before he asked her?
‘I know you’ll be tactful. It’s been her home for a very long time.’
She didn’t want to live with his mother. She had to tell him. Now. ‘Anthony—’
He raised his head from the menu. ‘I’ll have the duck pate to start, I think. What about you?’
The protest died on her lips. ‘I haven’t decided,’ she said, reaching for her glass. It was empty. Anthony summoned the waiter to refill it and she bent her head over the enormous menu but found it hard to concentrate on food.
Half an hour ago she had been treating the idea of living with his mother in the well-groomed middle-class suburbs of Melchester as a joke. Now she had been presented with a fait accompli.
What on earth would she do there all day?
There was a lady who came in every morning to clean and a man who kept the garden pristine and Mrs Harlowe wouldn’t surrender control to her. She would be little more than a guest.
‘Have you decided, Rosalind?’
‘Not yet.’ She pushed the thought of the beautiful stone house in Wickham firmly out of her mind and scanned the menu. It would be fine. She would be at work all day. It would be wonderful not to have to…
‘Rosalind?’ Anthony half stood as she rose abruptly from her seat and dived for the cloakroom and was promptly sick. She sat quivering and slicked with sweat. The attendant wiped her face with a damp tissue and waved a bottle of smelling salts under her nose. It helped, but there was no way she could face the restaurant. She sent a message asking Anthony to meet her in the entrance.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Rosalind?’ he asked, less than pleased. Then he saw how white she was and without another word went for the car.
He drove her home in silence, for which she was grateful, and saw her safely inside.
‘Perhaps it’s the “flu”,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘There seems to be a lot of it about.’
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, unwilling to expose her own stupidity at drinking two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. Or was it three? It didn’t matter. She had known one would be too many. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she offered, automatically.
‘No, I’ll let you get straight to bed.’ He made a move to kiss her, but thought better of it. ‘Maybe you should take the day off.’
‘I’ll be fine in the morning. Really,’ she assured him, and stood for a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps retreating, before closing the door with a sigh.
She put on the kettle to make a hot drink and went to change into her nightdress. Anthony was right about one thing. She was tired, but she had the unhappy feeling that a good night’s sleep would not be so easy to come by. Too much had happened for one day. Except it hadn’t been the decision about weddings that had sent her thoughts into a spin – it had been the encounter with Jack Drayton. And that was all wrong. She knew it.
As she made a cup of mint tea she smiled somewhat ironically. Despite Jack’s firm conviction to the contrary, she had not worried about him all evening. Not for one minute. She wondered why he had decided against coming to Michel’s. Not that it mattered. She was just grateful that he hadn’t turned up. Grateful too that he hadn’t accepted her crazy offer to lend him her car. She would never see the wretched man again and that was just fine with her.
She curled up in front of the gas fire. Anthony was right. He was always right. She was tired and although they hadn’t had the chance to discuss where they might go for their honeymoon she allowed herself to dwell on the prospect. Somewhere warm, she thought. The south of France. Spain. Portugal. Capri, perhaps. Spring was a glorious time of year for the warmer parts of the Mediterranean. She would pick up some brochures in her lunch break tomorrow and perhaps they could decide at the weekend.
Sarah came home a little after twelve and was surprised to find her dozing in front of fire. ‘I thought you would still be out celebrating with the big man.’ She checked her watch. ‘Or is it past his bedtime?’
Her reference to Anthony as the “big man” grated. It wasn’t his stature that Sarah was referring to — he was barely an inch taller than her, but she was 5’9” in her stockinged feet and that wasn’t exactly short.
Her flatmate thought Anthony was ridiculous
ly self -important and never hesitated to say so, speculating what he would look like over the breakfast table before he had got his hair under control.
Sarah did not like Anthony. The feeling was mutual.
‘I had a headache. We came home early.’
‘I bet he was really disappointed.’
‘Sarah!’
Her friend was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry, Rose. But he wasn’t very keen, was he?’ She pulled a sombre face and did a very passable imitation of Anthony at his most pompous. ‘French food is not really my cup of tea, Rosalind, but if it’s what you want...’ She hesitated. ‘He does rather like to have things his own way.’
‘We all like to get our own way, Sarah,’ she replied, pushing back the thought that sometimes he never even considered that anyone else might have a viewpoint at all. She held out her hand and displayed her new watch. ‘He bought me this for my birthday.’
Sarah bent to look at it. ‘He’s not cheap, I’ll give him that. I wonder if he’ll break into his piggy bank and buy you a ring now?’ Seeing her shocked expression and completely misunderstanding, Sarah threw her arms around her. ‘I’m sorry, Rose, that was a beastly thing to say. I know you’re not marrying him for his money.’
‘No.’ It was just that Jack had said the same thing and the words brought him sharply into focus.
Sarah hesitated. ‘Which only leaves one vital question — why are you marrying him?’
‘Because I want to. I’m very fond of him,’ she replied, stiffly, conscious that Sarah was again echoing Jack’s question.
‘Fond?’ Sarah let out an exasperated little noise that expressed her feelings precisely. ‘I’m fond of my mother’s prize Tamworth pig,’ she declared. ‘Marriage requires a little more than that, wouldn’t you say? I don’t understand you, Rose. You’re young, quite stunning to look at when you don’t dress in those dowdy things that Anthony likes. He’s turning you into a middle-aged woman before you’ve had time to grow up properly. Dump him, Rose. There’s a whole world of real men out there—’