by Jane Linfoot
‘I’m sorry you feel like that.’
‘Jeez, Shea, and how the hell else would I feel?’ He was shaking his head at her vigorously, already backing towards the door. ‘I’m going for a run.’
She flew at him fiercely, shaking with anger now, using every ounce of self-control to stop herself from yelling like a banshee. ‘A run? Great! Why does that not surprise me? You get a problem, and all you can do is get the hell out of here!’ She flung open the door and stood back, making a sweeping flourish with her arm to wave him through. ‘Well off you go. I hope you enjoy yourself! The rest of us have work to do!’
* * *
Brando broke off the ear-splitting riff he was ripping out on his guitar, and looked up to see Shea staggering towards him across the ballroom, peering over a huge stack of flower boxes she was carrying.
‘Brando!’ Her initial surprise hardened. ‘I thought you were out throwing yourself off buildings.’
She had a good line in sarcasm, but he wasn’t going to rise to it.
‘It didn’t work, so I thought I’d come here. Pull in some guitar practice.’
It had been fourteen years since he’d picked one up, and it was proving a pretty effective way to rip the guts out of something. Just what the doctor ordered for when parkour failed him, and there was stuff he needed to get his head around.
So much stuff …
Last night, for the first time, Shea had been completely naked. For the first time she had trusted him to take control. Sweet heaven didn’t begin to cover it. And last night he’d finally admitted to himself there was more to this than lust. Not that he could ever allow himself more than lust. He understood that. Not him, with his jealous streak and the trouble it had caused in the past. And it wasn’t as if Shea was exactly up for anything emotional either. But somewhere in the dark, wakeful hours, he’d found some vague, distant hope, that maybe they could work this through. Then this morning’s dead husband grenade blew those hopes to pieces. And right now the sight of her sent a corkscrew of pain through his chest that made him want to explode.
As she wavered towards him he put down his guitar. Gritting his teeth, he reined in his wrath. As furious as he was, if he didn’t intervene here, she’d drop the lot.
‘Give those to me.’
The smell of fresh flowers hit him as he grappled the boxes from her. The faintest overlay of the scent of their early morning love making as she brushed against him made his face fold into a bitter grimace. He slammed the load onto a nearby table.
‘I’ve never heard you play the guitar?’ Her voice was small, tentative.
Jeez. And now she expected polite, detached conversation? He gave a dismissive snort, too angry to attempt a reply.
‘About before, in the office. Brando?’
So that’s what she was here for. Miss Shea-never-go-away would be, wouldn’t she?
She was a brave woman for daring to go there, given his whole being was imploding, and for some inexplicable reason he felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He had no idea how she had the nerve to stand in front of him now, all square and righteous.
‘What about it?’ He stood back, sniffed derisively, folded his arms. ‘This had better be good.’
‘It’s important that you understand – I didn’t intend to deceive you.’
‘What?’ He choked on that one. ‘Now I’ve heard it all.’
Watching her fiddle nervously with her lip, his head throbbed and he knew he should be cutting her more slack. He just couldn’t find a way right now.
‘I can’t believe you’re being like this Brando. I didn’t tell you I was a widow, because coming to Edgerton was the first chance I’d had to be somewhere where no-one knew about my past. You’ve no idea what bliss that was.’
He saw a smile play on her lips for a moment, and his heart, obviously still there despite illusions to the contrary, did a double basketball bounce off his ribs. Then her face fell, and made his stomach flip again, because now, although her voice was steady, she couldn’t make herself hold his gaze, and her eyes were full of tears.
‘For the last four years all anyone has seen me as is a widow. Most people crossed the street rather than face me. The friends who did see me skirted around, always afraid of upsetting me. I entered Bryony’s stupid competition to prove to them I was ready to be treated like a real person again. All I wanted was a way back into the real world. Since way before Greg died I’ve never been seen for myself. Was it such a crime to want to be treated as a normal twenty-four year old? Somehow I hoped you’d be different, that you’d understand. Do you realise, you haven’t even told me you’re sorry?’
He started as he heard her say ‘Greg’. The rest was a blur.
A dead husband with a name. That made him all the more real. He baulked at the way it made his ribs constrict, sending flame-thrower heat roaring through his chest. And as the heat seared through him, he nailed the true source of his rage. It wasn’t because Shea had hidden the truth. It wasn’t about that.
He was furious, because he was jealous. Jealous of her dead husband.
He shook his head. ‘Of course I’m sorry, sorry for your loss, sorry for not understanding, sorry for the whole damned mess. But I fail to see why you would keep something as important as that from me. I can see you wouldn’t tell me on day one, but somewhere down the line you could have said. Hell, you had every opportunity.’
He watched a look of wild guilt tear across her face, but when she spoke again her voice was chilled.
‘It had no place in our casual arrangement, the arrangement you wouldn’t even call a relationship, if you remember. Things were perfect as they were, you had no need to know.’
Did she just say perfect?
‘I’m not cross that you’re a widow. That damned wedding ring dangling from your neck, I should have guessed.’ He heard his own dismissive snort stretch into a hollow, bitter laugh. ‘But I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me, given what we shared.’
He let his gaze drop, knowing he was lying now. He couldn’t be more unhappy about her having a husband, even if he was dead. A living husband he could have dealt with, but a dead one was so much worse. A dead husband would never go away, would always be there to claim her love. With his track record of jealousy, he was not the guy to make that one work, when every time he had a fleeting thought about it he choked with rage.
‘You’re disappointed?’ Her voice had an incredulous note. ‘Well that makes two of us. And for the record, if I didn’t feel so guilty, I’d be bloody annoyed too.’
‘You know this changes everything?’ He stared at her stonily.
‘And that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. You saw me for myself, and that was special. I didn’t tell you about Greg, because I didn’t want that to change. All you’ll ever see now when you look at me will be a widow. Just like everyone else.’
Wrong. All I’ll ever see when I look at you now will be your dead husband. Guaranteed to drive a man crazy.
Get yourself out of that one, Marshall.
He wanted to pick up the guitar, and smash it to oblivion. Smash every chair in the place. Carry on smashing until the whole room was nothing more than a pile of splinters. But his limbs refused to move.
Her voice cut into his haze. ‘Don’t worry Brando, a couple of hours and I’ll be gone. I’d have left already, but Bryony rang and stopped me. Apparently it’s a huge deal for her.’ Her chin jutted. ‘And by the way, thanks Brando.’
No surprise that Bryony had already heard. Well done Mrs McCaul.
‘Thanks for what exactly?’ He flung the words at her like darts.
‘You made me come alive again, and you showed me I can move on with my life.’ She put her mouth close to his ear and breathed the words ‘Thanks for being bad with me, Brando.’
The knot in his stomach was flaming, but his blood ran glacial, freezing him to the spot.
For a moment he felt a flutter of warmth as her lips glanced across his chee
k, and then she melted away, leaving him with a fast fading scent of summer, and a chasm in his gut like he’d never felt before.
That was so like her. Saying thanks before she left.
Or saying thanks, before he left? Because leaving was exactly what he was going to do. Right now.
Oh, how well she knew him.
* * *
Shea, belting blindly away from the ballroom, smacked straight into Bryony, who looked exactly as she had on Skype, only eight inches taller.
‘Great, just the person I was looking for! Wonderful to meet you at last, Shea!’ Bryony thrust out her hand in greeting. ‘Bryony Marshall, in case you haven’t guessed already! Thanks so much for agreeing to stay on for the shoot, I’m so grateful, you’ve absolutely saved my life with that.’
And that was it. A moment later Bryony had dragged Shea into the whirl of her embrace, as if she’d known her forever, and was waltzing her towards the drawing room, chatting breathlessly as they went.
‘You’ve done so amazingly here, I want to squeeze you, most of all for taming Brando, that’s simply the best news ever – it’s such a pity Gloria won’t see this in the flesh, but she’s tied up presenting in Dublin, so we’re going to shoot the footage and she’ll add the voice-over later – the camera guys are arriving round lunchtime, but it’s obviously more than ready – I can’t believe what you’ve done, it all feels so different, like the house has sprung to life, and it’s all down to you – I’m so excited I can’t say.’
Shea’s head reeled as they entered the haven of the newly finished drawing room, but the respite was short-lived.
‘Wow, cool or what! Amazing work! Those funky sofas are so Brando – who’d have thought they’d look so at home next to the sash windows and the chandeliers – and the pale grey walls are a perfect complement – Brando must be over the moon.’
Bryony, the human dynamo. Impossible to resist, but despite her forceful approach, it was impossible not to be captivated by her gushing warmth and enthusiasm. Brando rarely mentioned Bryony without a desperate roll of his eyes and a grimace, and after five minutes in her company Shea understood why. The Skype chat they’d had before she came to Edgerton had given no clue to the enormity that was Bryony.
‘About Brando … ’ Shea wondered if she needed to elaborate, given the cryptic nature of her call to Bryony earlier, but Bryony’s reassuring hand landed heavily on her arm.
‘Mrs McCaul gave me all the details when she rang to alert me.’ She pushed artfully dishevelled blond hair behind her ear. ‘Don’t worry, Brando will get over it. It was always going to come as a shock, but he had to find out you’re a widow at some stage, and he wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t adore you. He just needs time to get used to the idea, and he’ll be fine.’
Brando adoring her? Shea’s eyes sprung wide open at the very idea. Jelly beans! She dragged in an enormous breath, then shook her head, in perplexed desperation.
‘No really, it’s not like that … ’
Was it?
What they shared last night, this morning even, had been scarily different. Her knees weakened.
Adoring? She couldn’t go there.
She slammed a mental door on that one, hard and fast.
‘You can’t fool me. Look at what you’ve managed to get him to do here, all without protest, by all accounts. Plus you got him into bed, and I’m only referring to sleep here, not anything else. Any woman who managed to do that gets my whole-hearted respect – it can’t have been easy. I know Brando, remember? He’s stubborn as a mule, his own worst enemy, but you have the ability to persuade him to do what’s good for him. I even heard him playing his guitar back there, and I’d never have believed that would happen, ever. It’s one heck of an achievement so don’t knock it!’
Shea, flinching at the mention of guitar playing, watched Bryony’s face break into a wide, advert-perfect smile, which would have been totally intimidating on anyone less nice, and realised she wasn’t going to get a word in edgeways.
‘When I think how he cursed Gloria and her wife-on-a-postcard competition, but look what it’s done for him. He’s even spoken to our mother, and I’m darned sure he didn’t do that on his own.’
‘I knew he’d rung, but he didn’t say they’d spoken.’
Bryony gave a long, despairing grunt. ‘He wouldn’t. This is Brando we’re talking about, remember.’
If Shea hadn’t felt so miserable she’d have had to smile at the way Bryony pulled a face, and rolled her eyes, just like Brando did whenever he talked about her. ‘How are they getting on?’
‘Well, it’s baby steps on both sides. But they’ll get there – thanks to you.’
Shea sensed that Bryony was about to pause for breath, and broke in, desperate to put her contribution into perspective, to set Bryony straight once and for all.
‘What I’ve helped with at Edgerton, it’s not that big a deal. It’s only a few rooms. A sofa here, a few cushions there. Definitely nothing more. And a lorry load of flowers, of course. It’s the flowers that make all the difference.’
Because that’s what she was here for, and that’s all she could cope with. It was all very well playing at being someone she wasn’t, when she knew there weren’t going to be any consequences. Being bad was great when you were someone else, and you knew it was going to end.
When you were in control.
Except last night she hadn’t been. Not at all. And the thought of that still made her panic.
Bryony looked at her aghast, staring in a sudden, uncharacteristic silence. She chewed her thumb for a second, giving Shea a long, searching, quizzical glance, and when she finally spoke, her voice was low and disbelieving.
‘Oh, my. You really don’t get it do you?’
‘What don’t I get?’ She kept her face straight, her expression impassive, even though she was dying inside. If only …
Bryony flashed her another radiant beam, grasped her elbow, steered her towards the door, and answered airily.
‘It doesn’t matter for now. Let’s go and finish the flowers before the film guys arrive.’
* * *
‘Well, that went brilliantly. Thanks so much for all your help, Shea, we got some great shots of you in the newly done rooms. The revisit programme covers the whole series, so it’s going to be a whistlestop feature of Edgerton, about seven minutes of footage from before and after. As for Brando, when I get my hands on him, I will personally throttle him for running out on this!’
Shea’s felt her stomach shrivel with guilt. ‘It was fine. I’m sure they’ll be able to make it look as if he was here, use film from before or something.’
She knew Brando’s flight was down to their discussion in the ballroom, and although she wanted to leap in and defend him, taking responsibility would only make their entanglement seem more significant than it was.
‘That’s not the point!’ Bryony’s eyes flashed in annoyance. ‘I know there’s no love lost between him and Gloria, but I was counting on him to be here, and he knew that.’
Another wave of guilt shuddered through Shea, because Brando leaving had wiped out her problems with a stroke. This way there would be no goodbyes, no more worrying she was liking him too much. For a horrible moment when she woke this morning she’d thought she might be caring for him. Falling for him even. Surely she’d never have let that happen? But now he was gone – problem over – and by leaving, he’d only proven he was what she’d always thought. She hadn’t hoped for any more, couldn’t have coped if there had been more. And if a tiny part of her wanted more, she stamped on it hard. Because every time she thought about how she might have cared, she got a new squeeze of guilt about Greg, and that was a whole new ballgame which was best avoided.
Brando was always going to leave, and she’d always known that. It was the only reason she’d begun this in the first place. She couldn’t have handled it any other way. At least now he’d gone she couldn’t look at him to test how she felt. She wasn’t sure any such t
est would have stood up to scrutiny. It was definitely better like this.
‘So, it’s all settled that you’re staying until the end of the week to tie up the loose ends? Then we can get everyone who’s been helping to come to a thank you party in the ballroom and we can all watch the programme together when it goes out next Sunday evening.’
Shea reeled. She’d been set on leaving, but she’d caved and agreed to stay on, in the face of Bryony’s steam-roller style persuasion.
‘Great! And after that I’m straight back to Manchester, to sort out a Mr and Mrs Cavanagh, who are downsizing to retirement accommodation.’ Shea tried to beam enthusiastically at Bryony, tried to feel happy about going back to be with her friends and family, but as she thought of waking up back in her own bed instead of in Brando’s at Edgerton, her smile failed miserably.
* * *
Champagne, canapés, big screens, invitations …
The to-do lists Bryony e-mailed to Shea on Monday were incessant and exhaustive, but Shea was grateful to have a stack of work to occupy her and threw herself headlong into it.
Music system, party tunes, balloons …
Tuesday, and still no word from Brando, though realistically she knew better than to expect it. A newsy e-mail or a chatty phone-call would hardly be his style. She knew that hoping for either was ridiculous after the rage he’d been in before he left, but she still couldn’t stop her heart lurching at every ping of her inbox. She soldiered on with each new set of challenges, but somewhere down the line, her get up and go had got up and gone.
Celebration cupcake tower, napkins, bunting, new dress …
By Wednesday she’d become used to the constant ache in the pit of her stomach and although she refused to think about Brando, she had to admit through gritted teeth that despite the workload, which would usually have kept her ecstatic all week, without him, life at Edgerton had lost its zing.
She preferred too, to forget that deep in her wardrobe she had an old t-shirt of Brando’s, scrunched up, stuffed under her stilettos. And she hated that each night, the only way she could sleep was if she took it out, and buried her face in it.
