Wedding Girl (3 page)

Ì knew you would!' exclaimed Olivia. `So I thought I'd better pop round myself.' She smiled at Simon.

Ìsn't my little girl a scat- terhead?'

Ì wouldn't say so,' said Simon in a tight voice.

Òf course you wouldn't! You're in love with her!' Olivia smiled gaily at him and ruffled his hair. In high heels she was very slightly taller than Simon, and he'd noticed though nobody else had that since he and Milly had become engaged, Olivia wore high heels more and more frequently.

Ì'd better be going,' he said. Ì've got to get back to the office. We're frantic at the moment.'

Àren't we all!' exclaimed Olivia. `There are only four days to go, you know! Four days until you walk down that aisle! And I've a thousand things to do!' She looked at Milly. `What about you, darling? Are you rushing off?'

`Not me,' said Milly. Ì took the afternoon off.'

`Well then, how about walking back into town with me? Perhaps we could have ...'

`Hot chocolate at Mario's,' finished Milly.

Èxactly.' Olivia smiled almost triumphantly at Simon. Ì can read Milly's mind like an open book!'

Òr an open letter,' said Simon. There was a short, tense pause.

`Right, well,' said Olivia eventually, in clipped tones. Ì won't be long. See you this evening, Simon.'

She opened Canon Lytton's gate and began to walk quickly up the path, skidding slightly on the snow.

`You shouldn't have said that,' said Milly to Simon, as soon as she was out of earshot. Àbout the letter.

She made me promise not to tell you.'

`Well, I'm sorry,' said Simon. `But she deserves it. What makes her think she's got the right to read a private letter from me to you?' Milly shrugged.

`She did say it was an accident.'

Àn accident?' exclaimed Simon. `Milly, you must be joking. It was addressed to you and it was in your bedroom!'

Òh well,' said Milly good-naturedly. Ìt doesn't really matter.' She gave a sudden giggle. Ìt's a good thing you didn't write anything rude about her.'

`Next time I will,' said Simon. He glanced at his watch. `Look, I've really got to go.'

He took hold of her chilly fingers, kissed them gently one by one, then pulled her towards him. His mouth was soft and warm on hers; as he drew her gradually closer to him, Milly closed her eyes. Then, suddenly he let go of her, and a blast of cold snowy air hit her in the face.

Ì must run. See you later.'

`Yes,' said Milly. `See you then.'

She watched, smiling to herself, as he bleeped open the door of his car, got in and, without pausing, zoomed off down the street. Simon was always in a hurry. Always rushing off to do; to achieve. Like a puppy, he had to be out every day, either doing something constructive or determinedly enjoying himself. He couldn't bear wasting time; didn't understand how Milly could spend a day happily doing nothing, or approach a weekend with no plans made. Sometimes he would join her in a day of drifting indolence, repeating several times that it was nice to have a chance to relax. Then, after a few hours, he would leap up and announce he was going for a run.

The first time she'd ever seen him, in someone else's kitchen, he'd been simultaneously conducting a conversation on his mobile phone, shovelling crisps into his mouth, and bleeping through the news headlines on Teletext. As Milly had poured herself a glass of wine, he'd held his glass out too and, in a gap in his conversation, had grinned at her and said, `Thanks.'

`The party's happening in the other room,' Milly had pointed out.

Ì know,' Simon had said, his eyes back on the Teletext. 'I'll be along in a minute.' And Milly had rolled her eyes and left him to it, not even bothering to ask his name. But later on that evening, when he'd rejoined the party, he'd come up to her, introduced himself charmingly, and apologized for having been so distracted.

Ìt was just a bit of business news I was particularly interested in,' he'd said.

`Good news or bad news?' Milly had enquired, taking a gulp of wine and realizing that she was rather drunk.

`That depends,' said Simon, òn who you are.'

`But doesn't everything? Every piece of good news is someone else's bad news. Even . . .' She'd waved her glass vaguely in the air. Èven world peace. Bad news for arms manufacturers.'

`Yes,' Simon had said slowly. Ì suppose so. I'd never thought of it like that.'

`Well, we can't all be great thinkers,' Milly had said, and had suppressed a desire to giggle.

`Can I get you a drink?' he'd asked.

`Not a drink,' she'd replied. `But you can light me a cigarette if you like.'

He'd leaned towards her, cradling the flame carefully, and she'd registered that his skin was smooth and tanned, and his fingers strong, and he was wearing an aftershave she liked. Then, as she'd inhaled on the cigarette, his dark brown eyes had locked into hers, and to her surprise a tingle had run down her back, and she'd slowly smiled back at him.

Later on, when the party had turned from bright, stand-up chatter into groups of people sitting on the floor and smoking joints, the discussion had turned to vivisection. Milly, who had happened to see a Blue Peter special on vivisection the week before while at home with a cold, had produced more hard facts and informed reasoning than anyone else, and Simon had gazed at her in admiration.

He'd asked her out to dinner a few days later and talked a lot about business and politics. Milly, who knew nothing about either subject, had smiled and nodded and agreed with him; at the end of the evening, just before he kissed her for the first time, Simon had told her she was extraordinarily perceptive and understanding. When, a bit later on, she'd tried to tell him that she was woefully ignorant on the subject of politics indeed, on most subjects he'd chided her for being modest. Ì saw you at that party,' he'd said, `destroying that guy's puerile arguments. You knew exactly what you were talking about. In fact,' he'd added, with darkening eyes, ìt was quite a turn-on.' And Milly, who'd been about to admit to her source of information, had instead moved closer so that he could kiss her again.

Simon's initial impression of her had never been corrected. He still told her she was too modest; he still thought she liked the same highbrow art exhibitions he did; he still asked her opinion on topics such as the American presidency campaign and listened carefully to her answers. He thought she liked sushi; he thought she had read Sartre. Without wanting to mislead him, but without wanting to disappoint him either, she'd allowed him to build up a picture of her which if she were honest with herself wasn't quite true.

Quite what was going to happen when they started living together, she didn't know. Sometimes she felt alarmed at the degree to which she was being misrepresented; felt sure she would be exposed as a fraud the first time he caught her crying over a trashy novel. At other times, she told herself that his picture of her wasn't so inaccurate. Perhaps she wasn't quite the sophisticated woman he thought she was but she could be. She would be. It was simply a matter of discarding all her old clothes and wearing only the new ones. Making the odd intelligent comment and staying discreetly quiet the rest of the time.

Once, in the early days of their relationship, as they lay together in Simon's huge double bed at Pinnacle Hall, Simon had told her that he'd known she was someone special when she didn't start asking him questions about his father. `Most girls,' he'd said bitterly, `just want to know what it's like, being the son of Harry Pinnacle. Or they want me to get them a job interview or something. But you . . . you've never even mentioned him.'

He'd gazed at her with incredulous eyes, and Milly had smiled sweetly and murmured an indistinct, sleepy response. She could hardly admit that the reason she'd never mentioned Harry Pinnacle was that she'd never heard of him.

`So dinner with Harry Pinnacle tonight! That should be fun.' Her mother's voice interrupted Milly's thoughts, and she looked up.

`Yes,' she said. Ì suppose so.'

`Has he still got that wonderful Austrian chef?'

Ì don't know,' said Milly. She had, she realized, begun to imitate Simon's discouraging tone when talking about Harry Pinnacle. Simon never prolonged a conversation about his father if he could help it; if people were too persistent he would change the subject abruptly, or even walk away. He had walked away from his future mother-in-law plenty of times as she pressed him for details and anecdotes about the great man. So far she had never seemed to notice.

`The really lovely thing about Harry,' mused Olivia, ìs that he's so normal.' She tucked Milly's arm cosily under her own and they began to walk down the snowy street together. `That's what I say to everybody. If you met him, you wouldn't think, here's a multimillionaire tycoon. You wouldn't think, here's a founder of a huge national chain. You'd think, what a charming man. And Simon's just the same.'

`Simon isn't a multimillionaire tycoon,' said Milly. `He's an ordinary advertising salesman.'

`Hardly ordinary, darling!'

`Mummy . . .'

Ì know you don't like me saying it. But the fact is that Simon's going to be very wealthy one day.'

Olivia's arm tightened slightly around Milly's. Ànd so are you.' Milly shrugged.

`Maybe.'

`There's no point pretending it's not going to happen. And when it does, your life will change.'

`No it won't.'

`The rich live differently, you know.'

À minute ago,' pointed out Milly, `you were saying how normal Harry is. He doesn't live differently, does he?'

Ìt's all relative, darling.'

They were nearing a little parade of expensive boutiques; as they approached the first softly lit window, they both stopped. Inside the window was a single mannequin, exquisite in heavy white velvet.

`That's nice,' murmured Milly.

`Not as nice as yours,' said Olivia at once. Ì haven't seen a single wedding dress as nice as yours.'

`No,' said Milly slowly. `Mine is nice, isn't it?'

Ìt's perfect, darling.'

They lingered a little at the window, sucked in by the rosy glow of the shop; the clouds of silk, satin and netting lining each wall; the dried bouquets and tiny embroidered bridesmaids' shoes. At last Olivia sighed.

Àll this wedding preparation has been fun, hasn't it? I'll be sorry when it's all over.'

`Mmm,' said Milly. There was a little pause, then Olivia said, as though changing the subject, `Has Isobel got a boyfriend at the moment?'

Milly's head jerked up.

`Mummy! You're not trying to marry Isobel off, too.'

Òf course not! I'm just curious. She never tells me anything. I asked if she wanted to bring somebody to the reception ...'

Ànd what did she say?'

`She said no,' said Olivia regretfully.

`Well then.'

`But that doesn't prove anything.'

`Mummy,' said Milly. Ìf you want to know if Isobel's got a boyfriend, why don't you ask her?'

`Maybe,' said Olivia in a distant voice, as though she wasn't really interested any more. `Yes, maybe I will.'

An hour later they emerged from Mario's Coffee House, and headed for home. By the time they got back, the kitchen would be filling up with bed and breakfast guests, footsore from sightseeing. The Havills' house in Bertram Street was one of the most popular bed and breakfast houses in Bath: tourists loved the beautifully furnished Georgian townhouse; its proximity to the city centre; Olivia's charming, gossipy manner and ability to turn every gathering into a party.

Tea was always the busiest meal in the house; Olivia adored assembling her guests round the table for Earl Grey and Bath buns. She would introduce them to one another, hear about their days, recommend diversions for the evening and tell them the latest gossip about people they had never met. If any guest expressed a desire to retreat to his own room and his mini-kettle, he was given a look of disapproval and cold toast in the morning. Olivia Havill despised mini-kettles and tea-bags on trays; she only provided them in order to qualify for four rosettes in the Heritage City Bed and Breakfast Guide.

Similarly she despised, but provided, cable television, vegetarian sausages and a rack of leaflets about local theme parks and family attractions which, she was glad to note, rarely needed replenishing.

Ì forgot to say,' said Olivia, as they turned into Bertram Street. `The photographer arrived while you were out. Quite a young chap.' She began to root around in her handbag for the doorkey.

Ì thought he was coming tomorrow.'

`So did I!' said Olivia. `Luckily those nice Australians have had a death in the family, otherwise we wouldn't have had room. And speaking of Australians . . . look at this!' She put her key in the front door and swung it open.

`Flowers!' exclaimed Milly. On the hall stand was a huge bouquet of creamy white flowers, tied with a dark green silk ribbon bow. `For me? Who are they from?'

`Read the card,' said Olivia. Milly picked up the bouquet, and reached inside the crackling plastic.

"'To dear little Milly," ' she read slowly. "'We're so proud of you and only wish we could be there at your wedding. We'll certainly be thinking of you. With all our love from Beth, Scott and Adrian."' Milly looked at Olivia in amazement.

Ìsn't that sweet of them! All the way from Sydney. People are so kind.'

`They're excited for you, darling,' said Olivia. Èveryone's excited. It's going to be such a wonderful wedding!'

`Why, aren't those pretty,' came a pleasant voice from above. One of the bed and breakfast guests, a middle-aged woman in blue slacks and sneakers, was coming down the stairs. `Flowers for the bride?'

`Just the first,' said Olivia, with a little laugh.

`You're a lucky girl,' said the middle-aged woman to Milly.

Ì know I am,' said Milly and a pleased grin spread over her face. 'I'll just put them in some water.'

Still holding her flowers, Milly pushed open the door to the kitchen, then stopped in surprise. Sitting at the table was a young man wearing a shabby denim jacket. He had dark brown hair and round metal spectacles and was reading the Guardian.

`Hello,' she said politely. `You must be the photographer.'