by Liz Fielding
‘Anthony is a real man,’ she said, fervently. ‘He’s kind, reliable—’
‘Admirable qualities, Rose, but are they enough? I know you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find the prince…but to keep kissing the same frog—’
‘And how was your Prince Charming this evening?’ she interrupted.
Sarah wasn’t slow.
She and Rose had known one another a long time and the danger signs — the whiteness around the mouth, a certain spark that turned her eyes very green — were unmistakeable.
There had been a time when Rose Parry’s temper had made life very lively at school.
She had battled to keep it in check, but married life with Anthony might strain that control to breaking point and she envied the lucky fly on the wall who witnessed the resulting mayhem. Except, of course, it would be Rose who would be hurt.
‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. Forget I said anything. Please.’
‘It’s forgotten,’ she said, a little stiffly. ‘We’ve set the date for the wedding. The first of May. I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, or whatever it is that brides have in register offices. Of course, if you’d rather not—’
‘You’re getting hitched at the register office? Surely your mother will expect a church wedding with bells, choir, white dress and hundreds of relations. You certainly deserve the white dress and not many of us can say that.’
‘I haven’t got hundreds of relations and we all deserve a white dress, Sarah. It’s an attitude of mind. A promise of forever,’ she added, fiercely. ‘It doesn’t matter where you say the words. Will you stand with me?’
‘Of course. Anywhere. If you’re sure it’s what you really want?’
Rose pushed away the image that Sarah had conjured up of the old grey stone church where she had been baptised and been taken by her mother every Sunday throughout her childhood. Her father too, on the rare occasions that he hadn’t been away playing at some gig. But if she had a church wedding her mother would insist on paying for it. This way she could keep it small, informal and she could pay for it herself.
‘Yes, Sarah,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s exactly what I want.’
‘In that case we’d better start looking for something to wear. What about Saturday?’
‘I have to visit Mrs Harlowe on Saturday. I was thinking of taking a day off one day next week and going up to London. Can you manage that?’
‘Try and stop me,’ Sarah said, catching a yawn. ‘Right now I’m off to bed. I’m not marrying my boss so I’ll have to be up bright and early in the morning.’
Rose followed suit and, against all expectations, immediately fell asleep, but her dreams were nightmarish. Anthony was there, wearing a pair of striped pyjamas. He kept appearing to check the time on her watch and warn her she must come to bed, apparently oblivious of the fact that Jack Drayton, dripping with rain, was gradually undressing her. Anthony was supposed to protect her. She wanted him to protect her, keep her safe, but he didn’t. She woke in the dark, sweating, her heart pounding. It was nearly six and she threw off the covers and went to have a bath.
By the time she made a stab at breakfast and applied rather more make-up than usual, she was ready to face the day. Her hair firmly twisted into a neat chignon, her favourite tan Chanel-style suit and a simple cream blouse completed the picture and if her limbs felt leaden, she at least looked the part of an elegant young business woman. It had stopped raining at last and as she unlocked her car, the sun was trying to break through the cloud cover with a promise that things were back on an even keel. She got into the car, turned the ignition and reached for the clutch. Her foot didn’t quite reach it.
Rose frowned, for a moment unable to understand what had happened. Then she knew. Jack Drayton had pushed the seat back and found a way to push himself back into her consciousness just when she thought she had him firmly stowed away in her mind’s attic with the rest of life’s unwanted debris. She slid the seat forward and very firmly turned her mind to the day ahead. He was yesterday. What happened to him was none of her concern. She was going to marry Anthony she thought, a little fiercely. Soon. And she She put the car into gear and drove to an early appointment with a potential client who was thinking of letting her flat.
* * *
She hung up her coat and walked across to her desk where she found a square white envelope with her name on it on top of the post. She ripped it open and took out the card. The handwriting was bold and to the point. Like the man. Like the message. ‘Don’t forget our lunch date, Rosie. Twelve-thirty at the wine bar. Jack.’
How dare he believe for one moment she would go to the wine bar with him! Besides she had other plans for her lunch hour. She tore the card in two and dropped it in the bin.
‘What was that?’ Anthony’s approach had been silent and his voice made her jump guiltily.
‘Nothing. Junk mail,’ she said, with considerable feeling.
He looked at her closely. ‘Mmmm. How are you this morning? Should you have come in? You still look rather pale.’
‘Fine, really,’ she said, trying to ignore the trembling that seemed to suddenly affect her legs.
He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘I’m going to be busy for the next couple of days, but I’ll see you on Saturday when you come over to visit mother Mother. We can talk over the wedding arrangements then.’
‘I’ll have to let Mum know what the arrangements are in plenty of time. I think we should keep it simple.’
‘There’s no need to bother your mother. We’ll have the wedding at home.’ He waited for her agreement. ‘If you’ve no objection,’ he added, quickly, when she didn’t immediately respond.
‘I’ll speak to her. See what she would like.’
‘Your mother is an amazing woman, Rosalind. The way she picked herself up after the life your father left led her…’
‘She had no choice,’ she replied. ‘There was no one else to do it for her.’
‘Quite. But she doesn’t have much time these days. I think you should leave it all to my mother. She’s used to entertaining.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I must go, or I’ll be late. We’ll talk about this on Saturday. I’ll pick you up at about three.’
‘There’s no need,’ she said, edgily. ‘I’ll drive myself.’ Then, because she knew he meant to be kind. ‘I have quite a few appointments on Saturday and I don’t know when I’ll get away. It will be simpler if I come when I can,’ she added rather more gently.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Right. I’ll see you some time Saturday afternoon then. Goodbye, Rosalind.’
‘Goodbye, Anthony.’ But he was already half way across the office. She sat down at her desk. Sometimes, she thought, fiercely. Just thought fiercely, just once in a while, I wish he’d forget to be so damned formal. What was the matter with a kiss? They were getting married for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t going to shock anyone. Even Mr Nightingale, the senior partner, kissed his wife when she came into the office. Maybe when Anthony was a full partner and her hair was a little grey, he would kiss her when she dropped by at the office after doing some shopping.
She caught her breath. Something crazy was happening to her, something she didn’t understand. Until yesterday she and Anthony had been in perfect accord about everything. Suddenly she was finding fault in everything he did. She picked up an envelope and tore it open. Pre-wedding nerves. That must be it.
She began to work through the pile of mail and the morning flew by. She despatched one of the negotiators to take instructions for two new properties, arranged to meet someone for a viewing for the property in Wickham for Saturday morning and went down to the newspaper office to check the advertisement in the weekend property feature.
When she returned there was a list of messages to keep her busy until lunchtime.
‘I’m getting a sandwich, Rosalind. Do you want anything?’
She took a breath, raised her head from a set of details she was checking and smiled. ‘You fus
s over me more than my mother, Julie. I’ll have beef with a dash of horseradish on brown bread.’
‘I’ll bring you a yoghurt as well. You don’t eat enough.’
She gave in gracefully. Her secretary wasn’t a lot older than her, but she clucked over her like a mother hen. ‘Good idea.’ She paused. ‘Are you going anywhere near the travel agent?’
‘It wouldn’t be any trouble. What do you want?’
‘Just a few brochures. Nothing exotic.’ The phone rang and she reached automatically for it, then realising the time she wondered uneasily if it were Jack. She hadn’t met him in the wine bar and she wouldn’t put it past him to ring and jog her memory. She withdrew her hand. ‘Could you answer that for me?’
‘Who are you avoiding?’ Julie asked with interest.
‘Just see who it is.’
She picked up the phone and answered, then held it out to her, whispering conspiratorially, ‘It’s your...young man.’
Rose looked at the phone as if it might bite before reluctantly putting it to her ear. ‘Yes?’
‘Rosalind?’
‘Oh, Anthony, what can I do for you?’ Her heart rate resumed its normal steady pace.
‘Nothing. It’s just that I’ve been asked to a golf tournament on Saturday afternoon. I’ve told Mother and she said to let you know that she’s expecting you anyway and that you must stay for dinner. You’ll be company for one another and you won’t have anything else to do, will you?’
‘Er…’ She had no special wish to spend the evening alone with Mrs Harlowe. An afternoon fencing around the subject of their living arrangements would be quite enough. She heard the bell ring as someone came into the office and raised her eyes above the glass panelling that separated her from the front office to check that there was someone available to deal with any query.
But it wasn’t someone looking for a house. Jack Drayton was rapidly approaching her corner, determination written in every feature. ‘I’ll phone her this evening, Anthony,’ she said, quickly. ‘Right now I have a lunch appointment.’ And she hung up before Anthony could ask who it was with.
CHAPTER THREE
‘HELLO, Rosie.’
She glared at him. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, crossly. Her father had always called her Rosie and she had no wish to be reminded of him.
‘Do you prefer Miss Parry? Rose? Or shall I call you Rosalind in that possessive tone that Harlowe uses?’
‘I would prefer it if you just stayed away altogether,’ she said, but her heart leapt dangerously as he smiled at her. ‘Go away, Jack Drayton.’
‘You know you don’t mean it, Rosie. I distinctly heard you tell someone that you have a lunch date and if you stand me up now that will make a liar out of you. Besides, you have to eat.’ He firmly grasped her elbow, lifted her from her chair and ignoring her protest, steered her towards the door in a manner that brooked no dispute.
They passed Julie on the way out. ‘Are you going out, Rosalind?’ she asked, surprised. ‘What about these?’ She held the bag containing her lunch and the travel brochures.
Jack relieved Julie of them before she could intervene. ‘Hold Miss Parry’s calls,’ he instructed her. ‘She’s having lunch with me.’
‘In that case you won’t want this.’ She retrieved the sandwich. ‘What shall I tell Mr Harlowe if he phones?’ she asked, a touch of disapproval in her voice.
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ Jack said, with a smile.
‘For goodness sake don’t encourage her,’ Rose muttered as he led her down the steps, cross at allowing herself to be manipulated. ‘I’m beginning to think Anthony was right. It’s time I was a little firmer with the staff.’ She stopped and turned to him. ‘And with you,’ she added.
‘Oh, I’m a hopeless case,’ he responded, firmly moving her on. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with your staff. Perhaps you should just try being a little less tough on yourself, Rosie.’
‘I told you not to call me that,’ she protested, trying to shake him off. Then as someone passing turned to look at them she lowered her voice and hissed, ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’
‘Because when I make a date, my love, I expect it to be kept.’
‘I’m not your ‘love’, and we don’t have a date. You’ve got a nerve coming back to the office. If Anthony had been there—’
‘But he wasn’t. And where you’re concerned, Miss Parry, I have all the nerve it takes.’ His expression dared her to contradict him. ‘Stand me up again and you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of.’
She stopped and stared at him. The situation was getting out of hand. ‘What?’ she demanded, lifting her head and challenging him. ‘What will you do?’
‘You could always try me and find out, Rosie. If you dare?’
‘There isn’t going to be a next time!’
He released her arm and opened the wine bar door. ‘After you.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘I agree, we’re letting the cold air inside. In you go.’
‘No…’ But for all her reluctance, she felt a tingle of excitement. Protest she might, but she found Jack Drayton an invigorating enigma and she wanted to know more about him. He was a brilliant musician, down on his luck perhaps, doing what he could to make a little money. It was possible she could help him. She still sometimes saw people her father had played with. If she asked one of them to listen to him...Having convinced herself she was only having lunch with Jack in order to help him, she stopped fighting the inevitable and stepped into the warm atmosphere of the wine bar.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked.
‘A fruit juice, please. I’m driving,’ she added, in case he thought she was being faint-hearted.
‘Of course.’ He took the holiday brochures from her hands and held a chair out for her at one of the small tables tucked away in the corner.
‘Couldn’t we sit at the bar? I can’t stay long,’ she suggested.
‘You’ll stay just as long as I want you to, Rosie,’ he said, easily. ‘After all, you’ve nothing to be afraid of. You’ve told me that you are safely attached to the well-heeled Mr Harlowe. How can I be a threat to your peace of mind?’
‘You’re not!’ she retorted. ‘And I’m not afraid of you. I just want you to leave me alone.’
‘Keep saying it and you might actually get to believe it,’ he suggested with a casual insolence that caught her breath in her throat. ‘Any particular juice or do you feel reckless enough to let me choose?’
‘Orange,’ she snapped, then coloured at her rudeness. ‘Please.’
‘Orange it is,’ he affirmed, with that infuriating, knowing smile and made for the bar where he flirted outrageously with the fair-haired girl who served him. They were laughing and she suddenly felt a stab of something very much like jealousy, as if she had been abandoned by her boyfriend at a party for a more beguiling companion.
She turned quickly away. Who he flirted with was none of her business. In fact she should be grateful that it wasn’t her. She was grateful, she told herself and picked up one of her holiday brochures and began to flip through the pages, although she couldn’t have said what was on them.
‘Planning a holiday?’ Jack asked, as he put her drink on the table. He too was drinking fruit juice she noticed with surprise.
‘A honeymoon, actually,’ she said. His mouth tightened slightly as he sat down and reached for her hand.
‘But still no ring?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, he was warned. On his own head be it.’
‘For your information we set the date for the wedding last night. The first Saturday in May.’ She wanted to pull away from the warm touch of his fingers, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He fastened his eyes on her. ‘Come on, Rosie. You’re not really going to marry that stuffed shirt? Money isn’t everything.’
‘It helps,’ she retaliated. It hurt that he could think her so shallow, but she had no need to justify herself to this ma
n. It didn’t matter in the least what he thought of her. ‘I’m going to marry Anthony,’ she said, stonily. ‘I don’t make promises that I’m not prepared to keep.’ She shifted uncomfortably under his cynical scrutiny. ‘What happened to you last night anyway?’ she asked, in an attempt to change the subject. ‘I was expecting to be serenaded outside Michel’s.’
‘You missed me?’ His eyes seemed to seek the far corners of her mind. ‘Then I’m sorry I didn’t come, but if you’d bothered to look in the back of your car, Rosie, you’d know that I left the sax there. I called round this morning to pick it up, but your car had gone. Do you normally go to work so early?’ He was very still, his gaze watchful. ‘Or perhaps you just hadn’t come home from your exciting night out?’
Her eyes flashed furiously. ‘How dare you!’
The corners of his mouth creased into a smile of satisfaction and finally he released her hand. ‘An interesting response, Rosie. Very revealing. Now, let’s see if I can help with the honeymoon. I always rather fancied the Indian Ocean myself. Sand, sea and er...coconuts. What do you think?’
She ignored him, furious with herself for falling into his trap.
‘I came home early because I had a headache,’ she said.
‘I wonder why? Too much Shostakovich? Or too much Anthony Harlowe?’ He clearly didn’t expect an answer because he immediately returned to the travel brochure. ‘Well, Rosie,’ he prompted. ‘Where’s it to be?’
‘I told you not to call me that!’
‘You’re just avoiding the question, Rosie,’ he said, deliberately repeating her name so that the word seemed to grate over her skin.
She turned abruptly from his searching eyes. ‘You’re impossible!’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, adopting a hurt expression that didn’t fool her for a minute. ‘In fact I’m generally regarded to be a very reasonable sort of man, but I can see you’re not very eager to discuss your honeymoon. If you insist on sharing it with Anthony Harlowe I can understand why.’ He indicated the blackboard behind the bar. ‘What do you want to eat?’