Everything You Want: Everything For You Trilogy 2 (18 page)

It doesn’t rattle which amuses me but I think the nerves are kicking in. Somehow I can’t help fantasising this is for real. I have to remind myself it is not. I mustn’t forget and go and do something totally embarrassing like screaming ‘I will’, and leaping all over him. This token is for media authenticity only. Everything is make-believe.

I work hard not to cry again but my heart is sorely tested.

“Do you want to see it?” He repeats his words from earlier. His eyes glow. As he doesn’t see this thing the way I do, I imagine he must feel he’s giving me a small gift of jewellery and it makes him happy to do so. Some sort of compensation perhaps against my future losses or payment for sex and services rendered? That thought is particularly repugnant and depressing.

“Yes, please.”

I won’t spoil the moment for him. I remember how happy I felt when I gave him the Tibetan eternal knot cuff-links. It seems like a lifetime ago. Perhaps he’ll remember this moment differently in years to come. Perhaps I will. And I would never want it to be with regret.

Opening the box, he presents it to me and I can’t believe my eyes. It’s an Argyle pink diamond in a platinum setting. I sit and stare at it in wonder. A fairy tale of an engagement ring. The Brittany sunshine catches it and makes it flush with rare beauteous clarity. If you’re going to do a sham engagement for the newspapers, you might as well do it in style, I suppose.

In fairness, I realise, for a man of Jack’s wealth, only a diamond of this magnitude would be plausible. No point carrying out this charade if no-one believes it. The thought that perhaps it’s really meant for Amanda and only on loan to me, crushes my heart momentarily until I’m snatching at breath.

I’m no expert but I know size when I see it. It’s huge. I remember Harry buying a pendant for a girlfriend once when I was quite young. He let me try it on before he gave it to her. It was a pretty big deal and I think Harry thought she might have been the one. It was several carats and pear shaped. This one is more like three times that size and a brilliantly faceted circle.

“It’s beautiful.”

“You’re the beauty,
cailín álainn
.”

Our eyes meet. This feels so real it would fool the biggest sceptic in the land. But the only fool would be me.

“Don’t you want to try it on?”

“What if it doesn’t fit?”

“What if it does?” Jack’s eyes sparkle as much as the diamond.

“What if I lose it?” And why am I using every excuse under the sun to avoid letting him place it on my finger?

“You won’t. But it’s heavily insured against every possible catastrophe,” he says with a grin.

Except one… A broken heart.

“Aren’t you going to hold out your hand?”

I don’t. I can’t.

He waits. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to wear it.” He looks confused but it’s me that doesn’t understand.

“I only need to wear it for press photographs.”

He frowns, grows colder. “That’s right. It’s not like we’re actually agreeing to get married, is it?” He goes to snap the box lid shut.

I stop him with a hand. I don’t want to spoil this gentle moment even if it isn’t true. I know in this instant I will never marry anyone else as long as I live. Make-believe will be the only time I ever do this.

I try to lighten the mood. “Isn’t this the point where you’re supposed to get down on one knee?” If I joke, I won’t cry and I’m trying really, really hard not to cry. The image of him kneeling before Amanda swimming through my brain makes my intention almost impossible to achieve. Perhaps he’s taunting me with the ring that is destined for her.

His frown persists as I’ve probably gone way too far. Why should he want to pretend all that romantic rubbish when this is only happening so he won’t look a fool and I won’t look a slut? I should be grateful for that much consideration, I suppose.

I underestimate him. He plays along. Will he and Amanda laugh over his retelling of the story in years to come? He moves gracefully, kneeling before me and I hold my breath in shock at the heady power of this moment. There will never be a sweeter, yet equally more bitter moment in my life, I’m certain of it. It feels as if the gods are entertaining themselves royally, torturing me with a simulation of my closest held desire.

This is pure theatre, played out under Bacchus’ mocking vines. The sun shines and I’m wearing a sexy sunflower dress and knickers with no crotch in them whilst my false paramour is down on one knee proffering a pink diamond and acting as solemn as a saint. Even Shakespeare would balk at such melodrama.

Perhaps I haven’t woken yet? Perhaps the last thirty-six hours have only been a dream? It’s the safest explanation. I look warily towards Jack and wait for him to burst out laughing.

He does anything but. “Tabitha, will you end this eternal misery in my heart and do me the very great honour of becoming my wife?”

It is the loveliest and saddest thing I’ve ever heard. But I will do Jack the honour of going through with his charade. It will be excellent practice for the newspaper interviews to come. At least my retelling of the experience for the social columns will derive from deepest memory. And I’ll probably make their readers’ day and cry.

“Nothing on Earth, or above it or below it, could ever make me happier, Jack. I will.”

In my heart I mean every word. As I hold out my left hand, I pledge myself to him. My hand trembles ever so slightly but I can’t help it.

He captures it in his and his warmth and strength steady me. He removes the ring from the silk-lined box to slide it effortlessly onto my ring finger. It fits perfectly as he knew it would and I don’t even question the fact anymore. I stare at it resting there as if it truly belongs.

My eyes return to his melting Arctic blues and time stops for both of us. He leans in and kisses me. His gentle lips on mine in that moment are the most sincere experience of my life. I cannot doubt it. There is no lust to cloud our judgement. There is only love.

My love.

Only mine.

I wish he could love me too.

Jack is breaking my heart but I won’t let him see it. I wrench my hand from his. “That was fun,” I say breezily. I pull off the ring and toss it back to him. “Best keep it for safety. I’m such a reckless mess, I’ll only go and mislay it. Give it back to me on the day of reckoning. It’ll look great in the newspaper photographs though. Who’ll remember the scarlet slut after copping a load of that?”

I urge my feet towards the house, aware of Jack still kneeling in the grass staring after me but I don’t turn around. I daren’t. I call back over my shoulder. “I’m still exhausted. Going back to bed. You’d better sleep somewhere else again tonight.”

I course through the house until I’m back on my bed howling.

I cram my face into the pillow so he doesn’t hear me but he makes no attempt to follow this time. And it’s for the best. Tomorrow I’m going back to Belvedere to begin our public exhibition. But today, I’m allowed to grieve for what might have been if only Jack could have loved me the way I love him.

Chapter Eight

I rise later feeling headachy and exhausted. Crawling out of bed I look at myself in the mirror. A total train wreck. My dress is creased, my mascara smudged and my hair sticks out in all directions. I look the way I feel. Hellish.

It’s hot enough to be well into late afternoon and I feel dehydrated and empty.

Jack hasn’t come anywhere near me but I can hardly blame him for that. He doesn’t want this mess any more than I do. The world seems to be running at its own pace, out of control, and I’m not comfortable with the feeling. In every other area of my life, I’ve tried to stay in charge of my destiny so what is happening to me?

I slurp water straight from the bathroom tap, take a quick, cool shower and dress again then go in search of food. Getting ill won’t help anything. I’ve got to be strong enough to face up to the next few days at Belvedere. I won’t convince anyone if I look ill instead of thrilled about my prospects, as the juggernaut of media intrusion runs and runs. On top of everything I have Brent Tapper and Amanda Devereaux to look forward to.

Great.

I’m fixing food in the kitchen when Jack appears. I suppose he’s been online to Amanda again telling her the die is cast.

“Feeling any better?” he asks.

“Much,” I lie. “You?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t sound fine. But then again, Amanda can hardly be taking the news well, even if it was her idea in the first place. “I needed food. Want something?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“It’s not.” We seem to be going out of our way to make this bloodless. “Besides you can’t leave without trying the famous Brittany crêpes.”

I use an old-fashioned spoon to incorporate eggs, milk and water into buckwheat flour in the traditional way, taught to me by Madame. Who am I to challenge tradition? I add a pinch of salt while Jack watches me work.

All the effort of beating to get the batter smooth slowly improves my mood. I throw a pale smile at Jack’s fascination with my labours. He returns the gentle blessing.

“Ever tossed a pancake?” I ask, challenge rising in my voice.

He laughs. “I’ve done a good few things in my life but strangely enough tossing a pancake isn’t one of them.”

“Well we can’t have that.”

I put a large flat crêpe pan on the gas stove to heat up and drop in a big knob of butter. The first one is always tricky so I take extra care to coat the pan thinly with batter and allow it to cook through before I attempt to flip it, gripping the pan handle with both hands. I’m only marginally successful as the delicate French crêpes were never designed to be tossed.

To my amazement I don’t drop it. “
Et voila
!”

Jack applauds and I take a bow. We both grin like monkeys at our own antics. This is the Jack I like best. This is the Tabitha I like best too.

I slide the first one onto a plate, pop it in the warming oven and set up the next one ready for Jack to try. “Your turn.”

He’s game and doesn’t hesitate. I make him wait until the pancake is sufficiently cooked, then give him the nod to try. He stands close behind me, enclosing his arms around me as he takes hold of the handle. His free arm encloses my waist, pulling me hard back against him.

“One-handed? That’s just showing off.”

I inhale the accustomed smell of Clive Christian and beneath that the fresh, clean scent that has become as familiar to me as my own. I long to turn in his arms and kiss him but resist the urge.

He heaves the weighty pan easily with one strong wrist and the pancake flies up well beyond the height it needs to. I cringe, half closing my eyes as Jack manoeuvres me and the pan to catch it on the descent. He succeeds easily and we both laugh; me with relief.

“A bit like tennis,” he jokes.

“Nothing like tennis,” I protest. I elbow him gently so I can continue to work and he sits at the table again watching me produce a whole stack.

I pull ham and finely grated Gruyere cheese out of the fridge and set them on the table with the huge round pancakes. Jack amuses me as he assembles one in a very British way by rolling it into a cylinder. Because of the size of the crêpe it looks ridiculous hanging over the edges of the plate.

I scoff, tut and shake my head until he stops what he’s doing and stares with a quizzical expression on his face. I struggle not to laugh as I silently demonstrate the French way and end up with a flattish triangle folded into four. I pick up my knife and fork demurely and watch Jack continue unabashed, grabbing his floppy cylinder in both hands, stuffing one end into his mouth as bits of cheese and ham escape both ends.

We end up giggling like school kids. It’s a happy moment. I’m glad we can still find them. If it’s at all possible, this is the way I will win Jack, I know it. I’ll make him remember the softer way things used to be between us.

I throw the last crêpe back into the pan to warm, sprinkle it with sugar, grate a little orange peel over it and pour on a good slug of Grand Marnier.

“Want to light it?” I ask.

Jack comes over and pulls me back into the safety of one arm. With the other hand he tips the pan until the naked flame of the stove catches the liqueur and we watch the Crêpe Suzette flicker. We share it hot straight from the pan, at the table with a couple of forks, like peasants. These are the moments I will treasure.

“You cooked, I’ll clear up,” he announces.

“You cooked too. I’ll help.” We work well together. I wonder if he knows that.

“As we’re leaving tomorrow, I’d like to take a last walk over the estate. Is that okay?” I know I might never see Lassec again and the thought saddens me greatly. I’ve always found comfort here.

“You don’t need to ask my permission, Tabitha.”

“I know. I just didn’t want you thinking I’d run off somewhere.” I finish drying the last dish.

“That’s thoughtful of you and I appreciate it.”

There’s a real sadness about being so politely considerate of each other’s feeling. It seems like we’re strangers again. I head for the back door.