by Jill Mansell
Thankfully, he had the foresight to take charge of Olivia once they were inside. Whizzing Tessa past the first gallery, he paused at the entrance to the second and said, “These look more interesting.”
And if Tessa had been holding Olivia there was a faint chance—just the very faintest chance—that she might have dropped her.
At first she genuinely thought she was hallucinating. Then, as the crowds jostled around her, she thought that by some million-to-one shot somebody else must have painted a picture so similar to her own that from this distance it looked practically identical.
She moved toward it like a sleepwalker, her fingers tightly clenched at her sides, her heart pounding. Now that she was less than ten feet away, it still looked like her painting. Could the mystery buyer possibly have decided—for reasons of his own—to exhibit it? Had another artist seen her work and decided to copy it? She was too confused to speculate further; the shock was too intense.
And then she saw the printed card pinned beneath it, bearing her name and a mark indicating that the painting was not for sale, and as realization flooded through her, so her eyes filled with tears of sheer joy.
At that moment Ross, coming to stand beside her with Olivia in his arms, decided that he had never loved Tessa more. The expression on her face was magical. She was beautiful and principled, proud and clever, talented and willful, and she had given him a daughter who had awoken feelings in him he had never even known existed.
Slipping her arm through his, Tessa whispered, “I don’t know what to say.”
He smiled, his gaze fixed upon the painting. “Say yes.”
Still stunned, she shook her head. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe that you submitted my painting to the Summer Exhibition… Do you know how many paintings are sent up each year? And how many are rejected?”
“Yes.”
“But…whatever made you decide to do it?”
“Would you have done it?” he countered gently, and she shook her head once more, absently stroking the inside of his wrist as she did so.
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have dared.”
“That’s why I did it.”
“And I thought you’d sold it.”
“Yes.”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Tessa said in a choked voice, “I still don’t know what to say.”
“Yes,” he prompted with consummate patience, and she smiled.
“OK, yes. Now tell me what I’ve just agreed to do.”
“You’re a clever girl,” he said triumphantly, tilting her face up toward his and kissing her pink mouth. “I’m sure you can hazard a guess.”
• • •
“This time”—Holly sighed ecstatically—“nothing can go wrong. It’s a fait accompli!”
“What is?” asked Tessa, who was feeding Olivia with one hand and attempting to open the mail with the other. Incredibly, she was now receiving requests from all over the country for details of her work. Even more happily, Ross’s painting was once more hanging in his office, and as soon as the redecorations were completed at Hunter’s Lodge, it would be transferred there to grace the huge sitting room and serve as a permanent and salutary reminder that she had once doubted his peerless integrity.
“Max is going to be best man,” Holly explained with exaggerated patience, “and I’m going to be best girl. Need I say more?”
“I’m sure you will,” said Tessa, crumpling up a pile of envelopes and lobbing them in the direction of the wastepaper basket. It didn’t seem quite the moment to mention that she had invited Adam Perry to the wedding reception.
Holly applied a celebratory second coat of lipstick with a flourish and blew a kiss at Olivia, who was opening sleepy dark eyes and flailing her tiny fists. “Of course I’ll say more,” she declared, checking her reflection in the mirror. She was due back on duty in ten minutes. “In fact, I’ll make a prediction: your wedding night is going to be the night when I finally bundle that gorgeous male body into bed.”
• • •
There were so many preparations to be made that Tessa soon began to appreciate the wisdom of those who organized their lives in the traditional manner: wedding first, baby later. Ross was taking care of most of the arrangements, but she was still stunned by the amount of work remaining, and Olivia, gorgeous but time-consuming, was thwarting her at every turn. Her painting, needless to say, had ground to a standstill. Bare canvases lay hidden beneath piles of Pampers, and every time she managed to clear a small space in her overcrowded cottage some besotted grown-up—usually either Holly, Max, or Adam—would turn up with yet another huge and impractical stuffed toy for Olivia.
She was, nevertheless, truly happy at last. Despite her long-standing doubts and misgivings, she knew now that marrying Ross was what she most wanted to do.
And since she had cringed at the thought of a huge wedding and Ross had set his heart on one, they had reached a compromise: a small ceremony held at Bath’s Register Office would be followed by a vast and lavish reception at The Grange.
It sounded simple, she thought helplessly as Olivia screamed for her feed and knocked a pile of invitation acceptances to the floor. Whoever would have thought that getting married could be so incredibly complicated?
• • •
Whoever would have imagined that being in love could be so complicated? thought Mattie as she sipped her tea and waited for the phone to ring, secure in the knowledge that it almost certainly would.
Having never imagined herself in the role of mistress, she still found it hard to come to terms with the fact that she was one. With the right man, she had discovered with more than a twinge of guilt, it was appallingly easy.
In a seedy way, of course, it had been exciting. The thrill of secrecy was an added aphrodisiac, and when they were together Mattie told herself—as Richard had instructed her to do—that since Antonia had herself been having affairs for years, it didn’t count. It wasn’t as if he was being unfaithful to a faithful wife who waited at home for him with loving conversation and a carefully prepared meal.
But guilt and joy and new love and the knowledge that what she was doing was wrong—yet at the same time so blissfully right—was certainly a shock to the system. In the past fortnight she had lost ten pounds quite effortlessly. She was thinking of marketing the Sex-Plan diet. Lack of self-confidence, however, was the spoiler. Despite the fact that everyone was commenting on how much better she looked, and despite the fact that Richard had told her (last night, at the crucial point in their lovemaking) that he loved her, Mattie couldn’t help wondering about the future. Did saying it then actually count? What was really going to come of this glorious affair?
For while she loved, adored, worshipped Richard, the terrifying thought that he was only using her still continued to haunt Mattie’s daydreams. A practical woman, she was only too uncomfortably aware that this could well be another Ross Monahan–type affair…only more prolonged. Why ever, after all, should Richard want to leave a beautiful, streamlined, young wife for an older, plumper, unchic woman with nothing more to offer than helpless devotion and stretch marks?
• • •
Francine Lalonde had stretch marks, but they didn’t deter Max. Holly, wearing a new and excruciatingly pink shade of lipstick that made him long to scrub her mouth with a tissue, had spent the entire morning practically leering at him. In retaliation, he went upstairs and placed a call to Madrid, where Francine was currently filming.
She was on set, of course, and unable to come to the phone. When she finally managed to call him back three hours later, he was disappointed to hear that returning to England in order to attend his brother’s wedding was out of the question. She couldn’t possibly get away.
And even more disappointingly—Francine being Francine—she insisted on telling him exactly why not. “Darling, I am exhausted! This stinking
director makes me work and work all day and half the night, and then Armand makes love to me for the other half… I tell you, it is as much as I can do to take a bath without being seduced. Maybe when this terrible film is over, I can come to see you, but at the moment, I am up to my eyelashes in hard work. Ahh!” He heard her gusty sigh and wondered viciously whether the unknown Armand—doubtless some mercenary gigolo—was with her even now. “You have no idea, darling, how wearing it all is.”
Despising himself, he heard himself say, “I’ve been pretty busy myself. The screenplay’s almost finished.”
Francine let out an excited whoop. “Max, you are magnificent! And is it truly marvelous? Will it win me an Oscar, do you think?”
“You’ll have to read it and decide for yourself,” he replied, attempting to sound offhand yet at the same time magnificent. Since the thought of his body wasn’t enough to tempt her away from Armand, he was reduced to baiting her with the promise of an unseen—and as yet unfinished—script. “Spielberg’s very interested,” he added even more casually. Now he was further reduced to telling great big, totally shameless lies.
“Steven Spielberg!” exclaimed Francine, audibly impressed. “He’s a wonderful director… Max, I promise you that I will come to your dear little hotel and visit you very soon.”
It was just as well, thought Max when he finally replaced the receiver, that it had been a lie. If Steven Spielberg were to direct Francine in this film, she would doubtless have even less time than ever to spare for its lowly writer.
Chapter 35
The day before the wedding promised to be a heavenly one. A light, gauzy mist had dispersed by eight o’clock and the sky, initially pale, darkened steadily to cobalt blue unmarred by a single cloud. Hotel guests took their breakfast on the terrace, basking in the warmth of the sun, admiring the perfect views, and taking their time deciding which of Bath’s celebrated sights they should see today… That was, if they could tear themselves away from the perfection already surrounding them.
Grace, serving breakfast to a party of Germans—two overweight businessmen from Dusseldorf and their equally fat, sunburnt wives—was surprised to see Antonia Seymour-Smith sitting alone at a nearby table. Always a regular visitor to the hotel in the past, she had been conspicuous by her absence in the last six weeks, and those who were aware of her long-standing relationship with Ross—which meant everyone who worked in the hotel—had presumed that Ross, cleaning up his act now that he was a father and husband-to-be, had terminated their affair and advised her to steer clear of The Grange.
As she unloaded the last of the dishes piled high with grilled bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, and scrambled eggs onto the Germans’ table, Grace glanced across once more and hoped that Antonia hadn’t come to try to stir up trouble. Her own tentative friendship with Tessa was enormously precious to her, she adored her little half sister Olivia, and since Ross and Tessa had announced their marriage plans, Ross had been a changed person. Grace’s daydreams now revolved hopefully around the idea that one day she would finally be able to pluck up the courage to tell Tessa who she really was, and that she would be welcomed with joy and delight into the glamorous, loving, and infinitely exciting Monahan family.
Recalling now the events of last Christmas, when Antonia had introduced herself to Tessa and had attempted to sabotage her relationship with Ross, Grace wondered whether she should find him now and warn him that Antonia was here. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the familiar roar of his car’s engine and a couple of seconds later saw the gleaming white Mercedes snake off down the drive toward the main road.
At that moment Antonia raised her hand, gesturing for attention, and Grace realized that she would have to do the honors herself.
“Coffee please,” said Antonia, her face shielded behind huge dark glasses, her expression toneless. Grace wasn’t the only one whose ears were attuned to the sound of that particular engine, and although Antonia hadn’t deliberately come here this morning in the hope of seeing Ross, her stomach curled in disappointment as she realized that subconsciously that was exactly what she had wanted.
Never mind, she consoled herself as the waitress before her fumbled in her skirt pocket for an order pad. Marriage wasn’t the end of the world. As soon as the novelty wore off, Ross would come back to her.
“Just coffee,” she repeated with exaggerated patience as Grace stood, pencil poised, before her. What was this girl anyway, a half-wit?
“Gosh, sorry. We’ve all been so busy with the preparations for Ross’s wedding,” said Grace cheerfully, “that I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. There’s so much to do and everyone’s so excited.”
“Mmm,” said Antonia, glancing at her own wedding ring. “Well, weddings are exciting. They have to be, to make up for all that boredom later on.”
“Oh, Tessa and Ross won’t be bored,” declared Grace stoutly, and Antonia hid a smile. Ross certainly wouldn’t be bored if she had anything to do with it. “They really are wonderfully suited,” continued Grace, seizing her chance. “I’ve never seen Ross so happy, and I just know that they’re going to have a perfect marriage. He’s changed,” she added meaningfully, her cheeks pink with her own daring, “and now that he’s finally fallen in love with someone, he’s going to make sure he keeps her forever, and—”
“Reading too many cheap romantic novels can seriously damage your health,” snapped Antonia, provoked beyond endurance and suppressing a wild urge to slap the girl’s stupid little face. Rising abruptly from her seat she added, “Cancel that coffee.”
“Good,” whispered Grace triumphantly as she watched Antonia leave, “because we don’t need your kind at this hotel.” And one day, one day, she would tell Ross of the part she had played in ensuring that his wedding proceeded without a hitch.
• • •
A notorious law unto themselves, journalists have always taken great pride in their ability to make an impact.
Sadie Labelle, being no exception, was particularly pleased with her article, published on the eve of Ross Monahan’s wedding.
As a powerful Fleet Street journalist, she was accustomed to respect from people far more important than Tessa Duvall, and the girl’s obvious disinterest, not to mention her flippancy, had needled her beyond belief.
But, as Ross had warned Tessa, nobody needled Sadie Labelle and got away with it, and this time the woman famous for her lack of subtlety had really gone to town. “I don’t make a habit of interviewing noncelebrities,” began the opening paragraph, and Holly, who had crawled back into bed with a mug of tea, a mild hangover, and the morning paper, experienced a crawling unease. “But since this particular noncelebrity is Tessa Duvall, the soon-to-be wife of the wonderfully wicked Ross Monahan, I was persuaded to meet her.
“And a very educational meeting it was too. Why, I wondered, should an eminently eligible man like Ross want to marry an unknown, unsmiling artist whose talent for small talk is limited and whose interest in meeting this humble journalist was on a par with her former financial standing—zilch?
“But Ms. Duvall is a clever girl and the answer, of course, is that she caught him. And this is where I’d like to draw her tactics to the attention of single, successful men everywhere. During the course of our interview she told me a fib or two, and I don’t imagine they were the first of her young life. But I’d like to point out to Ms. Duvall and those women who would seek to emulate her that single, successful men eventually see through such ploys. If Tessa truly believes that she has hooked her man for life, then I beg her to think again…”
There was more of the same, but Holly had already snatched up the phone and punched out the number of The Grange. Moments later, she reached Max.
“Oh, Max, for heaven’s sake. Don’t let—”
“Tessa see the paper,” he intercepted swiftly, knowing what Holly was like when she switched into gabble-mode. “It’s OK, she�
��s already seen it. She laughed.”
Holly sank back against the pillows, deflated but still outraged. “She really laughed? But it’s so nasty! Is she going to sue?”
“No, of course not. You know Tessa, she’s not going to let a little thing like that bother her. And she’s never been one to care too much about what other people think of her, has she?” Max smiled as he spoke, recalling the time when she had tipped a bottle of rather good red wine down his trousers. Holly, however, was less convinced.
“Sometimes people pretend not to care,” she said, crumpling up the offending article and tossing it in the direction of her wastepaper basket. Since her aim, however, hadn’t improved with age, it landed instead in the wide brim of the hat she would be wearing at tomorrow’s wedding. “But deep down they’re still hurt.” The comment, she felt, was doubly apt; hopefully it would make Max think twice about their own relationship. It was about time he realized that she was more than an endless sheet of blotting paper for his insults.
“Sometimes that is the case,” agreed Max, who realized exactly what she was up to. “On the other hand,” he added, because baiting Holly was something he could never resist, “some people just aren’t happy unless they are being hurt.”
• • •
The newspaper article had hurt Tessa, of course it had, but she had managed to persuade herself that it really didn’t matter, and she’d also done a pretty good job of concealing her true feelings.
She’d needed to as well, in order to calm down her furious future husband, who had called Sadie Labelle every ghastly name under the sun and threatened to sue her for every penny she’d ever earned. It had taken quite a time to reassure him, and Tessa had been more than a little relieved when she’d finally managed to persuade him to drive into Bath and pick up a couple of extra cases of champagne.
“Don’t let it bother you,” she’d told him as she kissed him good-bye.
