‘Darling.’
I give a little shriek and spin round. ‘Charles! You scared me.’
‘Sorry, poppet,’ he says. ‘I missed you. She has to mingle, I suppose,’ he says jovially to Swan. ‘Can’t keep her all to myself.’ He looks at me expectantly.
‘Charles, this is Mark Swan,’ I mutter. ‘He was my former … colleague. Mark, this is Charles Dawson, my fiancé.’
‘Congratulations,’ says Swan neutrally to Charles. I see him stand there, drinking Charles in. And Charles is looking up at him, rather hostile.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You must be very upset that Anna’s been fired, having had the good fortune to work with her.’
Dear Charles. Trying to protect me. He slips a slender arm round my waist possessively.
‘I think Anna can do bigger and better things,’ Swan says, politely. He pauses, then adds, ‘And how long have you known Anna?’
Charles smiles. ‘Whirlwind romance, wasn’t it, darling?’
‘Yes,’ I agree miserably.
‘A couple of months,’ he says.
‘That’s very nice, to have passion for someone like that,’ says Swan, and looks me right in the eye. I feel dizzy. I swallow.
Don’t be so stupid, says the voice in my head. This isn’t Brian, this is Mark Swan. He could have anybody he wants.
‘Indeed,’ Charles agrees, smiling trustingly at me. ‘Anna’s the one for me, aren’t you, darling?’
Both men look at me. ‘Oh, yes,’ I agree. ‘I definitely am.’
There’s a pause.
‘And you are for me, too,’ I add hastily. Charles smiles in relief.
‘It was very good to meet you, Charles,’ says Swan. ‘You’re a lucky man. I have to go. Goodbye, Anna.’
He puts his gift box down on the kitchen table, turns round, and walks out, without looking back at me.
Charles pulls me closer. ‘The party’s getting late,’ he whispers. ‘Want to go back to my place?’
So not.
‘Sure,’ I say, turning to him and smiling weakly. ‘No problem.’
* * *
Afterwards, sitting up in bed, Charles has a bony arm round my shoulder.
‘Thought it went brilliantly, didn’t you?’ he says. ‘Everybody was there. And all so pleased for us, darling. Vanna was thrilled to bits, and Rupert said … Well…’ He colours a little. ‘Anyway. Rupert thought it was a great idea, says we’re well suited. And your girlfriends getting on so well with Ed and Henry. I was the cause of that,’ he says, rather proudly. ‘They met at my ball! Charles Dawson, the lurve doctor,’ he says, in a fake American accent.
I force a smile. ‘It’s all very nice.’
‘We must get on with planning the wedding.’
‘I know, but I told you, I’m just a bit busy trying to get a new job, and—’
‘Come down tomorrow,’ he says, turning to me and pleading. ‘Just one morning won’t hurt. I want to show you my ideas. If you sign off on them, I’ll do all the planning, just like I promised. Vanna can help me.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ve been working on some things to show you,’ he says hopefully. ‘Putting some scrap books together and stuff, got some sample menus in, that sort of thing.’
I can’t say no to those puppy-dog eyes.
‘All right,’ I say. I try to force some enthusiasm. ‘Sounds like fun.’
He’s as good as his word. We wake up at seven to Charles’s old-fashioned alarm clock with a little buzzing metal bell on top, go into the kitchen for a quick breakfast – toast and Marmite, Charles has marmalade, with coffee, delicious actually, he has all the modern gadgets – then he takes a shower, drives me home.
‘We’re not going to be long, are we?’ he asks, nervously checking his watch, as I let myself into my flat. ‘I want to get on the M1 before all the traffic starts.’
‘Quick as I can, I promise,’ I say. ‘I just need a quick shower and a change.’
Lily’s sitting on the sofa, curled up like a particularly lissom and blond cat. She stirs, stretching her body beautifully as Charles comes in.
‘Hello, you two,’ she purrs. ‘Back from your lovers’ tryst? Anna, I’m jealous.’ She smiles.
I know she is.
‘Come and sit next to me, Charles,’ she suggests, patting the couch beside her. ‘Anna won’t be a mo’.’
Charles looks hunted, but I nod at him.
‘I’m jumping in the shower,’ I say, but Lily is oblivious, she’s bending all her charm on my fiancé.
‘So, tell me about Henry,’ she suggests. ‘His family’s very rich, aren’t they? The Marshes?’
‘Oh, ya,’ says Charles, and I watch Lily relax and beam with approval. ‘Harriet and Fred Marsh are absolutely rolling in it, but you needn’t worry, it hasn’t spoiled Henry a bit.’
‘Oh no,’ breathes Lily, as I grab my towel and clothes. ‘It doesn’t worry me. I don’t object…’
It ought to annoy me, as I step into the shower and quickly baste myself, soaping all over just to feel clean, to shake the nasty feeling of last night away. But somehow it doesn’t. All I do is sigh and think, poor Lily.
But with Charles hovering, there’s no time to pore over Lily and her many mental problems. I towel off, duck into my closet-cum-bedroom, and choose another Janet-approved outfit. Red A-line skirt, cream short-sleeved, scoop-neck cotton jumper with red trim, camel-colour slide shoes, camel bag. Yep; still looks fabulous. A quick blast of the make-up and I’m done. I check myself out. Apart from my wet hair, I look wonderful.
‘Tah-dah,’ I say, emerging from my bedroom and doing a twirl for Charles, who’s just sitting there gazing at Lily.
‘Oh. Right,’ he says, wrenching his gaze away. ‘You’re ready,’ he notes, his eyes barely glancing at my outfit. ‘We’ll be off then.’
* * *
I’m bloody glad when we finally pull in to Chester House’s long, bumpy drive. For one thing I need the loo and I need to stretch my legs. For another, Charles has spent almost the entire journey alternating between in-depth postmortems of the engagement party and in-depth predictions for the wedding. Guest lists, seating arrangements, different types of music … I do my part, though. I’m hiding behind a huge pair of Ray-Bans so he can’t see the total lack of interest in my eyes, and I sort of nod and go ‘Mmm’ and inject just enough questions to show that I’m listening. For the most part, I just watch the glorious English countryside slip by. And concentrate on not thinking about Mark Swan.
I’ll admit it. It’s something of a losing battle.
I keep replaying that moment in my head. His hand, catching my wrist. The firm set of his jaw, his sexy mouth, the way he looked at me, so intensely. The hostility to Charles.
But no. No. I mean, he already had every opportunity to say something to me …
And anyway, why would he? I mean really?
Get over yourself, Anna, I tell myself firmly as Charles parks the car. It’s not going to happen.
‘Here we are,’ Charles says.
I look up at the massive, glorious, old warm stones of Chester House. The kind of dream place I’d always imagined buying if I won the Lottery. Twice. Once might not have been enough to afford it.
‘Not a bad place to throw a wedding,’ Charles says, proudly. ‘Is it?’
I look it over, drinking it in. ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Not bad at all.’
We’re served tea and homemade scones by Mrs Milchen, Charles’s venerable housekeeper, and delicious they are too.
‘It’s very nice to see the young lady, Mr Charles,’ she says warmly. ‘Very nice to see you indeed, miss.’
‘Please call me Anna,’ I say, horribly embarrassed.
‘Very good, Miss Anna,’ she says, beaming. ‘I always said it were about time Mr Charles got himself a young lady, didn’t I, Mr Charles?’
‘You did, Mrs Milchen,’ says Charles, jovially. Mrs Milchen hugs him round the shoulders as I smile faintly back. Charle
s’s butler and dodgy valet – blimey, the guy looks as if he eats puppies raw for breakfast – seem equally pleased. And he’s so relaxed around them, they obviously like him.
He’s such a nice bloke, I think. I completely understand now why he was so nasty the first night, at Vanna’s. Women just using him. No self-esteem. Hey, I can relate. Sometimes I think women are a bit hard on men. We assume it’s fine to use them and blow them off; after all, they’re only after one thing, right? But contrary to popular belief, they do have feelings. And Charles’s were trodden on pretty well.
He squeezes my hand and gives me that loving, grateful look, and I feel something constricting my heart like a band.
Pull yourself together, Anna.
‘Let’s go through into the blue drawing room – I’ve got some stuff in there.’
‘The blue drawing room?’ I joke. ‘Come on, like there’s more than one?’
‘There are three,’ Charles says seriously. ‘And two morning rooms.’
‘Right.’
‘And a parlour.’
‘OK.’
‘And a music room.’
‘I get the picture.’
‘I can take you to see the two libraries if you want, and then there are the studies – you haven’t explored the place properly, have you, darling? Let’s do that now.’
‘No, no,’ I shake my head. ‘Let’s go through the wedding stuff. I really want to see what you’ve come up with,’ I lie.
‘OK,’ he says, beaming. We adjourn into the said blue drawing room, which is indeed painted in a gorgeous Wedgwood blue with cream trim and sports blue-and-white based Persian rugs. On an antique oak coffee table there are about twelve huge folders, laid open. I can see charts and lists, magazine pictures, glossy brochures.
‘Charles!’ I exclaim. ‘How much planning have you done?’
‘Oh, just the odd bit here and there,’ he says, modestly. ‘Shall we start with the menu ideas? Or the flowers? Or shall we pick a marquee? I got six quotes. See which design you like best. Here,’ he says, passing me a brochure richly illustrated with full-page photos of dream-like silky tents.
I sit beside him on the robin’s egg damask couch and try to pick and choose. And actually you can get kind of lost in it. It’s the fairytale, he’s offering me everything. A horse and carriage. Masses of yellow and white blooms everywhere. Rivers of champagne. A tent that would do credit to the Arabian nights, with a hardwood dance floor. A DJ and a live band and a string quartet. Any designer wedding gown I like, a tiara from Basia Zarzycka, hand-made silk wedding shoes embroidered with gold thread …
It will give Charles and Di a run for their money. Or Madonna and Guy, come to that. It’s just about everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a wedding.
Except the groom.
I try to get away after that, but he insists I stay for lunch at least. I endure more delighted fussing and clucking from Mrs Milchen, get told off for not eating enough, and then finally manage to persuade Charles to run me to the station.
‘I can drive you back, sweetheart, it’s no trouble,’ he assures me for the millionth time.
‘No, that’s fine, really. I – I like the train. And you need to do more planning,’ I tell him.
‘There is that,’ he concedes. ‘It’s quite the operation!’
‘I know.’
‘Call me soon, OK?’
‘You got it,’ I tell him, kissing him on the cheek and hastily heading off to find my platform. I have to get away from him. I have to do some serious thinking.
I buy a couple of magazines in the station W.H. Smith’s. Cosmo and Company and … Heat. I pick up the magazine, hold it in my fingers.
I can’t help it. The memory of Mark Swan, reaching out and grabbing my copy. Me lecturing him about his fags. The way he looked at me when he took the script.
The way I felt when he called me, in Kitty’s office.
The way I looked at him in 47 Park Street, when I couldn’t concentrate because I was staring at his mouth instead of listening to him talk.
The pub. My hand in his. My hand looking … delicate, in his.
My engagement party, and all I wanted in the whole world was …
… to have him kiss me …
‘Love.’
I blink. The woman at the till is scowling at me, the people behind me shuffling their feet.
‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I mutter. I fork over some money and run for the shelter of the train.
It’s absolutely no good, I think to myself. I’m in love with Mark Swan. I need to see him, I need to tell him … and I need to tell Charles.
I shudder at the thought. It makes me want to cry. Poor, poor Charles. I’d rather chew my own arm off than do this, but I still have to do it. I can’t marry him. I know I agreed with all the logical, practical reasons, and I know he wants to marry me more than anything in the world, and that he’s a lovely person and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt …
But I still have to hurt him.
I’m going to do it today. I can’t marry him, because I want to marry Mark Swan, and that’s all there is to it. Yes, maybe there are people who can do the sensible thing, marry the suitable man, forget about passion, and be perfectly happy. I know history, that used to be just about every rich man and woman in England before this century, didn’t it?
But maybe I’m not sensible. Or maybe I’m just plain nuts. But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, I think, half hysterically. I just love Mark, I want Mark.
I jump in a cab and give the driver Mark’s office address. Even though I’ve only been there once, I still remember exactly where it is. My heart’s thudding, pounding as he inches his way maddeningly through the traffic. I check myself in the rear-view mirror about a hundred times until he asks me to get out of the way, like I’m a nutter. Which I probably am. But at least I’m a nutter with a great make-up job whose hair has dried.
I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know what I should do, how I should act. I only know I want him and I’m going to risk everything to tell him.
I burst through the front doors of Swan Lake Features. The burly man on reception tries to challenge me, but I quell him with a look.
‘I’m Anna Brown from Mother of the Bride,’ I say imperiously. ‘And I want to speak to Mark.’
‘You got an appointment?’ he asks, insistently.
‘No. Yes.’ I change hastily, seeing his face. ‘A standing invite, Mark said to drop by anytime.’ I subtly spread my fingers over his desk to steady myself. To shore up my trembling knees.
‘Wait a second,’ he says severely, and turns away from me, mumbling into his phone.
‘Michelle says you can go up,’ he grunts, obviously quite disappointed.
I’m not, though. I jump into the elevator and ride it up to the main floor, breathing deeply, trying to calm myself. He’s got staff here, he meets people. There’s Michelle. I don’t want to show him up by bursting in on some business, like a hysterical lovesick baboon.
The elevator doors hiss open.
Michelle’s sitting there, wearing more black, this time a drop-dead gorgeous scoop-neck, body-hugging short number.
‘Anna,’ she says coolly. ‘Bit of a surprise to see you here, and what was that Mother of the Bride stuff, did they reinstate you?’
‘Oh, that. No, that was just a ploy to get past your security guard.’
‘And why would you wanna do that?’ she demands.
‘I have to see Mark,’ I say. My eyes are sparkling. ‘I – I just have to see him.’
Michelle pauses. ‘Is it about business?’
‘No, it’s definitely not about business,’ I say. ‘I need to tell him something, something personal. Is he here?’
Michelle’s eyes narrow and she looks at me, consideringly.
‘No, he’s not here but he should be back soon,’ she says. ‘Do you want to wait?’
‘Oh. Yes. Thank you,’ I say gratefully. I sit down and pick up a magaz
ine.
‘This … this about your love life?’ Michelle asks casually.
I smile at her, trying to warm her up to me. ‘Yes, it is, actually.’
‘Oh,’ she says, examining her nails. ‘Well,’ she says, giving me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear how everything’s going with your fiancé and all.’
‘As a matter of fact—’
‘You know, because we’re so happy together,’ she says, looking me dead in the eye.
‘What?’
‘Because we’re so happy. Since we started going out.’
My mouth falls open. ‘What? You and Mark?’
‘That’s right,’ says Michelle, triumphantly. ‘Me and Mark.’
‘But you weren’t going out.’
‘Not till he asked me, no,’ says Michelle. ‘But we’ve loads in common. I want to be a director too. And we work out together. Mark loves women with good bodies,’ she says with heavy emphasis. ‘Slim and fit, you know. That’s when he asked me, when we were in the gym one day. I think he’d only waited because I work for him. We’ve been close friends for a while now. You know Mark,’ she says, shooting me a significant look. ‘He loves women, he always gets close to the women he works with.’
I put the magazine down. I’m trembling. I try to steady myself. But I daren’t speak because my voice is going to wobble and she’ll know.
‘He told me he really liked you,’ Michelle says. ‘You and I’ll have to go out, Anna. Get to know each other. Maybe swap a few wedding ideas.’
‘He asked you to … to marry him?’
‘Not yet,’ Michelle says. ‘But I think it’s coming. Fingers crossed, eh?’
Oh yeah. Fingers crossed.
‘Tell you what,’ I manage. ‘I’d better be going. Just, just give him my love and … and ask him to let me know where I can send the wedding invitation.’
‘Just send it to Notting Hill,’ Michelle says, smiling at me like a crocodile. ‘It’s really nice of you. We’d love to come.’
13
I don’t know how I manage to get home, but I do it somehow. I get on the tube like a zombie. I feel so bereft, and so stupid. Of course I misread him. What was I thinking? Of course Mark Swan would want a girl like Michelle, she’s so slender, so pretty, young and hard-bodied, interested in sodding directing.
The Go-To Girl Page 33
