Wedding Girl (5 page)

Ì'll see you at eight,' said Harry at last.

`Fine,' said Simon, in a voice scored with hurt. `See you then.' And without pausing, he left the room.

Harry gazed at the glass in his hand and cursed himself. He hadn't meant to upset the boy. Or maybe he had. He couldn't trust his own motives any more, couldn't keep tabs on his feelings. Sympathy so quickly turned into irritation; guilt so quickly transformed into anger. Good intentions towards his son disappeared the minute the boy opened his mouth. Part of him couldn't wait for the moment when Simon married; left his house; became swallowed up by another family; finally gave him some peace.

And part of him dreaded it; didn't even want to think about it.

Frowning, Harry poured himself another whisky and went back to his desk. He reached for the phone, dialled a number and listened impatiently to the ringing tone. Then, with a scowl, crashed the receiver down again.

Milly sat at the kitchen table with a thumping heart, wishing she could run away and escape. It was him. It was the boy from Oxford. The boy who had seen her marrying Allan; who had picked up her wedding veil and handed it back to her. He was older now. His face was harder and there was stubble over his chin. But his round metal spectacles were just the same, and so was his arrogant, almost scornful expression. Now he was leaning back in his chair, staring at her curiously. Just don't remember, thought Milly, not daring to meet his gaze. For God's sake don't remember who I am.

`Here we are,' said Olivia, coming over to the table. Ì've arranged your flowers for you, darling. You can't just dump them and forget about them!'

Ì know,' muttered Milly. `Thanks.'

`Now, would you like some more tea, Alexander?'

`Yup,' said the boy, holding out his cup. `Thanks very much.' Olivia poured the tea, then sat down and smiled around the table.

Ìsn't this nice,' she said. Ì'm starting to feel as though this wedding is really happening!' She took a sip of tea, then looked up. `Milly, have you shown Alexander your engagement ring?'

Slowly, feeling her insides clenching, Milly held out her left hand to Alexander. His gaze passed inscrutably over the antique diamond cluster, then he raised his eyes to hers.

`Very nice,' he said and took a sip of tea. `You're engaged to Harry Pinnacle's son. The heir to Fruit 'n Smooth. Is that right?'

`Yes,' said Milly reluctantly.

`Quite a catch,' said Alexander.

`He's a sweet boy,' said Olivia at once, as she always did when anyone referred to Simon's money or family background. `Quite one of us, now.'

Ànd what does he do?' Alexander's voice was faintly mocking. `Work for his father?'

`No,' said Milly. Her voice felt awkward and unfamiliar. `He sells advertising.'

Ì see,' said Alexander. There was a pause. He took another sip of tea and frowned at Milly. Ì'm still sure I recognize you from somewhere.'

`Do you really?' said Olivia. `How funny!'

`Well, I'm afraid I don't recognize you,' said Milly, trying to sound light-hearted.

`Yes, darling,' said Olivia, `but you're not very good with faces, are you?' She turned to Alexander.

`Now, I'm just the same as you, Alexander. I never forget a face.'

`Faces are my business,' said Alexander. Ì spend my life looking at them.' His eyes ran over Milly's face and she felt herself flinching. `Have you always had your hair like that?' he suddenly asked.

Milly's heart lurched in fright.

`Not always,' she said, and gripped her cup tightly. Ì ... I once dyed it red.'

`Not a success,' said Olivia emphatically. Ì told her to go to my salon, but she wouldn't listen. And then of course-'

`That's not it,' said Alexander, cutting Olivia off. He frowned again at Milly. `You weren't at Cambridge, were you?'

`No,' said Milly.

`But Isobel was,' said Olivia triumphantly. `Perhaps you're thinking of her!'

`Who's Isobel?' said Alexander.

`My sister,' said Milly, gripped by sudden hope. `She . . . she looks just like me.'

`She read modern languages,' said Olivia. Ànd now she's doing terribly well. Flies all over the world, interpreting at conferences. You know, she's met all the world leaders. Or at least ...'

`What does she look like?' said Alexander.

`That's a picture of her there,' said Olivia, pointing to a photograph on the mantelpiece. `You and she should really meet before the wedding,' she added lightly, watching Alexander scan the picture. Ì'm sure you've got lots in common!'

Ìt wasn't her,' said Alexander, turning back to Milly. `She looks nothing like you.'

`She's taller than Milly,' said Olivia, then added thoughtfully, `You're quite tall, aren't you, Alexander?'

He shrugged, and stood up.

Ì've got to go. I'm meeting a friend in town.'

À friend,' said Olivia. `How nice. Someone special?'

Àn old mate from school,' said Alexander, looking at Olivia as though she were mad.

`Well, have fun!' said Olivia.

`Thanks,' said Alexander. He paused by the door. Ì'll see you tomorrow, Milly. I'll take a few informal shots and we can have a little chat about what you want.' He nodded at her, then disappeared.

`Well!' exclaimed Olivia, as soon as he had gone. `What an interesting young man.'

Milly didn't move. She stared straight at the table, hands still clenched round her cup, her heart beating furiously.

Àre you all right, darling?' said Olivia, peering at her.

`Fine,' said Milly. Ì'm fine.' She forced herself to smile at her mother and take a sip of tea. It was OK, she told herself firmly. Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen.

Ì was looking at his portfolio earlier on,' said Olivia. `He's really very talented. He's won awards, and everything!'

`Really,' said Milly in a dry voice. She picked up a biscuit, looked at it and put it down again, feeling a sudden swoop of fear. But what if it came back to him? What if he remembered and told someone exactly what he'd seen her doing ten years ago? What if it all came out? Her stomach curdled at the thought; she felt suddenly ill with panic.

`He and Isobel really should meet each other,' Olivia was saying. Às soon as she gets back from Paris.'

`What?' Milly's attention was momentarily drawn. `Why?' She stared at Olivia, who gave a tiny shrug.

`Mummy, no! You don't mean it!'

Ìt's just a thought,' said Olivia defensively. `What chance has poor Isobel got to meet men, stuck in dreary conference rooms all day?'

`She doesn't want to meet men. Not your men!' Milly gave a tiny shudder. Ànd especially not him!'

`What's wrong with him?' said Olivia.

`Nothing,' said Milly quickly. `He's just . . . not Isobel.'

An image of her sister came into Milly's mind clever, sensible Isobel. Suddenly she felt a surge of relief. She would talk to Isobel. Isobel always knew what to do. Milly looked at her watch.

`What time is it in Paris?'

`Why? Are you going to make a call?'

`Yes,' said Milly. Ì want to speak to Isobel.' Suddenly she felt desperate. Ì need to speak to Isobel.'

Isobel Havill arrived back at her hotel room at eight o'clock to find the message light on her telephone furiously blinking. She frowned, rubbed a weary hand over her brow, and opened the minibar. The day had been even more draining than usual. Her skin felt parched from the dry atmosphere of the conference room; her mouth tasted of coffee and cigarette smoke. She had spent all day listening, translating and speaking into her microphone in the low, measured tones that made her so highly sought after. Now her throat felt sore and her mouth incapable of further speech; her head was still a maelstrom of furious, multilingual discussion.

Holding a glass of vodka, she went slowly into the white marble bathroom, switched on the light and looked for a few silent seconds at her red-rimmed eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, then feebly closed it again. She felt unable to think; unable to initiate a single idea of her own. For too many hours, her brain had been acting as nothing but a high-powered conduit of information. She was still geared up only to channel words back and forth; not to interrupt the flow with her own thoughts; not to sully the translation with her own opinions. She had operated immaculately all day, never flagging, never losing her cool. And now she felt like a dried-out, empty shell.

She drained her glass of vodka and put it down on the glass bathroom shelf. The clinking sound made her wince. In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her with an apprehensive expression. All day, she'd managed to put this moment from her mind. But now she was alone and her work was finished, and there was no longer any excuse. With a trembling hand she reached into her bag and pulled out a crackly pharmacist's bag; took out a little oblong box. Inside was a leaflet bearing instructions printed in French, German, Spanish and English. Her eyes flicked impatiently over each of them, noticing that the Spanish paragraph was poorly constructed and there was a discrepancy in the German version. But all seemed agreed on the short time span of the test. Only one minute. Une minute. Un minuto.

She carried out the test, scarcely able to believe what she was doing, then left the little phial on the edge of the bath and went back into the bedroom. Her jacket was still lying on the huge hotel bed; the telephone was still furiously bleeping. She pressed the button for messages, went to the minibar and poured herself another vodka. Thirty seconds to go.

`Hi, Isobel. It's me.' A man's low voice filled the room, and Isobel flinched. `Call me if you have time.

Bye.'

Isobel looked at her watch. Fifteen seconds to go.

Ìsobel, it's Milly. Listen, I really need to speak to you. Please, please can you call me back as soon as you get this? It's really really urgent.'

Ìsn't it always urgent?' said Isobel aloud.

She looked at her watch, took a deep breath and strode towards the bathroom. The little blue stripe was visible before she even reached the door. Suddenly she felt sick.

`No,' she whispered. Ì can't be.' She backed away from the pregnancy test, as though from something contaminated, and shut the bathroom door. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and reached automatically for her glass of vodka. Then, in sudden realization, her hand stopped. A lonely dismay crept over her.

Ìsobel?' the machine was saying brightly. Ìt's Milly again. I'll be at Simon's tonight, so maybe you could call me there?'

`No,' shouted Isobel, and she felt a sudden pricking of tears. Ì couldn't, all right?' She picked up the vodka, drained it in one, and crashed the glass defiantly down on the bedside table. But suddenly more tears were filling her eyes, suddenly she was unable to control her breath. Like a wounded animal, she crawled into bed, buried her head in her hotel pillow. And as the telephone rang again, she silently began to cry.

CHAPTER THREE

AT EIGHT-THIRTY, OLIVIA and Milly arrived at Pinnacle Hall. They were met at the door by Simon and shown into the large baronial drawing room.

`Well,' said Olivia, wandering over to the crackling fire. Ìsn't this nice!'

Ì'll get some champagne,' said Simon. `Dad's still on the phone.'

Àctually,' said Milly faintly, Ì think I'll try Isobel again. I'll use the phone in the games room.'

`Can't it wait?' said Olivia. `What do you want to speak to her about?'

`Nothing,' said Milly at once. `Nothing. I just ... need to talk to her.' She swallowed. Ì won't be long.'

When they'd gone, Olivia settled herself into a chair, admiring the portrait above the fireplace. It was a grandly framed oil painting which looked as though it could have been bought along with the house; in fact it was a picture of Harry's grandmother as a girl. Harry Pinnacle was so famous as a self-made man that it was widely assumed he'd started from nothing. The fact that he'd attended an expensive public school only spoiled the story, as did the hefty parental loans which had got him started so these were generally brushed over by everyone, including Harry himself.

The door opened, and a pretty blond girl in a smart trouser suit entered, holding a tray of champagne glasses.

'Simon's just coming,' she said. `He just remembered a fax he had to send.'

`Thank you,' said Olivia, taking a glass and giving a small, regal smile.

The girl left the room, and Olivia took a sip of champagne. The fire was warm on her face; her chair was comfortable; classical music was playing pleasantly through concealed speakers. This, she thought, was the life. A pang went through her part delight, part envy at the knowledge that soon her daughter would be entering this kind of existence. Milly was already as much at home at Pinnacle Hall as she was at 1 Bertram Street. She was used to dealing easily with Harry's staff; was used to sitting alongside Simon at grand dinner parties. Of course she and Simon could maintain that they were just like any other young couple, that the money wasn't theirs but who were they kidding? They would be rich one day. Fabulously rich. Milly would be able to have anything she wanted.

Olivia clenched her hand more tightly around her glass. When the engagement had first been announced, she'd been overcome by an astonished, almost giddy delight. For Milly to have any kind of connection with the son of Harry Pinnacle was good enough. But for them to be marrying and so quickly was unasked-for bliss. As the wedding plans had progressed and become more concrete, she'd prided herself on keeping her triumph concealed; on treating Simon as casually as any other young beau; on playing down to herself as much as anyone else the significance of the match.

But now, with only a few days to go, her heart was beginning to beat quickly again with jubilation. In only a few days the whole world would see her daughter marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. All her friends indeed, everyone she had ever known would be forced to admire as she presided over the biggest, glitziest, most romantic wedding any of them had ever seen. This was an event which Olivia felt as though she had been building up to all her life; an event surpassing even her own wedding. That had been a modest, anonymous little affair. Whereas this occasion would be crammed with important, influential, wealthy people, all forced to take a back seat as she and of course Milly strolled prominently, centre stage.