by Anne Weale
‘Thank you. It’s beautiful,’ said Liz. ‘But I still want to keep the beads. They were your first present to me. We might at least go through the motions of being a normal couple, don’t you think?’ She went to look in the basket, which was empty apart from the Spanish bracelet. ‘I’ll put this in my room.’
As she walked away from him, the doorbell rang.
She disliked his mother on sight, and she thought it was probably mutual. Mrs Nightingale, as she was now, was a tall woman with a discontented mouth and critical eyes.
‘We have been most curious to meet you,’ she said, as they shook hands after Cam had introduced them. ‘Cameron has eluded matrimony for so long, we thought he would never settle down. I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for. Journalists make even worse husbands than diplomats. You will never enjoy any sense of permanence.’
To her own surprise, Liz found herself smiling. ‘But I shall never be bored which I think is much more important,’ she said cheerfully.
Mr Fielding was more tactful than his former wife. He congratulated his son and was complimentary to Liz but, again, she could see hardly any family resemblance except that he too was tall. Clearly most of Cam’s genes had skipped a generation and came from his grandparents.
When, later, they sat down to dinner, she realised his seating plan was carefully thought out. He had placed his parents at opposite ends of the table with their new partners beside them. He and Liz sat opposite each other in the centre of the table, she flanked by two of his brothers-in-law and he by two of his sisters, with his third sister next to their mother and a brother-in-law next to his father. So Liz was two places removed from her formidable mother-in-law and within easy speaking distance of Miranda, the sister closest to him in age and temperament.
Even so, the feeling of being scrutinised by so many strangers made it a stressful occasion. And although Cam gave a masterly imitation of a man who has found the perfect woman for him, he could not deceive her.
It was long past midnight before Miranda and her husband were the last to leave.
‘I expect you are thankful that’s over,’ said Cam, when he came back from seeing them into their taxi, as he had with all his departing guests.
‘Not at all. They were charming to me,’ she said, not entirely truthfully, ‘and the dinner was delicious.’
‘Yes, the food was excellent,’ he agreed. ‘Now I think we had better turn in. Tomorrow it’s my turn for ordeal-by-in-law. Off you go. I’ll put the lights out.’ He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and then moved away to start switching off the room’s many linen-shaded lamps.
When she was in bed, Liz tried to continue reading the second-hand book she had bought for the journey. But the story failed to stop her doing a mental postmortem on the evening, and then thinking about Cam and the reasons why they were sleeping apart in a world where other people hopped into bed together within hours of meeting.
She wondered what would happen if she went to his room and told him she couldn’t sleep. But she knew she didn’t have the courage to do that, much as she longed to end the suspense of waiting for their wedding night.
In his bedroom, Cam, who hadn’t worn pyjamas since he left school, was sitting up in bed with the duvet drawn up to his waist and his laptop resting on his thighs.
He was reading an article in a bi-monthly magazine whose print edition was distributed to more than thirty thousand senior business executives in the US. The purpose of the publication was to explore business methods in a world transformed by technology, and to suggest ways to profit from the new business landscape.
The magazine’s website was one he visited regularly, but tonight it failed to hold his attention and he soon moved on to another of his sources of information. He was reading a piece about the so-called gender wars when he came to a sentence relating to women and fundamental values of twenty-first-century western society.
‘If you live in a distillery, maybe non-alcoholic lager is an exciting and refreshing sensation,’ the columnist, a man, had written.
The analogy reminded Cam of some thoughts he had had a few days ago about why Liz appealed to him and why, when he wasn’t actually fighting down arousal, he was glad that she didn’t have a long line of lovers in her past or the brash sexual confidence that characterised many of today’s women.
It was typical of her that she had retrieved the cheap bracelet from the wastepaper basket and insisted on keeping it, and equally typical that she had chosen to wear it tonight despite its unsuitability with her expensive dress.
‘We might at least go through the motions of being a normal couple, don’t you think?’
There had been a sparkle of anger in her eyes that had made him want to grab her and kiss the daylights out of her. But with his family due to show up at any second, it hadn’t been the moment to wreck her lipstick and give himself a hard-on.
Even thinking about holding her could do that to him. She was like the mysterious and exciting parcels his grandparents had put under the tree when he spent Christmas with them; parcels he could hardly wait to unwrap. But none of them had contained anything he wanted as much as he wanted Liz.
The only fly in the ointment was that for her it was going to be a second wedding and a second honeymoon. Inevitably, everything was going to remind her of the first time and the husband she had loved with all her heart and probably still did. ‘Sleep well?’ Cam asked, rising, when Liz went to the kitchen and found him having breakfast.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she lied. ‘Did you?’
‘Always do. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please…but there’s no need for you to disturb yourself. I can deal with it. I’m sorry I overslept. You should have banged on my door.’
‘I thought a lie-in would do you good. How about some scrambled eggs? They’re my speciality.’
‘Can I try them another time? As we’re going out to lunch, toast and marmalade will be enough for me.’
Sharing a breakfast table with Cam for the first time, she remembered the hundreds of breakfasts she had cooked for Duncan who had eaten them in silence, reading a tabloid newspaper popular with Middle England. They had never talked much at meals. They had never talked much, period, she thought regretfully.
Cam kept up an easy flow of conversation about the news and feature stories he had read in the online editions of the broadsheets before he got up. He had printed out an obituary notice of a famous embroiderer that he thought would interest her.
‘That was kind of you,’ she said, as he handed the stapled pages to her.
‘My pleasure.’
Even at this early hour, his smile activated butterflies in her stomach.
It wasn’t until they were ready to leave for the suburbs that she discovered he had brought with him from Spain two expensive presentation boxes of turrón, the sugary confection made at Jijona, in the province where they lived, and eaten at all times of year but especially at Christmas.
‘You told me your mother and aunt both had a sweet tooth,’ he reminded her.
‘But I didn’t expect you to remember it.’
‘I want them to warm to me. I ordered some flowers as well. The hall porter has them. We’ll pick them up on our way down to the garage.’
Liz hadn’t realised the block had an underground garage and Cam kept a car in it. She had assumed that in London he used taxis or chauffeur-driven cars like the one that had met them yesterday.
When she said as much, he said, ‘Did you think I never went into the country…never stayed with friends in other parts of England?’
‘I suppose I thought you were almost always abroad.’
‘I was…but there were gaps when I managed to get to the weddings and christenings of friends who took to matrimony and domesticity long before I did. I should be a godfather many times over if my views hadn’t disqualified me.’
Liz knew that it was a flaw in her character to be embarrassed by the kitsch ornaments her fat
her had bought for her parents’ garden, and the style of the net curtains her mother had chosen for the bungalow’s two bay windows. Even the ornamental name plate hanging on chains from the roof of the porch, and the name itself, made her uncomfortable. She despised herself for the feeling, but she couldn’t help it.
He had scarcely parked the car before the front door opened and her mother and aunt surged down the path to meet them, a mixture of excitement and shyness visible in their faces.
The lunch, at a hotel, a few miles away, that Cam had organised by e-mail was more relaxed and enjoyable than Liz would have believed possible. It made her realise what an extraordinary gift he had for getting on with people and drawing them out.
It was in the middle of the main course, when apéritifs in the bar and white wine with the potted shrimps starter had already brought a flush to the two ladies’ powdered cheeks, that he said, ‘Mrs Bailey…or may I call you Maureen and Sue?’—with a smiling glance at her sister.
‘Of course you can, dear.’ As the endearment slipped out, Mrs Bailey looked uncertain for a second, then laughed and patted his hand which was resting on the table. ‘It won’t be long before we’re all family, will it? Have you set the date yet? June is a lovely month for weddings.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’d like to get married very quickly and quietly by special licence. The problem is that if we ask you and Sue, we shall have to ask members of my family. That’s something I want to avoid. We’d like it to be as private as possible. Later on we may give a big party for everyone we know. But I feel—and Liz agrees—that, at our age and in our circumstances, just the two of us and a couple of witnesses is the best way to do it. I know this may disappoint you. But I hope, when you’ve thought it over, you’ll agree it’s the right decision.’
The sisters looked at each other, disappointment writ large on their chubby faces. It looked to Liz as if, even in the short time since her last visit, they had both put on several pounds.
On impulse, she said, ‘But we’d like to arrange a treat for you to make up for the disappointment. What we thought would be fun, while we’re on our honeymoon, is for you two to spend a week at one of those swish health farms. You’ve always said you’d like to go, Mum, and this is your chance.’
She knew it would cost a lot and might empty her bank account, but she felt it would be worth it.
‘Ooh…that would lovely, wouldn’t it, Sue?’ said her mother, her expression brightening.
It was just as well that Cam was more abstemious than his guests. By the end of the lunch, the sisters were as animated and giggly as Liz had ever seen them. She felt sure that Mrs Nightingale, had she been present, would have been horrified that her son was forging a relationship with people she would have found unacceptable.
It was after three when they left the hotel and returned to the bungalow.
‘What about a nice cup of tea?’ said Mrs Bailey.
‘Why don’t we let Liz and Sue take care of that? I’d like to see your back garden,’ said Cam.
‘He’s a lovely bloke, Liz,’ said her aunt, when they were alone in the kitchen. ‘You’re a very fortunate girl, my love. It’s not easy for someone of your age to marry again. What a lucky thing you moved to Spain. Who would have thought there’d be someone as nice as Cam living next door?’
In the garden, Maureen was telling Cam about the prizes her neighbour had won at the local flower show.
‘Was your son-in-law keen on gardening?’
‘Duncan? No, not at all. Liz looked after their garden. Duncan’s interests were coin-collecting and sport—football and cricket. Hours he spent watching matches. Liz didn’t mind. She liked reading better than TV. Not like her mum. A telly addict, she calls me—’ with a giggle. Then her face clouded. ‘Such a tragedy…him being drowned like that. She was devastated, poor kid. We wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d had a nervous breakdown. They’d meant the world to each other since they were in their teens. Never looked at anyone else, either of them. But that’s all behind her now. You can’t live in the past, especially not at her age.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Cam agreed. ‘I hope, when we get back from our honeymoon, you and Sue will come and stay with us.’
‘We’d love that. I feel a bit guilty I’ve never been down to see Liz’s house, but the fact is I’m scared of flying. I know it’s silly, but I am. But I’ve got to get over it.’
‘Lots of people don’t like flying. Someone you probably know by sight—’ he named a well-known TV presenter ‘—has flown more than a million miles and still doesn’t like it.’
‘Really? I think he’s lovely…he’s one of my favourites.’
Looking out of the picture window at the rear of the lounge, Liz wondered what they were talking about.
Later, on the way back to the apartment, she asked him.
‘Oh…this and that,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’ve invited them to stay with us in Spain. By the way, it was a brainwave on your part to suggest we send them off to a health farm to make up for not being present at the wedding.’
‘There’s absolutely no need for you to involve yourself, Cam. I can afford whatever it costs.’
‘Those places are pretty expensive,’ he said. ‘I’d like to pay my share. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. That’s how I see our financial future. Do you disagree?’
‘No…not in principle…but in practice it’s going to be heavily weighted in my favour, your income being so much larger than mine.’
‘Up to now, but not necessarily for ever. If your website business takes off and my career declines, you could find yourself supporting me,’ he said, turning his head to smile at her.
On the morning of her wedding day, Liz was woken by the alarm she had set the night before. The register office ceremony was taking place early in order for them to fly to Madrid and then drive the rest of the way to the parador they had chosen for their honeymoon.
For a while she lay thinking about that other day, seventeen years ago, when there had been a billowing white taffeta bridal gown hanging on the front of her wardrobe, and a garland of white silk flowers for her hair on the dressing table. Her mother had wanted a big wedding, and Liz herself had not been averse to making the day as special as possible.
A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts.
‘Come in.’
‘Breakfast in bed for the bride,’ said Cam, coming in with a tray. He was dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt that showed off his muscular build.
‘Good morning. What luxury.’ Liz sat up in bed. She was wearing an Indian cotton nightdress with white embroidery round the neck and down the front. A less modest garment was packed in her case for tonight.
The tray had a woven cane edge and short legs. He placed it across her lap.
‘No last-minute doubts? No eleventh-hour jitters?’ he asked, sitting down near her feet.
‘Not for me. How about you?’
‘I can’t wait to call you my wife…and to make you my wife.’
The burning look, so early in the morning, startled her. He looked as if, for two pins, he would make love to her now.
While she stared at him, startled, he rose. ‘I have things to do. See you later. Buen provecho.’
This was an expression the Spanish used before people started to eat. She had used it herself to the men who worked on the vines if she passed while they were sitting on a drystone wall, having a snack before continuing their labours.
When the door had closed behind him, Liz moved the tray and hopped out of bed to brush her teeth. To her surprise she had slept well.
My last night in a bed by myself, she thought: the same thought she had had on that other wedding morning. Except that then she had been impatient to surrender her virginity, eager to find out what it was all about, the mysterious act of union so often described but only fully understood by those who had experienced it.
Remembering her first experience, she
did feel a moment of panic. Then she reminded herself that Duncan had also been a virgin and Cam was a man of experience who knew what he was about. At least she hoped he did.
He was not around when she took the tray to the kitchen and washed up the few things on it. Then she had a leisurely bath before starting to do her face. Her hair had been cut and blown dry yesterday morning. She was going to wear it loose.
Her wedding outfit was a cornflower-blue suit of classic design, the jacket buttoning high enough to be worn without a top under it. The colour emphasised her eyes and was also an excellent foil for the aquamarine bracelet. She had found a long chiffon scarf of exactly those two colours to twist round her neck with one end floating in front and the other behind.
She had finished dressing when she heard Cam speaking on the telephone in the living room and went to join him. Still in conversation, he looked her up and down. Was he disappointed? Had he expected something more high-key and glamorous?
‘Thanks…goodbye.’ He replaced the receiver and came towards her. ‘You look beautiful. I was just about to bring these into you, but you don’t have to wear them now if you’d rather keep them for later.’
He opened his closed hand, palm upwards, and she saw that he had been holding a pair of aquamarine earrings that matched the bracelet.
‘They’re lovely…but, Cam, I don’t have anything for you.’
‘You are giving me yourself. That’s all I want.’
He said it with such unexpected tenderness that she felt a lump in her throat. ‘Would you put them on for me, please?’
‘Sure. Hold this.’ He gave her one of the earrings and removed the butterfly fastening from the other. Deftly he threaded the pin through the tiny hole in her ear and fitted the fastening.
She hadn’t realised the touch of his fingertips against the sensitive skin at the back of her lobes would send such a strong frisson through her.
When he had dealt with the other, he said softly, ‘And tonight I will take them off for you.’
