No More Lonely Nights (3 page)

‘The police?’ Annette looked horrified. ‘I never thought…’

‘I can see you didn’t, but it’s time you did. Go and ring. Put their minds at rest.’

Annette got out of the car slowly, then stayed there, wringing her hands in a frantic way. ‘I can’t talk to them,’ she wailed, looking at Sian pleadingly. ‘I’m so scared. They’ll be so angry. They’ll shout. Cass…no, I couldn’t talk to Cass. And Dad… he might cry, that would be worse. He’ll be so upset, and Cass will be so angry. I can’t do it. Please, Sian.’

Sian didn’t get it for a second, then she shook her head with vehemence. ‘Oh, no, I’m not doing it for you. This is up to you. You got yourself into this muddle, you should get yourself out. You must handle your own life, Annette, and now is a good time to start.’

She might have saved her breath. Annette got back into the car and cried, and Sian began to see that under that helpless exterior there was something tenacious: a weakness that was a sort of strength because it made other people take control of her life for her, and saved her the trouble. Annette was used to that—expected it, probably demanded it. Was that why William Cassidy proposed to her?

‘What time was the wedding?’ Sian asked in the end, looking at her watch.

‘Eleven-thirty,’ said Annette, and Sian’s eyes widened. It was still only eleven-fifteen; she had somehow believed that Annette had run away just seconds before the wedding began.

‘OK, where do I ring?’ she asked, and Annette told her the name of the church. She didn’t know the number, but Sian got it from directory enquiries. First, though, she rang her paper and spoke to Leo, who was at once excited.

‘You aren’t kidding?’

‘Now why should I?’

‘She ran out of the forest right under your car? In all her bridal get-up? Would you credit it?’ He laughed and Sian made a face he couldn’t see. Typical of a man, not to mention an editor. Leo was over-sophisticated, cynical. He wasn’t here; he couldn’t see Annette’s face. Annette wasn’t real to him, none of the stories they printed were; they were just journalistic fiction unattached to real human beings.

‘She’s an unhappy girl,’ Sian told him. There was real blood in Annette’s veins, real tears on her cheeks.

‘Poor kid,’ said Leo. ‘I’ll switch you through to a copy-typist and I’ll check that we can get pictures from the locals. I think there’s an agency man down there; if we could get his pictures exclusively…’

‘Just put me through to copy, would you?’ said Sian impatiently. Sometimes Leo annoyed her.

She rapidly gave a copy-typist a rough story which the subs would no doubt put into better shape, then rang the church and left a message with a man who sounded vague and bewildered.

‘The bride won’t be here? I don’t understand.’

‘She has changed her mind, she’s sorry, she’s gone to London,’ said Sian.

‘Changed her mind?’

‘Yes, she can’t go through with the wedding— will you please tell Mr Cassidy she’s very sorry.’

‘Mr Cassidy? He’s here.’

Alarmed, Sian said, ‘Well, just tell him,’ but the other man had suddenly gone. She heard his voice at a distance, speaking to someone else; then, before Sian could put the phone down, another voice came on the line, a hard, authoritative voice which made Sian stiffen.

‘Who
is
that?’ it demanded curtly.

‘You don’t know me, I’m ringing for Annette.’ Sian was getting nervous now; that voice was daunting, she could see why Annette had run away.

‘Where is she? Let me speak to her,’ he grated.

‘She’s too upset to talk,’ Sian hurriedly improvised. ‘She asked me to let you know that she’s very sorry, she knows it is a bit late to do this, but she has realised she can’t go through with the wedding.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? Where is she? Put her on the line—or is this some sort of hoax? Are you playing damn silly games with me, whoever you are?’

‘No, of course not.’ Even granting that he must be shaken, distraught, Sian wasn’t putting up with being bullied and spoken to in that tone of voice. ‘I’ve given you the message, I must go now. Annette is very sorry, Mr Cassidy.’

‘Look, damn you—’ he burst out, but she was already putting down the phone. As she turned back to the car she saw Annette drying her eyes and looking at herself in the car wing-mirror.

‘You look fine,’ she told her, getting behind the wheel. ‘I can lend you some make-up, if you like.’

‘Thanks,’ Annette said, then asked huskily, ‘Did you…?’

‘I rang the church, yes, and spoke to your bridegroom himself.’

The other girl went crimson, then white. ‘Cass? What did he say? Was he very angry?’

Sian gave her a dry glance—did she know anything about the man at all? She was a human jellyfish, drifting on seas she didn’t comprehend.

‘I think you could say that.’

The sarcasm made Annette bite her lip again, looking like an unhappy schoolgirl. ‘I knew he would be, that was why I couldn’t speak to him myself.’ She took the cosmetic bag Sian handed her. ‘You’re very kind, thank you.’ Sian started the car again and drove off while Annette was doing wonders to her face with the various cosmetics she fished out of the bag.

‘One thing puzzles me,’ said Sian as she drove. ‘Why on earth were you carrying your bouquet and wearing your veil?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annette said, starting to giggle. ‘I just ran and didn’t stop to think. I was holding the bouquet, you see. My father went off and I stood looking in the mirror at myself. I was ready to leave, then suddenly I knew I couldn’t, so I climbed out of the window and started running through the forest.’

‘Running away isn’t usually the right way to deal with things,’ Sian said quite gently, although she was beginning to feel that Annette needed a few home truths. She was amazingly immature for someone of her age; more an adolescent than a woman. What on earth had William Cassidy seen in her?

‘Where shall I drop you in London?’ she asked some time later, and Annette came out of a dazed silence to give her an address. ‘Is that where your Rick lives?’ Sian asked, and saw by Annette’s blush that she was right. How would William Cassidy’s rival feel about the runaway bride appearing on his doorstep? Was he seriously in love with her, or had he been a little relieved at losing her to another man? But it wasn’t Sian’s business; once she dropped Annette off she could forget about the whole sorry muddle. That would be quite a relief, she decided, putting her foot down on the accelerator.

Her flat seemed tranquil; a haven of solitude. Sian unpacked, had a bath, sat and watched TV and ignored the phone which kept ringing. She knew who it was—Leo, trying to get an update on the William Cassidy story. Leo would want to hear the inside details: where the bride had bolted to and with whom—but he wasn’t getting any of that from Sian. She had given him a scoop as it was; the other papers would have got on to the cancelled wedding later, but her paper would have it in type with pictures, with any luck. They might even get an exclusive; it depended how many media people had been at the wedding.

The phone began to ring again. When it had stopped, she switched it on to the answering machine, made herself some cocoa and went to bed, amused by Leo’s persistence. Over the next half-hour she heard the phone start to ring again and again, although each time it cut out as the machine came into operation. How many messages was Leo leaving her? she wondered sleepily, on the edge of oblivion.

It had been a very tiring day; a lot had happened, and she was asleep before long. The next thing she knew was that someone was hammering on her door. Sian came awake with a violent start and fell out of bed, literally. She didn’t hurt herself, but she was dazed for a moment, and lay there listening in disbelief to the reverberations of some-one’s fist hitting the solid wood of her front door. She had a doorbell. He rang that, too, at the same time.

Leo? she thought incredulously, but knew it wasn’t. Her intuition told her that her angry visitor could only be one man, but surely Leo hadn’t given him her address? That was against the rules. Editors never gave out reporters’ names and addresses, to anyone.

Unless, of course, they had a lot of clout, and used it ruthlessly! She got to her feet and switched on the light. Grabbing up her filmy white negligee, she gave herself a rapid glance in the bedroom mirror; her blonde hair was ruffled, her skin pale, her green eyes startled. She looked as nervous as she felt, but there was nothing she could do about that, so she put on her negligee and hurried to the door.

As soon as she began to open it a body thrust it wider and she fell back, staring at the man who confronted her.

She had had no real idea what William Cassidy looked like, but she knew at once that it was him. It couldn’t be anyone else. This was a very angry man and a very tall one, with a face full of violence, in odd juxtaposition to the sort of sleek tailoring associated with society weddings: morning suit, white carnation in the buttonhole, dove-grey silk tie, smooth shirt.

‘Where is she?’ he asked in a voice hoarse with rage, and Sian nerved herself to defy him.

‘I can’t tell you that!’ Sian began. William Cassidy kicked the front door shut without taking his eyes off her. The slam made her jump, her wide eyes wary.

‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he assured her, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristling.

‘Don’t you threaten me! I gave Annette my word not to tell anyone where she is, and I’m going to keep my word.’

The force of her voice made his eyes narrow; for the first time he really looked at her. She saw a glitter of curiosity in those cold grey eyes. He coolly looked her up and down, and she seethed with resentment over the expression on his hard face.

‘How admirable,’ he drawled. ‘You must be a very unusual reporter—the others of your trade I’ve met haven’t had the same scruples.’

She wished she could deny the slur on her profession, but, she thought with a grimace, she knew some of her colleagues a little too well.

‘Yes, well, sorry about that, Mr Cassidy, but we aren’t all out of the same box.’

His brows arched. ‘No? But it seems your so-called scruples didn’t stop you taking advantage of Annette’s confidences. Your paper will be printing the story tomorrow. Your editor wouldn’t let me see the copy, but he admitted enough to make it clear that you used Annette ruthlessly.’

Sian went red. ‘I can understand why you’re angry.’

‘Oh, can you?’ he broke in bitingly, and she bit her lip.

‘How did you find out about me?’ she asked suddenly, and he leaned on her front door to consider her drily.

‘The local journalist told me your paper had rung his office, who rang him at the church. When I tried to talk to your editor on the phone I got nowhere, so I drove up to London myself to shake your address out of him.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve gone to all this trouble, but I’m not telling you where Annette is. You’ve wasted your time,’ Sian said uneasily, hoping he was going to admit defeat and go. She wasn’t too optimistic, though; he didn’t have the face of a man who easily admitted defeat, and she could well understand why Annette had fled him. This was very disturbing material for any woman to work with; Sian was not easily daunted by men, but for him she made an exception. She found him quite unnerving.