by Liz Fielding
Demanding, tormenting, sensitive…
‘I’ve got it,’ he said pointedly and she yanked her hand back as if stung.
The tension between them was drawn so tight that she half expected the bulb to blow as he switched it on, but only the dust burned as, throwing a dim glow over the abandoned detritus of generations of Duchamp lives, it began to heat up.
‘Good grief!’ she said, more as a distraction than a genuine exclamation of surprise as she glanced around. ‘What a mess!’
‘I thought that was the general rule with attics? That they were a dumping ground?’
‘Well, yes, but it helps if it’s an ordered dumping ground.’ Which it had been, mostly, and she’d hoped to be able to go straight to her grandmother’s chest, grab the dress and run.
No matter what he’d said, or what she’d promised, she knew that spending any time up here picking over family history with Tom McFarlane would only underline the painful truth that he did not want to be part of it.
She’d asked him outright and he couldn’t have made it plainer that he didn’t want to know. Fine. Her only concern had been that he should know that he was about to become a father so that he could make a choice.
Well, he’d made it.
The last thing she wanted in her little girl’s life was a father who didn’t care about her. Better to stick with the myth of the sperm ‘donor’. At least that way she would know she was totally wanted by her mother. Could believe that she had been planned. A joy.
That was real enough.
All she wanted to do now was get this Celebrity feature over and done with so that she could leave Longbourne Court and Tom McFarlane behind. Especially Tom McFarlane.
He was not good for her peace of mind under any circumstances and up here, alone, under the eaves with the belongings of generations of her family, the feeling was oddly intensified because, whether he wanted to be or not, he was part of it now, part of her family, no matter how much he despised them all.
‘The trunks used to be lined up around the room so that you could get at them,’ she explained, doing her best to keep this businesslike. ‘Tidily.’
Looking around, it was obvious that things had been moved about in the recent past. Long enough ago for dust to have covered the clean spaces, but months rather than years.
‘I imagine any number of surveyors have moved them over the years so that they could check out the fabric of the roof,’ Tom said.
That it was an eminently reasonable suggestion did not make her feel any better.
‘Yours being the latest, no doubt,’ she snapped. ‘Well, they should have jolly well put them back where they found them.’
‘Maybe this is where they found them,’ he pointed out, ‘but I’ll be sure to pass on your criticism.’
‘Well…good,’ she replied, lifting the lid of the trunk nearest to her, as if satisfied. Then reeled back.
‘Good grief, what’s that smell?’
‘Camphor,’ she said, flapping at the air to disperse the fumes, but only succeeding in stirring up the dust and making things worse. ‘To keep away the moths,’ she said, choking from the combination, ‘which would otherwise have feasted…’ she gasped for air ‘…on all this fine wool suiting.’
‘And not just the moths. That smell would keep away anybody who ever thought about wearing them,’ he assured her. Then, with concern, ‘Are you all right? Is this okay? It won’t affect the…’
The word didn’t make it out of his mouth.
‘Baby,’ she snapped, still coughing. ‘It’s not a dirty word.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘So you said.’ If he’d been any stiffer he’d have cracked in two, she thought. ‘But I’m not, so that’s okay, isn’t it?’
He closed the trunk. ‘I’m happy for you,’ he said, turning away to open a second trunk.
That was it? She thought the camphor had made her gasp but his carelessness left her mouthing the air like a fish out of water.
Could he really be so…indifferent?
‘This is better,’ he said as, with a complete lack of concern, he held out an old tinplate truck for her to see. The kind of toy that might have belonged to one of the youths in the photograph and was now worth a considerable amount of money. Then he picked up a teddy bear, dressed as a clown, which was worth a great deal more. He offered it to her. ‘You’d have been better to have left your clothes behind and taken this.’
‘Chance would have been a fine thing,’ she said, taking it from him, feeling for the button in the ear.
Even the vintage wedding dress had been part of the estate according to the emotionless men who’d moved in to make an inventory of contents, watching her like hawks to make sure she didn’t pack anything more valuable than her underwear. They’d actually taken apart the framed photograph of her mother before she’d packed it, just to be sure that nothing valuable was secreted behind the picture.
She hadn’t argued with them. She’d been beyond making a scene, couldn’t even be bothered to put the photograph back in the frame, but had abandoned that along with the rest of her life.
What did a picture frame matter? Or an old wedding dress, for that matter, when her groom had put the ceremony on hold until everything had been ‘sorted out’. As if it ever could be.
What on earth was she doing up here looking for it now? This wasn’t moving on. This was just wallowing in the past. Something you did when you had no future. She was carrying her future in her womb. His future too.
‘It’s definitely a Steiff,’ she said, handing it back to him. ‘And, because it’s been shut away, the colours haven’t faded, which will increase the value. I’d advise you to be very careful before you toss any of this stuff into a skip. Who knows, on a good day at auction, you might even recoup the cost of your wedding. Wouldn’t that be ironic?’ she pushed, desperate for a reaction of any kind.
The only indication that he’d heard was the slightest tightening of his jaw as he turned away from her.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ he asked after opening another trunk to reveal more clothes, this time layered in tissue. Then, ‘No camphor?’ He glanced across at her. ‘Don’t moths attack women’s clothes?’
Sylvie sighed and let it go, looking across at the chest Tom had opened. ‘That’s a sandalwood chest,’ she said, wriggling between a couple of battered trunks to squeeze into the tiny space beside him without touching him. ‘Natural moth proofing.’
Her attempt at avoidance was brought to naught by the fact that her centre of gravity had shifted and, despite the sensible shoes, she wobbled against him. In an instant his hand was around what had once been her waist and he was holding her safe. Just as he had once before.
For a moment their gazes seemed to lock, all breathing to cease, and it was that moment in the garage all over again.
‘Okay?’ he asked softly; his eyes in the dim light seemed to be dulled with anguish. It was just her imagination, she told herself. Or the dust…
She forced herself to turn away, look at the trunk, the dress, lying in its layers of snowy tissue.
‘Oh…’ Then, ‘Yes…’
And the dust-or something-caught in her throat as she lifted her hand first to her lips, then out to touch the tissue paper. Curling her fingers back when she saw the state of them.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s, um, just a dress…’
She’d wrapped it in tissue and returned it to the chest that contained her great-grandmother’s clothes. The special ones. The ones she couldn’t bear to part with. Designer gowns from Balenciaga, Worth, Chanel. Silk and velvet. Accessories from the art deco period. Bags, buckles, shoes. Even lingerie.
‘My great-grandmother was very stylish. Very elegant. A bit of a trend-setter in her day,’ she said with forced brightness. She must not cry. They were just things…‘They should have gone to the Melchester museum for their costume department. My mother had it on her list of things to do.�
� She blinked. No tears…‘You always think there’s so much time…’ Then, not wanting to think about that, she turned to him. ‘What happened to your family?’
It was hard to say which of them was more shocked. Tom McFarlane, that she’d had the temerity to ask the question. Or her, for having dared pose it.
‘I have no family,’ he said without expression.
‘That’s not true!’ And her hands flew protectively to the child at her waist, as if to cover her ears.
Not any more.
And she wanted to reach out, take his hand and place it on their growing child so that he could feel what it meant. Would understand.
‘That’s the way I like it,’ he said, his expression so forbidding that, instead, she flinched. And then, before she could gather herself, speak, he gestured towards the tissue-wrapped dress in a manner that made it plain that the matter was closed.
‘What’s so special about this dress?’
After a long silence she turned to the trunk and, having rubbed her hands against the seat of her trousers to remove the dust, she unfolded the tissue to reveal the long lace veil.
Tom stared at the exquisite lace for a moment before turning to her and saying, ‘Why am I surprised?’ Then, ‘Is this for your wedding?’
‘Oh, please! I don’t think the virginal veil is quite me, do you?’ she asked, pulling a face, mocking herself. Mocking them both. Then, when he made no comment, ‘Geena wanted to see it.’ She shrugged. ‘Embarrassing as it was, the visualisation exercise jarred loose some ideas and I think she has some thought of interpreting this dress for the new maturer, pregnant me. It won’t do, of course.’
‘Why don’t you wait? Until after you’ve had the baby?’
‘Celebrity’s copy date is fixed, I’m afraid. It’s this weekend or never.’ Then, looking up at him, ‘Obviously they’ll acknowledge that we’ve used it with your permission.’
‘That really won’t be necessary,’ he replied. ‘I’ve had more than enough of weddings to last me a lifetime. In fact, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m trapped in some nightmarish time-loop in which the word “wedding” is a constantly recurring theme.’
She finally snapped. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever been stood up days before a wedding?’ she demanded. ‘Believe me, you’ll get over it.’
‘I have your guarantee?’ Then, ‘I’d forgotten. It happened to you too, didn’t it?’ And when, shocked, she didn’t reply, ‘I saw a piece about you in Celebrity.’
‘Oh, that.’ She shrugged. ‘Yes, well, it was three weeks rather than three days in my case, but who’s counting?’
‘So tell me, Sylvie, how long did it take you to get over being left at the altar?’
‘A great deal longer than you, Tom. Let’s face it, you were over it the minute you put your hand up my skirt.’
The minute the words left her mouth, Sylvie regretted them. But she was angry with him, wanted to hurt him as he was hurting her. The pain that she’d felt as a nineteen-year-old, abandoned by the man she’d loved, was a world away from his hurt pride and she refused to indulge him in a session of mutual bonding over their shared experience of being dumped just before the wedding.
But, in her haste to deter his curiosity, she’d made a major mistake. Desperate to stop his thoughts-her thoughts-from dashing off in one direction, she had provoked another, equally powerful memory of that moment, inevitable as a lightning strike, when, compelled by some force outside all the norms of acceptable behaviour, they’d both totally lost it.
The searing heat of his mouth. An intimate and personal touch that had, in an instant, bypassed her will, overridden her mind, stolen everything. And, just for a moment, given her back something she’d thought lost for ever. Given her a lot more…
Equally powerful but without meaning, she reminded herself, even as his eyes seemed to darken, soften in response to the memories she’d so carelessly stirred up, as the electricity in the air raised the tiny hairs on her arms in a shiver of awareness.
She fought it, fought the need for his touch, her yearning for the soft whisper of words that she heard only in her dreams, knowing just how easy it would be to give in to the moment. Easy to say, but he was as close now as he had been then. Close enough that the scent of his wind-blown hair, newly laundered clothes, the faint musk of warm skin overrode the smell of camphor and hot dust.
Much too close.
Even in this dim light she knew her face would betray her thoughts, everything she was feeling, and he needed no more than the tiny betraying whimper of remembered joy, shatteringly loud, in the silence-an open invitation to repeat the experience, just in case his memory needed jogging-for his expression to change from thoughtful to something very different.
‘Is that right?’ he murmured, tightening his hold, bringing her round to face him so that his mouth was just inches from her own. ‘Maybe we should try that again. So that you can explain it to me.’
Not in this world, she thought, but there was no time to object before his lips touched hers, sending a thrill of pleasure-the heat that haunted her dreams-spiralling through her.
‘Step…’ he said, his hand sliding beneath her long, loose top, cool against her warm skin as he leaned into her, deepening the kiss, and she shivered, but not with cold.
No…
This was wrong.
Stupid.
Inevitable.
Inevitable from the first moment he’d walked into her office. She’d known it. He’d known it. Like iron filings to a magnet. Why else would he-would she-have gone to such lengths to avoid each other? It was the only wedding she’d ever coordinated where the groom had been totally absent.
But inevitable didn’t make it-
His tongue stroked her lower lip and every cell in her body responded as if to some unheard command, as if standing on tiptoe, reaching out for more.
‘By…’
– right.
‘Step…’
Oh…Confetti…
Her knees were water. Another minute and she’d be sprawled over one of the trunks in a rerun of that moment when that instant attraction had overcome every particle of common sense, every lesson that she’d ever learned about the fickleness of the human heart. When the heat had overcome the ice and turned it to steam.
To be overwhelmed, to forget yourself so completely might be excusable once.
Twice…
Her head felt like lead, she didn’t have the strength to move it, break contact, but then his hand slid forward on its inevitable journey towards her breast and instead encountered the mound of her belly and, as if drawn to him, her baby girl turned, reached out to him. And he was the one whose head went back as if struck.
For a moment his expression was desolate, empty, but then as if, all along, it had been no more than a demonstration that she was still in his power, his to take or leave as he pleased, he let his hand drop to his side.
‘Perhaps not,’ he said, but with a touch of self-mockery. She didn’t doubt that, as for her, the desire had been real enough, but maybe one of the reasons he was a billionaire was his ability to learn from past mistakes and never repeat them.
‘Definitely not,’ she said, although her mouth was dry, her voice woolly and not quite as steady as she intended. But, with the help of a steadying breath, she slowly jacked her self-control back into position. ‘You don’t need a step-by-step instruction manual, Tom McFarlane. You know all the moves.’
‘Now, why,’ he asked, looking down at her, ‘do I get the impression that was not a compliment?’
‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you there,’ she said as, with extreme care and ignoring the cold emptiness where for a moment his hand had rested against his growing child, she turned away and scooped up the tissue-wrapped gown, holding it across her arms in front of her. A shield. ‘You’re just going to have to work that one out for yourself.’
She managed a smile. If she managed to keep it light, to laugh it off as
if it were nothing, staying on at Longbourne Court might, just might, be possible for the next few days. And, pitifully, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. She’d fled in misery ten years earlier. This felt like a second chance to say goodbye properly.
And she hadn’t quite given up on her baby’s father.
His reaction to the baby’s movement beneath his hand suggested he wasn’t as immune to the idea of fatherhood as he thought. Maybe if she could somehow make him believe that she did not want anything for herself-convincing herself would be something else-he might find it in his heart to love a daughter, no matter how unexpected.
But not now. Not here. Right now, the only thing on her mind was to put some safe distance between them. Try to recover the little ground she seemed to have made when they’d been in the library.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must get this to Geena,’ she said.
‘The wedding must come first?’
And she thought she could do irony…
‘The wedding feature must come first, Tom.’ Then, ‘Purple shoes. Purple waistcoats. I suspect Geena is already working on yours.’
‘You’re really going to wear them?’ he said, refusing to be drawn in by the waistcoat. ‘The shoes.’
‘The idea is growing on me,’ she admitted. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s the groom’s job to colour coordinate with the bride. I also seem to recall that you promised to help me sort out the contents of the attics-’
‘I will-’
‘-but it seems that now you’ve found what you wanted you can’t wait to escape.’
His tone was disparaging but she smiled nevertheless. His first reaction on seeing her had been to warn her not to get too comfortable. Now he was asking for her help, even though they both knew that auction houses would be falling over themselves for the chance to make an inventory of the contents of the Duchamp attics.
‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘I think the deal was that I’d point out what was up here, but even that’s going to take more than half an hour, which is just about all I’ve got right now.’ Then, glancing around because it was safer than looking at him, ‘What will you do with it all?’