Читать книгу Weddings Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 8

‘I NEED an answer today, Miss Blake, or I can’t guarantee—’

‘You’ll have one!’ Willow rang off, then instantly regretted her short temper. It wasn’t the builder’s fault that she couldn’t make up her mind about the cupboards for her new kitchen. That she didn’t care a fig for her new kitchen. It was the kitchen out of her worst nightmares, one in which she would be expected to cook three meals a day. Just like her mother…

Why on earth had she ever said she’d marry Mike? Why couldn’t she have just moved in with him and settled down to uncomplicated domesticity like her cousin? Crysse was happy, wasn’t she? Ironing a few shirts for Mike would have been a lot simpler than living through her mother’s idea of the perfect wedding and Mike’s father’s idea of the perfect house.

It was as if their lives had been taken over by aliens.

Perfectly amiable aliens maybe, but aliens who, in their excitement, their desire to help, had accidentally switched off their ‘listening’ button. And had clearly never had any kind of grasp of the word ‘simple’.

For Willow, a simple wedding conjured up visions of a small country church, a dress from the local bridal shop, standard grey morning suits all round for the men, two bridesmaids. Two grown-up bridesmaids who could be relied upon not to eat their posies, burst into tears, or worse. A simple reception.

Her mother’s version of simple involved Melchester Cathedral, scrubbed choirboys in starched-white surplices, massed bell-ringers and a full-scale posse of bridesmaids and page-boys. Add in enough flowers and ribbon to keep a florist in business for a year…

Then there was the reception.

No. She was stressed enough, she absolutely refused to contemplate the reception. Or the vast edifice of the confectioner’s art that was her wedding cake. Forget simple. From Willow’s perspective her life appeared to be attracting complications in the manner of a magnet confronted with a open box of iron filings.

And the wedding was just the visible, outward sign of ‘complicated’. Liveable with. Just. Real complications came in small, less obvious packages. Long white envelopes with the logo of a national newspaper in the corner.

If life was simple, she’d phone the telephone number on the letter in her bag, say, thanks, but no thanks. She was no longer available. They’d left it too late to offer her the job of her dreams. She was getting married on Saturday. She’d phone and she’d say all that and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from grinning while she said it. But she kept putting it off.

Which was why it was so complicated.

‘Are you all right, Willow?’

‘What?’ She started, realising that Emily Wootton was staring at her with concern. ‘Oh, yes. It’s nothing.’ And she lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a convincing shrug. ‘I’m getting married on Saturday—’

‘Really?’ The older woman smiled. ‘How lovely.’

Willow had her doubts. ‘I’m sure everyone else will enjoy themselves. I’m just looking forward to next week when I’ll be on a beach in St Lucia and the last few weeks will be nothing but a blur.’ She made a big effort at a smile. ‘You were telling me about these cottages the Trust has been given by the Kavanaghs?’ she invited, before she broke down and poured out her misgivings to a woman she’d only met a couple of times. But who else was there? No one who knew Mike and had seen the house, could be expected to understand; she didn’t understand herself. If she could just go back to the night he’d proposed, hear him say it again. Convince herself that he really meant it. He’d seemed so distracted lately… ‘You need money to convert them into a holiday home for deprived children, is that it?’

‘No, that’s all done. All that’s left is the decorating and we’re looking for volunteers to help out.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you to change your honeymoon plans? I mean who really wants to go to the West Indies?’ A great fat tear escaped and slid down Willow’s cheek. ‘Willow?’ She wanted to put her head down on her desk and howl. ‘Willow, dear, is there anything I can do?’

‘No.’ She sniffed, searching her pocket for a tissue. ‘It’s just pre-wedding nerves.’ Probably. Pre-wedding nerves and the strain of trying very hard not to let anyone see that she’d fallen in hate at first sight with the house Mike’s parents had bought for them as a wedding present. A huge red-brick edifice with five bedrooms, three bathrooms and half an acre of landscaped garden that would take every minute she could spare from cooking and dusting to keep it from reverting to wilderness.

She and Mike hadn’t come to any decision about where they’d live. His flat or hers. They were both convenient, easy to run, perfect for a busy couple. Then—whammy. An invitation to lunch from Mike’s parents at a country pub with a route that just happened to bypass the house from hell. The kind of house that needed a full-time wife, not a woman with a life of her own and a career that was about to take off into the stratosphere. Or would be, if she wasn’t getting married.

It was becoming clear that as Mike’s wife she wouldn’t have a life of her own.

No more Willow Blake. She’d be Mrs Michael Armstrong, consort to Michael Armstrong, newspaper proprietor. In the fullness of time she’d become mother to the statutory two-point-four children, with a busy life as a champion of local good causes and all-round pillar-of-the-community. In ten years she’d have turned into every woman’s worst nightmare, a carbon copy of her mother.

Oh, she’d carry on working for a while—quietly shunted off into the more ladylike stuff, the WI meetings, the garden club, local celebrities. Just until the babies came along. That house demanded babies to fill its echoing spaces. Mike’s father was already referring to bedroom number two as ‘the nursery’. As if the Peter Rabbit decor wasn’t enough of a hint.

As for Mike, well she didn’t know what he was thinking any more. Suddenly he was more distant than the Khyber Pass.

Which was why the letter offering her the job of her dreams was still in her bag, still unanswered. A lifeline.

‘It’s, er, rather a big house, Mike. Not quite your usual style. A bit different from the hayloft,’ Cal pressed anxiously.

‘That depends on your view of big.’ Michael Armstrong was eager to cut off any discussion about what his usual style entailed. Cal was his oldest friend, his best man, and he knew him far too well to be easily fooled. ‘Willow was brought up in a ten-bedroom mansion.’

Mike had been working up to taking her to Maybridge, gauging her reaction to an alternative lifestyle; her excitement over the house had made him realise that it was going to be a non-starter.

‘Right. Well, I suppose if you’re both happy with it, that’s all that matters.’ Cal clearly wasn’t convinced, but let it drop. ‘When are you supposed to be moving in?’

Mike dragged himself back from some place where he wasn’t expected to live to this monstrosity of a house which his father, with all his plans apparently about to be fulfilled, had sprung on them as a wedding present. There had been no prior consultation because his father had known what his answer would be. The cunning old fox had relied on Willow to do his dirty work for him. And since she’d clearly loved the place, he’d choked back the ‘thanks, but no thanks’. There was no way he could refuse it.

Realising that Cal was regarding him with a look that suggested his face was betraying his innermost thoughts, Mike quickly answered, ‘The house is supposed to be ready when we get back from honeymoon.’

‘You don’t sound…’ his friend hesitated as he sought for the appropriate word ‘…optimistic.’ Mike ignored the underlying invitation to say what he really felt and kept quiet. ‘Ookaaay.’ Cal stretched out the vowels in acknowledgement that, as a topic of conversation, it was going no further. ‘I’m sure you and Willow can live without carpet for a week or two. And there’s no hurry to furnish the nursery,’ he added, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, gesturing at the giveaway decor of the second bedroom. ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me? It would certainly explain the prodigal’s unexpected return to the fold—’

‘My father’s trip to intensive care provoked my return,’ Mike declared. ‘It was never my intention to stay in Melchester.’

‘Until you met Willow.’ Until he met Willow. ‘Does she know how you feel about stepping into your father’s shoes? I only ask because when we were having a drink last week, I got the distinct impression that she thinks you’re taking the fast route to businessman of the year.’ He waited. ‘That you’ve got accountants’ ink running through your veins.’ Then he added, ‘She doesn’t know about Maybridge, does she? You haven’t told her.’

‘Mind your own business, Cal.’

‘I’m your best man. This is my business.’

‘You’ve met her. She’s old money, centuries-deep breeding.’ Mike’s gesture conveyed unspoken volumes. ‘She was simply marking time, doing the social stuff at the newspaper until one of the local chinless wonders invited her to become his Lady Chinless Wonder and breed little chinless wonders.’

‘Excuse me? Have you actually read any of the stuff she writes? Listened—’

‘I have to live with the Chronicle, Cal. I’m not prepared to sleep with it.’ He held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay. If there was a prize for writing up the gardening club’s committee meeting I’m sure she’d get it. But you can understand why I haven’t suggested she move in over my workshop in Maybridge and live off what I make with my hands.’

‘What you wouldn’t do for your father, you’ll do for love? In your shoes, I have to admit I’d do the same.’ He looked around, then grinned. ‘Maybe the nursery should be a priority after all.’

‘This is my father’s idea of a subtle hint. He could give a steam hammer lessons.’

‘The heart attack hasn’t slowed him down?’

‘Heart attack? I’m beginning to suspect that it was nothing more serious than a bad bout of indigestion.’ But it had done the trick. Brought him racing home, full of guilt, to take over managing the Chronicle and its sister magazine, the Country Chronicle while his mother took the old man on holiday. A long holiday. He should have run then, smelt a rat the moment his holiday-hating father hadn’t objected to a six-week cruise. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being cynical. Whatever, it’s reminded him of his own mortality.’ He gestured at the wallpaper. ‘Hence the rabbits.’

‘That’s it? No other problems?’

Mike dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘Well, I have to get my hair cut before Saturday,’ he said, making a determined effort to shake off a sense of doom.

He loved Willow. She’d been the one bright spark in the darkness when he’d been forced to come home, take up the reins of the family business while his father convalesced.

He’d walked into the office that first morning, his mood as black as the Chronicle’s headlines when she’d cannoned into him, her belongings scattering across the floor. She’d dived after her phone to check that it wasn’t damaged before rounding on him with a sharp, ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’

About to put her right about who hadn’t been looking, he’d caught his breath and there had a been a small, still moment when everything, including his heart, had seemed to stop. Then she’d grinned and said, ‘Oops. Bad mistake. Memo to brain. Don’t yell at your new boss until you’ve been properly introduced.’ When he’d continued to stare at her, his tongue apparently stuck to the roof of his mouth, she’d added, ‘You are Michael Armstrong? There’s a photograph of you on your father’s desk—’

‘It’s Mike,’ he’d said. ‘And I’m not the boss. Just standing in his shoes for a couple of weeks.’

‘Oh well, hello, Mike.’ She’d stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Willow Blake.’ Then she’d given a little yelp. ‘And I’m late.’ And then he’d been watching her run for her car with a smile on his face that would have given the Cheshire cat an inferiority complex.

He hadn’t intended more than a flirtation. A brief dalliance. Nothing heavy, nothing serious. She’d taken some catching, had kept him at arm’s length for longer than he was used to. The chase had been fun, though, and catching her had been…well…as if he’d found something he hadn’t known he’d been missing. But he’d pursued her as Michael Armstrong, acting head of the company she worked for. She was a class act and he’d needed every advantage he could use to stack the scales in his favour.

And when he’d caught her there didn’t seem to be any particular hurry to explain that this was just a temporary persona. Then he’d asked her to marry him.

And had meant it.

Her slightly stunned ‘yes’, had left him wanting to shout stop the presses…reset the front page…I’ve got some real news…—drowning out the small warning voice telling him that she thought she was getting the heir to a publishing empire. Not a man who, in his real life, lived in the old hayloft above what had once been a coach house and stables. Above his workshop where he lived an entirely different dream.

Could it be that he was afraid she wouldn’t want the real Michael Armstrong? Was that why he’d put off telling her?

Once his father had driven them out to the house, handed them the estate agent’s glossy brochure, gift-wrapped, it had been too late.

‘You only have one life, Mike,’ Cal said, interrupting his black thoughts, reading his mind with frightening accuracy. ‘You have to live your own dream.’ Then, frowning, he said, ‘It’s the bride who’s supposed to be having last-minute nerves.’

‘I’d advise you to wait until you try it from the business end of the wedding banns before you make such sweeping judgements.’

‘That sounds like a bad case of cold feet.’

The inflection in Cal’s voice again urged him to confide his misgivings, but things had gone too far for that, so he shook his head. ‘I guess I thought it would be simpler. I guess I thought getting married was just a question of turning up at the church on time and not losing the ring.’

‘You can safely leave those details to me. As for the rest…’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nearly lunch time. Why don’t you go and find the lovely Willow, give yourselves the afternoon off and remind yourself what this is all about?’

‘I haven’t got time.’ Cal’s brows rose slightly. ‘I’ll be away from the business for the best part of a month.’ Except it wasn’t going to be the business, any more. It was going to be his business. He’d conformed, settled down and his father was all set to hand over the minute the ink was dry on the marriage register.

‘Mike?’ She’d been waiting an hour for him, finishing the feature about the holiday cottages, tidying up loose ends. Thinking of some way to tell him about the job she’d been offered.

Leaving the paper would be bad enough, a kick in the teeth of both Mike and his father. And she’d have to travel to London every day, not always making it home, maybe. It was possible that if the Globe knew she was about to get married, they might not be so keen to have her…

Mike finally made a note in the margin of a column of figures, then looked up.

‘What is it, Willow?’

She looked at the pencil keeping his place in the margin and said, ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

She didn’t wait for his response, but walked quickly out of the building. Her car was in for a service and Mike had offered to give her a lift to Crysse’s. He’d clearly forgotten and she’d rather walk than interrupt his love affair with a calculator. That was what you got for falling in love with an accountant.

She hoisted her shoulder bag a little higher. She’d walk off the bad day with the builders, the endless queries from her mother about details, details, details. She no longer cared about the colour of the ribbons on the pew ends, or whether there would be sufficient roses in the garden for buttonholes. In a world where there were children who’d never had a holiday, never would have a holiday unless someone like Emily Wootton made it possible, such things didn’t rate a second thought.

But walking was a mistake. She was wearing new shoes and, by the time she’d gone half a mile, the deceptively soft leather had raised a blister on her heel. If she limped up the aisle, every painful step captured on video for posterity, her mother would probably kill her. Which would solve every one of her problems at a stroke. The other option was to catch a bus. As she reached a stop, she joined the queue, eased the weight off her foot and waited.

‘Offer you a lift, lady?’ She forced herself to ignore the little heart-lift as Mike pulled up beside her, an unruly cow-lick of honey-coloured hair sliding over his forehead as he leaned across to push open the passenger door of his black four-wheel drive.

‘My mother told me never to take lifts from strangers,’ she said, horribly conscious of the envious glances of women with heavy shopping bags. Then she said, ‘I thought you were busy.’

‘I was. I am. And I have a headache to end all headaches, which is why I forgot about giving you a lift to Crysse’s.’

‘I hope your stag night was worth the headache.’

‘Nothing is worth this amount of pain.’ And it hadn’t worked. No amount of alcohol or the juvenile high jinks organised by Cal, had been able to blot out the mess he’d got himself into. He glanced at the queue of people who had stopped straining to see if a bus was coming and were now all watching their little drama. ‘Please get in, Willow.’

‘How did you know I didn’t call a taxi?’ She considered taking out her phone and doing just that.

‘You were angry.’ And he didn’t blame her. ‘In your shoes I’d have walked.’

‘Then, you’d have made a mistake.’ Willow was attracting more attention than she cared for. And calling a taxi would be petty. She took a deep breath and climbed in beside him. Shut the door. ‘My shoes have given me a blister.’

‘Oh, hell. Come here.’ Mike forgot all about the bus queue as he put his arms around her and she went to his shoulder like a kitten to a warm blanket. ‘I’m sorry.’ He eased back, looked down at her, took the full force of her electric blue eyes and found himself wishing he’d heeded Cal’s advice, taken yesterday afternoon off and stayed in bed. Until this morning. ‘Do you have to go to Crysse’s this evening?’

‘I’m afraid so. There’s the crèche at the reception to be finalised, a panic about a torn bridesmaid dress, some place names still need to be written—’ She was ticking the endless list off on her fingers, but he caught her hand, stopping her.

‘Do you know something?’

‘What?’

‘If I’d known then, what I know now, I would never have asked you to marry me.’

‘Believe me,’ she came back without hesitation, ‘if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have said no.’ And for just a second something flickered in the depths of her eyes. Almost, he’d have said, as if she meant it. Then she shivered. ‘I’m getting through by dealing with it the way I would an overdue trip to the dentist. Agony at the time, but afterwards…’

Her voice trailed off, leaving him to fill in the blank with something appropriate, like ‘bliss’, he thought. Instead he said, ‘Hold onto that thought,’ as he released her. ‘And buckle up.’ He engaged gear and turned to check the oncoming traffic.

Anything rather than face the everlasting afterwards behind a desk, in an office, balancing the books.

‘I’ve been offered a job, Crysse.’

‘A job? What kind of job?’ Her cousin looked up from repairing the hem that one of the tiny bridesmaids had somehow managed to put her foot through. ‘Surely the Evening Post isn’t trying to poach you? What a nerve!’ She slipped in another pin. ‘Although, come to think of it, maybe working with your husband isn’t that great an idea. Twenty-four hours a day of perfect bliss might be more than any ordinary woman could stand. Not that I’m in any position to judge.’

‘I scarcely see Mike at the office. Besides, it isn’t with the Post. I couldn’t work for a rival paper.’ Crysse looked up from threading a needle. ‘You remember I applied for a job on the Globe?’

‘The Globe? But that was months ago. Last year. Before you met Mike. I thought they said they weren’t interested.’

‘Not exactly. They said they’d let me know. Well, now they have. It seems they’ve been making changes. Appointed a new editor, going tabloid. They’re putting a women’s supplement in their Friday edition and they want me to join the team.’

Crysse jabbed the needle into the cream silk. ‘I bet your bread never falls butter-side down, either, does it?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She continued picking up the hem with neat little stitches. ‘Forget I said that. Congratulations.’

‘Crysse?’ She shook her head. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Everything. I’m pea-green jealous if you must know.’

‘Jealous?’

‘I know, I know. It’s horrible of me, but I can’t help it.’ Her cheeks heated up. ‘You’ve got everything. The full set. A man any woman would die for—a man who actually believes in marriage, a wedding that’s going to be featured in the Country Chronicle, a fabulous new house courtesy of your father-in-law and all I’ve heard all evening is you whining on about how irritating it is to be constantly bothered about the colour of ribbons, and flowers and all those other tedious little decisions that the harassed bride has to cope with. Anyone would think you didn’t really want to marry Mike.’

‘No…’ Well, maybe she had been letting off steam, hoping that Crysse would turn it all around, make her laugh, see the funny side of it all, see it straight, the way she usually did. ‘I wasn’t whining. Was I?’

‘Big time. And now, as if the icing on your particular cake wasn’t already thick enough, you’ve landed the job of your dreams.’ Willow watched in horror as twin tears welled up in her cousin’s eyes and ran unchecked to drip onto the elaborate little dress she was stitching. ‘What have I got, hmm? I’ve been with Sean for five years—five years and he’s further from marrying me now than he ever was. I’m nearly thirty and I want a proper home, Willow. A house with a garden. I want babies—’

‘Oh, Crysse!’ Willow dropped her pen and reached out for her, holding her tightly as she let go of her feelings and broke her heart. ‘Have you talked to Sean? You can’t go on like this. You have to tell him how you feel.’

She sounded like the weekly advice column in the Chronicle. Talk to your partner. Explain your concerns about your relationship.

Agony Aunt heal thyself.

‘What’s the point? Why should he make the effort when he’s got everything he wants right now? I should have been like you, Willow. You knew what you wanted and stuck out for it. You always were the clever one. You never would settle for second best.’

She considered admitting that she’d spent the last couple of weeks wishing she’d just moved in with Mike when he’d asked her. But, in her present fragile state, Crysse would probably believe she was being patronised. Better try to be positive. ‘Okay. So if you don’t want what you’ve got, maybe it’s time to ask yourself what you do want. Hmm?’

Crysse rubbed her palms over her cheeks. ‘I thought I wanted this. I settled for this. But it’s not enough.’

‘Then, dump the ungrateful wretch. You’ve wasted enough time washing socks for a man whose idea of commitment is supporting Melchester Rovers when they play at home. Do something you really want with your life, before it’s too late.’

‘It takes a lot of courage to walk away from five years together, Willow. It’s like a divorce. No lawyers, no paperwork, but it’s still dismantling your life, starting over again, five years older and not quite so dewy fresh.’ Crysse sniffed, took the tissue Willow offered and blew her nose. ‘What about you?’ she said, with forced brightness. ‘What does Mike think about this job you’ve been offered?’

Crysse firmly changed the subject, clearly not wanting to discuss changing her life. She didn’t want to change her life, she just wanted Sean to shape up and change his.

‘I haven’t told him yet,’ Willow said, letting it go. ‘I haven’t told anyone but you.’

Crysse’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Don’t you think you should?’

‘I was hoping for some words of wisdom from my favourite cousin.’

‘It sounds to me as if you were hoping I’d say you can have your cake and eat it, too.’

‘Don’t mince your words, darling,’ she said, a touch wryly. ‘Feel free to say exactly what you think.’

‘What I think, darling, is that Mike’s life is here, in Melchester. And that house you’re moving into suggests he’s expecting a full-time wife with her mind on nothing in the immediate future but family planning. You are getting married on Saturday, remember?’ Crysse, the space between her eyes wrinkled in a searching little frown, suddenly reached out and took her hand. ‘That is what you really want, isn’t it?’

Did she? Want that? The home and the babies… She loved Mike, but the prospect of writing ‘housewife and mother’ in the occupation slot of life hadn’t obliterated her other dream. The one where she would have her own byline in a national newspaper before she was thirty.

The letter from the Globe was offering her that. Once she was established she could freelance, but first she needed to make a name for herself.

Surely Mike would understand.

Of course he would.

He looked up as she eased herself into the chair on the visitor side of his desk. She propped her elbows on the desk and said, ‘Can I buy you lunch, boss?’

He leaned back, grinned at her. ‘Do you really want to eat?’

‘You choose. I’ve got half an hour before a session of hell at the hairdresser, so it’s a sandwich in the pub, or we can lock the door, draw the blinds—’

‘It may come to that. I’ve scarcely seen outside the office all week.’

‘You’re opting for the sandwich?’

He rose, came round the desk and took her hand. ‘Call me pathetic, but the idea of making love to you with the entire staff exchanging knowing looks on the other side of the door isn’t my idea of a good time.’

‘You’re no fun now you’re officially the boss, do you know that?’

‘No kidding?’ he said, as they crossed the road to the pub. ‘Well, it’s not official until we get back from St Lucia. Maybe I should resign now.’

‘That’s my line,’ she said, jumping at the opening he’d given her. ‘I’ve been offered another job and unless I start getting some serious perks as your number one reporter, I might just take it.’ The words came out in rush, but they came out. She’d said it. It wasn’t so difficult. But she kept her gaze fixed on the board above the bar. ‘A ploughman’s and a tomato juice, please, George,’ she said to the barman. An ominous silence from Mike forced her to turn and face the music.

‘What job?’

‘Make that for two, George.’ She paid for their lunch and headed for a table near the window.

‘What job?’

This was it. No going back. Too late to wish she’d just written back to say thanks, but no thanks. ‘The Globe have offered me a job.’

‘The Globe?’ He seemed to be searching for a cross-match in his memory bank. She could see the exact moment when he connected. The shock. ‘You don’t mean The Globe in London?’ He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit…’ She lifted her brows, inviting him to finish. ‘Downmarket for someone like you?’

What the heck did that mean? Like her? ‘It’s a national daily with a circulation of millions.’ He said nothing. ‘You’re supposed to be impressed.’

‘Okay. I’m impressed,’ he said, after a pause in which the world turned. ‘Would you have taken it?’

‘Would?’ His calm assumption that she wouldn’t be taking the job without even discussing the possibility, without discussing how they might handle it so that it would be possible, seriously irritated her. ‘You don’t think I should?’

‘Not unless you’re planning to move to London and save married life for the weekends.’ Then he added, ‘Are you?’

‘I could commute.’ She checked his expression. It was totally blank. ‘No?’ Still nothing. Her decision. No help, no encouragement. ‘Oh, well, I’ll ring Toby Townsend this afternoon and tell him.’

‘When did you apply for this job?’

‘Months ago. I had an interview but nothing came of it.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘That is, until Toby’s letter arrived on Monday.’ George brought their lunch, launching into a long complaint against the new parking restrictions that were killing his business, demanding to know why the paper wasn’t doing something about it. Somehow, after that, the subject of the job offer never cropped up again.

Later, back in the office, she told herself that Mike was right. Probably. No, absolutely. It was impossible. Stupid to even imagine… She’d ring and tell them that she was no longer available. It was fine. She loved Mike. She was going to marry him. But a little niggle at the back of her mind kept saying that if she hadn’t pushed it, hadn’t pushed him into proposing, she could have had it all. A career in the week, Mike at the weekends. A girlfriend could do that but being a wife meant compromise. Being a wife was a full-time job.

She punched in the number before she could weaken again. Toby Townsend wasn’t in the office, she was told. She should phone on Monday. Explanations were beyond her. She’d write. Composed the letter in her head while the hairdresser snipped at her hair, teasing at it until her bridal coronet sat perfectly in a nest of curls. Typed it as soon as she got back to the office, putting it into her bag to post later. Then she went in search of Mike, needing to have him hold her, reassure her that she was doing the right thing.

But he’d left the office right after lunch and his secretary didn’t know where he’d gone. Just that he wasn’t expected back.

Willow took out her cellphone. Tapped in the text message, ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’ He used to do that all the time when they’d first started dating. When she was out in the sticks covering some local event. She’d reply with something like, ‘If you can find me, you can buy me dinner.’ All he had to do was check the editorial diary and he was always there, waiting for her. It seemed like a century ago. A different life.

She looked at the message she’d keyed in. She couldn’t begin to guess where he’d be. So she cancelled it.

Mike opened up the big double doors of his workshop, letting in the light. There were plans tacked up on the far wall. Long lengths of beautiful hardwoods filled the racks. A small table, finished but for the final polishing, stood on the workbench, abandoned when he’d got a call to say that his father had been taken ill.

He’d woken up with it on his mind. Unfinished business. Something that had to be completed before he could finally shut the doors on that part of his life. Before he called the letting agent and told them to look for a tenant.

He peeled off his jacket, tugged at his tie, stripped off the formal shirt, shedding the invisible shackles for half a day. There was an old work shirt hanging on a peg and, as he pulled it over his head, it felt like coming home.

He walked around the deceptively simple piece of furniture, remembering the way the design had formed in his head, the satisfaction as his hands had turned the line on the paper into reality.

He’d give it to Willow. He wouldn’t tell her he’d made it, but every time he saw it he would know that he had once been more than a man who pushed numbers around on a balance sheet.

Mike was outside her flat when she got home. ‘More presents?’ he said as she opened up the back of the car.

‘My mother rang, that’s why I’m so late. Where have you been?’ She looked up as he took her bag. ‘You smell as if you’ve been hugging trees.’

‘Close,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you a present, too. A piece of furniture.’ He opened the rear of the four-by-four, took out something wrapped in sheeting and carried it up to her flat. ‘Well, go on. You can look.’

She pulled off the sheet and caught her breath. It was a small table, stunningly modern, timeless in its simplicity. ‘Oh, Mike! This is so beautiful!’ She touched the surface, ran her fingers over it. ‘It’s like silk. What wood is this?’

‘Cherry.’

‘It’s…’ She lifted her shoulders, lost for the right word to adequately convey her appreciation. ‘I can’t explain it.’ She glanced up at him. ‘It looks as if it should be in a museum. Does that sound silly?’

Mike’s fingers slid over the polished surface. Some of his early pieces had become collectors’ items, sold on, displayed, too precious to be used. He hated that. ‘It was made to be used, not looked at.’ He wanted his furniture to take on the patina of everyday wear and tear, to absorb history.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I… It was designed…made by someone I know.’

‘Really? Is he coming to the wedding? Can I meet him? Maybe we could run a feature in Country Chronicle—’

‘No, Willow. This is his last piece. He’s closed his workshop. It’s not a business for a family man.’

‘That’s sad—’

‘That’s life,’ he said abruptly. ‘What have you got there?’ He picked up a box. ‘A juicer? Does this mean I’m going to be getting fresh orange juice every morning for breakfast?’

She swallowed. Was that it? The highlight of her life from now on? Juicing oranges for Mike? ‘It’s from Josie,’ she said, ducking the question. ‘I went to school with her. She’s a bit of a health-food freak, juices everything. Carrots. Celery. You name it, she drinks it.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That sounds…great.’

Was it great? Or was it just easier to go through with the wedding than walk away, easier than packing up the juicer and saying, sorry, this isn’t for me. Was she, like Crysse, going on because the alternative was just so messy, too painful to contemplate?

She was good at telling other people what was good for them, but what about her? And Mike?

Her ghostly reflection stared back at her from the car window. On the surface, everything was perfect. Her dress, her hair, her make-up.

‘Nearly there, Willow. All set?’

She turned to her father, distinguished in his morning suit, his top hat resting on his lap as the car, ribbons fluttering, drove in slow state towards a church filled with friends and family, all gathered for her big day. What would they do, she wondered, if she didn’t turn up?

‘Did you wonder before you married Mum whether you were making a terrible mistake?’

‘It’s a big step. Nerves are to be expected.’ Then her father frowned. ‘Or is there something more?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Then she said, ‘If I hadn’t been offered that wretched job…’

The letter to Toby Townsend lay on the hall table. She’d kept putting off posting it. She’d meant to do it last night, along with the thank-you letters for wedding presents like the juicer and the clock to count the hours that she’d spend dusting a house she’d loathed on sight.

She’d had to smile and smile to keep her feelings bottled up, so as not to hurt Mike’s father. Not to hurt Mike, who’d been so overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift of the house that he’d been quite lost for words. And somehow the letter hadn’t quite made it into the box.

‘Tell me, Willow, if Mike had rung last night and said, “Let’s forget the wedding,” how would you have felt?’

‘Relieved.’ The word, blurted out without hesitation, shocked her. She said it again. ‘Relieved.’ And this time she knew it was true. Not because she didn’t love Mike, but because she didn’t want this life. As the car, approaching the church, began to slow she said, ‘Don’t stop!’

The driver grinned. ‘You girls do like to make a man suffer. Once more round the block is it?’

‘Yes, once more round the block. Dad, I can’t do this to Mike. Can I? He’s in the church now, waiting for me—’

‘If you’re really that unsure, my dear, then I think you must.’

‘Mother will never forgive me.’

‘This has nothing to do with your mother. This is your life.’

‘But the reception—’

‘It won’t be wasted. People will still need to eat.’

Was that the only reason she was going through with this? Concern about wasting some food, upsetting her mother? ‘Tell Mike—’ She stopped. What? That she loved him? That she loved him but she couldn’t marry him? Better to say nothing…

‘Leave it to me, sweetheart.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Drop me off at the corner, driver, and then take my daughter home.’ He got out, held the door for a moment. ‘Willow, about your mother… Maybe it would be a good idea to disappear for a few days.’

Was that why he was doing it? Going through with the wedding? Taking on the Chronicle? Not to disappoint his father nor the Josies of this world? One life, Cal had said. He had one shot at getting it right. He didn’t have time to waste it living other people’s dreams.

And Willow? What about Willow? Mike loved her. She was the best thing that had happened to him in years, but she wanted a career. He wasn’t stupid. She’d been aching for him to say she should take that job at the Globe.

He’d seen it and part of him had wanted to say, go for it, don’t waste a minute of your life. But there was another, darker side that was all screwed up, that reminded him that she was the one who’d insisted on marriage. Well, she’d got it. She couldn’t have it all.

What kind of start was that? How soon before they’d both be wishing they were somewhere else?

Out of sight someone was playing the organ, quiet incidental music, a counterpoint to the quiet rustling as the wedding guests took their places, exotic hats surreptitiously angled as women glanced sideways at him, tipping close as they whispered to each other.

The sun was shining in through the stained glass, spattering the marble steps with red and blue and gold. But he felt cold and the scent of flowers in the vast arrangements either side of the aisle was making him feel slightly nauseous.

How much longer? He glanced at his watch. Willow was late. Last minute nerves? Suppose she didn’t turn up? How would he feel? Devastated or just relieved?

‘Don’t look so worried, Mike, I haven’t lost the rings.’

Relieved.

‘Cal, what would you say if I told you I don’t want to do this?’

Cal looked at him as if he was about to say something flippant, then he frowned. ‘Is that a serious question?’ His face must have been answer enough, because he said, ‘For the last week you’ve looked like a man on the way to the gallows. I thought it was the Chronicle—’

‘It was. That and Josie’s juicer.’

‘What has a juicer got to do with it?’ Cal waited, but when no further explanation was forthcoming he took in a deep breath. ‘You’d better make up your mind what you want, Mike. The minute Willow steps foot in this church you’re committed.’

‘I’m already committed. I can’t—’

‘For heaven’s sake, if you’ve got real doubts you must get out of here. Now.’

‘Tell her…’ What? What could he possibly say? That he loved her but that this life was not the one he’d ever wanted to live? ‘Tell her father that I’ll pay for all this…’

‘Sure. Now go. I’ve got things to do.’