The Runaway Bridesmaid
Daisy James
A deliciously enchanting read, The Runaway Bridesmaid is set to steal readers’ hearts and keep them guessing until the very last page! What a girl wants…Squeezing herself into a frothy, flouncy, bubble-gum pink dress, Rosie Hamilton thinks that being a bridesmaid for her spoilt little sister Freya can’t get any worse.But discovering her boyfriend in a cupboard with the bride, ten minutes before Freya is due to say ‘I do’, is the icing on the sequinned wedding cake – and Rosie’s cue to pack her bags.Swapping her Louboutins for Wellingtons, Rosie throws her bridesmaid bouquet in the air and flies from bustling New York to sleepy Devon. Her late Aunt Bernice’s cosy countryside cottage is the only place that’s ever felt like home.Now, for the first time in her life, and with the help of her beloved Aunt’s diaries, Rosie must put herself first for a change – and decide what she really wants…A delightful romance, perfect for fans of Sophie Hart and Lindsey Kelk!Praise for Daisy James‘In The Runaway Bridesmaid, Daisy James delivers a stunning debut novel, with beautifully constructed sentences, swift-flowing plotlines, oodles of love and dollops of delights that were masterfully stirred with engaging characters.’ ― The Nest of Books‘The Runaway Bridesmaid is a great novel that any true romantic will love. A woman torn between two men, romance on the cards and mouth watering food! What more could a girl ask for!’ ―By The Letter Book Reviews‘One of the finest written romances I have ever read…I will certainly be looking out for any future stories by this exceptionally talented author!’ ― Splashes Into Books
What a girl wants…
Squeezing herself into a frothy, flouncy, bubble-gum pink dress, Rosie Hamilton thinks that being a bridesmaid for her spoilt little sister Freya can’t get any worse. But discovering her boyfriend in bed with the bride, ten minutes before Freya is due to say ‘I do’, is the icing on the sequinned wedding cake – and Rosie’s cue to pack her bags.
Swapping her Louboutins for Wellingtons, Rosie throws her bridesmaid bouquet in the air and flies from bustling New York to sleepy Devon. Her late Aunt Bernice’s cosy countryside cottage is the only place that’s ever felt like home. Now, for the first time in her life, and with the help of her beloved Aunt’s diaries, Rosie must put herself first for a change – and decide what she really wants…
The Runaway Bridesmaid
Daisy James
Copyright (#ulink_17d3ed98-c9ed-5eb0-9f1b-5f1c4b0367bf)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Daisy James 2015
Daisy James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474045025
Version date: 2018-07-23
Daisy James is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. Her husband and young son were willing samplers of her baking creations triple-tested for her debut novel, The Runaway Bridesmaid. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must.
Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks, especially if they have given any of the recipes in her book a whirl… photos are very welcome.
Contents
Cover (#u93a4fe82-d1c9-5738-b99f-1f4b1f72c67f)
Blurb (#u31c888ad-d3eb-5a02-9369-fe68cb378a55)
Title Page (#u9bb1e381-2603-5fc0-8975-74d9c0bcec4a)
Copyright (#u734804e7-2bf3-5468-8f00-fec235be849b)
Author Bio (#ud642da0b-4cab-5300-b6f3-083207f31571)
Dedication (#u7f4456ba-485e-528d-b75a-85abfaf6e3bb)
Chapter One (#ua9b1fed9-50d9-544d-aede-f4de9ceac4c3)
Chapter Two (#u803a59fc-8c6f-5e6f-ba07-b20f27c9927b)
Chapter Three (#ude9e23c6-0b82-5142-9d5a-f65c2311197f)
Chapter Four (#u99e3a63f-0f17-5e8d-bf4e-20042d9f5210)
Chapter Five (#u741e8c79-af14-50fc-807e-c262442187c2)
Chapter Six (#uaf47b7a4-9756-5884-a3ef-07ed029fc698)
Chapter Seven (#u5bd9d73a-59f7-5252-974d-7e447a7db8da)
Chapter Eight (#ucbc024fd-cfe0-5334-8cf0-0638e61b76cd)
Chapter Nine (#u72d48dfd-ff96-5b27-8ac2-1b1577c71496)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
To Les and Ben,
for their love, encouragement and support…and their infinite capacity to taste-test my recipes!
Chapter One (#ulink_dba18b14-c141-5b49-b55c-3ab91f496730)
‘What in the name of Christian Dior possessed your sister to choose this vomit-inducing shade for her bridesmaids’ dresses?’ huffed Lauren, flicking the sides of her sleek auburn bob behind her ears. ‘There’s not a person on this Earth who can pull off cotton-candy pink successfully!’
‘Don’t worry,’ giggled Rosie as she watched her friend’s perfectly outlined cupid’s bow upend in a grimace of disgust at Freya’s audacity in insisting they wore such a confection of fluff on her wedding day. ‘Haven’t you heard that pink taffeta is the new black?’
Lauren slipped the dress over her slender body where it ballooned her delicate proportions to twice their size so that she resembled an over-blown meringue. The insipid colour immediately drained her naturally pale complexion, bestowing her with a gaunt, grey appearance. ‘Only a lavish application of the extensive range of products from the Clarins beauty counter can even begin to rectify this tragedy of taste! Bring on the fake tan!’
Rosie had to agree with her best friend. From a kaleidoscope of choices in the spectrum of pink – fuchsia, cerise, Barbie – Freya had chosen a saccharine-sweet shade of bubble-gum pink so Rosie and Lauren resembled a pair of nervous flamingos as they loitered on the Juliet balcony of the hotel bedroom suite waiting for the bride to grace them with her presence. Their eyes met and they spluttered into fits of laughter – a welcome sensation that released the helix of tension which had been festering in Rosie’s chest all morning. She was grateful for Lauren’s support, and their joint humiliation, but – to her distress – her eyes brimmed.
‘It’s Freya’s day, Lauren. Whilst I have otherwise been solely responsible for the organisation of the Bennett-Hamilton wedding circus, all sartorial choices have been made by her, as I hope to repeat regularly throughout the day to anyone who will listen! On the issue of bridesmaid gowns she would brook no suggestions, no guidance, no pleas for elegance over outrage from me. But I have to admit, it is one of the ugliest dresses I have ever been ordered to wear, and as you know, I am something of an expert.’
‘You are! What number are you up to now?’
‘Seven; lucky for some.’
‘Maybe next time you’ll get to be the bride. And handsome, charismatic Mr Giles Phillips the groom!’
‘What planet do you live on, Lauren? Marriage is the last thing on Giles’ mind. Or mine for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have a serious relationship one day, especially with a guy like Giles, but whilst I’m loving dating him I’m not sure it’s anything more than two people enjoying each other’s company. We do have a lot in common. Anyway, in the metropolis of Manhattan, all the sane guys are either married to a spouse or their career, or are gay - you have to grab the exception when you can! Now come on, let’s get ready to present the lucky residents of Stonington Beach with the most spectacular wedding they have ever had the privilege to attend.’
Lauren gifted Rosie a roll of her emerald eyes. ‘What, in this dress? More like an impromptu performance of an eighties musical revival!’
Lauren was right, Rosie thought, they did look ridiculous clad in a froth of pink flounces, more Folies Bergère show girls than twenty-first century bridesmaids at an elegant Connecticut wedding. They both appeared incongruous next to the elegant A-line splendour of the bride’s Augusta Jones-designed wedding gown, with ivory lace, an off-the-shoulder bodice and pleated organza skirt. But, of course, that was the whole point.
Upstaging by the bride was vital.
Nothing was ever enough for her little sister – always scrounging for more no matter whose toes and dreams she squashed to achieve her self-focused goals. With no friends of her own in New York, she had supplanted herself into Rosie’s circle of friends, who – unbeknown to Rosie – tolerated her only because she was Rosie’s sister. Of course, Freya had struggled to find willing applicants to fill the position of bridesmaid for her forthcoming wedding and had demanded that Rosie ‘persuade’ Lauren to accede to the honour. With her sharply-drawn, freckled features and graduated auburn bob, Rosie’s best friend and colleague could grace any professional photographer’s lens and met with Freya’s aesthetical demands for her wedding photography.
Lauren had been adamant that, unlike Rosie, she was no doormat and would not deign to bow to Freya’s demands. Why on earth would she want to be her bridesmaid, she had argued. She wasn’t Rosie – willing to perform the supporting nuptial role at least once every six months for a procession of former school friends and colleagues. Lauren’s own spectacular wedding to her college boyfriend, Brett, in the Terrace Room at the Plaza had been the most recent of Rosie’s ‘best supporting bridesmaid’ opportunities a mere four months ago.
However, Lauren had relented when Rosie had pleaded with her to do this for her, if not for her sister, sadness at Freya’s predicament clouding her amber-flecked eyes. But Lauren would not allow her friend to forget her sacrifice. She continued with her monologue on Rosie’s doormat tendencies and her sister’s self-centred, ever-escalating demands.
‘Okay, okay, so your mom died when Freya was only eight years old. But she was your mother too, Rosie. How about Freya supporting you for a change, just once thinking of someone else other than herself? Did she rush to your aid last year when Carlos ditched you? Does she even realise that her monopoly on your time may have played an integral part in that? No, instead she just continued to chase around Europe, floating from one handsome guy to the next gullible girlfriend, or any acquaintance willing to offer her a sofa and a good time. Jacob is the best thing that’s ever happened to that girl – like, ever! And she doesn’t even appreciate her good fortune. Someone needs to have a serious talk with that little madam. She’s about to become a married woman – it’s an opportunity for you to make sure she knows how lucky she is. It can’t go on, Rosie!’ Lauren’s face flushed with annoyance.
As she cowered from the arrows of blame slung by her best friend’s words of wisdom, Rosie felt like she had been kicked in the head and the solar plexus at once. Then she began to quail in her pearl-and-sequined stilettos as she watched Lauren’s eyes, the colour of Irish luck, narrow.
‘If you like, I’ll do it. I’ll tell her how grown-ups are supposed to act. You’re too soft on her gallivanting and selfishness. I’m sorry, Rosie, you’re a wet blanket when it comes to baby-blue-eyed and supposedly-innocent Freya; butter wouldn’t melt in that rosebud mouth. She does not deserve the sacrifices you’ve made, are still making, for her. She’s an adult now – twenty-two for God’s sake. She can take care of herself – and if not, Jacob can. It’s your turn, Rosie, to make a life for yourself outside Freya’s orbit.’
Lauren’s mischievous glint returned, but her eyes softened. After all, she put in the same hours at Harlow Fenton as Rosie did. Of anyone, she understood the pressures of keeping all the plates spinning in the air when the vagaries of the world’s stock exchanges ate into their family or leisure time.
‘Stop taking responsibility, Rosie. It’s not healthy. For either of you.’
Rosie gifted Lauren with a watery smile as she moved over to the sash window where white gauze curtains floated like a bride’s veil in the light breeze. Pale tendrils of sunshine breached the horizon as she took in the pristine gardens, battling to calm her emotional demons. Serenity would play for the opposing team on this her beloved sister and Jacob’s wedding day, and for that she was saddened. Not only were there a myriad of things that could go awry, despite her meticulous attention to detail in the arduous preparations for this auspicious day, but Lauren was right – Freya’s demands had increased to scatter-gun proportions since her arrival the previous evening for the rehearsal dinner.
That morning as she had dragged herself from the single bed of her childhood, her limbs stiff and her head pulsating, nausea had twisted knots into her stomach. Her baby sister’s wedding day! She should be suffused with joy but, with a jolt of guilt as she stepped into the freezing relief of the shower, she recognised that in the place where happiness should be, loneliness lodged. She was ten years older than Freya and she’d had to almost beg Giles to be her date for her sister’s wedding.
Rosie made a huge effort to shake off her melancholy and allowed her shoulders to relax. In her chosen wedding dress and with her loose platinum waves rippling down her back, Freya had presented every inch the Princess Bride image she had coveted since her teenage years. And Lauren, her only true ally, was there to bolster Rosie’s flagging spirits and don her matching, saccharine-sweet bridesmaid’s dress.
Rosie smiled when she thought back to the impish smile of her best friend, so bohemian in her own choice of attire, at the final dress fitting. Lauren eschewed the emulation of the images distributed in the magazines and fashion corridors of Manhattan of the supposedly-perfect female form. She never counted calories nor fell under the spell of the latest designer-inspired craze. Her idea of a perfect girly afternoon was to trawl the thrift shops on Second and Third Streets, delving into the racks of vintage clothing she could up-cycle. She frequently unearthed pieces of jewellery she could dismantle and reuse. Even her engagement and wedding rings had been ‘previously loved’, much to Brett’s delight. His fire fighter’s salary would never stretch as far as Tiffany’s.
She truly hoped that Freya had met her Prince Charming and that this was the fairy tale wedding she had wished for. She prayed that she had lost her heart to Jacob, a guy fifteen years her senior; or was she settling for a convenient companion with the means to support her in the manner to which she had become accustomed?
A strain of music floated on the air and her eyes picked out the string quartet – originally a five-piece but now minus the cellist who’d reportedly downed a bottle of Jack Daniels after an exhilarating performance at the Met the previous evening – as they struck up the first chord of a rendition of Dangerously in Love by Beyoncé, Freya’s favourite artist.
A wave of exhaustion threatened to buckle Rosie’s knees and she collapsed onto the kidney-shaped stool at the dressing table. Insomnia had plagued her for as long as she could remember but it had been especially potent last night, as the tortuous hours stretched before daybreak. Her perpetual lack of sleep ensured the retention of the dark smudges under her gold-flecked eyes. With a sigh, she realised there would be no rest this weekend either, with the ceremony and then partying until the small hours of the morning to the live band Freya had demanded at huge cost.
As she shook her freshly-teased caramel curls from her eyes, she thought of Giles – the handsome, charismatic, sexy man in her life. At last, she allowed a smile to play around her lips as she anticipated a whole weekend on his arm, showing him off to her father and Dot and Arnie who had been so supportive of the family after… after…
Thankfully, the continuation of Rosie’s reverie was spliced into by a frantic hammering on the bedroom door, followed by the urgent gravelly tones of her father’s voice.
‘Rosie? Rosie? Have you seen Freya? The hairdresser needs her and it seems she’s done one of her disappearing acts again.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_f4803980-8818-507e-adb7-22c87098dc81)
Rosie caught Lauren’s eye-roll as she rushed to open the door to admit her father. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as a spurt of nausea tickled at her throat. Typical Freya! Hadn’t she spent every spare moment of the last three months of her life organising Freya’s wedding so that it would run with the military precision she was famed for at the office? All Freya had to do was slip into her dress, plaster a smile on her face and turn up on time! So where was she?
‘You didn’t tell her about Aunt Bernice, did you?’ asked her father. As he leant in to kiss her cheek, Rosie caught a whiff of the baby shampoo her father still used, delivering a painful jolt of nostalgia to her nostrils.
‘No, Dad. You know we agreed not to tell her until after the wedding.’
‘I’ll go and find her, Mr Hamilton. She can’t have gone far.’ Lauren flicked the sides of her bob behind her ears, hitched up her voluminous skirt and strode from the room.
Rosie registered Jack Hamilton’s lined, pale face wreathed in concern. His appearance was so suave in his charcoal-grey morning suit and baby-pink cravat – his back erect, his still-thick silver hair and beard neatly trimmed in honour of his youngest daughter’s wedding day. But he had a lot on his mind. Not only did he have the responsibility of walking his beloved daughter down the aisle but it was only the third day in twenty-five years that the Hamilton family’s hardware store had been closed to the service of Stonington Beach residents and curious tourists bemoaning the disappearance of such Aladdin’s caves in their home towns.
She recalled the pang of regret she’d experienced at the previous evening’s dress rehearsal when she witnessed her father’s slower, more deliberate movements. It had occurred to her that now Freya was to be married, she should maybe consider returning to Stonington Beach to take care of her father and help him in the store which, she’d noticed with a stab of concern, was looking a little shabby around the edges. Jack needed more help than Dot, now herself in her sixties. Would such a step-change relieve her of her constant anxiety about her father’s health, the stalking fear that she’d lose him too? Would it alleviate the weight of apprehension that pressed against her chest, maybe even allow her to make some of those human connections she found so elusive in Manhattan?
Gosh, no!
Having taken a year’s sabbatical to care for Jack and Freya after her mother’s passing, she had proceeded to squeeze every last ounce of knowledge from her studies at college and business school, squirreling away every morsel of offered wisdom into the recesses of her mind for future extraction. Why should she even be contemplating allowing it to drain away into a small town hardware store? New York City had many flaws, but she adored its vigour and vanity, its tenacity and traumas. The only tinge of sorrow that day was the absence of their beloved mother, but her presence would be with them all in the hollows of their hearts.
There had been no thanks from her sister for the long months of grief Rosie had endured in organising this spectacular occasion from one hundred and thirty miles away. For giving up numerous weekends to travel out to Connecticut to taste and select the menus, to advise on table décor and choice of linen, flower arrangements, wine lists, whilst Freya was just looking after number one.
A conversation with Dot popped into her mind; Dot had hugged her goodbye and noticed the deep hollows of tiredness around Rosie’s eyes. ‘I hope once this fiasco of a wedding has finally taken place, it won’t mean your visits down to Stonington Beach will be any less frequent, darling?’ Dot had said. ‘Jack adores having your sharp professional eye run over the store. No other business in Stonington can boast a high-flying New York City executive bestowing regular financial advice upon its eaves and coffers. We love you here, Rosie. Don’t be a stranger.’
A second wave of dizziness enveloped Rosie and she slumped down onto the pale blue sateen duvet. Her mind had suddenly seized. Her father managed a tight smile and joined her, resting his hand on her arm. She saw he was studying her as she fiddled with the huge gold hoop earrings Freya had presented both she and Lauren with that morning. Freya had mistaken Lauren’s look of abject horror as that of shock at the level of her generosity. Rosie prayed her photograph would never, ever appear in any publication covering the Jacob Bennett, Jr. and Freya Hamilton wedding. She would struggle to live down the fashion shame. She felt and looked like a gawky teenager.
‘All this will happen for you one day, darling. You’re so like your mother, worrying about everything and everyone. You’ve pulled off a miracle today, organising this wedding for Freya and Jacob.’ His eyes sought out hers. ‘She’s gorgeous, but so are you. You need to take some time for yourself now, darling. That crazy job of yours is squeezing all the sparkle from your eyes. I can see how tired you are, even if your mirror speaks differently to you. You career girls don’t understand what you’re leaving behind in your blinkered pursuit of corporate acceptance. Manhattan demands insane hours and produces crazy people, their dreams skewed by their ever-increasing obsession with stockpiling the dollars.
‘You need to slow down, Rosie. Take some time to smell those flowers you and your mother were named after. Get dating, meet your own Jacob who will love and nurture you. Goodness knows you deserve it.’
He held her to him, his familiar smell mingled with the tang of a forbidden cigar. Rosie didn’t trust herself to respond with any opposing argument.
‘I wish Mum were here to witness how proud I am of you both today. I’ve missed her every single day of the last fourteen years. But her love lingers on in the crevices of our hearts. The passage of time has no favourites, Rosie, it treats us all equally. But I knew your mum for thirty years before that disease stole her from her family and she would have wanted all this for you too – a happy life, not a slave to the accumulation of wealth for people who have more than enough to service several lifetimes already.’
Her father knew he’d struck a chord. ‘Promise me and your mum that it won’t be years before I walk down that aisle again? It was a promise I made to her before she left us that I would see you both settled before I, well… Hey, there are some great guys who come into the store. Want me to fix you up with a date?’
‘Dad!’
‘Look, Rosie, I’m sorry I can’t go to the UK for Bernice’s funeral. I would have loved to have seen Devon one last time.’ Tears threatened to mist Jack’s lashes for the first time on that emotional day. The sadness in her father’s eyes sent a shard of panic through Rosie’s heart. Was he hiding a health issue? Was there a secret he was protecting her from, another evil incursion by an incurable disease poised to steal away her only parent?
‘It’s okay, Rosie. I’m just tired. Long hours in the store, you know.’ Her father failed to see the irony of this last sentence, having spent the last ten minutes lecturing and berating his daughter against the vices of corporate Manhattan and her solitary lifestyle.
‘Rose adored Bernice, you know.’ His kind, wise eyes clouded as he grasped Rosie’s hand in his, its paper-thin skin stretched and liberally-flecked with age spots. ‘But she wished her sister had found a partner to spend her life with. Don’t end your days like Bernice, Rosie.’
‘Are you sure there’s no way you can close the store for the week whilst you go to the UK? Maybe the break from the routine will do you good?’
‘It’s not the store, Rosie.’ The look on her father’s face caused Rosie’s heart to contract and a giant fist squeezing the air from her lungs. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I could manage the trip. It’s a long flight, and what with the jet lag and… well. I know how much Bernice meant to you, darling. I’m sure she would understand why we can’t attend the funeral, what with the store and Freya on honeymoon and your work commitments. The UK is more than an arduous car ride away.’
With huge effort, Rosie refocused on the present. She glanced down into her lap where her slender fingers were entwined with her father’s arthritic ones. Her heart ballooned with love for him and the support he had given her and Freya. She knew he had struggled at times with the gargantuan task of raising two young girls – Rosie was eighteen but Freya had only just turned eight – whilst coping with his own grief. Her unconditional love for him had been one of the reasons she had so swiftly slotted her toes into her mother’s shoes to care for Freya – to help to alleviate his suffering in any way she could.
And now Freya was to become a married woman. Rosie adored her sister. Throughout her childhood she had braided her hair, mopped her brow when she was sick, played hostess to her school friends, baked cookies, dressed her up in home-stitched Halloween costumes. She had protected her from every adolescent disaster she could, even forgiven Freya for ‘borrowing’ her favourite cocktail dress – which she had cut up for a fancy dress outfit.
She truly hoped Freya had found her soul mate. Jacob was a great guy – girls would ditch their grannies for a husband like him. When she had met Jacob, Rosie and Lauren had dragged out their personalised wish lists of essential criteria for potential dates and performed a meticulous comparison with Jacob’s plethora of assets: he’d scored favourably with both girls. He offered Freya a life she could only have dreamed of when she’d crawled home destitute from her extravagant exploits in the party capitals of Europe. Having expended every couch-surfing opportunity from the Atlantic to the Adriatic and squeezed every last ounce of enjoyment from her itinerant lifestyle, she’d been forced to return home to Connecticut.
Rosie would do anything to make life easier for Freya. She had endured more than her fair share of pain in her life and didn’t deserve to suffer further. And anyway, after her father, her little sister was all she had left of her family. But was she proud of what she had produced? Had she, and her father, over-protected her? Had they been complicit in preventing her from learning how to stand on her own two feet, how to deal with the grenades that life threw in her path?
‘Come on Dad. You go down to the garden to reassure Jacob and the rest of the congregation that Freya hasn’t run off with the best man and I’ll join Lauren in the search.’ She witnessed the look of horror gallop across her father’s tired features and regretted her flippancy. After all, Freya was a saint in her father’s eyes, not the flighty little madam Rosie had been covering for over the last ten years.
‘Joking, Dad.’ She rose from the bed and placed her hand on his shoulder whilst she stooped to drop a kiss on his cheek. ‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’
But still the butterflies played an active game of tennis in her stomach.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c9cdbbc5-9d21-5304-bec1-12c5a74143a2)
Jack and Rosie descended the impressive sweeping staircase to be met by a frantic Lauren, hopping from one foot to the other like a toddler in need of a visit to the bathroom.
‘No sign of her! It seems Little Miss Superior has melted into thin air, the selfish…’ Lauren flicked her eyes from Rosie to Jack and relented on her character assassination of the errant bride-to-be.
‘Don’t worry, Lauren. Will you escort Dad to the garden for me? Try and placate Jacob and the rest of the guests.’ Rosie checked her mother’s silver Tiffany watch – her most adored possession. ‘Technically the ceremony is not due to start for another thirty minutes so there’s nothing to panic about yet. I’m sure she’s just taking a quiet moment to prepare herself for the most important day of her life.’
Rosie heard the expulsion of air from Lauren’s lips and saw the smirk around her mouth. She swapped a grin with her friend. Freya adored being the centre of attention, had been milking every opportunity to loiter in the limelight. It was inconceivable that she would hide away for even a second. Rosie had been genuinely concerned that, despite her promises, her sister would be unable to resist a quick visit to Jacob’s suite in her bridal gown. Indeed, she suspected that was where she was now.
She shooshed Lauren and her father out of the French doors. Her eyes swept the congregation assembled on the lush, manicured lawn of Stonington Meadows Country Park Hotel, the venue Freya had dreamed of during her childhood forays into planning her perfect wedding celebrations. It had been an incredible surprise to Rosie when Freya had shunned Jacob’s offer to pay for their wedding to be held at the Plaza, but then, as Freya explained, everyone had their wedding there. To her right, in neat white picket chairs, every seat was occupied by Jacob’s extended family, friends and business connections. Their elegant attire, like the car park, oozed dollars. To her left sprawled a more eclectic gathering of those connected to the bride. Rosie spotted Arnie and Dot, her parents’ closest and dearest friends, along with a smattering of Stonington Beach friends invited to share his daughter’s special day.
She turned on her heels – a pair of five inch, ivory silk Louboutins that had cost almost a month’s salary but which she planned to mount in a glass case to appreciate as a true work of sculptural art after the wedding – and headed up the stairs to the bridal suite.
She knocked and when there was no reply, she pushed open the door. Gosh, her sister could bring chaos to an empty room! Her belongings were strewn on every available surface, she had even opened the drawers of the elegant, kidney-shaped dressing table to drape her discarded hosiery over. A quick sweep of her eyes told Rosie that Freya was not there.
Yet her wedding dress still hung in its plastic carrier on the front of the gaping wardrobe door. Where on earth was she? Wherever she was she must still be in the cream silk kimono Jacob had presented her with the previous evening, her hair in the huge Velcro rollers their hairdresser, Carl, had fussed over that morning.
Rosie dashed over to the window and peered down into the garden. Everyone was there now, and had taken up their positions ready for the imminent arrival of the bride. Even the minister, a local ginger-haired man with a comical comb-over who had christened both Rosie and Freya, was surreptitiously checking his fob watch.
‘Oh God! Trust Freya!’ muttered Rosie, her heart drumming at her ribcage and her breath quickening as panic began to swirl through her veins, depriving her lungs of essential oxygen. ‘The only thing she had to do was put on her bloody dress and turn up on time!’
Was that too much to ask? Yes, she guessed it was.
She sprinted out of the room and into the corridor, cursing as she wrenched her ankle running in her unfamiliar shoes. As she reached down to rub the pain away, a tinkle of laughter emanated from a door at the end of the corridor which Rosie had assumed was a linen closet next to the glass cube masquerading as an elevator.
She paused, straining her ears, and her heart softened. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Freya was most likely snatching a few moments before the craziness of the wedding with the guy who had swept her off her feet. They must have got carried away and forgotten the time. Freya always had operated on a different time zone to everyone else. She replaced her smarting foot on the floor and tiptoed towards the door. As she drew nearer, her hand hovering over the ornate brass door knob, a deep-throated groan floated to her ears.
Rosie froze. Why had level-headed, reliable Jacob agreed to bunk off from his duties of herding his relatives for a snatched sojourn of delight with his fiancée, thirty minutes before the ceremony? Oh God! And here she was about to blunder in without even knocking!
Her face glowed with embarrassment as she cracked open the door and pulled it towards her. She stood immobilised in the doorway, mesmerised by the glistening bronzed back and the hint of incongruously white orb buttocks. She opened her mouth to announce her presence but words refused to form in her scrambled mind or on her lips which were parting like a gobsmacked goldfish. She began to retrace her steps until her shoulder bumped into the door jamb forcing out a gasp of pain, not from the collision but from the dawning recognition of the owner of the muscled torso.
‘God, Sis, don’t you ever knock?’
The man coiling his arms around her sister’s body twisted his head towards the interruption and mirrored Rosie’s horrified expression.
‘Giles!’
Chapter Four (#ulink_6d644376-ed19-5e12-aaf7-b3657db54f2d)
She was told later that it was the engagement of the fight or flight reflex – a mechanism that primes the body to attack when under extreme threat or to run away. A harsh whooshing sound reverberated through her ears and the urge to evacuate the contents of her stomach became almost irresistible.
Rosie spun on her heels, ignoring the splice of pain in her injured ankle and her shattered heart, and shot back down the corridor towards the staircase. Perspiration prickled at her armpits and beneath her breasts yet her mouth was dry as she struggled to swallow the rising bile. A clamp closed around her heart, squeezing out the air from her lungs until she was forced to pause on the landing to catch her breath.
Breathe, breathe.
Perhaps that solitary yoga session that Lauren had dragged her to would have some benefit after all. No, she was definitely going to vomit if she remained still. A tsunami of dizziness threatened to subsume her in its depths and a small part of her brain urged her to relent and to sacrifice herself to the desire for unconsciousness.
Think calm, breathe in, breathe out.
With a gargantuan effort to hang onto her breakfast, she reached her suite, groped for the handle and pushed her way in. The cloying perfume of the stargazer lilies Freya had insisted adorned every available horizontal surface assaulted her nostrils and scattered her senses further. She swooned and slumped down onto the bed.
What was she going to do? She had orchestrated every aspect of the forthcoming nuptials, personally supervised every aspect with as much attention to detail as she applied to any work project, right down to the texture of the table linen and even the bride’s honeymoon lingerie. Every second that she had not spent nose-to-screen, swinging through the corporate jungle where money is king and its accumulation the only goal worth pursuing, she had spent scouring the cathedrals of bridal consumerism. The day would run like clockwork, or it should if only her miserable, self-centred sister could keep her eye on the ball and her crazy libido in check.
A cold tremor invaded her chest as the full realisation of the treachery of the man she had given her heart to dawned on her. Freya was about to get married! How could he?
But worse than that. Freya was her sister! She knew Giles was her date for the wedding. She also knew how much Rosie had been looking forward to spending the day on the arm of the most eligible man this side of the Hudson River. Did Freya have to steal everything she had, including her boyfriend? Unbidden, her thoughts flicked back to the last incident when Freya’s selfishness had swept her breath away and the scolding she had taken from Lauren about not standing up for her right to pursue her own dreams without Freya’s taking precedence.
. She had been heartbroken when she found her mother’s eternity ring missing from her antique silver jewellery box which she still kept on her dressing table in her childhood bedroom above Hamilton’s Hardware Store where she grew up. But she had been even more devastated when she discovered that not only had the ring been removed by Freya, she’d had it remodelled to her own tasteless specifications as her wedding ring.
Was this despicable, self-centred behaviour her fault, too? She’d really struggled to forgive Freya for her truly contemptible behaviour this time. Her sister had known how much that symbol of her parents’ happy marriage had meant to her, that she herself had planned to wear it when she eventually found someone to spend her life with, someone as dependable, honest and considerate as her father.
When she had disclosed Freya’s deplorable, insensitive actions to Lauren she had been clear in her diagnosis that if she didn’t get a grip on her doormat tendencies with her sister and put herself first for a change, she would be looking at her sanity in the rear view mirror. Her best friend was right.
Her body had begun to shake and sweat had caused the man-made fabric of the hideous bridesmaid dress to glue to her skin. A spasm of humiliation shot down her spine as the full realisation of Freya’s betrayal slapped her square in the face. How could she possibly endure this blissful day after the horrific scene she had just witnessed? She knew the image would remain imprinted on her mind’s eye like a photographer’s negative for the rest of her life. How could she smile as her little sister married her handsome ‘prince’ with this knowledge bouncing around her head? It should be an occasion to wholeheartedly rejoice in, for a multitude of reasons, and now it would be a nightmare of averted glances and false smiles. All that hard slog organising every last perfect detail had been spoilt.
And how could she look Jacob in those dark brooding eyes of his with honesty and integrity when she congratulated him on becoming attached to her sister? Surely her expression would give her away; performing arts had never been her forte.
Why did this have to happen, especially today, especially when she had only just learned of the demise of her beloved aunt? She had not even been able to start grieving for her, so anxious were they to protect Freya from any distress on her special day – the best day of her life! Freya had certainly excelled herself this time.
Enough was enough!
She made a decision, and if she failed to act upon it immediately she feared the injection of courage may seep from her bones and drain out from her tingling fingertips.
She shot up from the bed, grabbed her Burberry holdall and began stuffing in her clothes and toiletries. An avalanche of emotions crashed through her gut, but she refused to allow them to douse her determination. For once, just this once, Rosie Hamilton was going to do something for herself. Something she truly wanted, no, needed, to do to preserve not only her sanity, but her self-worth. How she could have contemplated otherwise horrified her.
She shoved the internal self-analysis into a dark crevice of her mind to be explored on a more auspicious occasion, zipped up her bag and sprinted down to the foyer. Thankfully the car park was at the rear of the hotel away from the white muslin and rose-bedecked gardens.
Just as she thought she had managed to make a clean getaway, a voice as rich as melted caramel called her name.
‘Rosie? Is that you?’
She tossed her holdall behind one of the foyer’s over-stuffed leather armchairs and turned to face Jacob, resplendent in his wedding tuxedo, carrying off the required pink cravat with aplomb. A faint hint of his wood-spice aftershave floated on the air. Rosie took in his rugged, handsome features, the way his mahogany eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran his fingers through his thick quiff of hair, the colour of liquid coal, a slight tremor belying his nerves. His broken nose only added to his attraction in Rosie’s opinion.
‘Oh, hi Jacob.’
‘Are you looking for Freya? I don’t think you’ll find my gorgeous bride-to-be in the car park!’ He smiled and his face lit with the joy of a man about to be made the luckiest person alive. ‘I wanted to assure you, Rosie, that I will do everything in my power to bring all the happiness in the state of New York to the gorgeous girl whom I will be fortunate enough to call my wife. Nothing will be too much trouble for my princess.’
Rosie’s stomach churned. Freya did not deserve such a decent man. But, despite the pain her sister had caused, despite the gut-wrenching agony her date had bestowed upon her, there was no doubt whatsoever what her response to Jacob would be.
‘I’ve just come from her room. She’s putting the final touches to her makeup and she’ll be down in five minutes. She doesn’t want you to see her before she makes her big entrance, so why don’t you wait for her in the garden. You could send Dad up, though? So he can escort her?’
‘Sure, Rosie. Erm, are you okay?’ Jacob rested his elegant fingers on her forearm and for the first time Rosie had to battle to prevent her tears from escaping their water-tight cage. ‘I know how hard you’ve worked to pull this wedding off. It’s a spectacular achievement, especially with your job being so full-on. Hey, if you are ever stuck for employment, there’s definitely a place for a women with your talents at my law firm.’
Rosie managed a watery smile and was relieved when Jacob turned and, as instructed, made his way back to the end of the red-carpeted aisle to await the imminent arrival of his bride.
As she made her way to her rental car, the heel of her stiletto imbedded in the gravel and she stumbled to the ground, for once grateful for the padding of her dress. She removed her shoes and tossed them into the back seat with her overnight bag. Her eyes caught on a waiter sneaking an illicit cigarette behind the lollipop bay tree on the stone front steps. Was he jeering at her naivety for believing she and Giles had an exclusive relationship? Was he laughing at her stupidity for falling for his smouldering charisma in the first place? He was her boss after all. All the agony columns warned against having a dalliance with your boss – it inevitably ended in tears, yours mainly. What had she been thinking?
She slammed the door of the little red roadster and revved the engine. She flung the wayward waiter her harshest glare, stepped on the accelerator and sped down the immaculate, tree-lined driveway of the Stonington Meadows Country Park Hotel, scattering the rose-coloured gravel in her wake like confetti.
She had chosen the ‘flight’ option. In more ways than one.
Chapter Five (#ulink_6ca874f6-2fda-5d97-9aaa-7301419f3a79)
Rosie drove as if her life depended on it. Living in New York meant she did not own her own car, but each time she rented one for the weekend to take a trip out to the beach or to visit her father, she relished the feel of the wind in her hair and the warm sunshine caressing her face through the windscreen. Today, however, she noticed none of these favourite things as she slung the steering wheel around the sharp bends in the road, the scene of Giles and Freya ensconced in a clinch amongst the starched and folded bed sheets and pillowcases replaying on a loop through her mind as though a broken film reel. But this was more in the horror movie genre than romantic comedy.
At last the tears had arrived, along with the rain, which hammered onto her windscreen and ran in rivulets down the driver’s side window like streamers flapping in the breeze. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind her inner safety guru warned her to slow down, that her emotional state and the driving conditions combined were a recipe for ending the day in a collision, or the hospital. So what? the devil on her shoulder argued.
But she knew she couldn’t visit a further tragedy on her father. She slowed her speed, pulled off the road at a break in the trees, and slumped – like a puppet clipped of its strings – over the steering wheel where she succumbed to huge, racking sobs and the darkness that enveloped her world. As though she’d pressed the replay button, the conversation she’d had with her Aunt Bernice’s English solicitor as she was about to join the Friday night exodus from Manhattan for the journey to Stonington Beach, spun through her mind.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Hamilton. Please accept my firm’s sincere condolences.’ There had been no stopping the lawyer’s relentless, careless words as they sliced down the telephone lines lacerating her heart. ‘The funeral is scheduled for next Wednesday, April twenty-fifth. Perhaps we could meet to read the will and discuss the legal and financial formalities pertaining to your aunt’s estate thereafter?’
Who used words like ‘thereafter’ nowadays? she’d thought as the image of an elderly gentleman, stooped over his desk, peering through his pince-nez floated through her mind. But he was still talking to her in that quaint formal language.
‘I can reassure you, Miss Hamilton, that Miss Marshall passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was discovered by her friend, Susan Moorfield.’
‘Thank you for letting me know. However, I’m unsure whether I or my father will be able to attend the funeral. Perhaps instead we could schedule a video conference for the reading of the will on Thursday, April twenty-sixth. Would that be convenient? Shall we say ten a.m., that would be three p.m. in the UK?’
‘Of course, Miss Hamilton, as you wish. Until then. Goodbye.’
The rain continued its onslaught, hammering down on the roof of the little red car like glass needles. Despite her aunt’s advanced age, the news had still come as a complete shock and a repeat of the spasm of pain the solicitor’s words had delivered ricocheted around her body. Lifting the tangle of golden curls from her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut to force back the rising tears and gain some control of her swirling emotions.
She realised she had been hugging the edge of sanity these last few weeks leading up to Freya’s wedding of the decade. Every tiny detail demanded perfection and Freya assumed she had nothing else better to do than deliver it. After all, it was what she had been doing since their mother had passed away. Never mind that Rosie already slaved eighteen-hour days at the corporate coalface, frequently pulling all-nighters when business demanded, or when a deal relied on the London or Tokyo Stock Exchange time zones. What Freya wanted, Freya got.
Her immediate reaction had been to call Freya, but she hadn’t. There was never a good time to hear of a family member’s death, and she couldn’t face breaking the news to her sister the night before her wedding. So it was her father she’d called. She’d prayed he would take over the responsibility of deciding when and how to break the sad news to his younger daughter, who had probably been collecting her wedding gown before making the trip out to Connecticut. She’d pictured her sister clad in ivory silk, raised high on the pedestal she’d occupied most of her life, this one at the dress designer’s studio.
‘Hello, darling. Is everything okay?’ Her father’s voice, always so calm and comforting to her ears, had boomed down the phone line. She’d braced herself before delivering the news of his sister-in-law’s passing.
‘So we’re agreed? We won’t mention any of this distressing news to Freya? I don’t think it’s wise to burden her with such sorrow the night before her wedding. There’s no telling how she will react.’
Rosie had quashed her immediate response that the news would scarcely indent her sister’s golden-hued, elephant-hide skin. Freya was unlikely to be too upset at the news of their Aunt Bernice’s death as she had met their mother’s elder sister only once since their mother’s funeral; Freya had expected Bernice to fall under her charms with a flick of her long platinum curls and a flash of her baby-blue eyes and sweet smile. But Bernice could not be won over so cheaply and she had chosen to favour the older, more serious of her sister’s children, much to Freya’s disgust. Bernice had been the only person Rosie knew who saw through Freya’s masquerade of innocence personified and who refused to indulge her every whim.
‘Okay, Dad. We’ll tell her after the wedding,’ Rosie had sighed.
Why hadn’t she been protected from the painful news of losing her aunt – the only person who had been there for her when her relationship with Carlos had ended in tears, lots of them, last summer? She had thought he was her soul mate until he’d found love, affection and the time commitment he wanted in the arms of a sweet Italian girl introduced to him by his mother, who was keen to spend some time with her grandchildren before it was too late. The experience had sworn her off relationships until Giles.
As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gulped in a lungful of calming breath, those heart-singeing words of the English lawyer looped around Rosie’s mind like a scratched record. To add to the turmoil of the day, a list of unanswered questions formed. Had Bernice died peacefully in her chair next to her ancient Aga? Had she had time to put her affairs in order? Say a final farewell to her friends? Despite not having married or had children, her aunt’s life had been peopled by a myriad of friends, neighbours and acquaintances. At least she had had the forethought to make a will.
It had stopped raining. The silence drew Rosie’s concentration back to the painful present. And she hadn’t thought it could get worse than the loss of her beloved aunt. What a fool she’d been.
Chapter Six (#ulink_2f44e902-7ffa-5745-94aa-daf3c9b15d58)
As she crawled along in traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge, the April evening sunshine glanced through the forest of vertiginous buildings and towering cranes of the Lower Manhattan skyline to her left, each yearning for pole position on the crowded horizon. But the iconic landmarks didn’t register on her radar as pain engulfed the crevices of her mind and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. As if Freya didn’t have everything already, she had to go one step further and take the only thing Rosie had that she didn’t.
Beneath the bridge, ferries and other leisure craft laden with weekenders inched along the East River, trailing cappuccino-like froth in their wake until they melted into the distance. Joggers darted by, plugged into their own world, ignorant of Rosie’s crumbling around her. Mothers and nannies with shining silver prams paraded proudly in the late afternoon sunshine, their precious cargo delivering another painful jolt to her heart.
She cleared the bridge. To her right, the network of shaded narrow streets teemed with workers and tourists alike; their gutters strewn not with leaves but with the detritus of human consumption – fast food cartons, aluminium drinks cans and that day’s printed news. Street signs swung in the mounting breeze, their rhythmic squeaks swallowed on the wind. Flags fluttered against a crystal sharp, turquoise canvas and the waft of ground coffee beans and freshly-baked bagels caused Rosie’s empty stomach to growl.
She steered a course for her apartment on the Upper West Side, dodging the throng of street artists, souvenir hawkers and food cart vendors spilling onto the road. As she screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with a speeding yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos. But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.
As she searched for the illusive Manhattan parking slot, a coil of remorse spread its tentacles through her anguish when she recalled the breach of her promise to pay her aunt a return visit. She had been unable to take time off from her punishing work schedule at Christmas and then she’d had the wedding of the century to arrange. Now she would never see her aunt’s kindly face, so reminiscent of her beloved mother’s, again.
But she could have the next best thing. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective. However, the opportunity was so tinged with sadness that she knew it could never be a repeat of her previous, soul-enhancing visit to her Aunt Bernice’s attractive cottage in Devon. Nor would the visit be coupled with her aunt’s astute observations on the machinations of the human psyche and the comfort of the role reversal, absolving Rosie from her caring obsession as substitute parent to Freya. Their mother’s absence had been felt most keenly today as the first of her daughters took their walk down the aisle.
She had always seen her aunt’s home, Thornleigh Lodge, as a refuge, a place she could run to whenever times were tough and threatened to strangle the life out of her. It was somewhere she could go to hide, to lick her wounds, to be loved in her own right with no strings attached. In a way, her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite.
Yes, it was exactly what she needed. But more than that, it was her responsibility to ensure that a member of the family attended the ceremony of thanksgiving and celebration of Bernice’s life. How could she have contemplated not going? What had her life become if she could not spare the time to fly to the UK and be at her funeral? And anyway, she really needed to get out of the country. To escape the inevitable tantrums (Freya’s), questions, (Lauren’s) and disbelief (her father’s). Giles no longer deserved her consideration.
This was her real life Bridget Jones moment and she intended to grab it!
In the first bit of luck that day – maybe even that year – she spotted a yellow BMW coupé pull away from the kerb only twenty yards from her apartment and she managed to wedge her car into it. Parallel parking had never been her forte. She traipsed back down the tree-lined street to her home’s familiar limestone and red-brick façade, blistered in places by the harsh breath of the Manhattan winters – yet, in Rosie’s opinion, the scarring only added to its beauty. Bruised clouds marched across the sky, tinted with the crimson and violet halo of dusk, bathing the rich amber brickwork in a kaleidoscope of colours. Rosie adored the unique character of their neighbourhood: the green splodges of the community gardens and roof terraces, the local, multi-cultural coffee shops and delis, and its proximity to Riverside Park and Central Park.
Feeling as though she had sustained a blow to her head, she trudged up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy oak entrance door leading into the foyer. As she clacked her way to the staircase up to her fourth floor apartment, she realised how much she loved the sound of her stilettos on the black-and-white tiled floor. The added height also gave her confidence a welcome boost; the vertiginous heels ensured she held her head high, shoulders erect and her back ram-rod straight – a stance with which she could usually face the world. It hadn’t worked its particular brand of magic that day though.
As she stabbed her key into the door, she paused to run her eyes over her ridiculous outfit. A sudden wave of anger grabbed her and her face flooded with heat. It was time for Rosie Hamilton to stand on her own two feet and take responsibility for fulfilling her destiny, whatever the director of fates had in store for her.
She dumped her Burberry bag on the counter in the galley kitchen and removed her prized Louboutins, massaging her ankle where the leather had dug into the skin. She extracted their dust-bag from the drawer in her sideboard and carefully slotted them into their protective cover like precious cargo. She wished she owned a cosy blanket in which she could seek protection from the scuffs and scrapes of the outside world.
There was just enough time to sling some essential items into her Gucci duffle bag, grab a few hours of sleep and drive out to JFK to catch the transatlantic flight over to London. She’d have to max out her credit card, but what the hell. She would take the train down to Devon, attend the funeral, make the meeting with her aunt’s solicitor for the reading of the will and once she’d sorted out Bernice’s affairs she would come home with a plan of her own. She had no idea what that would be. Could she continue to work at Harlow Fenton with Giles in her face every day, even with Lauren to protect her from his barbed comments? The agony columns were right – nothing good came of a dalliance with the boss.
The sooner she made a decision about her future, the less risk there was of her succumbing to her ostrich tendencies. Or of beginning her search for a reason that it was in fact her fault, that she was partly, if not fully, to blame for Giles’ indiscretion with her sister.
She ripped off her bridesmaid dress and crammed it unceremoniously into her hall closet with the other six. But the door wouldn’t shut and the gowns bulged out like stuffing from a rag doll. Rosie made a promise to herself that she would never, ever accept another request, or demand, to be a bridesmaid. For one thing, she just did not have the wardrobe space.
She scrabbled in her purse for her little white square of connectivity and depressed the ‘on’ button. The wedding ceremony would be over by now and she had to let her father, and Lauren, know she was okay – that she hadn’t dematerialised in a puff of smoke or been abducted by aliens. She glanced at the screen. Thirteen missed calls; three from Lauren, but the rest were from Freya. She sent a brief text informing Lauren and her father that she was on her way to England to attend Bernice’s funeral and would let them know when she had landed safely. Then she gulped in a steadying breath and dialled Freya’s number.
‘Hello, Freya.’
‘Why was your phone switched off? I’ve been trying to ring you for an explanation of your ridiculous vanishing act. Couldn’t you have waited until after the ceremony to fly off to England?’
‘So Dad has told you the sad news? I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?’ Rosie was astute enough to realise that her father would have put her shock disappearance and weird behaviour down to her grief over her aunt’s death and had shared the news with Freya to somehow explain her absence.
‘Very funny, Rosie. I need to talk to you about earlier.’
‘Yes, Freya, it was a huge shock. After all, she was only seventy-two. Relatively young really, nowadays.’
‘What are you talking about? I’m talking about you blundering in on me and Giles!’
‘Oh, yes, that.’ Rosie collapsed down onto her white leather sofa, the air suddenly whipped from her lungs. She shuddered in a breath and waited, fiddling distractedly with the earring in her left ear. She had no intention of making this easy for Freya.
‘Look, I know Giles was your date for the wedding, Rosie. But, well, it wasn’t serious between the two of you, was it? With him being your boss and all that? And he’s so handsome and charismatic, all that power at his fingertips. It was one last fling before the door’s slammed shut. You won’t tell Jacob, will you?’
This last plea was clearly the only concern on Freya’s mind – to save her own skin, blast the effect her actions might have on other people’s lives. Even the death of her aunt hadn’t registered on her sister’s emotional Richter scale.
Rosie decided to make her suffer, just a little. She deserved it, didn’t she?
‘Dad did tell you, didn’t he?’
‘Dad? Did you tell him? Oh, Rosie, no. You didn’t?’
Calm, calm, breathe, breathe, relax. She raised her eyes to stare out of the French window to the little wrought-iron bistro table she had managed to squeeze onto her tiny but prized balcony, for those early morning cappuccinos that had never materialised.
‘Hang on, Freya.’
‘What? What? Rosie?’
Rosie grabbed the brass handle to open the French doors and let the cool evening breeze snake into her living room. She inhaled the air laced with cinnamon and warm caramel from the bakery on the corner. It gave her the strength to continue with the conversation.
‘No, Freya,’ she continued, ‘about Aunt Bernice.’
‘Oh, yes, of course Dad told me. But I don’t see why you had to leave immediately?’
Rosie waited for Freya to express her sympathies for her beloved aunt’s demise. Whilst Freya had no relationship with Bernice, she knew Rosie had been close to her, that she’d spent a summer at her cottage the previous year, and their emails and old-fashioned written communications had fanned the flames of friendship ever since.
Nothing. Just like Giles when she had shared the news with him.
‘Well, are you, Rosie? Going to ditch me in it with Jacob? I’ve been so stressed about the wedding and now this uncertainty about your intentions has added to my anxiety. I can hardly concentrate on enjoying the best day of my life because of you!’
‘Because of me?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t get you on your cell phone. I’ve rang a hundred times. I need to know what you intend to do.’
Good grief, the gall of the girl! Her fault Freya couldn’t enjoy being the centre of attention? She doubted this assertion as Freya usually partied like a Rio showgirl. Her fault she had blundered in on a moment of forbidden lust before the door had slammed shut minutes before her wedding? Her fault she wasn’t available to reassure Freya of her silence in the matter, before Freya settled down to a glorious life with her handsome groom in his million dollar penthouse in Battery Park overlooking the Hudson Bay, Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty and the New Jersey shoreline beyond?
As she had practiced for years, Rosie crushed her rising indignation. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and gnawed on the skin inside her cheek which now threatened an ulcer.
‘I know you can’t come to the funeral, Freya. I’ve got a flight booked tomorrow from JFK. Don’t worry. I’ll sort out the paperwork with the English lawyer who contacted me yesterday to break the news. She died peacefully in her sleep, but she was alone.’
This last sentence had coiled around the labyrinths of Rosie’s mind since Mr Meadows had uttered it and, despite the slicing pain of all her discoveries in the last few hours, it was this fact which hurt her the most. For some inexplicable reason, her grief was mingled with guilt; that her aunt, who had guided her back to emotional health when Carlos had dumped her, had died without anyone to hold her hand.
‘Look, Rosie. Aunt Bernice was ancient. For whatever reason, she never married nor had children. She only knew you until you were eight when Mum and Dad left Devon to come to Connecticut. If you choose that way of life something like that is bound to happen. She should have settled for any random guy and she wouldn’t have had to die alone!’
‘Is that what you’re doing, Freya?’
‘What?’
‘Settling for some random guy so you’re not alone?’
‘No way! I love Jacob.’
A snort of derision escaped from Rosie’s lips before she could stop it.
‘Look, Rosie, Giles was just a panic encounter – the last before I have to hide myself away from all of life’s temptations.’
For goodness’ sake, thought Rosie, as an anvil-heavy weight thumped against her chest. It had meant nothing to Freya, those five minutes of pleasure. Unbeknown to her, she had destroyed Rosie’s dream of a new relationship – if it could be described as such as – and then discarded it with a flick of her platinum curls and a flash of her sapphire eyes. She and Giles were one of a kind – both of whom she’d willingly welcomed into her heart.
How unlucky was she?
But whilst she could wipe Giles from her life due to lack of merit, she was unable to do the same with her only sister. She couldn’t allow this nightmare to sow the seeds of bitterness in the hearts of those she loved.
‘No, Freya, I won’t tell Jacob. But I have to tell you how shocked I was at your behaviour. I thought, hoped, that all your crazy, wild exploits were behind you when you accepted Jacob’s proposal. He’s a decent guy, you know, and he adores you. He deserves your loyalty.’
‘I promise you I will work hard at being the best wife I can be for Jacob.’ Freya paused, and for the first time in a long time Rosie heard a serious tone creep into her sister’s voice. ‘Romantic love is not all it’s cracked up to be, Rosie. You should find someone who will provide for you, too. Don’t tell me that’s not better than slogging your life away in that sweatshop of an office.’
Sorrow tinged Rosie’s heart at the possibility Freya had settled for less than a burning-hot passion for her handsome husband. She wished with all her heart that today she could have fully rejoiced in the vicarious happiness of her sister’s wedding day. Her head considered Freya’s proposition as a possible alternative to her loneliness, but her heart screamed traitor.
‘Are you telling me that you don’t love Jacob with all your heart and soul?’
Freya was listening but the words clearly didn’t penetrate into her brain. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony, Rosie, it’s such a shame you missed it. I know you said ivory roses and peonies are classy and sophisticated, but I still wish you had gone for something a little more show-stopping like I wanted.’
‘Goodbye, Freya. Send my love to Dad.’
Rosie stood on her balcony hugging her mug of camomile tea – the balm of choice for all scenarios in apartment 4B. The tea tasted like cat’s pee to Rosie, but its warmth and sweetness achieved the intended goal. She mused about where her excessive caring gene had originated. Her sister, her father, her college friends and work colleagues all held a spot on her long list, but where had such compassionate interest led her? Was she responsible for spoiling Freya; had she had a hand in moulding her self-focused behaviour?
Rosie felt a failure on all levels. Self-interest, single-minded ambition and determination led to arrogance and pride. She only had to look at Giles to know this was true. Those characteristics might be bad, but they provided the impetus and tenacity to strive for the fulfilment of your dreams – the accomplishment of which delivered a happy life.
Should she strive to achieve her own dreams now? Seek a relationship with a random passing stranger as Freya had advised, just so she wouldn’t die alone like her aunt? She caught her breath and shook these thoughts from her mind. God, no! That depressing scenario would not be her future.
As evening swept its cloak over New York City, Rosie’s pain passed into exhaustion. In her pristine bedroom, a necessary sanctuary from the chaos and clutter preferred by Freya as they had been growing up, she leaned against her silk cushions and scrolled through her cell phone messages. Five missed calls from Lauren now. Not one from Giles. She jabbed the ‘off’ button and wished she could repeat the action with her life – evaporate from this agonising world she had tumbled into. When would she be granted leave from the trauma constantly inflicted on her weary soul?
As her internal dialogue chattered with irrelevant, circular arguments, and fear cast a shadow over her aching heart, fatigue delivered her into the welcome oblivion of sleep.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_fcf6023d-563e-5d93-836a-27212f2243c3)
Rosie woke in the early hours, fully clothed. A burnt orange mohair throw prickled at her chin. Her body was still exhausted from her unconscious exploits; of seeking to find a way out of the labyrinth of sadness and self-recrimination for what life had thrown at her. The bejewelled clock on the lamp table, a birthday gift from Lauren, ticked each painful second by, delivering with each one a slash of pain as she came to realise Giles and Freya’s betrayal had not been a dream after all. The question was: would she allow the resulting shock and bitterness to poison her soul?
As a shaft of moonlight glanced through the drifting clouds, she dragged her aching bones to the tiny galley kitchen. She brewed up a pot of her favoured Lady Grey using fresh tea leaves, her actions measured and mechanical. She welcomed the scalding of the fragrant liquid on her tongue as evidence she was still able to feel physical pain and therefore still alive. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the French windows – a gaunt, transparent doll engulfed by the velvet darkness. Her eyes fell down the sheer drop to the sidewalk below, high enough to ensure certain death if she were that way inclined. Would the descent be a smooth journey to oblivion or too swift to register?
She clasped the spreading warmth from the china mug, saddened that the birth of a new day had not brought the solace she so desired. The cool light of dawn began to spread its insistent fingers through the south-facing window and the black, wrought-iron frame of the balcony glistened with morning dew. She allowed her weary mind to meander the streets of Manhattan, those she and Giles had sauntered together over the last three months: the snaking paths of Central Park as the stark, spindly branches awakened with spring buds; the urban grids of Lower Manhattan explored in the slicing rain in search of a stolen moment from the frenetic activity of the office for which she now endured the inevitable punishment.
She forced her thoughts to linger on her relationship with Giles. Her chest tingled with an unidentifiable emotion. Their liaison had perhaps been inevitable. As she spent most of her waking hours either at the office or networking at client dinners, conferences or launches, no other potential date had crossed her radar.
She smiled as she recalled their first night together after a conference in Boston, both too drunk and too exhausted to do anything beyond kiss and pass out. She knew Giles was unpopular in the office; his defensiveness of his higher status scratched the egos of those striving to catch him or replace him, but she had glimpsed his softer side. And no one could fail to be drawn to his charismatic charm, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, your conversation the most sparkling he had ever heard. Not to mention his dark, brooding, sexy good looks and come-to-bed eyes.
Rosie realised their relationship had been born of convenience; a snatched hour after work here, a grabbed weekend there. She loathed herself and her emotional weakness for craving the brief episodes of solace he offered in her solitary life. But mostly her conscience was gnawed by the acid of guilt because he was her boss and office romances featured as a forbidden transgression in the Office Manual. She’d been unsuccessful in keeping their relationship a secret from eagle-eyed Lauren, who had cautioned her against its continuance. She was grateful for a confidante with whom to share her woes, but Lauren had refused to let her ignore the inadvisability of such a slip in her usually level-headed judgement.
Giles was not only resented as the current possessor of the power to have the final say on his team’s promotion prospects, but for his tendency to grab every ounce of credit where credit most certainly was not due. His mediocrity of talent required the skilful manipulation of that possessed by others. Accuracy and honesty were superfluous in this regard. It was this renowned corporate trait possessed by Giles which alarmed her the most. She had been adamant she would not hand over her Baker-Colt Family Trust file for him to complete a share purchase the following week. She knew Giles would grasp the opportunity to milk all the credit for her hard work.
Annoyingly, now she intended to fly to the UK for her aunt’s funeral, Giles would get his way after all – but there was no alternative. Monday was the deadline for their purchase. She had been excited and grateful to at last be sufficiently trusted to handle a transaction based solely on her own thorough research and advice. This portfolio investment was for a wealthy family’s trust fund set up in the name of their deceased daughter, Charlotte Baker, and Rosie had been meticulous in her preparation and planning.
She shook her head to clear her scattered thoughts and forced herself into the shower before calling a taxi to take her to the airport and the long flight to Heathrow. Her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective.
Rosie prayed that now Freya had curtailed her frequent jaunts to the party hot spots of Europe and was settling down to married life with Jacob, she could at last relinquish the presumed-temporary caring role. She hoped she had performed her last familial duty. Her sister’s wedding had been the first of the last seven she’d actually had a date. Daniel, one of her gay friends, had offered his services as wingman, but she feared an outburst of British honesty similar to the last time he’d met her sister and casually enquired of her what personal qualities had first attracted her to the multimillionaire, Jacob Bennett, Jr. She had politely refused his kind offer to be her plus-one.
Of course, this had meant admitting that Giles had stepped up to accompany her – something Giles had wanted to keep secret as dating between colleagues at Harlow Fenton was frowned upon. She’d been happy to oblige; it kept things simple, and she would most likely be the one to take any flack about work place dating.
Once the happy couple were safely dispatched on their honeymoon to Hawaii, Rosie had intended to ratchet up her work rate at the office, but now she had no idea what she was going to do. After she had attended the funeral, met with the English solicitor and sorted her aunt’s legal affairs, could she really see herself back at her desk by the following Friday morning?
Chapter Eight (#ulink_7c739c92-f4fa-5ec0-98d3-3bdb817bed6f)
As tiny Devonshire hamlets and the rolling hills of Exmoor National Park flashed by the taxi’s window, and the low orb of the sun rose above the horizon, the diaphanous light of dawn skimmed its silvery fingers over thatched rooftops. Mist draped its veil over the fields and dew sparkled on emerging leaves, as Rosie’s exhausted brain meandered the labyrinths of memory to alight upon the time she had spent with her aunt the previous year – repairing her broken heart and expanding her soul.
The abiding image from those recollections was of Thornleigh Lodge, its scarlet front door bedecked with a garland of ivory roses and its garden swathed in vibrant fuchsias and violet cat-faced pansies. The whole bucolic scene had been presided over by a majestic cherry tree under whose canopy of blossoms she and Bernice had lingered, reading, sketching, painting, talking, the latter activity being the balm and then the cure for her broken heart.
She had assured Bernice that she intended to continue these quiet pursuits which had generated such a sensation of calm when she returned to Manhattan, but of course she hadn’t. Nor had she undertaken the promised return visit to the UK, a failure which once again produced a squirm of discomfort in her abdomen.
As they entered Bernice’s home village of Brampton, a flash of familiarity hit Rosie. She couldn’t prevent a curl appearing at the corners of her lips when she noticed the proclamation above the Brampton village road sign proudly announcing ‘Winner of Britain in Bloom Contest’. She experienced that illusive feeling of coming home, which she never experienced when she returned to the neighbourhood of her apartment in Manhattan.
The taxi followed the road, running like a ribbon through the pretty English village, past the shop and adjacent tearooms – opened early that morning for the residents to collect their daily news. As Thornleigh Lodge came into view, Rosie’s smile of anticipation drained from her lips.
She had expected to see the neat chocolate-box cottage crowned with a thatched roof, white, sweet-smelling roses arched like a moustache over its front porch, and with neatly manicured front lawns divided by a pressed-shingle footpath, its nets floating at the windows. But instead the lodge bore a careworn mantle of neglect and melancholy.
She paid the silent taxi driver an exorbitant amount of money and dragged her wheelie suitcase to the picket gate, where she paused. Under the glow of the now-risen sun, the front garden was a riot of vivid colours and tangled grasses. The gravel path leading to the front door sprouted weeds like nasal hair and overgrown ferns fanned their frothy fingers across the sash windows.
Rosie forced the reluctant wheels to the formerly scarlet door, its smooth paintwork now blistered like sunburnt skin. Overgrown, dew-soaked carnations slashed at her naked shins, and the heels of her stilettos sunk deep into the path’s tiny pebbles. She scrabbled around under the geranium-filled terracotta pots where she knew she would find Bernice’s front door key. Did her aunt really think an intruder wouldn’t possess the brains to look there?
She smiled at the stark contrast between this pretty, albeit dilapidated cottage and the inhabitants of the rural Devonshire village, with her own tiny Manhattan apartment and her community neighbours. Every person living in Brampton had a working knowledge of their neighbour’s recent history and current daily life, thus imbuing the resident with a feeling of belonging, rather than the lack of privacy such intrusions would be labelled in her apartment block where she had met only one of her eight fellow tenants.
Yet, despite this communal kinship, Rosie had been relieved to return to the high octane, disinterested environment of New York after a month’s immersion in all things rural, and she would be repeating the escape this time as soon as formalities allowed.
It was Monday morning. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday and her appointment at Richmond Morton Solicitors was on Thursday for the reading of her aunt’s will and the signing of the paperwork, after which she intended to scoot straight back to Heathrow for her Friday morning flight.
As she inserted the ancient Yale key into the lock, she felt the slithers of regret worming their way into her conscience. Just because Giles had cheated on her in the worst way possible, did that mean she should consider resigning? Why should she suffer for his despicable actions? Maybe she was being too hasty in her reactions to his treachery.
Rosie shouldered the reticent front door, a mound of mail slowing her entry. The cottage smelled of lingering dust and sadness but held a top note of dried lavender, a favourite of Bernice’s – almost her signature scent. The reminder brought tears to Rosie’s eyes.
On her last visit, the lodge had throbbed with a vibrant welcome, the warmth from the stove enveloping her grief at the loss of Carlos and squeezing it from her soul, replacing the pain with acceptance, and then peace. Today, its inherent life had drained away. A gloomy hallway led to a dank kitchen, draping Rosie with a shroud of loneliness and reproach. The cream Aga stood silent and stern. She shivered, goose-bumps prickling her body.
She dumped her Gucci duffle bag on the scarred pine table – the designer bag such an incongruous accessory in Bernice’s farmhouse-style kitchen. Her cell phone tumbled from the bag onto the floor and as she bent to retrieve it, it burst into song.
She checked the caller ID and a bolt of pain so strong it whipped her breath away shot from her heart down to her fingertips.
It was Giles.
She checked her silver watch. New York was five hours behind Devon so that would make it just after seven a.m. He would be at Harlow Fenton, lounging behind his desk in his favourite Armani suit artfully cast open to reveal a tantalising glimpse of purple silk lining, his shirt cuffs turned back to display a pair of his many quirky cufflinks. She could almost sense the smirk on his face as he waited for her to answer his command to speak to him.
That’s it! Never again did she intend to endure his casual, back-handed criticism of her abilities. She gritted her teeth, took a deep breath and swiped the answer button.
‘Giles, what a pleasant surprise.’ Even the most rhinoceros-skinned person couldn’t fail to recognise the heavy sarcasm that laced Rosie’s greeting.
An uneasy laugh spluttered down the phone line.
‘Hello, Rosie. We were just wanting to confirm that you are over in the UK to attend your aunt’s funeral and checking on your return date. Let me just say that I’m in the boardroom on speaker phone. I have CEO George Harlow with me, as well as Lauren, Toby and Brad Carlington.’
‘Perfect!’ Clearly Giles had gathered a group of colleagues around him, believing that she would never take him to task for his abhorrent behaviour in front of them. He was right, of course. But that was before he’d cheated on her with her sister. In fact, she felt even more inclined to speak her mind in front of an audience to ensure she did not retract what she was about to do. Lauren already knew what he had done of course, but only via a text, she didn’t have the details.
‘Rosie, I know how you must be feeling, how close you were to your aunt…’
‘Giles, I resign.’ Wow, how liberating it was to say those words. The concrete block that had taken up residence in her chest since the afternoon of the wedding shifted a little. ‘Yes, I resign.’
‘Ah, come on, Rosie. I know you may be a little put out about the… well, the situation we find ourselves in, but you don’t have to resign ! We value your involvement at Harlow Fenton…’
‘Actually, I do. I do have to resign. With immediate effect.’
‘Well, I’ll need to check your contractual obligations with HR. I may be wrong, but I believe you are required to give the firm six months’ notice of your wish to terminate your employment.’ Rosie could hear the officious tone that had crept into his voice. Why hadn’t she noticed his tendency to petulance before?
‘Really, Giles? Is that so? I have a contractual obligation? Is that the same as an obligation owed by a boyfriend to his girlfriend not to cheat on her with her sister ?’ She realised too late that instead of taking the moral high ground as she had intended, her voice had escalated an octave to shriek mode in place of the dulcet, sarcastic tone she was aiming for.
‘Ha, ha, Rosie. I do love your sense of humour. Maybe what we have here is a case of mistaken identity…’ She could almost hear the beads of perspiration bulge from his salon-steamed pores.
‘No, Giles. I’d recognised those pallid buttocks anywhere, even when they are concealed in the linen closet of the most expensive hotel Stonington Beach has to offer its residents. I’m resigning so that I don’t have to set eyes on your bouffant, lacquered locks, your plucked and tinted eyebrows and chemically enhanced lips ever again.’
‘Come on, Rosie. Don’t make this personal. There are great prospects for you at Harlow Fenton. I thought you dreamed of being VP one day?’
‘I doubt that will happen, Giles, whilst you continue to steal the credit for every high-profile deal you can get away with. It’s only because of our “involvement” that I’ve let that particular treachery slide, against my better judgement.’
‘Now, Rosie, I must protest…’
‘You want details? I can give you details.’
‘There’s no need. Perhaps we can discuss this in a civilised and professional manner when you return to the US and your senses. Clearly your aunt’s death had affected your behaviour more than we anticipated. It’s understandable. But this is your career we are talking about here…’
‘I resign, Giles. I’d rather get a job scrubbing toilets than continue to work under your management.’
To her amazement she heard a smattering of applause in the background and knew it was either Lauren, or more likely Toby, who had been unable to resist the urge to celebrate her moment of revenge, or was it madness? Had she really thought this through? What on earth was she going to do without an income? Wasn’t Manhattan the most expensive city in the world to rent an apartment? And how could she throw away everything she had been working towards since she left college? All those late night scrambles to close an investment deal to make their wealthy clients more money than they could spend in one lifetime? Was that all for nothing?
A curl of self-doubt tickled at her abdomen as a crystal clear image of her mother’s gentle face floated into her mind, swiftly chased by a rendition of her father’s mantra which he had repeated often since they had laid her mother to rest. ‘Pursue your dreams as hard as you can, but don’t forget to pause and smell the flowers you were named after! ’
She returned her cell phone to her bag but knew she would be retrieving it again shortly to take Lauren’s flabbergasted call. She was amazed to find the crushing weight that had taken up residence in her chest since the wedding had not just shifted, but melted away.
As she set the ancient kettle to boil and searched for a packet of the loose tea her Aunt Bernice favoured, she contemplated her now-former workplace. She envisaged the stony faces of Giles and the other two senior VPs at the boardroom table in that temple of insatiable greed which preached any problem could be solved by throwing enough money at it, so why not take the risk? She knew that those who shied away from the excessive risk-taking were destined to wallow in the lower echelons of the company hierarchy and became mindless paper-shifters, indoctrinated in the culture that screamed money was king and its accumulation the only goal worth pursuing.
Young associates at Harlow Fenton existed on frequent injections of caffeine which disguised the lack of restorative sleep and the ever-tightening tentacles of the stress they all constantly fought against. They were obliged to accept these tortuous conditions as a rite of passage; they, like their predecessors, had to pay their dues. There was no slackening of expectations even when those who had endured the gruelling journey had reached the top and were in a position to make changes. More was always better in the corporate culture of excess – more hours, more money, more clients, more deals, which often translated into more booze, more food, more sex, more emotional crutches.
Chained to their computer monitors, blinkered to the outside world in their corporate cocoons, where nothing worth knowing happened anyway, their only companions were stale, stained coffee cups and gut-wrenching fear. Every waking hour was spent nose-to-screen until they succumbed to their chosen poison or expired. Then they’d be wheeled out, without a word of thanks, and a fresh-faced business school graduate would be slotted seamlessly into the vacated booth to continue the relentless cycle, their naivety exposed when they swore they could tame the corporate tigers lurking in the financial jungle.
Her only regret was that her resignation had left Lauren alone to continue the fight against the ‘male, pale and stale’ culture that was so prevalent on the Harlow Fenton board. In order to survive an executive needed to focus firmly on their intended escape route for when the pressure became unsustainable, and Rosie knew Lauren’s was motherhood. Lauren and Brett had been trying for a child for well over a year now, the failure of which, in itself, piled on more pressure. The couple were engaged in a constant, low-key battle about the excessive hours Lauren spent under the cosh of Harlow Fenton. Brett had now expanded his arguments to include the submission that the constant stress and anxiety of the continual deadlines were playing a significant role in their inability to conceive and the reason they had to resort to expensive IVF. They had their first round of treatment scheduled for the end of the week and, with another painful jolt to her stomach, Rosie realised she wouldn’t be around to support Lauren. What a truly useless friend she’d turned out to be.
Now that she had tossed away everything she had worked towards since she left college nearly ten years ago, all she had to figure out was what she was going to do with the rest of her life when she returned to New York after her aunt’s funeral. She knew finding a soul mate was a non-starter – she had no intention of subjecting herself to that minefield again. Every foray she’d made into the field had blown up in her face. There were only so many hints that she was not ‘girlfriend material’ that she could ignore. Whatever her character flaws were, she harboured no masochistic tendencies.
Her cell phone buzzed into life, as she knew it would, and a smile played at her lips. Lauren.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_717aeded-7dda-58ad-a378-280c7c117dea)
‘Oh my God! What did you just do?’ Lauren’s voice was surrounded by a faint echo and Rosie knew her friend was crouched in the only sanctuary available at Harlow Fenton – the ladies’ restroom.
‘I know, I know. It’s only just beginning to sink in.’
‘But why? I tried to call you after I got your text about Giles and Freya, and I totally understand why you ran away,’ Lauren’s voice squeaked in outrage. She had never been a paid-up member of Freya’s fan club. ‘I didn’t think even Freya could be so vile! On her wedding day! Although to be honest, it’s completely within the scope of Giles’ questionable capabilities. But do you have to resign? Have you really thought this through?’
‘Yes, I do, and yes I have. Clearly Giles held me in so little esteem that he betrayed me with my sister !’
‘She’s livid, by the way. All the gossip about your mysterious disappearance meant she was no longer the centre of attention. She thinks you did it on purpose to spoil her big celebration; that you are jealous she’s found her soul mate and you haven’t and couldn’t bear to watch.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, that’s just typical of Freya. Has she conveniently forgotten that since Mum died she’s been my number one priority! I’ve done everything for her! Everything revolves around her and her happiness! Everything! And if I’m ever lucky enough to have something she doesn’t, she will stop at nothing until she takes it from me!’
‘I’m so sorry Rosie. How are you feeling?’
‘How should I be feeling? I go in search of the blushing bride so that I can deliver her to her handsome, successful, billionaire bridegroom, and where do I find her? In the linen cupboard in a compromising position with my boyfriend –- the faithless scumbag that is Giles Phillips.’
‘Oh, Rosie, I’m so sorry you had to find out about him like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if this is the right time to tell you this, but you already know Giles has a reputation for dating a long string of women yet eschewing commitment like it’s the bubonic plague. I’m so sorry, Rosie, but I just found out after your call that Giles is in a relationship with CEO’s daughter! Has been for the last six months, but she’s been out of the country on an internship at a bank in Paris for the last three. She’s due back next week and George Harlow is apoplectic.’
Rosie’s knees wobbled, her chest heaved with each ragged breath and her eyes smarted from the shock. She crumpled onto her aunt’s chintz-covered sofa and waited until the waves of pain subsided. The CEO’s daughter? How could he treat her with such flippant contempt? A stop-gap until his girlfriend returned from her European secondment. It wasn’t so much that she’s scraped the bottom of the barrel with her choice of boyfriend but that she’d chiselled through to woodworm below!
She fiddled with the pearl earring at her lobe as she forced herself to replay the distressing closet scene in her mind’s eye.
‘I suppose it wasn’t as if Freya was doing this to me on purpose…’ she said to reassure herself, rather than the spluttering, indignant Lauren.
‘No, Rosie, stop this. Listen to yourself. Marshalling your arguments like a criminal defence lawyer, making excuses for her again. She knew Giles was your date. And Giles knew she was your sister, about to get married! They deserve each other – both of them are cheating idiots!’
Before Lauren had met Brett, and long before Rosie had fallen into her relationship with Giles, they had spent many an alcohol-infused night holed up in her apartment concocting a list of criteria for their prospective Mr Rights. Faithfulness and loyalty were the top essential attributes on both girls’ lists, qualities that brooked no amendment. But it seemed those characteristics were in short supply and they’d had to settle for the indulgence of some girly TLC – that trio of oestrogen solace – tea, Louboutins and chocolate.
‘Giles is a loser! Not satisfied with cheating on his girlfriend, he pursues anything that moves.’ Lauren, in her outrage, was unaware of the hurtful insinuation her comment held. ‘What’s up with men like that?’
‘Well, Toby did have a number of theories…’
‘I’m so sorry, Rosie, but you deserve better than Giles’ leftovers.’ Lauren’s hostility towards their boss glided across miles down the phone line. ‘He’s a player and a cheat who squeezes us all until the pips squeak. Giles is a scumbag, Rosie.’
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