The Corporate Bridegroom

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Digging for dirt, Niall?’ she asked, as she picked shell out of the egg before fetching a fork and finally locating the grater in a drawer. ‘Hoping to set us against one another? It won’t work.’

  ‘No. I can see that you’re quite a team.’

  ‘You mean Jordan has already dug as deep as he knows how and has figured that out for himself.’

  ‘Peter Claibourne’s marriages are scarcely a secret. They made all the gossip columns at the time. I was just interested in the reality. I mean one of you being abandoned by your mother might have been bad luck, but all three of you…’

  He was attempting to turn all the loose emotion flying about back on her, she realised. Distract her from his tragedy. But this was an old story.

  ‘Holding onto his wives may not have been a strong point, but my father made a virtue of keeping his children.’ He’d had the money and the lawyers to ensure he did. ‘Fortunately none of our mothers remained Mrs Claibourne for long enough for us to notice them, and since we all lived together in a well-run nursery with a succession of totally efficient nannies…’

  She shrugged. She’d been shrugging all her life, pretending it didn’t hurt that her mother hadn’t been strong enough to take her with her when she left. It didn’t hurt that the pay-off for leaving her behind, no matter how big, had been compensation enough for losing her daughter. But then her mother hadn’t wasted time in re-stocking her nursery; Romana had seen the ‘happy families’ pictures of her with her four beautiful children in magazines that made a virtue of such stuff.

  But she’d never let anyone see her pain.

  ‘Your father didn’t have much luck with his wives.’

  ‘He went for looks over substance every time,’ she agreed, resolutely refusing to let him get beneath her skin. ‘And you have to work at relationships. Not one of my father’s strong points.’ Not even with his children, despite his determination to keep them. And then, because she’d said more than she’d intended, she shrugged again. ‘Flora moved in with her mother when she was sixteen,’ she said—as if that somehow countered his criticism. ‘India’s mother is something of mystery, though. She went back to the ashram where they’d met on the hippie trail. She wasn’t the mercenary type, you see, but a genuine flower-child, while my father couldn’t wait to throw off the beads and revert to the Savile Row three-piece suit.’ She couldn’t resist a little dig at Niall’s own preferred form of attire.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t have much choice. Your grandmother was a formidable woman by all accounts.’ Then, ‘I think that’s probably enough cheese, Romana. Unless your plan is to lay me low with a high-cholesterol, high-fat heart-stopper?’

  She looked at the heap of cheese. ‘Oh, good grief. I’ve grated it all. Never mind, you can use it to make sandwiches…or something.’

  ‘Here…’ He passed her a glass of wine. ‘You sit and drink that slowly. I’ll cook.’ He took a bottle of olive oil from a cupboard and shook some into the pan, turning up the heat. Then he stirred up the eggs with an easy competence that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d done it.

  Romana leaned back against the table and watched him work, his sleeves rolled back over powerful forearms, the overhead light picking out the cobweb that still clung to his dishevelled hair.

  ‘What were you doing when I arrived?’ she asked, ignoring his invitation to sit but instead leaning back against the table and watching him as she sipped the wine.

  He glanced at her. ‘Doing?’

  ‘You looked as if you’d been—’

  ‘Drinking? That’s what you said.’

  ‘No, that’s what you said.’ She shook her head. ‘You looked…still look…as if you’d been digging around in the cupboard under the stairs. A bit dusty, a bit ruffled.’ She reached up and picked the cobweb out of his hair, holding it out for him to see. He glanced at the cobweb, then at her, and suddenly she realised how close they were. Close enough for her to see what she had been trying so desperately hard to ignore.

  Not an enemy who was going to do his level best to take her world away, but the kind of man for whom the world would be well lost.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked, desperate to break the bond of tension that held them locked, inches apart, unable to advance or retreat.

  ‘Who said I was looking for anything?’ he asked, and looked away. She stepped back as he poured the egg into the pan. It sizzled fiercely as, still using only the fork, he pushed it towards the centre. Then he added a handful of cheese, totally absorbed in his task.

  Romana glanced across at the box by the dresser. Papers and envelopes. One large envelope bearing the name of a society photographer.

  He turned when she didn’t answer and, following her gaze, said, ‘I needed…’ For a moment he seemed to struggle for breath. ‘I needed to find the photographs. After tonight. That girl in the wedding dress was so like her—’

  He didn’t have to explain which photographs. ‘You think so? There’s a photograph of Louise in your bedroom, and apart from her colouring I didn’t see much likeness to the model.’ She picked up the box and put it on the table, then the envelope. ‘But let’s have a look,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘No!’ He reached out, grasped her wrist to stop her sliding out the carton of proofs. ‘I don’t think now is the time.’

  She indicated the hob. ‘Is something burning?’

  He turned and grabbed the pan, rescuing the omelette before it was ruined. He flipped it over, broke it in two and divided it between two plates. ‘It’s a bit brown on the outside,’ he said, turning as she slipped the proofs from the carton so that they slid across the table, a jumble of bright images.

  He snapped back as if punched.

  She took one of the plates from him. ‘Fork?’ she prompted. For a moment she thought he was going to snatch the plate back and throw her out. But he was still in control. Still keeping it all buttoned up. The pain, the heartbreak. Not letting anything show in his face. Very determinedly not looking at the photographs, he turned, took a couple of forks from the drawer and handed one to her.

  No wonder his eyes appeared stone-cold. When you were hanging onto control by your fingernails, refusing to confront the pain, you couldn’t risk any kind of emotional response.

  He leaned back against one of the units, taking a mouthful of egg and melted cheese, making himself go through the motions, acting as if nothing was wrong. But she knew now that it was all a sham. She’d had a glimpse of something else, something warm and alive, a heart still beating behind the brick wall he’d built around it.

  She took courage from the fact that he was staying as far away from the photographs as he could without being too obvious about it. She was getting to him. Maybe, if she pushed it, she could blow that control apart and give him back his humanity.

  Romana ignored the photographs. Instead, she put down her plate and riffled through the contents of the box. It made her feel like a voyeur, picking over the entrails of someone else’s life, but she was determined to goad some spark of reaction from him.

  The box was full of letters, mementoes, the kind of snapshots that all people in love take of each other. Silly stuff. Stuff no one else should ever see. Unable to go through with it, she turned away, took another mouthful of the omelette. Like him, she was going through the motions. Acting as if everything was perfectly normal.

  ‘My sisters came round and cleared the house before I got home. Took away her clothes, the wedding presents. Put all that stuff in a box to be dealt with later,’ he said at last, cracking. ‘When I could face it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have left it so long.’

  ‘Is there a time scale for these things?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘You can’t bury grief. You have to deal with it.’ While he refused to confront the pain he would remain locked in this empty house, unable ever to move on. ‘Talking about people we’ve loved and lost keeps them alive. You need to look at the pictures,
remember the day, the things she said, you said—’

  ‘Stop it!’ For a moment his eyes flashed, hot and quick. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Then he made a hopeless little gesture with his hand. ‘I hope to God that you never find out…’

  He clung to the plate as if it would protect him. But he wasn’t eating. She took it from him. Took his hand. ‘At least you had someone who loved you above everything. You know how that feels. You will always have that.’ While she had never had anyone who cared for her first, last, always.

  He was right. She couldn’t feel his pain. But she was feeling something that hurt. Something that twisted like a knife in her gut at the sight of him locked in grief for his dead wife. It was why she was here, in his kitchen, instead of tucked up in her lonely bed, taking care not to ever get emotionally involved.

  But if she did nothing else good in her life she would help him confront his demons. And, with every appearance of carelessness, she picked up an eight-by-ten glossy of Louise arriving at the church. ‘The model reminded you of your wedding day?’ she asked.

  ‘You have to ask? You told me to stay away.’

  ‘Yes…’ She looked at the photograph of Louise, laughing as the wind snatched at her veil. Glowing with joy. Full of life. She’d tried to protect him and she’d hustled him out of the dressing room. ‘I was wrong, though. You were wrong. The fashion show had nothing to do with this. That was just make-believe, a dream image of the perfect bride. Louise was a real woman, not some fanciful illusion of perfection stage-managed to sell a dream. Look at her, Niall.’ She held out the photograph so that he could see it, but he kept his gaze fixed rigidly on her face. ‘You loved her with all your heart. And she loved you. You’ll always have that. These are just paper memories.’ She reached out to him, took his hand, put the photograph into it. ‘Look at her now and remember what you had, not what you’ve lost.’

  He didn’t look down. ‘I can’t…’

  ‘Look at her! You loved her. You can’t shut her away in a cupboard at the back of your heart.’

  ‘A cupboard at the back of my heart?’

  Oh, no. She wasn’t going to allow him to mock her. To laugh at her clumsy analogy and sweep the photographs away. ‘You have got a heart?’ she demanded.

  After an endless pause, in which the only sound was the ticking of an old wall-mounted pendulum clock, he let his gaze drop from her face to the photograph he was holding. He looked at it for a long time. For a long time his face showed nothing. Then he reached out for the pictures scattered across the table. Scooping up a handful, and gripping her hand tightly in his, he walked across to the sofa and sat down, leaving her with no option but to join him. Only when she’d flopped beside him, and the uncertain springing had thrown them together, did he release her and begin to go through the pictures one by one in grim silence.

  There were more of Louise arriving at the church with her father. Niall and Jordan in grey morning coats. Niall looked unbelievably younger. Far more than four years could account for. Or maybe it was simply that he was no longer so carefree, so utterly happy.

  ‘Jordan was your best man?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  There was a blush of little bridesmaids in white and peach dresses. A couple who had to be Niall’s parents, with two pretty young women. ‘These are your sisters?’ She prodded and prompted, forcing him to respond.

  ‘Cara and Josie,’ he confirmed. ‘It was Josie’s boy that I bought the football shirt for. He’s eight next month.’

  And, as if that had somehow released the floodgates, he began to talk, pointing out the important players, family, friends, all celebrating this happiest of days. There was one of Bram and his young brothers. ‘They did this,’ Niall said, showing her a photograph of their departure from the hotel. The open car, a vintage Rolls, was decorated with balloons and old shoes, an “L” plate and “Just Married” were tied to the rear bumper. Louise and Niall were looking back at the camera, waving and laughing.

  A tear hit the photograph. For a moment Romana thought it was hers. But then Niall turned to her and she saw that he, too, had tears streaming down his cheeks. There was nothing more she could say. All she could do, as the photographs slithered to the floor, was open her arms and hold him while he let out the pent-up grief of four long years.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘IT’S ALL right, Niall. Just let it out…’ The words she murmured didn’t matter. She just wanted him to know that she understood the bottled-up grief—that desperate feeling of being left behind, abandoned.

  She kissed his forehead, then his temple, murmuring her own heartbreak as she comforted him, telling him things that had been locked up inside her for as long as she could remember. And all the time she held him, his head at her breast, the fingers of one hand tangling in his hair, the other cradling his cheek.

  ‘You’re not alone,’ she whispered as she kissed the tears from his eyes, kissed the line of his jaw, her hand slipping to his neck as he turned and she nuzzled tenderly at his throat. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Romana…’ Her name was wrenched from him, warning her to stop even as his arms tightened about her as if he would never let her go. ‘Romana,’ he said, as if she was all that was standing between himself and hell.

  She murmured his name in echo of hers, closing her eyes and tilting her head back a little to offer him that total surrender which was the true and perfect solace a woman offered to the man she loved when he was in pain. Offering the cradle of her arms, her body, a place where he could forget everything, asking nothing in return.

  He lifted his head, looked up, and when he once more whispered her name there was a new intensity to his voice. In the quiet still of the kitchen the mood had altered subtly, and she knew that he was with her, seeing her.

  ‘Romana.’ He said it again, over and over, as if it was a new word, as if he had never seen her before—as if he’d suddenly opened his eyes and seen a new world. ‘Romana…’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said. And she slipped the top button of her shirt. And then the second.

  He reached up, and for a moment she thought he would stop her, but he just touched her hand briefly before raising his fingers to her face, cradling her cheek. Looking at her. It seemed for ever—as if he were trying to read her deepest thoughts.

  Whatever he saw in her eyes must have been what he was hoping to see, and he captured her face between his hands, leaning into a kiss that was at once assured yet sweetly hesitant, his lips silently seeking her consent every step of the way.

  Is this good for you? he seemed to be asking her. Do you like this?

  Her answer, with her lips, her tongue, her hands, was yes…and yes…and yes… And as his mouth grew more demanding her own need matched his hunger and she slipped back against the cushions.

  ‘I want to touch you,’ he said. ‘I want to undress you…’

  In answer she reached up and began to unfasten his shirt studs. There was a pause that seemed to last a year before he reached out to touch her throat with the back of his fingers, stroking them down the length of her breastbone until his hand reached the soft curve of her breasts.

  Again he waited for her, silently asking the question. Do you want this? In reply, she unfastened the front of her the black lace bra.

  ‘Silk,’ he whispered as he opened his hand to encompass her breast. ‘Pure silk.’ And then he pushed her back into the soft cushions, going down with her to take his mouth on the same exploring journey as his hand.

  Every touch, every kiss, every murmur was slow and sure. The brush of his lips, the melting heat of his eyes, the intimate pressure of his body bombarding her with sensations that aroused her to an almost painful awareness of her desire for him, her longing for this.

  The touch of his skin beneath her hands, the roughness of hair over his chest, his unmistakable arousal—all was exciting and new, and Romana held her breath, afraid that anything she might say or do would break the spell. Then she whi
mpered softly as he eased away, and this time when he murmured her name that was a question too.

  ‘Romana…?’

  In answer she reached up and put her arms around his neck, bringing him back to her. ‘I want to touch you,’ she said, repeating his own words back to him. ‘I want to undress you.’

  And slowly, tenderly, they each had their wish, learning each other’s desires, pleasures, until the heat built between them and they lost any sense of place or time.

  It would have been quite perfect if, as he came, the name on his lips had been hers.

  For a moment he was utterly still. Louise’s name had shocked them both out of the sweet aftermath of love. Neither of them breathed. The silence so dense it vibrated against her eardrums.

  ‘Romana,’ he said. Too late. ‘You know I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking…’

  Niall didn’t know what he was thinking. He’d held Romana in his arms, had made love to her with a passion that he’d thought beyond him. She was the woman he wanted. Still wanted. No one else.

  And yet Louise had been there with them. They had been talking about her. Remembering her. Her photographs were scattered about the floor where they’d fallen. She was there with them, waiting for him to say goodbye.

  ‘It’s all right, Niall. I understand.’

  ‘Do you? I don’t.’ All he understood was that he’d hurt her in a way that he didn’t know how to mend. That it certainly wasn’t all right. It was as wrong as it could be. But as he reached out in an attempt to hold her, reassure her, she turned from him, swinging her legs to the floor, gathering her clothes from where they’d fallen amongst the wedding photographs.

  Shutting him out.

  ‘You needed someone, Niall,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘I was here. Don’t let’s make a drama out of it. Would you call me a taxi while I use the bathroom?’