Читать книгу Weddings Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 9

WHAT had he done? What on earth had he done?

Mike drove, not caring where, just as long he got away from Melchester, responding to the heavy traffic on automatic, not really seeing the cars, or the trucks, not seeing anything but Willow arriving at the church in her beribboned car expecting him to be waiting for her, ready to pledge his life to her. She’d been prepared to give up the job of her dreams for him. And he wasn’t there.

He dragged his hand over his face feeling sick and heartsore, stunned at the unhappiness he’d caused because he wouldn’t, couldn’t live the life expected of him from the moment of his birth.

At least that was no longer an issue. His father had probably denounced him from the pulpit. Publicly disowned him. If he returned to Melchester any time within the next ten years he’d probably be lynched.

He’d have to write her. Try to explain. What? That he wasn’t the man she thought he was? That his father had seized on their marriage and used it as an opportunity to pin him down, turn him into a mirror image of himself?

How could he expect Willow to understand how the thought of that sucked the very life out of him? He should have told her, right at the start. But he hadn’t intended a flirtatious game of kiss-chase to turn into a lifetime commitment. Hadn’t expected to be sandbagged by love.

And now it was too late for explanations. Far better to walk away. Have her loathe him rather than try to understand him. To risk her feeling even the faintest touch of guilt when what had happened was entirely his fault.

It was over. Finished. Now all he had to do was disappear while the dust settled. But first he needed coffee, needed to eat something, or he’d pass out at the wheel.

The motorway was packed with cars, roof-racks piled high with suitcases, as holiday-makers returned to London. Willow tried not to think about her honeymoon suitcase, packed and waiting at the hotel where she and Mike were to have had their reception, then spend their wedding night. A suitcase packed with swimwear, the lovely evening dresses and sexy underwear she and Crysse had chosen during a giggly, girly visit to London right after Mike had slipped a diamond ring on her finger. Right after the formal portrait of the pair of them appeared in the Country Chronicle, with the announcement of their forthcoming marriage.

She glanced at her left hand resting on the steering wheel. It looked naked.

A sign flashed by with those little life-saving icons, a cup and a knife and fork. With relief, she indicated and pulled off. She was on the point of a brilliant career. Not the time to have an accident because visibility was compromised by a totally irrational desire to weep.

The car park was packed with more holiday-makers. She didn’t want to push her way into the restaurant, fight to be served. But she needed to eat. She hadn’t been able to face more than a mouthful of cereal and, as for lunch…well, lunch was to have been one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs with witty speeches and many toasts to happy-ever-after while the staff photographer took pictures for the colour spread that would appear in the Chronicle’s magazine. She gulped and reached for the box of mansized tissues she kept in her car.

She’d thrown jeans, T-shirts, underwear of the plain, serviceable variety into a zip-up bag for her flight from Melchester. Not what she’d planned to be wearing today.

The handful of extra-strength tissues to mop up the deluge of tears weren’t part of her trousseau, either. Today all she’d anticipated needing was a small lacy thing, bridal-issue, perfect for dabbing away tears of happiness.

She groaned and laid her head on the back of hands as they grasped the steering wheel and thought about what she’d done. Seeing Mike, in her mind’s eye, standing at the altar, waiting for her. Turning as her father appeared in the church doorway.

Alone.

How on earth could she have done that to a man she loved? Put him through the ultimate in public humiliation?

What would he say? Do? Cal would get him out of the church…

The church. All those people. The buzz of excited gossip. Willow groaned again. Her father hadn’t uttered a word of reproach but her mother wouldn’t be that restrained.

And what on earth would happen to the three tiers of confection that she and Mike should have been cutting with a silver-handled knife engraved with their names and the date?

‘Are you all right, miss?’

She looked up. It was a uniformed man from one of the motoring organisations. Unfortunately it would take more than a spanner to put this mess right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need a cup of coffee.’

‘Have something to eat, too. And take a nap if you’re tired. You don’t need to get anywhere so quickly that it’s worth taking risks.’

‘It’s all right. Really. I’m in no hurry.’ She had nowhere to hurry to, nobody waiting. Then, because he didn’t look convinced, she said, ‘I’ll get a sandwich, I promise.’

Reassured he returned to his stand and she crossed the crowded car park, joined the anonymity of the jostling mass in the ladies’ room, cleaned up her face, removing the elaborate make-up that looked horribly inappropriate with jeans, dragging her fingers through her hair determined to ruffle up the perfection of her early morning styling. Trying to distance herself from the bride she was supposed to be.

How on earth was she going to get through the next four weeks until she joined the Globe? What was she going to do? She couldn’t face her mother. Or Crysse, who could never be expected to understand what she’d done in a million years.

There was a stand for the Chronicle by the shop door. A weekend features’ box listed her piece about the holiday cottages for the disadvantaged children and she remembered Emily Wootton’s wry invitation to join the volunteers who were going to decorate them.

She stopped. Why not? Why not volunteer, spend a couple of weeks out of sight of everyone she knew while the fuss died down, doing something worthwhile? Something to wear her out so that she didn’t lie awake at night wondering where Mike was, what he was thinking.

She’d really rather not know that.

She paid for the paper and the largest, most comforting bar of chocolate to nibble in the event that hard work wasn’t enough, and folded the paper back at the feature to look for the number to ring. Holding her purse between her teeth, and with the newspaper and chocolate tucked under her arm, she dug around in the depths of her bag for her phone as she headed in the direction of the restaurant.

Mike saw the queue at the self-service and abruptly changed his mind. He’d buy a can of something cold, and a sandwich from the chill cabinet in the shop to eat in the car. He stepped back, turned and cannoned into someone, sending a cellphone, a newspaper and a big black leather bag flying. For a moment he couldn’t move as he was swept by a sickening sensation of déjà vu. Then he looked down and was confronted by a pair of electric blue eyes.

Shock treatment.

He waited, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, expecting Willow to slap him, to let fly with a torrent of abuse that would probably have them both ejected from the building by security staff.

Her mouth opened as she tried to form a word. Then it closed. She swallowed, helplessly. He knew exactly how she felt.

Someone pushed by him, muttering about people blocking the door and he found the use of his limbs, bent to pick up her things. When he straightened she hadn’t moved.

‘Willow—’

‘Mike—’

They both started and both stopped. Then tried again.

‘I should have—’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

Then he said, ‘You know, we really must stop meeting like this.’

‘Yes.’ She blushed this time, and his heart turned over, started beating again. Slowly. Pink and white skin, vivid blue eyes, hair like jet. The effect was not diminished by familiarity. ‘I—I was going to get something to eat.’

‘The queue is horrendous. I think there must be a coach party.’

‘Oh.’

She seemed poised for flight and he put out a hand to stop her. Keep her close. Then he snatched it back before he quite made contact. His memory filled in the blanks, how her skin would feel like silk beneath his fingers, what would follow… ‘I don’t suppose it will take long to clear,’ he said quickly and used his redundant hand to push open the door. To hold it for her. He didn’t want her to go anywhere. He had run from the wedding and everything that it symbolised. Not from Willow. ‘Shall we risk it?’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like—’

‘An explanation.’ Willow wanted to run. Wanted to stay. Wanted to die. To jilt a man at the altar was bad enough. To meet him on the motorway as you made your escape was retribution on a scale dished out by old-time Sunday-school teachers. Be good, or your sins will surely find you out. But he was entitled to an explanation. Not carefully chosen words in a letter, but face to face. It would be harder this way. But afterwards, afterwards she might just feel a bit… She balked at the word, better. Nothing would ever make her feel better about what she’d done. ‘Yes,’ she said.

She took her bag from him, stowed all the stuff she’d been carrying so chaotically about her person, except for the newspaper which wouldn’t fit, then walked through the door he was holding for her and took a tray from the pile. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To stop her from throwing herself at him and telling him that she was sorry, that it was all a terrible mistake. That she loved him.

‘Are you very hungry?’ she asked inanely—she had to say something as they moved along the carefully lit displays of food.

‘Not particularly. I just need some coffee and some carbohydrate so that I don’t pass out on the motorway. I couldn’t face breakfast.’

‘Yes. Me too. To both of those…’ She glanced at him. ‘You didn’t, um…’ What? Stay? Have lunch with their guests? That would have been fun…

‘I thought you’d be at home—’

‘With my mother? I can think of more comfortable places to be. Outer Mongolia springs to mind…’ Shut up, Willow. Flippancy is not going to help. ‘Shall we try the pasta?’

‘Anything.’ He glanced at the woman waiting to serve them. ‘Make that pasta for two.’

Willow picked out a couple of plates of side salad and moved over to the drinks. She flinched from the freshly squeezed orange juice, taking a bottle of mineral water. Mike recoiled from the orange juice, taking a can of cola. ‘I’ll come back for coffee,’ she said, putting the tray down to look for her purse. She couldn’t let him pay for her lunch. He paid while she was still searching, his expression suggesting argument was pointless.

‘Where are you going?’ They’d been pushing the pasta around their plates for a while.

Mike took her question as a cue to give up on the food, and sat back in his chair. ‘As far from Melchester as I can before nightfall. I suppose you’re on your way to London? The big time?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about that. I just wanted to get away from my family.’

‘The sympathetic looks.’

‘I don’t know about sympathetic—’

‘The sudden embarrassed silence every time you walk into any room, anywhere.’ He closed his eyes briefly, as he dwelt on what he’d done to her. ‘It was an unforgiveable thing to do.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mike—’

‘I’m really sorry, Willow—’

They both spoke at the same, the words coming out one at a time, slow and painful. Then they stopped, looked up.

Willow started again. ‘I can’t expect you to understand—’

‘I can’t begin to explain,’ Mike said, ‘to expect you to—’

Then Willow frowned. ‘What are you apologising for, Mike? I’m the one who ran out on the big day. Left you standing at the altar.’ She couldn’t bear to look at him. ‘It was that awful juicer,’ she raced on before he could say anything, tell her how much he was hurting. She could see that for herself. He looked grey. ‘I had this nightmare picture of me in that vast kitchen, frilly apron, big Stepford-wife smile, every morning for the rest of my life. Squeezing oranges.’ He was staring at her. ‘I know that’s what you wanted, I thought it was what I wanted, but it isn’t. Not yet. Not for years—’

‘Willow—’

‘Actually, I hope I’ll never be ready for that.’ She sat back. ‘Is that a terrible admission? To admit that I want a career more than—?’

‘Than me?’ he asked.

‘It wasn’t like that!’

‘What was it like?’

She shook her head. How could she explain? ‘I realised it as we got to the church. I realised that getting married would be the end of my life, not the beginning, and that was wrong, wasn’t it?’ He looked bemused, she realised and without thinking reached out, covered his hand with hers. ‘I’m so sorry, Mike. I realise now that I pushed you into asking me to marry you. I should never have said yes when you proposed.’

‘Why did you? Say yes?’

‘Because…because at that moment I was sure.’ At that moment she’d known she loved him. But she couldn’t say that. If she’d loved him, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be drinking champagne, she’d be happy…

‘And then you were offered a job that made you realise there were more exciting options.’

She would have snatched her hand back, but he’d covered it, holding it between his.

‘I’m sorry, Mike. I know that sounds lame, but I don’t know what else to say. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. But don’t you see?’ she went on, desperate to make him understand. ‘Marrying you when I felt like that would have been much worse.’ He was looking at her with a rather strange expression and she finally extricated her fingers, embarrassed now at what, just a few hours before, would have been such natural intimacy. ‘Was it awful?’ she asked. ‘Did my mother have hysterics?’

‘Probably,’ he said, a glint of something almost like humour sparking in his eyes.

‘You didn’t hang around? I don’t blame you. Your parents…they’ve been so warm, so generous. They’ll never understand, will they?’

‘Not in a million years.’

‘They must hate me.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re going to come a very poor second place to me as a target for brickbats.’

‘Are you saying they blamed you? But why?’

‘I would appear to be an all round disappointment in the son-and-heir stakes.’

‘But you didn’t do anything, Mike—’

Mike reached out and reclaimed her hand, anything to stop her blaming herself. ‘Yes, I did. I don’t know whether your mother had hysterics, I have no idea what my father said, I don’t know, because I wasn’t there.’ He realised his fingers were biting into her wrist and let go. ‘I wasn’t there.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t expect you to. Nor to forgive me. I don’t even know how to begin to explain.’ He shook his head. ‘It seemed like a lifetime, sitting there, waiting for you to arrive. Thinking.’ He stared at the table, trying to get the words right. ‘You gave me too much time to think. If you’d been unconventional and arrived as the church clock struck the hour, well maybe we’d be dancing at our reception right now. But the longer I waited, the stronger grew the conviction that I was doing something entirely wrong. Wrong for me, that is. I found myself wondering how I’d feel if you didn’t turn up—’

‘Relieved,’ she said.

His head came up with a jerk that nearly dislocated his neck. ‘You, too?’

Startled by his vehemence, she said, ‘What?’ Her breath was coming in tiny little gasps as what he was saying finally sank in. As she realised what it meant. ‘Oh, my lord. You did it, too, didn’t you? Bailed out at the last minute.’ She felt almost dizzy with relief. ‘We both ran out on our wedding.’ She felt like laughing, clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself. Then she said, ‘I almost made it to the church, Mike, but I couldn’t do it. Dad asked the driver to go round the block again—’

‘Thank God he did. If you’d stopped the first time, I’d probably have still been there.’

‘What would you have done?’

‘Done?’ He looked slightly shell-shocked by her revelation. ‘Once you had set foot in the church there wouldn’t have been anything to do. Except say “I will” and live with the consequences.’

‘We came so close…’ She tried to hold her finger and thumb a centimetre apart but was shaking too much. Mike caught her hand, held it between his and she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in weeks and for a moment the words wouldn’t come. ‘S-so close to making the most almighty mistake,’ she said.

‘At least our nearest and dearest won’t be able to fling blame at each other over lunch. With so much in common, they’ll be able to really enjoy themselves. And there’ll be no tedious speeches to spoil the fun.’

Willow found herself drawing in a huge breath. It felt like the first real air she’d breathed in days. ‘Well. That’s all right, then. Isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘You want to go back and face the music?’ She found herself grinning at the stir that would cause. Then a ripple of laughter escaped her. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No.’ Then he smiled too. ‘What we could do…’ She waited. ‘We could call Cal and ask him to bring the tickets and our luggage and go to the West Indies anyway.’

She thought about guaranteed sunshine, soft white beaches and snorkelling in a warm clear sea. She thought about tree frogs chirping into a velvet dark night and Mike making love to her. ‘Yes, we could.’

‘But?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘I suppose taking the honeymoon when you’ve run out on the wedding might raise a few eyebrows.’

Might? ‘More than a few.’ She let out a long, slow breath. ‘We’ve made a lot of people very unhappy, but they’ll understand, might even applaud the fact that we both had the courage to step back from the brink. I don’t think that rewarding ourselves with a couple of weeks of total self-indulgence would be viewed with the same tolerance.’ Then, with a careless shrug that took more effort that she cared to admit, even to herself. ‘It would be a pity to waste the tickets, though. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go.’

‘On my own?’

‘That,’ she said, ‘is entirely up to you. I’m not in a position to complain if you—’

‘No! I meant…’ She raised her eyebrows, questioning what exactly he had meant. ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of dialling round old girlfriends to see who’s free,’ he said sharply. Then, raising his hands in a helpless little gesture, he sat back. ‘Why don’t you go? Take Crysse with you. You’re not starting your new job straight away?’

She shook her head. Then, in case he hadn’t understood which of those suggestions she was rejecting, ‘Not until next month. At least, I’ve still got to talk to Toby about that. I take it you’ll waive the usual notice?’ Then, since he didn’t seem to think an answer was necessary, she continued, ‘And I’ve just walked out on everything Crysse ever wanted. Asking her along on the abandoned honeymoon trip would be a bit like rubbing salt in her wounds.’

‘Sean wasn’t inspired by our reckless plunge into matrimony, I take it?’

‘No, he wasn’t. He found the whole elaborate performance extremely off-putting. Another reason why she won’t be totally thrilled with me.’

Mike shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I imagine the cancellation insurance covers a no-show at the church.’

‘What about a double no-show? Do you get a bonus?’ she asked flippantly, anything to stop herself from bursting into tears. Why would she cry when she was so happy? When everything had turned out so well? She might be a runaway bride, but he was a runaway groom. So that was all right. Wasn’t it? ‘Or do you have to pay a penalty?’

He stood up. ‘I’ll get that coffee.’

‘No. Really. I must go.’ She got to her feet. Mike stood up, too. Then they both stood there, uncertain how to end it. A kiss seemed inappropriate. Shaking hands, ridiculous.

‘I’ll look out for your byline in the Globe, Willow.’ That sounded so final. She didn’t want it to be that final. If only she could turn the clock back to that night he’d asked her to move in with him. If she’d just said yes… ‘You made the right decision, you know. You should always go for the dream. My mistake was forgetting that.’

‘We didn’t talk much about our dreams, did we?’ she asked sadly. He lifted his shoulders, let them fall in a hopeless gesture that said it all. ‘If we hadn’t been in such a rush to get married…’ What was the point of ‘ifs’? What was done, was done. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Somewhere. Nowhere. Get lost for a few days. You?’

‘I’m going to try my hand at the business end of interior design for a change. Help out a friend who needs a hand with some decorating.’ A kiss, she realised, would leave her weeping a puddle onto the floor and she stuck out her hand. He took it, but she didn’t linger, withdrawing her fingers almost before he’d touched them. ‘Goodbye, Mike. Have a nice life.’

She spun round and walked quickly away while she still could. It was too late for regrets. ‘Go for the dream,’ he’d said and maybe he was right. But it seemed a pity that life could only find room for one dream at a time. She hoped hers was big enough to make up for the hollow ache deep inside her.

Mike watched her walk away and knew that nothing in his life would be as hard again. He wanted to shout her name. Go after her. Tell her how much he wanted her, needed her, loved her still. But then what? He’d suggested to Cal that she had simply been marking time at the Chronicle until she got married. He’d been wrong about that. Wrong about so much. She wanted the Globe. London. And she’d got it.

As for him, well, he loved her, but not, apparently, with sufficient heat to compromise his own life.

Or maybe he was being hard on himself. Maybe he loved her just enough to realise that in time he would come to resent her for making the compromise necessary. That she would resent him for making her choose.

He slumped back into his seat, giving her time to leave the car park. He couldn’t face the awkward little smiles, the nods, as they made their way to their respective vehicles. The silly shrugs of people who have already said goodbye but can’t seem to get away from each other. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough.

So he picked up the newspaper that she’d left on the table. It was folded back at a piece about some cottages being renovated to provide holiday accommodation for kids. Kids who had nothing. Which put his problem, that of having too much, into perspective.

Willow switched on her cellphone, ignored the message-waiting icon flashing importantly at her and then realised she hadn’t brought the paper with her. She could buy another, but going back would risk walking into Mike again. Walking away three times in one day was never going to be possible.

It hadn’t been easy saying no to the honeymoon. It wasn’t Mike she’d walked away from. It was the life being his wife would slot her into. She’d begun to realise that before the Globe’s job offer had dropped on her doormat. That had been her escape route, not the reason for needing one. She still loved Mike. She always would.

Which was why, instead of going back for a paper, she searched her notebook, flipping back through it until she found Emily’s number.

‘Willow? I thought you were getting married today.’

‘There’s been a change of plans,’ she said with determined brightness. ‘It was mutual, but rather public and I need a bolt-hole for a few days. I wondered if you’ve got a place for an apprentice painter?’

‘At the cottages, you mean? You bet. It’s a bad time of year to get volunteers. The men are all too busy with gardening or painting their own houses while the sun shines. The women are all too busy nagging them.’

‘Well, you’ve got me—full-time, if you want me. Can I stay there?’

‘Well, I suppose so. It isn’t furnished, but the water and electricity are all laid on. You just have to throw the switch, turn the stopcock. You’ll be on your own at night, though. Will you be all right? Maybe you’d be happier at the village pub. I can give them a call—’

‘Thanks, but I’d rather keep a low profile right now.’

‘Okay. Well, I’ll meet you at the cottages, then. I’ll bring a sleeping bag and a few provisions to see you over the weekend.’

Mike stared at the paper but, instead of words, he just kept seeing Willow’s arrow-straight back as she’d headed for the door, walking out of his life. And he thought about what he’d said when he’d asked her to marry him. About wanting her there every morning when he woke.

That hadn’t changed. Not by a heartbeat. One chance. Two dreams. There had to be a way to make it work and the table rocked as he leapt to his feet and, slamming the door open with the flat of his hand, he raced after her. There was no sign of her little yellow car in the car park and for a moment his heart plummeted. Then a flash of sunlight on a windscreen, just at the corner of his vision, sent him spinning round.

It was Willow. Not heading for London, but going back the way she’d come. Going home after all? Surely not… And suddenly the words that he’d been reading so mindlessly came into focus. Made sense. Decorating. Helping someone, she’d said.

He dashed back into the services and rescued the paper from the woman who was cleaning the table and scanned the page again, this time absorbing every detail. And the details made him smile. It was the perfect opportunity to start over, on the ground floor. And this time he would show her exactly who he was and what he did.

The minute Emily left, Willow set to work. She had nothing else to do. She wasn’t hungry and, despite a certain lassitude, the result of reaction to the day’s events, she knew she wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.

She opened a tin of paint, a glorious shade of sky blue for the day room. A place for the children to play games when the weather was too bad to be outside, a place for them to gather at night for stories and singing. She stirred it with an old wooden spoon provided for the purpose, picked up her paintbrush and began.

She’d been going for about an hour when she heard a car pulling up behind the cottages. Emily had been so worried about leaving her on her own that Willow wasn’t particularly surprised, just curious at how inventive she’d be with an excuse for coming back to check on her.

Easing her back, putting down the paintbrush and flexing fingers stiff from being held in one position for so long, stiff with paint, she decided that her visitor wouldn’t need an excuse; not if she’d brought a bottle of wine with her. And some fish and chips.

She climbed down from the stepladder, wiped the back of her hand across her cheek and went to open the door. When she saw who was there, she tried to shut it again.

She wasn’t quick enough. Mike ducked under the low doorway and was inside while her mouth was still flapping about, having trouble with the ‘go away’ words the occasion demanded.

Mike, in paint-spattered jeans and a T-shirt that might once have been black, might once have had sleeves. Mike, with a sleeping bag rolled up beneath his arm.