Читать книгу His Runaway Bride - Liz Fielding - Страница 8

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.