by Susan Lewis
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his face. ‘You’re not coming down with something, are you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he answered, loosening his tie.
When they arrived at the Ritz their table was ready, set out in a private dining-room which was furnished with all the inherent elegance the hotel was famous for. Smartly uniformed waiters were there to offer champagne and canapés while the maître d’ made sure all the guests were shown straight through. Rhiannon’s father and his young wife were the last to arrive, having taken a wrong turn at Hyde Park Corner. When they walked in the others were all laughing at something Christian, the best man, had said during a quick unofficial toast while Naomi, Oliver’s secretary, scowled at Oliver in an effort to will his eyes to hers.
With a quick shake of his head, as though telling her that now was not the time, Oliver turned to welcome his new father-in-law.
‘Here, this is a bit of all right, innit?’ Moira, Rhiannon’s stepmother, declared before Oliver could speak.
Unable to stop herself Rhiannon cringed, knowing that she would never be able to think of the brash and busty twenty-four-year-old blonde with her thick West Country accent and bursting seams as any kind of relative of hers.
‘Yeah, looks like we’re in for a good bit of grub here,’ Rhiannon’s father replied in his equally broad West Country accent, while rubbing his hands gleefully together. ‘Got a hole in my belly that’s making it think me throat’s been cut,’ he added, grinning at the others in full expectation of their laughter. With his wiry grey hair, drinker’s nose and tobacco-stained teeth it wasn’t hard to work out that he was not the parent Rhiannon resembled.
‘Champagne, Mr Edwardes?’ Oliver said, bringing George Edwardes’s attention to the waiter who was hovering at his elbow.
‘George! Call me George, son,’ George boomed, slapping Oliver on the back. ‘And yeah, I’ll take a drop of the fizzy stuff. What about you, Moira? Are you going to have some?’
“Course,’ she giggled. ‘When have you ever known me turn down champagne?’
‘When have I ever known you to turn down a drink, full stop,’ George guffawed, turning again to the others and winking like a holiday camp compère.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Rhiannon muttered in Lizzy’s ear. ‘We haven’t even sat down yet. And stop laughing, will you, it’ll only encourage them.’
‘I’d forgotten Oliver was meeting them for the first time,’ Lizzy whispered behind her champagne glass. ‘Oh God, it’s such a treat. Look at him, he’s completely out of his depth and you, you should see your face, it’s a right picture, it is.’ She concluded in such an hilarious West Country voice that Rhiannon couldn’t help but laugh.
‘It’s terrible to be ashamed of your parents, I know,’ she confessed, ‘but wouldn’t you be, if you were me? Oh my God, what’s he doing now? No, he’s not going to make a speech! Lizzy stop him. Do something! Dad! No, we’re all about to . . .’
‘Button it up there, girl,’ George interrupted. ‘I just wants to say a few words ‘fore we d’sit down. Go and stand with your new wife there, boy,’ he instructed Oliver. ‘That’s right, yeah, put your arm round her. Look good together, don’t they?’ he demanded of the others, who were clearly as bemused as Rhiannon had dreaded they would be.
Oliver gave her a comforting squeeze, then his eyes shot to the door as a waiter came in with the hors d’oeuvres. Rhiannon gestured for the waiter to continue, hoping that the laying down of the first course would keep her father’s speech short and her embarrassment to a degree marginally below heatstroke.
‘Well, I just want to say’, George began, motioning for the champagne waiter to refill his glass to the brim, ‘that I’m very happy you could all come here today.’ He paused. ‘Especially Oliver.’
As Rhiannon’s eyes closed she felt Lizzy and Jolene shake with laughter beside her.
‘I expect you all know what happened the last time,’ he went on, ‘but we don’t want to dwell on that now, do we; we’ll just be thankful that Oliver turned up, eh?’
The dawning discomfort in the room didn’t even dent the broadness of his smile. ‘So,’ he continued after a mercifully silent slurp of champagne. ‘Our Rhiannon might be full of airs and graces now that she’s a big-time producer, but that don’t carry no weight with me. She’s still my daughter and always will be. Not that I’m not proud of her, mind you. And her mother would be too, if her mother was here to see her today. She was the apple of her mother’s eye, she was, and it was thanks to her mother that she got that fancy Welsh name of hers and the fancy education too, because I’m just a humble milkman – proud of it, mind you – but we milkmen don’t earn the kind of brass it takes to send our kids to schools like our Rhiannon went to. We paid for that out of her mother’s insurance, according to her mother’s wishes.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘And I just thank God that her poor mother didn’t live to see what happened the last time our Rhiannon tried to get married, ’cos she’d have turned in her grave with shame.’
Apparently blissfully unaware of the reaction to his remarks he pressed on unashamedly, ‘’Course we don’t see all that much of each other now. Our Rhiannon’s too busy and I got meself a new family to look after these days. Two boys we got, five and three. Little buggers, the pair of ’em. Staying with their gran today. She’s as good as gold with ’em. What?’ He looked down at Moira who had just nudged him.
‘They don’t want to hear about that,’ she hissed, blushing as she glanced towards the mesmerized ensemble.
‘No? No, well, like I was saying, we haven’t been all that close these past few years, me and our Rhiannon, but I’m still her father and I haven’t forgotten that. And now you’re married there’s no reason for you not to come home a bit more often, my girl. No one’s talking about you any more and all the neighbours are dying to meet the bloke you’re finally getting married to . . .’
‘And I’m looking forward to meeting them too,’ Oliver interrupted. ‘And rest assured, we’ll be visiting as often as we can.’ His smile was full of charm. ‘Thank you very much for your speech and for making the journey up to London today,’ he went on. ‘Rhiannon and I both deeply appreciate it and we both hope you’re going to enjoy your lunch. Now, I guess we’re all getting a bit peckish, so if everyone would like to take a seat?’
‘I haven’t quite finished yet, son,’ George Edwardes bristled.
Oliver’s expression was mild as he turned to look at him, but it was clear to everyone present, if not to George, that he wasn’t going to tolerate any more snipes at Rhiannon about what had happened in the past. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely.
Disgruntled and thrown off track Edwardes drained his glass, then stuck it out to be refilled. ‘I just wanted to say’, he grunted, ‘that I wish you and Rhiannon every happiness in your married life and that I hope you intend to look after her a bit better than I did.’
Oliver was about to respond to this surprisingly touching admission when Edwardes cut him off.
‘Like I said before, at least you managed to turn up,’ he grinned, ‘which has to be a good start if nothing else.’
‘To Mr and Mrs Maguire,’ Lizzy cried, raising her glass.
‘Mr and Mrs Maguire,’ everyone chorused.
‘Priceless, the man’s simply priceless,’ Jolene muttered to Lizzy. ‘Tell me, does he know anything about me?’ he added, fluttering his inch-long eyelashes.
‘Like what?’ Lizzy replied.
Jolene bared his teeth in a wicked smile. ‘Like gender,’ he said.
Lizzy laughed. ‘I doubt it,’ she said.
‘Sublime,’ Jolene murmured, and with an outlandish wiggle of his hips he sauntered over to where George Edwardes had just sat down at the table and plonked himself in the next chair.
Three hours later, leaving her father deeply infatuated with the most exotic creature he had ever encountered and her stepmother sagging indecor
ously in her chair, Rhiannon followed Oliver to the door where they both turned back to make their final farewells.
Throughout the lunch, despite the good time everyone else seemed to be having, Oliver’s tension had almost reached breaking point. That Rhiannon’s father could have caused her the embarrassment he had in his speech and then to compound matters by becoming so drunk, had made him so angry that it had been all he could do to stop himself physically assaulting the man. And that Jolene had managed to work his hand along the old boy’s thigh and on to his crotch wasn’t something Oliver found particularly funny even though the bastard deserved it. He doubted Rhiannon had spotted it, though he knew for a fact that everyone else around the table had and it wasn’t something Oliver was in the least bit pleased about happening at his wedding. Except maybe he should be thankful for small mercies, since a whole lot more could have gone wrong than a few offended sensibilities and a duplicitous fondle.
He was in danger now of his fear controlling him rather than him controlling it. That he and Rhiannon had managed to get this far through the day without any sign of Straussen or his henchmen was, Oliver knew, a Straussen-designed miracle intended to serve just the purpose it had – to intensify terror. Never strike when it’s expected could be Theo Straussen’s motto. Probably was, for all Oliver knew.
Rhiannon had no knowledge of the danger they were both now facing, it certainly wasn’t something Oliver was prepared to make her a wedding gift of. Besides, he could be wrong. It could be that Theo Straussen and his thugs were still in New York and had no intention of joining the party. It could also be that somewhere in the world three-carat diamonds grew on three-foot trees.
‘Thank God that’s over,’ Rhiannon muttered as they walked out of the Ritz and into the blazing sunshine that was baking Piccadilly.
Oliver turned to look at her, his eyes dancing with humour that she should have made such a remark about their wedding day.
‘He’s a nightmare,’ Rhiannon grumbled as their Mercedes drew up outside the hotel. ‘Either that, or I’m a snob.’
‘A bit of both, I reckon,’ Oliver teased, holding the car door open for her to get in first. ‘Back to Olympia as fast as you can,’ he told the driver, glancing at his watch as he slammed the door closed. ‘Providing the traffic’s not too bad we should have about an hour before we leave for the airport,’ he said to Rhiannon, trying to will the dread from his mind of what they might find when they returned to the flat.
‘I can’t imagine how we’re going to fill it,’ Rhiannon remarked drily. ‘Incidently, I should come clean here, I know where we’re going. The tickets turned up at the flat last Friday while you were in New York.’
Frowning, he said, ‘What tickets?’
‘The air tickets, for our honeymoon,’ she laughed.
‘But how can they have turned up at the flat when they’re in my briefcase? I had them sent to the office over a week ago.’
Rhiannon’s curiosity mingled with her laughter. ‘So we’re not going to Marrakesh?’ she said.
His frown deepened as he shook his head incredulously. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, we are. But I don’t understand about these other tickets. They were in our names, I take it? I mean, we haven’t been sent someone else’s by mistake?’
‘No, they were definitely in our names.’
‘Can I use the phone?’ Oliver said, leaning towards the driver.
‘Sure.’ The driver passed the mobile over and accelerated through an amber light at the Knightsbridge junction with Brompton Road and Sloane Street. By the time they were passing the Albert Hall, Oliver had finished his call.
‘Well?’ Rhiannon prompted.
He shrugged. ‘It seems there was a mistake at the travel agent’s,’ he answered. ‘For some reason our tickets – the ones I have in my briefcase – got cancelled, then when they realized what they’d done they called the office to warn me and Naomi told them to send the reissued ones to the flat.’
‘You don’t seem happy with that explanation,’ Rhiannon said warily.
Again he shrugged. ‘No, I’m happy with it,’ he replied, ‘I just hope, after all the credit card business and everything else that’s been going on, that we’re not going to turn up at the airport and find the reissued tickets have been cancelled too.’
‘To be honest,’ Rhiannon said, linking her fingers through his, ‘I don’t really care where we spend our honeymoon as long as we spend it together.’
To her relief the smile returned to his face. ‘To be honest, neither do I,’ he said, squeezing her hand.
Twenty minutes later Rhiannon was reaching up to unpin her hat as Oliver followed her into the cramped and untidy bedroom of her basement flat. The unmade bed, half-packed suitcases and yards of strewn tissue paper that had protected her dress and hat were just as she’d left it, allowing them no room to make love, as they were both extremely eager to do.
‘Let’s go into the sitting-room,’ he suggested, kissing the back of her neck as she tossed her hat on the bed.
‘Mmm, OK,’ she murmured leaning back against him. ‘But undress me here.’
‘With pleasure,’ he smiled, and unfastening the hooks and eyes at the back of her collar he carefully lowered the zip.
As she stepped out of the dress he shrugged off his tailcoat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. ‘Oh Christ, just look at you,’ he groaned as she turned to face him in a transparent ivory body and gold high-heeled shoes.
‘I love you,’ she whispered, walking into his arms and unfastening his cravat as he kissed her.
‘I love you too,’ he said, sucking her lips between his as he tugged off his waistcoat and threw it on the bed. It was quickly followed by his starched, wing-tipped shirt and pin-striped trousers until, like her, he was completely naked. She was still in his arms, running her hands all over his body as he pressed his erection against her and pushed his tongue deep into her mouth.
Still holding each other, they walked into the sitting-room and laying her down on a sofa he began to make love to her. They were so lost in each other that neither of them noticed the giant bouquet of flowers in a cut-glass vase on the coffee table beside them, so neither of them knew that someone had entered the apartment while they were out, to leave the traditional token of congratulations on a wedding day. Not even when their passion was spent, as they lay on the floor waiting for their laboured breath to subside and the roses and carnations bowed over them, did they notice their gift.
In fact, an hour later, when Oliver carried their luggage out to the waiting Mercedes the flowers had still gone unnoticed – so too had the card that came with them.
Chapter 13
DESPITE ITS TWENTIETH-CENTURY lustre and sophistication the magnificent Mamounia Hotel, in the heart of the exotically strange and entrancing town of Marrakesh, could easily belong to a bygone era. With their embroidered red waistcoats, voluminous white breeches and the ubiquitous fez on their heads, the attendants might have stepped straight from the harems and inner sanctums of a Suleiman palace. And the vast marble pillars, shiny mosaic floors, expert marquetry and decorous indoor fountains turned the whole place into a breathtaking alchemy of Andalusian, Moroccan and artdeco splendour.
The Au Baldaquin suite, where Rhiannon and Oliver had spent the past twenty-four hours rolling around the taffeta-draped four-poster bed and listening to the dreamy sounds carrying on the breeze from the string quartet playing beside the pool, was le dernier cri in romance. Rose and peach pastel silks fell in opulent pleats over the pale linen walls and wide muslin-draped french windows opened out on to a large ornately carved mosaic balcony. An abundance of luscious white flowers had been placed around the suite and the exquisite Carrera marble bathroom basked in the subtle glow of muted ivory light.
Squinting against the dazzling sun as she stepped out on to the balcony, Rhiannon slipped on her sun-glasses to gaze down at the glittering blue pool with its island of palms and surrounding forest of lemon-and-white-striped parasols. The air was
perfumed with flowers; the sky was a perfect blue. Behind her Oliver stirred in his sleep and glancing back to see if he would wake, she twisted her hair from her neck and clipped it on the top of her head. Then smiling ruefully to herself, she wandered to the slender orange-beaded balustrades and let her eyes roam the vibrant colours and dense green foliage of the gardens and the shimmering silhouette of the Atlas mountains on the horizon.
The gastric affliction that had struck Oliver in the early hours was showing no sign of letting up and Rhiannon was undecided whether or not to call in a doctor. If he was still feverish and unable to keep anything down by the end of the day she guessed she would have to, despite the fact that he was insisting she didn’t.
Removing her bikini top, she massaged a lavish amount of cream into her faintly bronzing skin and settled down on one of the loungers to read. Every now and again she glanced at the narrow gold band on her left hand and felt her heart jump. It seemed incredible, yet she now knew the power of that gold band, for it made her feel so much closer to Oliver, so much more a part of his life than she had before, which was a wonderful discovery when she hadn’t been able to imagine them any closer than they already were.
In sickness and in health, she thought wryly to herself, as Oliver groaned and tossed and turned in the air-conditioned room behind her. Her heart went out to him in his misery and pain, for of all times to be stricken with the Moroccan version of Montezuma’s revenge a honeymoon had to be the most unfortunate.
At four o’clock, when he still hadn’t woken, she decided to go down for a swim. The string quartet was playing a mellowing medley of Twenties tunes at the far end of the pool, as she wound her way through the randomly placed sun loungers where the stupendously rich were tanning their sun-shrivelled bodies and the ever-hopefuls were glistening in oil. The haunting chant of the muezzin began warbling from the town’s minarets and smiling wryly to herself she realized that it was easy, in this safely cocooned paradise, to forget that beyond the high dusky-pink walls enclosing the hotel there was a whole other world. A world teeming with culturally disparate people whose flowing gallabiyahs and carelessly wound turbans fluttered through the packed and pungent lanes of the souks in a ceaseless current of colour and noise.
