by Jessica Hart
His fingers were warm through the sheer material, and every nerve in Freya’s body jumped at the electricity of his touch, while desire shuddered slowly down her spine and clenched her jaw.
Dumb with longing, she gazed into Max’s eyes, unable to speak or even to move while his hand lingered on her arm, his fingers circling almost absently over the chiffon, as if exploring the contrast between the silky softness of the stole and the hardness of the seed pearls threaded through it and the smooth warmth of her flesh.
Then he seemed to realise what he was doing and jerked his hand away. Clearing his throat, he made a show of looking at his watch. ‘They must be ready for us now.’
He drew a breath that made Freya afraid he was having to steel himself before he reached for her hand. ‘This is the last hurdle,’ he promised. ‘Don’t forget to smile.’
She bared her teeth nervously. ‘Like this?’ she asked, trying to make a joke of it.
‘Like you were smiling before,’ said Max, and his hand tightened around hers.
Freya could feel the strength of his clasp seeping through her. Her heart warmed, lifted, and her uncertainty evaporated. He was there, he was touching her. Hadn’t she already decided that was enough for now? She smiled again, naturally this time.
‘Let’s go, then.’
Hand in hand, they walked out into the sunshine. After the dimness of the interior, they paused, blinking at the top of the steps, while their eyes adjusted to the light, and then they could see their friends waiting for them, cheering and clapping.
Lucy and Kate threw confetti enthusiastically as they came down the steps, and the next minute Freya found herself being hugged and kissed all round. Borne along on a tide of affection and excitement, she forgot that this was all part of the pretence, forgot the passers-by who were frankly staring, smiling or eyeing her dress critically.
She wasn’t even aware of the photographer who was the reason for it all until Emma pushed her way back into the excited group.
‘Jake wonders if he could take some pictures of you and Freya alone,’ she said to Max.
Max opened his mouth to reply, but Lucy was too quick for him. ‘Why don’t you come back with us?’ she suggested. ‘It’s such a beautiful day that we’ll be able to sit out in the garden, and I’ve got some roses that would make a lovely backdrop to the photos.’
‘What did you say that for?’ Max demanded, dropping Freya’s hand as Emma went off to confer with the photographer. ‘They would have been quite happy with a few more shots here.’
‘I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make the garden look nice,’ his sister said, unrepentant. ‘I don’t care about you, but I want to see my roses in the magazine! Anyway, Kate agrees with me that it would seem more convincing if we invited them back with us.’
Max set his jaw stubbornly. ‘We don’t need to convince them any more.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Pel put in. ‘While we were waiting for you to come out, that Emma was asking all sorts of questions about why there were only six of us here.’
‘I sometimes wonder if we’re ever going to get to the end of this,’ sighed Max.
‘It will be all right once we’re on the plane,’ said Freya, wishing that he would take her hand again. She felt lopsided and vulnerable without him holding her now. ‘Even Dream Wedding isn’t going to follow us all the way to Africa, surely?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Max austerely, ‘or the whole exercise will have been a complete waste of time for both of us!’
‘Oh, stop grumbling!’ said Lucy. ‘Everything’s going perfectly.’
It was a perfect day for a wedding. The sky was bright and blue with a few streaks of high cloud and the lightest of breezes stirred their hair. The roses tumbling over Lucy’s fence were in full bloom, their fragrance rich and sweet in the warm air.
Freya caught her breath when she saw how much trouble her friends had been to. Under a huge parasol, a round table was laid for eight and decorated with the palest pink napkins, clusters of rosebuds and tiny tea lights. Tubs of flowers stood by the garden door and Steve had obviously been delegated to mow the lawn that morning, as the smell of cut grass drifted still and mingled with the roses.
Lucy was delighted at Freya’s reaction. ‘I’ve got a cake for later, too,’ she said, ‘although I’m hoping Emma and Jake will have gone by then. I haven’t got enough salmon for them as well.’
Emma was impressed by the garden, too. ‘We must have some shots of you all at the table, but first, could we have Max and Freya in front of the roses over there?’
‘Max, put your arm around Freya,’ the photographer instructed. ‘And now, if you could smile at each other…yes, that’s perfect!’
Freya and Max posed obediently while he clicked away. Steve had opened some champagne, and the others were having a much better time than they were, she reflected, judging by the amount of laughter in the background.
‘Surely he’s got enough pictures by now,’ Max muttered out of the side of his mouth as they took up another romantic position.
‘Just one or two more,’ said Emma brightly as if she had heard him. ‘Jake, what do you think about having them kissing?’
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Jake. ‘A kiss would be great.’
There was a tiny pause.
‘Here we go again,’ said Freya, trying to make light of it. ‘Never mind, it’ll be the last time.’
‘Yes,’ Max agreed in a strange voice. ‘The last time. We’d better make it a good one for them, then, hadn’t we?’
Ignoring Jake’s instruction to turn towards the camera, Max drew her towards him, and Freya went, unresisting.
This might be her last chance to kiss him, she thought in sudden panic, and the thought was enough to make her lift her hands to his shoulders, and when his lips came down on hers, she kissed him back, a long, deep kiss that went on and on. Eager as she was, Freya was unprepared for the way it took on a will of its own, sweeping them up and bearing them along on a tide so powerful that she couldn’t have broken away even if she had tried.
Not that she did.
Her lips were made for Max’s, his arms were made to hold her. It was like coming home after a long journey. When he gathered her closer, she melted into him, sliding her arms around his neck, adrift in a golden haze of enchantment. Kissing him, being kissed by him, Freya lost all sense of time and space. She was swirling slowly in honeyed delight, oblivious to anything but the touch of him and the taste of him and the wonderful, glorious, fabulous feeling of being in his arms.
Their lips parted to let her draw a breath with a murmur of pleasure, and she was tightening her arms, ready to sink back into him, when the sound of whistling and cheering filtered through the haze around them, and to her intense disappointment, Max lifted his head.
They both turned to see their friends ranged around them, grinning, while Emma, less impressed, was looking at her watch.
‘We’ve just got time for a few of you all at the table, and then we’ll have to go.’
Max released Freya very carefully, and she stood stock still, afraid to move in case she simply fell apart without his support. She felt boneless, flabby and fragile at the same time, as if the tiniest touch would shatter her into a very nasty mess all over Lucy’s garden.
‘Over here, Freya!’
Lucy was waving, smirking, and somehow Freya managed to put one foot in front of the other and get herself over to the table where they were all grinning a little too knowingly.
Max pulled out a chair for her and her knees were trembling so much from the effort of keeping upright that she practically fell into it.
‘Have some champagne,’ said Steve, handing her a glass.
Freya gulped at it gratefully. ‘I’ll have another,’ she said, holding out her empty glass for a refill.
Steve grinned. ‘You look like you need it!’
She did. Her heart was booming, her body thumping. Freya concentrated fiercely on watching the b
ubbles drifting lazily upwards in her glass and on taking slow, even breaths.
On trying not to notice Max sitting still and centred beside her, not touching her.
She must have smiled mechanically while Jake took a final few pictures, but everything seemed to be happening at a great distance, and the first she was really aware of it was when she realised that Emma was saying goodbye.
‘We were hoping to have a picture of the two of you at the airport, about to leave on the honeymoon you’ve won,’ Emma said regretfully, ‘but unfortunately we haven’t got a photographer free.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Freya. That seemed safe enough.
‘Perhaps you could send us a photograph of you both in Mbanazere?’ Emma suggested. ‘It would make a nice follow-up piece.’
At this rate, they would be committed to Dream Wedding for the rest of their lives, thought Freya wildly. The magazine would be ‘following up’ their first baby, and where were they going to find one of those? Then there would be christenings, their daughter’s wedding…perhaps in twenty-five years time they would have to reassemble, complete with a make-believe family, to have their supposed silver wedding celebrations photographed for a follow-up piece!
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to do that,’ Max said calmly, shaking Emma’s hand in what Freya hoped was an attempt to pre-empt another kiss.
There was a burst of laughter the moment Emma and the photographer had gone. ‘We did it! We did it!’ shouted Lucy, coming back from waving them off. ‘Wasn’t it brilliant?’
Her excitement was infectious. Freya forced herself to smile and pretend that she shared their good spirits, but inwardly she was still trembling from the kiss. She didn’t look at Max, but she was achingly aware of him next to her. All she wanted was for him to take her home, alone, and kiss her again, and she took another slug of champagne to quell the longing for him.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow it will just be the two of us.
CHAPTER TEN
LUCY had prepared poached salmon with dill sauce and tiny new potatoes, followed by what she called a wedding cake, but which was in fact more a sinfully indulgent assembly of strawberries and chocolate and cream. They sat around the table all afternoon, exchanging accounts of what they had told Emma about Max and Freya’s supposed romance.
‘I said I knew that they were always meant for each other,’ Lucy declared.
‘Oh, I said it was a complete surprise!’ said Steve.
‘I said it was too Pride and Prejudice for words,’ Pel put in. ‘I’ve always thought of you as a bit of Mr Darcy figure, Max. By rights you should be sitting over in the corner refusing to talk to any of us.’
‘Yes, and maybe you’ll discover that he’s actually quite nice and has a fabulous estate in Mbanazere, Freya, and then you can fall in love with him after all,’ Kate suggested.
Max smiled briefly. ‘I’m afraid all I’ve got in Mbanazere is a Jeep and my surveying equipment,’ he said.
Freya kept her own smile on with an effort, but her jaw was beginning to ache. Max looked as cool and as calm as ever. His insides weren’t churning like hers; his senses weren’t shrieking with the longing to reach out and touch him.
She watched him lift his glass, and couldn’t drag her eyes away from the brown fingers curled around the stem. He had such strong, sure hands. She thought about the way they had moved over her body all those years ago, unlocking feelings she hadn’t even known she had, and her stomach somersaulted with the memory.
‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Max, evidently deciding that it was time to change the subject. ‘To Kate and John, who really are getting married,’ he said evenly. ‘Thank you for coming today, and we look forward to a proper wedding!’
‘To Kate and John!’ They all raised their glasses and drank.
‘Thank you,’ said John, who after his earlier confusion had entered into the spirit of the occasion with gusto. ‘We just hope our wedding is as much fun as this one!’ He glanced at Kate. ‘We’d like to propose a toast too, to Lucy and Steve, for this wonderful meal.’
‘And this wonderful champagne!’ Kate added.
Freya lifted her glass gamely.
‘To Lucy and Steve!’
Lucy was on her feet now. ‘To Pel and Marco, for getting us all to the church on time!’
‘And to Freya and Max, of course,’ said Marco when they had all drunk again. ‘For giving us a reason to be here.’
‘Let’s all drink to love,’ Pel suggested, gesturing expansively.
‘To love!’ they chorused.
Freya picked up her own glass and drained it defiantly. ‘To love!’ she declared.
They sat on until the hot afternoon faded to dusk. Lucy lit candles and they opened more champagne. Freya found that it helped. She had got over that sick, giddy feeling, and was filled with exhilaration instead.
Why had she been upset earlier? she wondered muzzily. She was so lucky to be sitting in this beautiful garden on such a perfect night, surrounded by her friends, with Max beside her. Her smile broadened. Everything was going to be fine.
The more champagne she drank, the more cheerful she got. Anything anyone said was suddenly wildly funny, and she laughed until her sides ached and she had to wipe the mascara from underneath her eyes. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, in fact, when she peered blearily into her glass.
‘My glass is empty,’ she announced.
‘You’ve had enough,’ said Max, removing the bottle firmly out of her reach. ‘You’ve got to get up at six tomorrow morning.’
‘I don’t care…’ Freya waved expansively around the table. ‘Morshampagne!’
‘I’ll call for a taxi,’ said Max in an undertone to Steve. ‘I’ll never get her home on the tube like this.’
When the taxi arrived, it had to wait with its meter ticking, while Freya said goodbye and insisted on telling everyone how much she loved them. ‘I love you, John!’ she cried, hugging him, and then tripping on her way to throw her arms around Marco. ‘And Marco, I love you!’
‘Yes, yes, we know, you love everybody,’ said Max, taking her arm.
‘And you,’ said Freya. ‘I love you.’
‘Of course you do.’ Max sounded almost curt as he frog-marched her out to the taxi.
‘Do you love me?’ she demanded owlishly.
Opening the door, Max practically pushed her into the taxi.
‘Do you?’
His eyes flickered to her face and then away. ‘Yes,’ he said, with a resigned sigh. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Good.’ Satisfied, Freya settled back into her seat.
‘I should have taken you away hours ago,’ Max muttered when he had given the taxi driver instructions. ‘I’ll never get you up in time tomorrow.’
‘Yes, you will, ’cos we’re going to Africa!’ Unaware that she was swaying alarmingly, Freya beamed at him. ‘I can’t wait!’
His mouth twisted. ‘I know you can’t.’
‘I do love you, you know,’ she told him, rather spoiling the effect by slurring her words.
‘God, you’re completely pixillated!’
‘I’m not pishi—…pillsi—…I’m not!’ Freya managed indignantly, but as the taxi swung round the next corner she lost balance and flopped over onto Max.
Sighing, Max lowered her until she lay with her head in his lap. The blonde hair had largely escaped from its neat plait by now, and he smoothed it gently behind her ears.
‘I do,’ she insisted, closing her eyes.
‘I don’t think you should say anything else,’ said Max above her head. ‘You’ll just regret it in the morning.’
‘OK,’ said Freya sleepily. ‘But I really do.’
‘Thank you.’ Max tipped the porter who had carried their bags to the room and, as he closed the door behind him turned to look at Freya.
She was standing in the middle of the room, looking around her. A ceiling fan slapped lazily at the thick air, creating a faint stir, but it was still very
hot and the darkness seemed to press in at the screen windows. Freya could hear the harsh, ceaseless rasp of insects outside, and inside the ominous drone of a lone mosquito.
The room itself was plainly decorated, with whitewashed walls and a huge wooden bed with a mosquito net tied up in a knot above it. There was a bench and an Arab chest, ornately carved, and a door led into what was obviously a cool, tiled bathroom. But there were no fridges or mini bars or tea-making facilities.
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Freya huskily.
Going over to the French windows, she peered through them. In the darkness, all she could see was the pale gleam of frangipani blossoms beyond the verandah, but she was sure that above the croaking frogs and the squeaking, shrilling insects she could hear the murmur of the ocean.
‘You must be tired,’ said Max.
‘Yes, I am.’
It had been a long day since Max had woken her with a cup of tea and a couple of paracetamol at five a.m. Freya had discovered that she was still wearing her dress, and she’d stumbled, groaning, to the shower, before dressing very carefully to avoid any sudden movements to her thumping head.
She’d been very glad that she had packed her bag the morning before, and even gladder to leave all the arrangements to Max. He’d got them a taxi, checked their bags in at Heathrow and let her sit with her head in her hands while he’d kept an eye on the departure board. When their flight had been called, it was Max who’d steered her towards the gate and made sure she got on the right plane. Left to herself, Freya might well have ended up in Alaska.
She had slept for a while on the flight, waking to find her head on Max’s shoulder. Wordlessly, he’d handed her some more paracetamol.
Freya had felt a little better after the meal, but she’d been very conscious of Max sitting beside her. She’d begun to wish she could remember more about the evening before. She kept getting odd flashes of memory: a mass of tea lights flickering in the dusk, hugging Lucy goodbye, telling Max that she loved him…
