And the Bride Wore Red

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘I’m sleeping fine,’ Norah said now. ‘I spent yesterday evening with your mother, listening to her complaining about her latest. That sent me right off to sleep.’

  ‘I thought Guy was her ideal lover.’

  ‘Not Guy, Freddy. She’s finished with Guy, or he finished with her, one of the two. I can’t keep up.’

  Olivia sighed wryly. ‘I’ll call her and commiserate.’

  ‘Not too much or you’ll make her worse,’ Norah said at once. ‘She’s a silly woman. I’ve always said so. Mind you, it’s not all her fault. Her own mother has a lot to answer for. Fancy giving her a stupid name like Melisande! She was bound to see herself as a romantic heroine.’

  ‘You mean,’ Olivia said, ‘that if Mum had been called something dull and sensible she wouldn’t have eloped?’

  ‘Probably not, although I think she’d have been self-centred whatever she was called. She’s never thought of anyone but herself. She’s certainly never thought of you, any more than your father has. Heaven alone knows what he’s doing now, although I did hear a rumour that he’s got some girl pregnant.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s going about preening as though he’s the first man who’s ever managed it. Forget him. The great fool isn’t worth bothering with.’

  Thus she dismissed her nephew-with some justice, as Olivia had to admit.

  They chatted for a while longer before bidding each other an affectionate goodnight. Olivia delayed just long enough to make herself a basic meal, then fell thankfully into bed, ready to fall asleep at once.

  Instead she lay awake, too restless for sleep. Mysteriously, Dr Mitchell had found his way into her thoughts, and she remembered him saying, Other people have to pick up the pieces, and often it is they who get hurt.

  He’d given her a look full of wry kindness, as if guessing that she was often the person who had to come to the rescue-which was shrewd of him, she realised, because he’d been right.

  As far back as she could remember she’d been the rock of stability in her family. Her parents’ marriage had been a disaster. They’d married young in a fever of romance, had quickly been disillusioned by prosaic reality and had headed for divorce. Since then her mother had remarried and divorced again before settling for lovers. Her father had moved straight onto the lovers.

  She herself had been passed from pillar to post, depending on whichever of them had felt she could be most useful. They had lavished noisy affection on her without ever managing to be convincing. Their birthday and Christmas gifts had been expensive, but she’d realised early on that they were aimed at scoring points off each other.

  ‘Let’s see what your father thinks of that,’ her mother had said, proudly revealing a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-range, laptop. But she’d been too busy to come and see Olivia in the school play, which would have meant far more.

  The person who’d always come to school functions was Norah, her father’s aunt. When both her parents had been busy, Olivia had gone to Norah for long visits and found that here was someone she could talk to. Norah had encouraged her to say what she was thinking. She would argue, forcing the girl to define her ideas then enlarge on them, until Olivia had begun to realise that her own thoughts were actually worth discussing-something she’d never discovered with her parents, who could talk only about themselves.

  There’d always been a bedroom for her in Norah’s home, and when she’d turned sixteen she’d moved into it full-time.

  ‘How did that pair of adolescents you call parents react to the idea?’ Norah demanded.

  ‘I’m not sure they quite realise that I’ve gone,’ Olivia said. ‘He thinks I’m with her, she thinks I’m with him. Oh, what do they matter?’

  It was possible to cope with her parents’ selfish indifference because Norah’s love was there like a rock. Even so, it was painful to discover yet again how little they really cared about her.

  Eventually her mother asked, ‘Will you be all right with Norah? She’s a bit-you know-’she’d lowered her voice as though describing some great crime ‘-fuddy-duddy.’

  It crossed Olivia’s mind that ‘fuddy-duddy’ might be a welcome quality in a parent, but she said nothing. She’d learned discretion at an early age. She assured her mother that she would be fine, and the subject was allowed to die.

  Before leaving, Melisande had one final request.

  ‘Would you mind not calling me Mum when there are people around? It sounds so middle-aged, and I’m only thirty-one.’

  Olivia frowned. ‘Thirty-three, surely? Because I was born when-’

  ‘Oh, darling, must you be so literal? I only look thirty-one. In fact, I’ve been told I look twenty-five. Surely you understand about artistic licence?’

  ‘Of course,’ Olivia agreed with a touch of bitterness that passed her mother by. ‘And if I start claiming you as my mother it spoils the effect.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Melisande beamed, entirely missing the irony in her daughter’s voice. ‘You can call me Melly if you like.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks, Mum.’

  Her mother gave her a sharp look but didn’t make the mistake of replying.

  That evening, she told Norah, who was disgusted.

  ‘Fuddy-duddy! She means I don’t live my life at the mercy of every wind that blows.’

  ‘She just thinks you know nothing about love,’ Olivia pointed out.

  When Norah didn’t answer, she persisted, ‘But she’s wrong, isn’t she? There’s someone you never talk about.’

  That was how she’d first heard about Edward, who’d died so long ago that nobody else remembered him, or the volcano he’d caused in the life of the girl who’d loved him. Norah told her only a little that night, but more later on, as Olivia grew old enough to understand.

  Norah had been eighteen when she’d met Edward, a young army-officer, nineteen when they’d celebrated his promotion by becoming engaged, and twenty when he’d died, far away in another country. She had never loved another man.

  The bleak simplicity of the story shocked Olivia. Later she learned to set it beside her own parents’ superficial romances, and was equally appalled by both.

  Had that lesson hovered somewhere in her mind when she too had fallen disastrously in love?

  Looking back, she could see that her life-long cynicism about emotion, far from protecting her, had left her vulnerable. She’d determinedly avoided the youthful experiences on which most girls cut their romantic teeth, proud of the way her heart had never been broken because she’d never become involved. But it meant that she’d had no yardstick by which to judge Andy, no caution to warn her of signs that other women would have seen. Her capitulation to him had been total, joyful, and his betrayal had left her defenceless.

  She’d fled, seeking a new life here in China, vowing never to make the same mistake again. From now on men would no longer exist. Neither would love, or anything that reminded her of ‘the whole romantic nonsense’ as she inwardly called it. And so she would be safe.

  On that comforting thought, she fell asleep.

  But tonight her sleep was mysteriously disturbed. Phantoms chased through her dreams, making her hot and cold by turns, causing her blood to race and her heart to pound. She awoke abruptly to find herself sitting up in bed, not knowing when it had happened, not knowing anything, except that suddenly there was no safety in all the world.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE next day Olivia felt down from the moment she awoke. The sight of herself in the bathroom mirror was off-putting. Where was the vibrant young woman in her twenties with a slender figure, rich, honey-coloured hair and large blue eyes that could say so much?

  ‘I don’t think she ever really existed,’ she informed her reflection gloomily. ‘You’re the reality.’

  She wondered if she might still be in shock from her nasty fall, but dismissed that as just making excuses.

  ‘I’m a hag,’ she muttered. ‘I look older than I am. I’m too thin, and my hair is just plain
drab. I’ll be going grey next.’

  The woman in the mirror stared back, offering not a glimmer of sympathy. Normally Olivia wore her wavy hair long and bouncy but today she pulled it back into an efficient-looking bun. It suited her mood.

  The day continued to be glum for no apparent reason. Her students were attentive and well-behaved, lunch was appetizing and her friends on the staff made kindly enquiries as to her health. Mrs Wu even tried to send her home.

  ‘It’s a reaction to that fall,’ she said. ‘Go home and rest.’

  ‘Dong doesn’t seem to need rest,’ Olivia pointed out. ‘I actually had to stop him trying to climb that tree again.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ the headmistress said sympathetically. ‘But feel free to leave when you feel like it.’

  She stuck it out to the end of the day, tired and grumpy, wanting to go home yet not looking forward to the empty apartment. Finally she delivered some papers to the headmistress and slipped out of the building by a side door, instead of the main entrance that she would normally have used. Then she stopped, arrested by the sight that met her eyes.

  Dr Mitchell was there.

  Now she knew that this moment was always meant to happen.

  He was sitting on a low wall near the main entrance. Olivia paused for a moment just as he rose and began to pace restlessly and look at the main door as though expecting somebody to come through it. Occasionally he consulted his watch.

  She backed off until she was in shadow under the trees, but still able to see him clearly. She realised that her view of him the day before had been constricted by the surroundings of his office. He was taller than she remembered, not muscular, but lean with a kind of casual elegance that yet hinted at tension and control.

  Yesterday he’d been in command on his own territory. Now he was uncertain.

  She began to walk towards him, calling, ‘Can I help you?’

  His face brightened at once, convincing her that she was the one he’d been awaiting. Mysteriously the day’s cares began to fall away from her.

  ‘I thought I’d drop in to see how my patients are,’ he said, moving towards her.

  ‘Do you always do follow-up visits from the clinic?’

  He shook his head. His eyes were mischievous.

  ‘Just this time,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. Dong has already gone home, but he’s fine.’

  ‘But what about you? You were hurt as well.’

  ‘It was only a few scratches, and I was cared for by an excellent doctor.’

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement of her compliment, and said, ‘Still, perhaps I should assure myself that you’re really well.’

  ‘Of course.’ She stood back to let him enter the building, but he shook his head.

  ‘I have a better idea. There’s a little restaurant not far from here where we can talk in peace.’

  His smile held a query, asking if she would go along with his strategy, and she hurried to reassure him, smiling in return and saying, ‘What a lovely idea!’

  ‘My car’s just over there.’

  To her pleasure he drove to a place that had a look that she thought of as traditionally Chinese. Much of Beijing had been rebuilt in a modern style, but she yearned for the old buildings with their ornate roofs turning up at the corners. Here she found them glowing with light from the coloured lamps outside.

  The first restaurant they came to was full. So was the second.

  ‘Perhaps we should try-’

  He was interrupted by a cheerful cry. Turning, they saw a young man hailing him from a short distance away, and urgently pointing down a side street. He vanished without waiting to see if they followed him.

  ‘We’re caught,’ her companion said ruefully. ‘We’ll have to go to the Dancing Dragon.’

  ‘Isn’t it any good?’

  ‘It’s the best-but I’ll tell you later. Let’s go.’

  There was no mistaking the restaurant. Painted dragons swirled on the walls outside, their eyes alight with mischief. Inside was small and bright, bustling with life and packed.

  ‘They don’t have any tables free,’ she murmured.

  ‘Don’t worry. They always keep one for me.’

  Sure enough the man from the street reappeared, pointing the way to a corner and leading them to a small, discreet table tucked away almost out of sight. It had clearly been designed for lovers, and Lang must have thought so too, because he gave a hurried, embarrassed mutter, which Olivia just managed to decipher as, ‘Do you have to be so obvious?’

  ‘Why not?’ the waiter asked, genuinely baffled. ‘It’s the table you always have.’

  Olivia’s lips twitched as she seated herself in the corner, but she controlled her amusement. Dr Mitchell was turning out to be more interesting than she would have guessed.

  The restaurant was charming, the lanterns giving out a soft, red light, the walls covered in dragons. She regarded them in delight. Dragons had been part of her love affair with China ever since she’d discovered their real nature.

  Raised in England, the only dragon she’d heard of had been the one slain by St George, a devil breathing fire and death, ravaging villages, demanding the sacrifice of innocent maidens, until the heroic knight George had overcome him and become the country’s patron saint as a result.

  In China it was different. Here the dragon had always been the harbinger of good luck, wealth, wisdom, a fine harvest. Delightful dragons popped up in every part of life. They danced at weddings, promenaded in parades, breathing their friendly fire and spreading happiness. They were all around her now.

  Perhaps that was why she suddenly felt better than she’d done all day. There surely couldn’t be any other reason.

  Looking at a dragon painted onto a mirror, she caught sight of her own reflection and realised that her hair was still drawn back severely, which no longer felt right. With a swift movement she pulled at the pins until her tresses were freed, flowing lusciously again, in keeping with her lighter mood.

  The dragon winked at her.

  While Dr Mitchell was occupied with the waiter, Olivia remembered a duty that she must perform without delay. Whenever she was unable to make computer contact with Norah she always called to warn her so that the old woman wouldn’t be left waiting in hope. Quickly she used her mobile phone and in a moment she heard Norah’s voice.

  ‘Just to let you know that I’m not at home tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Jolly good,’ Norah said at once, as Olivia had known she would say. ‘You should go out more often, not waste time talking to me.’

  ‘But you know I love talking to you.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but tonight you have more important things to think of. At least, I hope you have. Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Goodnight, my love,’ Olivia said tenderly.

  She hung up to find her companion regarding her with a little frown.

  ‘Have I created a problem?’ he asked delicately. ‘Is there someone who-’ he paused delicately ‘-would object to your being with me?’

  ‘Oh, no! I was talking to my elderly aunt in England. There’s nobody who can tell me who to be with.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said simply.

  And she was glad too, for suddenly the shadows of the day had lifted.

  ‘Dr Mitchell-’

  ‘My name is Lang.’

  ‘And mine is Olivia.’

  The waiter appeared with tea, filling Olivia’s cup, smiling with pleased surprise as she gave the traditional thank-you gesture of tapping three fingers on the table.

  ‘Most Westerners don’t know to do that,’ Lang explained.

  ‘It’s the kind of thing I love,’ she said. ‘I love the story too-about the emperor who went to a tea-house incognito with some friends and told them not to prostrate themselves before him because it would give away his identity. So they tapped their fingers instead. I don’t want to stand out. It’s more fun fitting in.’

  When the first dishes were laid out bef
ore them, including the rice, he observed her skill using chopsticks.

  ‘You really know how to do that,’ he observed as they started to eat. ‘You must have been in China for some time.’

  He spoke in Mandarin Chinese and she replied in the same language, glad to demonstrate that she was as expert as he.

  ‘About six months,’ she said. ‘Before that I lived in England most of the time.’

  ‘Most?’

  ‘I’ve always travelled a lot to improve my languages. They were all I was ever good at, so I had to make the most of them.’

  ‘How many languages do you speak?’

  ‘French, German, Italian, Spanish…’

  ‘Hey, I’m impressed. But why Chinese?’

  ‘Pure show-off,’ she chuckled. ‘Everyone warned me it was difficult, so I did it for the fun of proving that I could. That showed ’em!’

  ‘I’ll bet it did,’ he said admiringly, reverting to English. ‘And I don’t suppose you found it difficult at all.’

  ‘Actually, I did, but I kept that to myself. You’re the only person I’ve ever admitted that secret to.’

  ‘And I promise not to reveal it,’ he said solemnly. ‘On pain of your never speaking to me again.’

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant by that. They both knew that the connection between them had been established in those few minutes of devastating consciousness in his surgery, and today he’d come looking for her because he had to.

  Olivia thought back to last night, to the disturbance that had haunted her dreams, waking her and refusing to let her sleep again. Instinct told her that it had been the same with him.

  They might spend no more than a few fleeting hours in each other’s company, or they might travel a little distance along the road together. Neither could know. But they had to find out.

  ‘So you came out here to improve your Chinese?’ he asked in a tone that suggested there must be more to it.

  ‘Partly, but I needed to get away from England for a while.’

  He nodded, understanding at once. ‘Was he a real louse?’

  ‘I thought so at the time, but I think now I had a lucky escape. He almost made me forget my prime directive. But when I discovered what a louse he really was, I realised that the prime directive had been right all the time.’