White Wedding (19 page)

‘I’m a doctor – a GP. Dr Dan Regent. But I’m also John North, crime writer.’

He spread some of the cheesecake cheese on to a biscuit too. They were shortly going to end up fighting over the last of it.

Richard?

‘That doesn’t explain why you’re shut up on the moors wanting isolation,’ pressed Bel. ‘I’m guessing it’s something to do with the blonde.’

Dan took a long swig of wine.

‘I’ve taken a holiday from the medical profession because I wanted to write the mythical “breakthrough book”. I was a lucky man: two dream professions and I had the
choice of which one to pursue, healthy three-book deal, gorgeous house, gorgeous fiancée, great car – I thought I had it all. Then, eight months ago, I came home from the surgery to
find the house half empty and a note from Cathy on the table saying that she’d left me for a guy she worked with. I didn’t have a single clue she was having an affair.’

‘Ouch,’ said Bel.

Richard?

‘The long and the short of it was that as well as losing my fiancée, I lost my writing mojo. I was looking for somewhere to hole myself up, concentrate on trying to get myself back
on track, and a friend knew a friend who had a cottage in the middle of nowhere and asked him if he would rent it to me. It sounded ideal. No distractions. Just me and the wild, windy
moors.’

‘Oh,’ said Bel nodding. ‘The healing powers of the Bronte sisters.’

‘Well, I’d been here for weeks and my brain was still dead. Then –’ Dan’s mouth stretched into a wide smile – ‘the sight of a mad bride bursting into my
house gave me the perfect idea for a plot.’

‘So I wasn’t all bad news, then,’ said Bel, trying the apricot cheese, leaving the rest of the raspberry for Dan.

Richard?

Dan had said, ‘Richard.’

Bel’s brain suddenly tracked back. No, she was sure she hadn’t mentioned her bumhole of a husband’s name.

‘You said “Richard”. How did you know he was called Richard? I never mentioned it.’

‘You must have,’ nodded Dan.

‘No, I know I didn’t,’ said Bel, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Dan opened his mouth to say again that she had but he could see he’d slipped up too.

‘Oh hell,’ he stroked his forehead with his big doctor’s hand. ‘Okay, I read about you,’ he said.

Bel swallowed. ‘Read? What do you mean, “read”? Where?’

‘In today’s newspaper.’

Bel paled before his eyes.

Ah. So he did buy a newspaper. And she was in it. That’s why he didn’t let her look at it when she asked him earlier if he had one.

‘Can I see?’ she said in a distinctly wavering voice.

Dan stood and walked to the sofa. He lifted up the base cushion and retrieved the newspaper that he had hidden there. He turned to the relevant page and handed it to Bel.

‘Oh GOD, it’s a national paper,’ was her first cry. Her second: ‘I take up the whole of page five.’

The heading read:
White Wedding Day Blues
. There was an old picture of her looking frumpy, with long hair and much plumper cheeks, which some press agency must have had in stock for years
because it had appeared in old Treffé press releases. Underneath was the wording:
Bride Heiress
. Jeez, it was equating her with Paris Hilton and spoiled-brat rich girls. Then there
was a recent picture of Richard, the caption reading:
Man in the middle, Richard Bishop
. And, underneath, the largest picture of all of a heavily pouting and scantily clad Shaden. Or, as the
wording announced:
Blonde Beauty, Shaden Bosomworth-Proud
.

Bel’s mouth moved silently over the words as her eyes tracked them across the page. There was a completely over-the-top multimillion-pound turnover figure for the Treffé company.
Then followed an account of the events of the reception: the speeches, the cake. The black and white newspaper account masked any sympathy for the wronged woman. Instead Bel was portrayed as a
deranged, mad, vengeful, nasty, jealous, calculating bitch. Oh her old cow of a mother-in-law, Madeleine Bishop, was going to love this, if she ever deigned to sully her hands picking up a tabloid.
All her suspicions about the nouveau-riche family her precious son was marrying into would be confirmed and double-confirmed. She would ignore, of course, the part about her son’s wayward
willy. That would be excused as the mere lustiness of a red-blooded male of their class – after all, royalty didn’t keep it in their trousers, did they?

The paragraph about the baby that Shaden had accidentally conceived and ‘heartbreakingly had to lose’ included a comment from ‘a friend’, who apparently told the
newspaper that Bel had a defective womb and would never be able to have a child of her own. It intimated that if Shaden had carried on with the pregnancy, Bel would have killed and eaten all the
rabbits living within a ten-mile range of her cousin’s house.

Bel’s eyes misted up and she blinked furiously to clear them. She hadn’t cried for years and now she couldn’t sodding stop. She wondered which ‘friend’ had blabbed
something like that to the newspaper. The only real friends she had were Violet and Max and she knew without any doubt in her heart that it wouldn’t have been them. They weren’t the
sort of women to splash her personal sorrow across the pages of a tabloid. It had to have come from Shaden. The mercenary cow had obviously sold her story for the money to buy some liposuction. Bel
felt sick.

The article ended with the words: ‘The whereabouts of Mr and Mrs Bishop are currently unknown.’

At first Bel thought they were talking about Richard’s parents, then she realized they were referring to her and her new husband. She had rolled the name Belinda Bishop round in her mouth
like a delicious sweet since her engagement a year ago. Now it tasted sour as her lips closed and parted over the Bs. It also made her sound not unlike a porn star.

The whole of the UK had today witnessed her shame. She tried to imagine what anyone reading it would think about her: plain-looking spoiled-brat ‘heiress’ used to her own way and
driving her man into the arms of a beautiful fecund woman with her obvious mental hang-ups. Her embarrassment was further compounded by the fact that Dr Dan had probably invited her round for a
meal only because he felt sorry for her.

Bel folded up the newspaper. A glass of brandy had miraculously appeared at her side, poured by Dan while she was reading. Her hand was shaking as she reached out for it. She glugged a mouthful
and it was like liquid fire on the back of her throat.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Dan gently, ‘I think it was a very brave thing to do.’

Bel pressed her fingers into the daft bandage on her head. The wound pulsed as if her humiliation had kicked it. ‘It all looks very stupid now. Vindictive, evil, self-centered and
unhinged. I’m not sure I dare walk out in public and face anyone ever again.’

Dan put his brandy glass down and asked, ‘Are you all right? Is your head hurting?’

‘I’m okay. Apart from feeling like a nutter.’

‘People do crazy things when they’re hurt,’ nodded Dan.

‘Yeah, well, I bet you didn’t go through with a sham wedding and organize a cake featuring a model of the bridegroom shagging the bridesmaid.’

Dan laughed, then apologized for it. ‘No, not quite.’

There was a few seconds’ silence before he braved the question: ‘Is it true about your infertility?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Bel.

‘It was cruel to print that in a newspaper.’ Dan shook his head with heavy disgust.

Bel shrugged. ‘I’ve known since I was thirteen that I’d never be able to have children. I’ve had plenty of time to accept that. And Richard was always so understanding
about it. Now, I just wonder if that wasn’t part of my attraction: that there was never any need for contraception and I wouldn’t litter up his life with brats. He and Shaden joked in
their emails about how easy it was to flush away that little life they’d started. Oh God. I’m going to the loo.’

She flung herself out of the seat knowing that she was about to make even more of a fool of herself by sobbing in front of Dr Dan. She went upstairs, dried her eyes, gave herself a pep talk in
the mirror and walked back downstairs again to find Dan twisting up the pages of the newspaper and burning them in the wood-burning stove.

‘What do blokes do when they’re heartbroken?’ asked Bel in all seriousness. ‘I’m presuming you don’t get the lads round and sing “I Will Survive”
on a karaoke.’

Dan chuckled softly. ‘I think you girls have a much healthier way of dealing with it. Seeking out friends and driving out the pain.’

‘Except I didn’t,’ replied Bel. ‘I felt ashamed that he could do that to me and I wanted to hurt him, and I knew that if I told my friends I’d never have the
strength to go through with my plan. I was thick. Because now everyone will hate me. My step-aunt bought a Dior dress especially for the occasion. She hated me before; she’ll really really
hate me now.’

‘Men test-drive fast cars, drink too much and treat women like objects when they’re hurt,’ said Dan, cringing as he delivered the words. ‘I expect there are a couple of
women out there that hate me far more than your step-aunt could ever hate you.’

‘I bet she’d give them a run for their money,’ said Bel.

‘Did you get loads of wedding presents?’

‘I asked everyone for cheques,’ said Bel. ‘Then I could rip them up. A couple of people bought presents, but I’ll return them. I paid for the wedding myself, so I
wouldn’t waste Dad’s money.’

‘So you weren’t entirely selfish, then,’ Dan gave her a lopsided grin. ‘It must have cost you a fortune.’

‘I thought it would be worth it. Not so sure now. I could have given that money to charity and done some good with it rather than all that bad. Something else I’ll go to hell
for.’ She felt more foolish and ridiculous by the second. How would she ever sort out all this mess? She felt suddenly very embarrassed in front of him. ‘I should go,’ she
said.

‘What and cry into your pillow?’ scoffed Dan. ‘In ten minutes there’s a film on.
Ghost Town
– Ricky Gervais. Have you ever seen it?’

‘No,’ said Bel.

‘Neither have I. Let’s cheer ourselves up and watch it. Sorry, no popcorn. But I have more cheese.’

‘Cheese it is, then.’ Bel popped a chunk of Cheddar into her mouth. It was very strong, delicious and moreish. Nothing at all like Stinking Bishop.

The editor of the
Melbourne Star
was an ex-pat Brit who knew that there were quite a few fellow ‘Poms’ amongst his newspaper’s readership.
Consequently, it always carried a few quirky stories from back home. He particularly liked this recent one about the Yorkshire bride, heiress to a chocolate factory, who had engineered a huge
wedding only to dump her philandering husband at the reception. It would make a great feature for the Sunday edition in the glossy mag supplement.

Bel couldn’t remember laughing as much in ages. Half the time she was giggling more at Dan’s reaction to some of the one-liners than at the one-liners themselves.
He had a boom of a laugh, with a deliciously infectious quality to it. Three-quarters of the way through the film, Bel thought he was going to have an aneurysm. Tears were dropping out of his eyes
and he was holding his aching stomach. Bel’s cheek muscles were sore by the end; she felt exhausted – and a little bit drunk from all the top-ups of brandy they’d had.

Dan clicked off the TV with the remote and they both sat slumped against the fat feathery sofa cushions, sleepy and smiling. Bel realized she ought to make a move before she drifted off again
and spent another night asleep in the cottage, even if the prospect of that was a nice one.

‘I’d better get to bed,’ she said. Her bandage had slipped over one eye.

She got halfway to her feet before falling backwards with a giggle. Dan stood and held out his hand.

‘Let me help you,’ he offered. His hand was warm, his fingers strong as they closed round her own. ‘And let me take that bandage off.’

‘I look ridiculous in it, don’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said Dan, gently unwinding it from around her head. Then he inspected the wound. ‘That’s healing well, but don’t wash your hair for another two
days.’

‘Yes, Doctor sir.’ Bel gave him a comic salute.

‘Two days at least. Promise?’

‘Promise.Right, I’m away. Charlotte will be wondering where I am.’

‘You know, I haven’t been to the Bronte parsonage yet. I really must make the effort to go,’ mused Dan.

‘I’ll take you tomorrow, if you like,’ Bel said. ‘It’ll be my thank you for making me a meal and introducing me to Ricky Gervais films.’ She added quickly
– and slurringly, ‘Not that I’m trying to hit on you or anything.’

‘Good. It’s a date,’ said Dan, holding out his hand to shake on the deal. ‘Although not a “date” date, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ nodded Bel.

Dan walked her to the door, still holding her hand. He let it go when she needed to put it into her pocket to get out her key.

‘Eleven o’clock in the morning okay with you? Bronte parsonage, here we come,’ said Dan.

‘Be there or be square, Mr Doctor,’ replied Bel.

‘Goodnight, Miss Bel,’ smiled Dan, standing at the door to make sure she managed to find the keyhole.

‘Goodnight, Dr Bride-murderer.’

The doors to Charlotte and Emily closed simultaneously. Bel found herself smiling at full lip-stretch without actually knowing why as she walked up the wooden hill to bed.

Bel was slightly hungover the next morning, but it was nothing that a coffee and a couple of Nurofen couldn’t overcome. She was a good hour into the morning before she
realized the word ‘Richard’ hadn’t entered her head.

She so wanted to wash her hair but remembered her promise to Dan that she wouldn’t. She dabbed at the wound with damp loo roll and arranged her hair so the raw red line wasn’t
visible. At least she looked better without her Rab C. Nesbitt bandage on, she decided as she studied herself in the mirror and smoothed some foundation on her face for the first time since her
wedding day.

She wondered if Dan would remember their plan to visit the parsonage. She wouldn’t have reminded him if he had forgotten because they were both a bit plastered when they made their
arrangements. However, she didn’t need to worry. At eleven o’clock precisely, he rapped on Charlotte’s door.