‘Are you crazy?’ Imogen leaned over to embrace her. ‘Of course I will! I wouldn’t miss it for anything!’
The two friends laughed and hugged, excited and moved at the same time.
Imogen thought the story was an incredible one, from the dramatic first meeting between the lovers to their chance reunion on the steps of a Paris restaurant.
‘No one could be more astonished than I am,’ Romily confessed, shaking her head in surprise at her own tale. ‘I mean, a chef! And not even a French one at that! But once we realised that we’d met that night in the dirty alley behind my poor little shop … well, it was as though we suddenly saw each other …
really
saw each other.’ She sighed happily. ‘He’s gorgeous, Imogen. And as for the sex …’ She flushed and gave a tiny shiver, as though she were recalling his touch. ‘I never knew it was possible to experience anything like it.’
‘So, you fell in love that same night you met again?’
Romily nodded. ‘Yes. Nothing really happened. But somehow we both knew. He walked me home and we said goodbye and there was absolutely no reason for us to meet again. I couldn’t sleep that night but I was certain I would see him again. Sure enough, the next day he came to the house and asked for me, and I was waiting. The minute I saw him – he was so handsome in his jeans and leather jacket – I knew we were going to fall in love that very day, that we were already half in love with each other.
We went for a long romantic walk in the Bois de Boulogne and within five minutes he was holding my hand. Half an hour later we were sitting in the grass, staring into each
other’s
eyes. Within an hour, we were kissing wildly, as though no one could see us! That very night – I was supposed to be going to a cocktail party at the Hôtel de Vendôme but I didn’t give it a thought – I went back with him to his tiny
chambre de bonne
in Pigalle and we made love on his very uncomfortable bed. Honestly, Imogen, I never knew such thin mattresses even existed! But it didn’t matter a bit, it was so magical.’
Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed at the memory. ‘I’d never experienced anything like it in my life. It was as though he’d switched me on … or like I’d been sleeping for years and years and he woke me up. We knew within days that we were meant to be together. It was agony, though, finding times when we could meet. I didn’t want to make my parents suspicious so I had to go through with my usual social engagements, find ways to get away from my guards, act as though nothing was happening, even though my life was transformed. Mitch’s job as a chef means that he works very late so sometimes I would sneak out of the house at midnight and go to meet him in a bar near the restaurant, or else be waiting for him at the flat in Pigalle when he got back. Or he would get up early and spend the day with me, even though it meant he had only an hour or two of sleep before he had to be back on duty. He loves me, Imogen, he really loves me!’
‘I can believe it,’ she said, enthralled. ‘And now you’re getting married! It’s perfect.’
Romily smiled. ‘We both know it’s the right thing to do. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’
‘But why are you eloping?’ Imogen frowned. ‘Surely your parents want to give you the biggest wedding they possibly could.’
Romily made a face. ‘I don’t think so. You don’t know my mother. If she had an inkling what I was planning, she’d be
furious
and I know exactly what would happen then. She would fight me every step of the way, do her very best to persuade me it was a mistake, say the most terrible things about Mitch – and I just don’t want to hear them. In the end, I would win, but it would take months of horrible fights and tears and recriminations until finally she would come to the wedding, and weep all the way through, and be too ashamed to ask any of her friends to be happy for me …’ Romily jumped up and danced about the room, unable to contain her excitement. ‘I don’t want any of that, Imogen! I’m so happy, I don’t want anything to ruin it! So we’re going to elope and come back married, and then, when they’ve all come round to the idea, we’ll have a big party.’ She flopped down on the sofa and giggled. ‘You see? I’ve got it all planned!’
‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ Imogen asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Romily said, her voice adamant. ‘This is the only way. I know it.’
‘Then I’m with you, every step of the way.’
Imogen was cross with both her parents. They couldn’t see how romantic it was – the heiress and the chef, eloping to avoid her parents’ wrath – and instead made worried noises about contacting the de Lisles and letting them know what was happening.
‘Don’t you dare!’ she shouted, furious. ‘Just because you’re old and boring and your lives are over, it doesn’t mean you have to spoil it for everyone else!’
Her mother gave her a hurt look and her father told her to behave herself, but they couldn’t see how much she wanted to believe in the fairytale coming true, in the triumph of love over everything. If Romily could do it, then surely there was hope for her own dreams …
‘She’s nearly twenty-one and she can do what she likes,’ Imogen pointed out. ‘And I’m going with her.’
They couldn’t stop her. The next day Imogen packed her bags and went to join Romily and Mitch at their hotel in Edinburgh.
‘So you’re Imogen,’ Mitch said in his broad American accent, holding out his hand, his brown eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Hi,’ she said, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. ‘I’m your bridesmaid! It’s great to meet you.’
He laughed. ‘Hi, Bridesmaid. Great to meet you too. Now I know you almost as long as I’ve known the bride.’
She warmed to him at once. He was as handsome as Romily had promised: tall and well-built, with a fine-formed face, soft brown eyes and dark hair that had an endearing wave to it.
He smiled. ‘Sit down and let’s have a drink to celebrate meeting at last.’ They were in the small but elegant bar of the New Town boutique hotel where Romily and Mitch were staying. When they were settled, he said, ‘Now, I hope you’re going to behave yourself. Apparently you and Romily got into a lot of trouble when you were at school together!’
Imogen shot her a look, wondering if Mitch knew everything that had happened at Westfield, but Romily seemed oblivious.
I don’t think she’s told him. I’m sure she wouldn’t
. ‘Oh, we’re good girls now,’ Imogen said with a smile.
They drank champagne and talked. It was exciting just to be around them, sharing their fizz of happiness and excitement. Mitch evidently worshipped Romily: he could hardly keep his hands off her, and when he wasn’t holding her hand or slipping an arm round her waist, he was gazing at her with frank adoration. Imogen’s mind was quickly set at rest on the question of whether Romily had managed to fall into the clutches of a gold digger. Imogen was certain that
Mitch
was no such thing; whatever he thought about falling in love with a rich woman, it was certainly not the reason for the wedding. If anything, from the way he talked, he saw Romily’s wealthy family as a drag, an obstacle he would not have to overcome if she were from an ordinary background.
‘But I guess her folks’ll come round eventually,’ he said confidently. ‘When they see how much we love each other.’
Romily and Imogen went out shopping that afternoon for a bridesmaid’s dress for her to wear for the ceremony, and then they stayed up late into the night, too excited to sleep, talking about the wedding, and Romily and Mitch’s life together. The next day they set off for Gretna Green in their unremarkable hire car. Mitch didn’t have much luggage, just a plain black suitcase, but Romily had two cases and numerous bags as well as a dress carrier. ‘It’s something I picked up in Paris before we left,’ she confided to Imogen. ‘You’ll have to help me get into it!’
Gretna Green seemed quite an ordinary place when they arrived, a small Scottish town on the border with England, except for its historic role as a venue for young runaways wanting to get married without their parents’ consent. Every guestroom and hotel was offering special packages and advertising the traditional ‘over the anvil’ wedding.
Romily didn’t seem to mind the wintry grey weather or the drabness of the out-of-season town. Nothing could dampen her radiant happiness.
‘When is the ceremony?’ Imogen asked as they pulled up in their hotel car park.
‘This afternoon,’ Romily said dreamily. ‘It’s all booked.’
‘I can’t wait, baby,’ Mitch said, smiling at his bride. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’
They checked in, Mitch carrying the heavy luggage up to their first-floor rooms.
‘I can’t believe my wife-to-be has to travel with so much!’ he said, puffing slightly under the weight of the cases. ‘I thought eloping meant travelling light.’
‘Oh, darling!’ Romily laughed happily. ‘This
is
light. I usually have at least four times as much!’
Imogen laughed at the look on Mitch’s face. ‘What time is the kick off?’
‘At four o’clock. They said that January is usually one of their quieter months, so I could pick my time.’ Romily grabbed Imogen’s hand. ‘We’ve only a couple of hours to get ready. Better get going.’ She turned to her fiancé. ‘We’ll see you there.’
‘You bet,’ Mitch said. ‘Just be on time. I won’t be able to stand the wait.’ He gathered her up in a hug, kissing her for so long and so hungrily that Imogen became quite uncomfortable. The happy couple pulled apart at last, sighing and smiling at each other. Mitch turned to Imogen then. ‘You make sure she’s there, OK?’
‘I will,’ she said fervently, like a Girl Guide promising to do her duty.
‘Now let’s get ready,’ Romily said.
The hotel sent up some dry sandwiches for the girls to eat while they bathed and dressed. Romily had certainly come prepared with all her kit, from a professional-strength hairdryer to a box of cosmetics that would not have disgraced a make-up artist.
They spent a happy couple of hours primping and preening, rubbing in moisturisers, primers and foundations, painting shimmery colours on their lids, neatening brows, emphasising their eyes with liner and mascara, and applying lipstick. Imogen dried Romily’s hair, pulling the long brown tresses over a metal and bristle brush until they billowed with life and gleamed chestnut.
‘Now,’ Romily said, ‘the dress.’ She went to the garment bag which had been carefully hung over a wardrobe door. Unzipping it, she brought out a dress in the purest ivory silk.
‘Oh, Romily,’ Imogen gasped. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Wait until you see it on.’
She was right. Once the dress was on, it looked even more breathtaking. It was simple enough, and modest too: a long figure-hugging silk sheath that was so expertly constructed it seemed to flow effortlessly around Romily’s body, despite the boning and corsetry concealed inside it. It was sleeveless but over it she wore a stunning antique-gold lace jacket covered with hundreds of tiny sequins in tarnished silver, bronze and old gold. It shimmered as she moved, a vision of winter glamour. The hand-stitched label inside showed it was Armani couture.
She slipped her feet into gold silk slippers and pinned her hair back with glittering gold and crystal combs. Then she turned to Imogen. ‘Well?’
Imogen’s eyes welled with tears. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Just like a bride should look on her wedding day.’ She felt simultaneously happy and sad: Romily shouldn’t be here, on her own except for Imogen, with no one else to see and appreciate her bridal beauty. Where were her parents, her brother, her friends and relatives? Suddenly Imogen could see that, despite the whole thing being about the happy couple, without that precious audience, full of love and admiration and joy, it was only half a wedding.
‘I haven’t got any flowers,’ Romily said, with the first touch of melancholy in her voice. ‘I forgot to organise any. I won’t have a bouquet.’
‘Yes, you will,’ declared Imogen. ‘Even if I have to take some from a vase in the lobby.’
‘Please don’t,’ her friend said with a laugh. ‘I don’t know if this dress will respond well to drips.’
‘Actually,’ Imogen said slowly, ‘I think they’re plastic …’ They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.
At half-past three they were ready to go. Imogen was wearing the outfit they’d chosen the day before in Edinburgh – a cap-sleeved, knee-length fitted dress in old gold satin that picked up the same antique colours in Romily’s lace jacket, enlivened with the jaunty touch of a pair of leopard-print Gina heels borrowed from the bride.
The hotel had booked them a taxi, just a plain old grey Ford with a driver who had plainly seen too many brides to be excited by having another in his taxi. Imogen made him stop on the way when she saw a florist’s shop and darted out to buy all the ivory roses they had in the shop, making them fashion a hasty wedding bouquet.
A few minutes later they were drawing up in front of the Blacksmith’s Cottage, an old building of white render and black beams.
‘I can’t believe you’re really about to get married!’ Imogen breathed, her eyes wide. This was it: a wedding that felt as illicit as any that had been held in the forge over the centuries. Did the de Lisles have any idea what their precious daughter was about to do? There was no doubt they would be horrified if they did.
Inside, they were greeted by the owner and led to the room where the ceremony was going to be performed.
‘The registrar is here, and so is the groom,’ the woman said as she took them down a low, beamed corridor. ‘It will be a short ceremony – only fifteen minutes or so.’ She stopped outside an oak door with an old iron latch and glanced admiringly at Romily. ‘And, if I may say so, you make a gorgeous bride. Your fiancé is inside.’
The door opened on to a small cosy room with tartan carpet and curtains and a coal fire burning in the fireplace.
As
Romily walked in, Imogen suddenly had a glimpse of another life, where a majestic organ boomed out and Romily entered the portals of a magnificent cathedral, accompanied by her father and a host of bridesmaids, to a burst of joyous music. That was the wedding they’d all expected for her. There was no choir today, no gilt or marble or cloud of incense. Nevertheless, there was something infinitely touching about the way Romily walked gracefully into the room, keeping her eyes fixed on Mitch who stood by a blacksmith’s anvil, handsome in a dark suit that showed his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Her eyes blazed with love and happiness. She clearly didn’t miss the grandeur or ceremony for a moment: the sight of her beloved Mitch was enough for her.