A Wild Affair (2 page)

“Don't be like that. I'm really sorry about tonight,” Max said. “How about we go out to breakfast instead? You can tell me about the wedding stuff.”

“Out to breakfast?” I thought for a moment, weighing my annoyance against my desire to make the most of the few hours I got with Max each week. “Fine,” I relented. “But it has to be a long
leisurely one. And you're not allowed to read the newspaper. Deal?”

“Deal,” Max grinned. “But first you have to come back to bed and help me build up an appetite.”

“And how am I going to do that?” I said, but my last word was muffled as Max grabbed my arms, pulled me back under the duvet, and answered my question.

“So,” Max said. An hour later, and we were sitting at a small table in a little brasserie, drinking mugs of steaming hot coffee and dipping croissants into puddles of jam.

“So?” I asked, covering my mouth a little too late and spraying the table with croissant crumbs.

“So tell me about the wedding,” Max said, pushing back his chair. “Isn't this what the breakfast was all about?”

I swallowed my mouthful and shrugged. “I guess. Although I do have other things to talk about, you know. It isn't all about the wedding.”

“Of course it isn't,” Max said, seriously. “So what else is new?”

I thought for a moment. “There's the launch of Project Handbag. I've been …”

“No, you're not allowed to talk about work. It's the weekend.”

“Right. Of course,” I nodded. Project Handbag was my big account at work. It was actually a financial fund, not anything to do with bags really. Chester Rydall, chief executive of Jarvis Private Banking, was launching an investment fund aimed at successful, affluent women, and I'd won the pitch by arguing that we had to make investing as exciting and accessible a concept as buying a new handbag. Amazingly, he'd totally gone for it. “Okay, well…”

“Well …?” There was a mischievous glint in Max's eye. “You
want to discuss the situation in Gaza instead? Or whether fiscal instruments can stem the tide of deflation?”

“Sure,” I said, defiantly. “In fact, that's exactly what I'd like to discuss.”

“Good,” Max said, sitting back in his chair, the corners of his mouth pointing upward.

“Great,” I agreed.

“Go on then.”

I opened my mouth, ready to spout everything I knew on U.S. politics and economics, then closed it again. I never thought I'd be one of those girls who got obsessed with weddings, who equated thinking about world affairs with pondering the tricky decision of what to give wedding guests as a wedding favor. But here I was, and all I could think about was the beautiful venue I'd found, about a gorgeous little spot I'd discovered in the South of France where I hoped we might go on honeymoon.

“Or I could tell you about the wedding?” I suggested in a small voice.

He laughed. “Please do, Jess. I really want to hear.”

I shot him a little look. Max teased me incessantly these days, which was funny because he used to have a reputation for not having a sense of humor at all. The trouble was, sometimes I wasn't sure if he was taking things seriously or not. “I'm not telling you anything if you're going to laugh.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Max assured me. “I will be very serious. It is, after all, a serious business. More serious than global warming, than the prospect of worldwide recession, even more serious than Project Handbag.”

“Project Handbag?” I said, raising an eyebrow and allowing myself a little smile. “Well, now you're just being silly. Nothing's more important than that.”

Max grinned. “Glad to hear it. For a moment there I was worried
you'd been kidnapped by aliens and I'd been left with some kind of clone.”

“Well, I'm not a clone, I'm me,” I said sternly. “And the fact that you are ditching me tonight for some boring client is making me reconsider whether I actually want to marry you after all. However, assuming that I do go through with it, shall I update you on the progress of the event, or are you going to make more silly jokes?”

“No more jokes,” Max promised. “Although I don't know what you've got against them. Jokes are the building blocks of a healthy relationship.”

“I'm sure they are, but a marriage is not built on jokes alone. So, I was thinking about salmon for the meal.”

“And what were you thinking about it?”

I started to smile in spite of myself. “Salmon and asparagus,” I continued, rolling my eyes. “With apple pie afterward. And no starter—just canapés with the champagne after the ceremony.”

“Sounds lovely,” Max said appreciatively.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Jess, it's going to be wonderful, I know it is. I really can't wait.” He was looking at me intently, his eyes so warm and genuine that they made me blush.

“I know it is,” I nodded.

“Good.” He leaned over the table and squeezed my hand. “So come on, then, what's happening after the apple pie?”

I grinned. “It doesn't matter. I'll tell you another time.”

“No, I want to know,” he said. “I want to discuss the wedding cake, the first dance, what you're wearing, what I'm wearing, what the bridesmaids are wearing, what color the napkins are …”

“I can't tell you what I'm wearing,” I said, smiling. “But fine, if you really want to know.”

“I really want to. Really.” He was holding my hand again and
for the millionth time in the past three months since Max had proposed, I found myself thinking that I really was the happiest girl in the whole wide world. The luckiest, too. Other people didn't really get Max, didn't see how wicked and funny and deeply loyal he was. But I knew. And he was mine. It made my heart flutter every time I thought about it.

“Well, good,” I said, trying my best to stay focused. “Because the cake's going to be chocolate, not fruit, and for the first dance …”

“Yes?”

“I thought … well …”

“What?” Max looked at me curiously, then took a gulp of his coffee.

“I thought we could do the dance from
Dirty Dancing
. You know, the routine they did to ‘I've Had the Time of My Life.’”

“What?” he repeated, spluttering this time, and spraying coffee all over the table.

“You don't want to?” My eyes widened in disappointment and my lower lip started to protrude ever so slightly.

“Don't want to? No, I mean, look, it's not really my … Oh God, really?”

I looked at him uncertainly, swallowed, then started to giggle. “No, darling Max. But like you said, jokes are the building blocks of a good relationship, right?”

“Joke? Oh thank God,” Max said, wiping his forehead and looking at me incredulously. “You're mean,” he said. “You could have given me a heart attack.”

“Actually I think you'd make quite a good Patrick Swayze if you put your mind to it,” I grinned.

“You are a dangerous woman, Jessica Wild. Dangerous and tricky and …” His phone started to ring.

“And what?” I giggled. “Dangerous and tricky and what?”

“And …” He winked. “And hold that thought,” he said, then picked up his phone. “Hello? Max speaking.” His face creased
into a slight frown and his eyes flicked up at me. Then he shot me an apologetic smile before getting up and walking away from the table. “No,” I just caught him say as he disappeared out of the brasserie. “No, don't be like that. I just …”

And what, I asked myself, stirring my coffee. Dangerous, tricky, and annoying? Dangerous, tricky, and obsessed with all things wedding-related? I looked out of the window; a glossy-looking couple was standing outside. They looked as though they'd just stumbled out of a Sunday magazine, with gleaming blond hair and perfect clothes, and smiles full of white teeth. They reminded me of Anthony, reminded me how incredulous I'd been when he'd appeared to fall in love with me, how uncomfortable I'd felt around him and his friends. I'd thought then that relationships were transactional, that white teeth and nice hair would lead to a handsome rich boyfriend. But now I knew different. Max loved me for who I was, not how white my teeth were. And I loved him, too, more than I could put into words; it was like a glow that started in my stomach and bathed the whole of my body in light. It kept me warm. It made me smile at inopportune moments.

And the truth was, I'd come very close to losing Max. Or rather, never having him in the first place. You see, six months ago, I came into some money. Lots of money, actually, only it had strings attached. My friend Grace, this old lady who'd been in the elder-care home with my grandma, left it to me along with a lovely house in the country. But before she died, Grace got it into her head that I should get married. Wouldn't stop going on about it. And eventually I found myself telling her that I had a boyfriend just to shut her up. I probably should have guessed that she'd be so excited she'd never want to talk about anything else; at the time I thought it was the easy thing to do. But it wasn't easy. I had to fabricate dates, weekends away, conversations I'd had with this imaginary man—basically I'd had to fabricate a whole relationship.
And eventually, I found myself engaged to this imaginary boyfriend. Then married. I know, it sounds crazy. It was crazy. But it made her so happy for the few hours I spent with her each week.

Of course I didn't plan on her leaving me a small fortune when she died. And I certainly didn't plan on her leaving it to Jessica Milton. Mrs. Jessica Milton. Oh, I probably should have mentioned, I told Grace I was going out with my boss, Anthony Milton. Max's friend. See, Max works at Milton Advertising, too. Actually, he runs the place now, since Anthony's gone traveling. He left straight after the wedding. The wedding that didn't happen. See, marrying Anthony was the only way I was going to be able to claim the money, so Helen and I set up Project Marriage, a campaign to convince Anthony to fall madly in love with me. But I couldn't go through with it, not when I realized I was in love with Max.

The perfect couple appeared to be arguing over the menu of the brasserie; eventually, they turned and disappeared down the street.

“And beautiful,” Max whispered into my ear, making me start slightly; I hadn't noticed him come back in.

“What?” I asked, confused. “What's beautiful?”

“That was the ‘and,’” he said, kissing me on the head.

“Beautiful?” I shook my head incredulously. “Don't be silly.”

“I'm not,” he said, looking at me intently; I found myself blushing.

“So who was that?” I asked, changing the subject, because I was never that great at accepting compliments.

He rolled his eyes and poured us both some more coffee. “Oh, nothing. Just a … tricky client. I'm afraid I'm going to have to dash off in half an hour. But in the meantime, I'm thinking we might need some more pastries with these coffees. What do you think?”

“You really have to go so soon?” I asked. I could feel my face fall. “But you'll be out tonight, too.”

Max looked at me awkwardly. “I know. Look, I'll make it up to you, I promise I will.”

“No need,” I said, forcing myself to smile. It wasn't Max's fault. It was a tricky client. Just because I wasn't a workaholic anymore, just because now that I had Max I didn't want to do anything but spend time with him, didn't mean Max felt the same way. I mean, of course he felt the same way, but … but … it just didn't matter, that's all. We loved each other and that's what counted. “It's really no problem. So, pastries. Let's get a whole pile of them.”

“YOU HAD THREE PASTRIES? What happened to your pre-wedding diet?”

I frowned at Helen and rolled my eyes. It was Saturday night and I was determined to have an enjoyable night with my best friend and to not think about Max once. Well, not too much, anyway. Just the amount that a strong, independent woman who also happened to be head over heels in love would think about him. My frown deepened at the idea of some other strong independent woman being in love with Max and I shook myself. “I'm not on a pre-wedding diet,” I reminded her. “I'm happy as I am.”

“Really?” Helen wrinkled her nose. “But no one planning a wedding is happy as they are. The whole point is to change yourself, isn't it?”

“Helen!” I shook my head in irritation. Ever since Helen had forced me into a tight pencil skirt and high heels and got her hairdresser to flood my hair with golden streaks in order to attract Anthony Milton during Project Marriage, she'd been convinced that this new look was the “real me” and that “letting myself go” (reverting to my more natural self) was just bad form. “I don't need those things. Max loves me for who I am. He doesn't like me with swooshy hair and high-heeled shoes. Max isn't Anthony, okay?”

“I know,” Helen said slightly defensively. “But this is your wedding. You have to make a bit of an effort.”

“I am making an effort,” I said staunchly. “With the venue. With the flowers. With the food.”

“Yes, but what about your hair? You have to go to Pedro. Please? He'll be crushed if you don't let him do something with it.”

“Pedro?” I looked at her uncertainly. The last time I'd been to Pedro, it had been at the start of Project Marriage and I hadn't had a choice in the matter—Helen had dragged me there, told Pedro to do his best, and left him to get on with it. “His best” meant transforming me into someone I didn't recognize. She'd been pretty, but it had still been disconcerting seeing a stranger every time I'd passed a mirror.