by Lulu Taylor
‘And his mother … he simply calls her “meine Mutter”. Am I supposed to address an invitation to “meine Mutter”?’ Vicky asked, laughing. ‘No one else on the list appears to be related to him at all. What with Flora’s lack of family as well, this is going to be a very odd wedding.’
Octavia cast her eyes over the list. ‘Has she said anything about their honeymoon?’
Vicky shook her head. ‘Apparently Otto’s taken care of the arrangements. All she knows is that they’re heading to the schloss right after the ceremony.’
As Vicky said those words, Octavia felt a heavy sense of doom fall on her. This man was taking her sister away from her, far away, to Germany. They had never been parted before. Not even Aunt Frances had attempted that. But soon Flora was going off with this person they barely knew. Panic twisted inside Octavia. She looked up at Vicky but her cousin seemed quite calm, chatting away about the difficulties of booking the venue and finding caterers, not just at short notice but at Christmas too.
‘Honestly,’ she said, rolling her eyes, ‘I won’t tell you how much cash I’m flashing to get what we want.’
Octavia barely heard her. I can’t let this happen, she thought. Not without being sure. She thought hard, a plan already forming in her mind.
Octavia gave a false name when she rang for an appointment, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. It seemed the kind of thing one did when trying to investigate someone secretly.
It was easy enough to find the office. Ethan had brought her to Soho a couple of times, to dark, sexy clubs where couples lounged in corners, drinking and talking. She buzzed at the door and the receptionist let her in. A few moments and a short climb later, she was on the upper floor, standing in front of the receptionist’s desk.
‘Oh, yes, Miss Brown,’ the receptionist said, looking as though she knew full well that this was a pseudonym. ‘Please go through. You’re expected.’
Octavia walked across the small office and knocked at the door the receptionist had indicated. A voice inside called, ‘Come in!’
The room she entered was messy, and a man with striking dark looks sat behind a singularly untidy desk. ‘Mr Falcon?’
He glanced up and his expression changed. His mouth dropped open for an instant, then he got hold of himself. He looked very pleased to see her, almost avuncular in his eagerness to stand up and shake her hand. ‘Hey, you’ve come back! I wondered if you’d show. I never heard from you after I sent my initial report and costings. Didn’t you get the email? Thought you must have changed your mind. What’s with the fake name anyhow? Now come on in, sit down. Let’s take a look at the stuff I sent you.’
He beckoned her over to a chair as he started to rifle through papers and files on his desk. He continued in his strong American accent, ‘If you’d let me know you were coming, I’d have been more prepared, you know? But I’ve got it here somewhere.’
Octavia hadn’t moved. ‘You know me?’ she said, when she’d found her voice.
He glanced up at her with a smile, his eyes full of charm. ‘Course I do. Flora Beaufort. I’m not likely to forget a girl like you, if you don’t mind me saying. You want me to find your mother for you.’ His expression changed as he took in her stricken face. ‘Wait … you are Flora Beaufort, aren’t you?’
‘No. No, I’m not,’ Octavia said in a cold voice. ‘But I take it my sister has been here and asked you to look for our mother?’
‘Ah.’ The man looked confused, staring down at his desk with a furrowed brow. ‘Um … this is a strange one. I really can’t say. I wouldn’t have said a thing if I hadn’t thought you were the … er … other Miss Beaufort.’ He shook his head. ‘Wow. I’ve never seen two people look so similar.’ He looked up at her hopefully. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘No,’ said Octavia, her mind racing and her stomach churning. ‘Not today.’
She turned and ran back through the outer office and down the stairs. On the street, she hailed the first taxi she saw and ordered it home.
Flora was poring over a list of possible canapé combinations. She hadn’t realised that there was so much to decide when planning a wedding. Vicky was doing most of the legwork, but still there were bouquets to be chosen, orders of service to have printed, shoes to select … it went on and on, and it was all happening at breakneck speed so that they could have the perfect, romantic Christmas wedding.
She was just ticking the sushi selection when Octavia came bursting into the room, her eyes bright with anger and her cheeks flushed.
‘You promised!’ she shouted. ‘You promised you weren’t going to look for her!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Flora said, looking up, bewildered. ‘What’s wrong?’ She had never seen her sister look so furious. Was that anger directed at her?
Octavia marched up and jabbed a finger at her. ‘You! You have commissioned a private detective to find our mother!’
Flora was taken aback. She gasped but couldn’t speak.
‘Don’t try and deny it, I know you did,’ spat Octavia. ‘You promised me you’d leave it … and all the time you were going behind my back.’
‘No … no!’ Flora said, holding up her hands, desperate to stem the flood of Octavia’s rage. ‘I have let it go.’
‘Your private detective doesn’t seem to think so! He’s under the impression you’re still interested in finding her.’
‘Wait.’ Flora went very still, her mind whirling as she considered what her sister had just said. ‘How do you know about my private detective? I haven’t told anyone … not Otto, not Vicky, no one. Did you look at my email account?’
‘Don’t be stupid, of course I didn’t,’ snapped Octavia. ‘I found him by chance.’
Flora went very white. A cold feeling of horror swirled in her belly. ‘I know,’ she whispered. Suddenly she saw it very clearly. ‘I know why you went to him. You were going to have Otto investigated, weren’t you?’
Guilt flashed across Octavia’s face and Flora knew she was right. Fury raced through her. ‘How dare you?’ she said through gritted teeth. Then she screamed: ‘How DARE YOU, Octavia?’
Octavia looked frightened. She’d never seen her sister in anything like this state before.
‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough?’ Flora yelled, rising to her feet, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve been spied on all my life! Watched! Monitored! I didn’t think I would ever, ever find that you had turned against me too.’
Tears filled Octavia’s eyes. Her own anger had vanished completely. ‘I haven’t turned against you …’ she said, her voice trembling.
‘Ever since we left Homerton, you’ve left me alone. You’ve deserted me for your new friends and your new life. You let me suffer all the time and you didn’t care. And now that I’ve found a little bit of happiness without you, you want to spoil that too!’
Octavia was sobbing now. ‘No … no, that’s not true.’
‘Well, for your information, I’ve signed a pre-nuptial agreement with Otto and I’m completely protected. I don’t need you spying on me, so you can forget about that right now! I never looked for our mother again once I’d promised you I wouldn’t – not that you have any right to stop me! And for as my marriage …’ Flora narrowed her eyes and glowered at her twin, her face still tight with rage. ‘You can count yourself lucky that Otto and I even want you to be there after this! Do you understand?’
Feeling that she couldn’t be near Octavia a moment longer without breaking down entirely, Flora swept past her sister, leaving her weeping desolately.
46
The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright. It was a beautiful Christmas Eve. London sparkled with glitter and lights, and buzzed with the excitement of the holidays.
Octavia’s reflection showed that she was pale and nervous. Flora, on the other hand, looked serene and happy. I thought it was always the other way round, thought Octavia. The bride is supposed to be the one with the nerves. Not the bridesmaid.
&n
bsp; In Flora’s room, the dress was hanging under its protective cover. Roddy had brought it over late the night before, having done the final, final fitting the previous morning. He’d also brought Octavia’s bridesmaid’s dress, adapted from one of the evening gowns from the last show.
The shoes and jewellery, chosen with Iseult’s help, were in their boxes, waiting for her to don them.
The sisters were quiet as the make-up artist and hairdresser arrived to do their work. When Flora finally slipped on the dress, a vision of loveliness made from Irish ivory silk and chiffon, Octavia started to cry.
‘Please …’ Flora went to her sister. ‘Don’t cry, Tavy. Please be happy for me. I’m very happy myself.’
‘I don’t want you to go away,’ Octavia whispered, sniffing a little and wiping away her tears with a tissue before her mascara could run. ‘I don’t want you to leave me.’
‘I’ll be back in no time, you’ll see. A few weeks at the schloss, and then I’ll come home. You can visit me there.’ Flora reached out and took her sister’s hand. ‘Come as soon as you want. We’ll both want to see you.’
Octavia stared at Flora, who looked so incredibly beautiful, and felt sadness wash over her heart. There was a chasm between them, she knew that, and she didn’t seem able to bridge it. Ever since that awful scene a fortnight ago, when Flora had screamed at her as she never had before, there had been a rift between them that couldn’t seem to be mended. From that moment, she’d felt Flora go away from her, and it was hurting Octavia more than she could ever have dreamed. Even though she’d begged forgiveness and Flora had granted it, the strange coolness between them had persisted and Octavia was at a loss how to end it.
Now she had to swallow any lingering apprehension she had about the wedding. She had to trust that Flora knew what she was doing and hope that, in time, the gulf would be closed and they could go back to where they once were.
Flora smiled at her. ‘Come on, Tavy. We have a wedding to get to.’
* * *
Steve, wearing his full chauffeur’s uniform and peaked cap, drove them to the ceremony in a huge cream Daimler.
Vicky met them at the Savile Club, looking fantastic in a silk Armani dress in dark green. She seemed calm and in control as she helped Flora out of the car. ‘You look exquisite, darling. Everyone’s here, they’re all waiting for you.’
A gaggle of photographers dashed forward as the girls stood on the pavement. The club doormen and Steve held them back as the flashes exploded. Flora grimaced.
‘What are they doing here?’ she cried, trying to shield her face with her bouquet of white peonies and ivory roses.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Vicky said grimly. Octavia kept quiet. ‘Come on.’ She led them along the red carpet and into the club.
Once they were inside, the doors were firmly shut in the faces of the press. But another man stepped forward.
‘This is Gil, the official photographer,’ Vicky explained. ‘He’s going to take some pictures now before we go in.’
While Flora was posing at the foot of the imposing staircase, beneath a glittering crystal chandelier, Vicky said to Octavia, ‘Something’s happened … Otto’s mother isn’t here. She’s ill apparently. Had to stay home in Germany at the last moment.’
Octavia made a face. ‘It could be worse, I suppose. She could have died or something.’
‘Octavia!’ said Vicky reprovingly, but they both giggled.
‘Let’s hope,’ Octavia said, tightening her grip around her own posy of peonies, ‘that’s the worst thing that’s going to happen today.’
The harpist began the entrance music and Flora, unaccompanied except by her sister walking behind her, began her stately progress through the rows of gilt chairs to where Otto was waiting for her, dapper in his morning coat, an ivory rosebud in his buttonhole. She gave him an exquisite smile as she reached him and the congregation sighed almost as one at the sight of the gorgeous bride.
The ceremony was over in a moment, or so it seemed to Octavia. There was no singing by the congregation, but an alto and a soprano sang a heart-soaring aria from Così Fan Tutte; there were readings, too, one by Vicky and one by a friend of Otto. The wedding vows were short and to the point, and would have seemed quite prosaic it had not been for the obvious happiness of the bride. Octavia looked over the assembled congregation, recognising very few of them. Aunt Frances and the Brigadier were in the front row, their aunt looking very boot-faced considering she was at her niece’s wedding. Behind them were the other Stauntons, Vicky sitting next to her brother Laurence and their parents. There were a couple of faces Octavia recognised from finishing school, and some of their American relatives. She remembered that Vicky had chartered a plane and booked the best hotels in order to get them all over here at such short notice. She didn’t know anyone else.
Is this how it’s supposed to be? she wondered. A roomful of strangers? Who are they all anyway?
It was not even a roomful, come to that. The congregation filled about five rows.
With the formalities at an end, the new husband and wife turned to smile at everyone and then processed out to the Wedding March, played again on the harp.
So that’s it, Octavia thought. Now they’re married. It seemed strange that they had walked into that room as separate people and were now walking out bound together for ever. Even if they were divorced, they would always have been married. There was no erasing it now.
Please God she’s done the right thing, thought Octavia. As much as she wanted to be happy for her sister, she couldn’t help a terrible feeling of depression from descending upon her. Flora was gone from her now, perhaps for ever. If only she hadn’t found out about the visit to the detective there might not be this awful distance, this coldness, between them.
Octavia longed for comfort and affection. She glanced at her watch and wondered if there would be time, after the reception, to call Ethan and arrange to see him. She needed to feel his strong arms around her.
The reception was held downstairs, waiters circulating with trays of canapés and glasses of champagne. It was a curiously muted affair, perhaps because so few people knew one another.
It couldn’t be avoided, Octavia realised. She would have to speak to her aunt, standing at the side of the room, stiff and po-faced in her lavender suit, her husband beside her clearly longing for his pipe.
‘Aunt Frances,’ she said, going up to them and kissing them dutifully. ‘Uncle.’
‘Octavia,’ Aunt Frances said with an edge to her voice. ‘Well, I’m surprised you let this happen. What does the girl think she’s doing? She’s far too young for marriage.’
‘Flora’s old enough to make up her own mind, I think,’ Octavia replied coldly.
‘She’ll regret it,’ sighed her aunt, and shook her head. ‘They always do. Look at your beloved father.’
‘Can’t we get through two minutes without your mentioning my father?’ Octavia replied furiously. ‘For Christ’s sake, we’ve had this our entire lives! Can’t you see that you’re the one who brought us up? If we’re fucked up, there’s only one person to blame and that’s you!’ She threw a scornful look at the Brigadier. ‘You and that hopeless blockhead of a husband of yours. You should never have been allowed within two feet of any children, ever!’
Her aunt gasped, her face looking pale and horrified. ‘Octavia! How dare you? I did my best for you two girls.’
‘Yeah, right. By turning us into freaks. And you lied to us about our mother. I know all about it. So what do we have to thank you for? Precisely nothing. The day we left you was the happiest day of our lives. And if Flora is rushing into this marriage – well, it had everything to do with you and the fact that she was never loved!’ Octavia’s eyes stung with tears. She had barely realised she felt so strongly before this.
‘Well,’ said Aunt Frances indignantly, ‘It’s clear we’re not wanted. We shall leave as soon as the speeches are done.’
‘No, you’re not wanted. I can’t under
stand why you came in the first place.’ Octavia turned on her heel, tossed her head and stalked off without even saying goodbye, hoping she would never have to speak to them again.
It was, she realised, a relief to have spoken her mind for the first time in her life without fear of punishment. It was a small triumph but a meaningful one, and she smiled with satisfaction. Maybe she was grown up after all.
Soon they were lost in introductions, then toasts and speeches. There was no speech made for Flora, though, as no one had walked her down the aisle and she was far too shy to make one herself. Otto gave a short, formal address in which he thanked everybody for coming, and then, with a bow, thanked his new wife for marrying him before asking the room to toast Octavia, the bridesmaid.
The best man, who had read a poem at the ceremony, made his speech in a strong accent and then asked everyone to toast the happy couple, which they did with great aplomb. Then, to all intents and purposes, it was over.
Flora was glad it finished so soon. She didn’t want to linger there, among so many people she didn’t know. She longed to be alone with Otto, beginning their life together. She knew that a plane was waiting for them at City airport with their luggage already aboard, and that they were on their way to his ancestral home. All she wanted was to get there. Then they could start to recover from the wedding, and she could begin to take stock of everything that had happened recently. She needed time and space to think about Octavia’s underhand behaviour and to confront the painful distance that now lay between them.
As soon as they were alone, she said to Otto, ‘I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t be here.’
‘She was heartbroken, but she could not travel.’ He looked searchingly into her eyes, then said quietly, ‘My wife. My dear wife.’
He kissed her. My husband, she thought, a great sense of calm coming over her.
Upstairs, Flora changed into her going away outfit: a classic Chanel suit in pale green, woven with metallic thread, and a pair of ballet pumps. Then she and Otto made their way to the waiting car, Octavia throwing confetti at them, the official photographer snapping away, and everyone cheering and calling goodbye. It was done. She was married.