by Jill Mansell
***
The preparations for the wedding were cranking into overdrive as Tara slipped away from the hotel. The rain had stopped but the grey clouds were as low as her spirits. Why hadn’t she taken Daisy’s advice in the first place and swapped shifts with one of the other chambermaids? Why couldn’t she just have resisted the urge to see Dominic again and stayed away? How, how could she have thought that surprising him on the morning of his wedding would be fun?
Disconsolately, Tara kicked her way through a pile of soggy dead leaves. There was no getting away from the truth; basically, she was as guilty as if she had hurled herself at Dominic and ripped his trousers down to his knees.
God, what a disastrous day.
***
Maggie Donovan stood at her kitchen window, a cheerful smile fixed to her face. As her lover reached the rickety wooden gate at the end of her back garden he turned, as he always did, and waved at her. Maggie, as she always did, waved back and thought how handsome he was, what a gorgeous smile he had, how lucky she was to have such a special man in her life and how—
Oh stop it, stop it. Maggie gave herself a mental slap around the face. You’re fantasizing again, making an idiot of yourself. Get a grip, woman. The very reason he’s using the back gate is so that no one will see him leaving your cottage. He’s smiling and waving goodbye because he’s just completed a satisfactory business transaction. And he isn’t your lover, he’s your client.
Maggie’s smile faded as she watched him slip away into the woods beyond her cottage. Very handy, those woods, enabling him to come and go without being observed by the rest of the village. She was under no illusions that if the trees hadn’t been there, their arrangement would never have come about.
And that was what it was, Maggie reminded herself. An arrangement, pure and simple. One that suited them both.
To prove it, she moved away from the kitchen window and crossed to the crowded oak dresser. Reaching into the blue and white china teapot on the second shelf, Maggie drew out the small roll of notes. There was no need to count it, she knew he had left her one hundred pounds. Because that was how much he always left.
She would love to be able to describe herself as a one-man woman, but that wasn’t true. Let’s face it, she was a one-client prostitute.
Maggie sighed. It wasn’t what she wanted to be, but what was the alternative? If she refused to take his money, he would no longer sleep with her. And she couldn’t bear to give him up. He was the highlight of her week. If she could have afforded it, she would have paid him to sleep with her.
But, Maggie reminded herself, she couldn’t afford it, and he knew that. It was why he gave her the money each week. And there was no denying it came in handy.
Tara had left one of her enameled bracelets on the dresser. Maggie picked it up and headed for the stairs. It was no good wishing things could be different, because they weren’t. She had to accept what she had and make the best of it. And since she was only a one-client prostitute, she also had plenty of work to be getting on with. Not to mention a bed to make.
Upstairs, Maggie put the bracelet back where it belonged in the jewelry box on Tara’s dressing table. The next moment, glancing out of the bedroom window, she let out an involuntary squeak of alarm. Tara was making her way down the High Street towards the cottage.
Oh good grief, what was she doing coming home at this time of day?
Like lightning, Maggie shot across the landing to her own bedroom, ripped off her dressing gown, and threw on a black sweater and jeans. In twenty seconds flat she remade the crumpled bed, flung open the curtains, and dragged a brush through her shoulder-length blonde hair. Grabbing the laundry basket, she hauled it downstairs. When the front door opened, she was on her knees in the kitchen frantically shoveling clothes into the washing machine.
Phew, that was close. The closest shave yet, thought Maggie with a shudder of relief. Imagine the horror if Tara had come back to the house ten minutes earlier. Or, worse still, twenty minutes.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Tara! Heavens, what’s the time?’ Feigning astonishment, Maggie sat back on her heels. ‘I thought you were on duty until six o’clock!’
‘Daisy sent me home.’ Tara flung herself onto one of the kitchen chairs and groaned loudly, far too wrapped up in her own guilt to notice her aunt’s. ‘You won’t believe what happened. Major disaster. Maggie, why do men do it? Why do we even bother with them? Not that you ever do bother with them,’ she amended, raking her fingers through her spiked-up hair. ‘And let me tell you, you have exactly the right idea. From now on, I swear to God, I’m going to take a leaf out of your book. No more being lied to and cheated on and treated like a puddle of sick. No men, no trouble. That’s it.’ Looking up in despair at her forty-five-year-old aunt, who had been divorced for the last seven years and now lived an idyllic, hassle-free, man-free life, she proclaimed vehemently, ‘From now on I’m going to be just like you.’
***
The wedding ceremony had gone ahead without a hitch. The bride had looked beautiful, the groom had repeated his vows as if he actually meant them. The hotel was wonderful, the best man’s speech had been brilliantly witty, and the food a triumph.
This was according to Sheila, one of the waitresses, who had been eavesdropping on the guests throughout the reception. Daisy, who had spent most of the afternoon in her office, said, ‘So they all seem happy.’
‘Couldn’t be better.’ Sheila gave her a motherly, reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you go and see for yourself?’
Because I might stab the bridegroom and the best man with that big silver knife they’re using to cut the cake, thought Daisy.
Then again, she had been in charge of making all the arrangements for the wedding. She should at least show her face.
Chapter 8
The wedding party was in full swing as Daisy pushed through the double doors. Outside it had grown dark, but here in the ballroom the chandeliers blazed, candles flickered on the tables around the edge of the room, and the dancing had begun.
Unsurprisingly, Hector was already there, swinging the radiant bride around the dance floor and making her laugh with his usual lavish compliments. Watching Annabel’s face light up and her elaborate dress swirl around her ankles, Daisy told herself that Tara had done the right thing. If everyone went around calling off weddings willy-nilly, simply because the groom was an untrustworthy little shit, well, there wouldn’t be a lot of married people around.
The band began to play ‘In The Mood.’ Annabel was claimed by some walrus-mustachioed elderly relative and Hector promptly swept Annabel’s mother onto the floor. In her vast purple outfit she looked like a hot-air balloon, but a delighted and deeply flattered hot-air balloon. Within seconds she was giggling like an overexcited schoolgirl at Hector’s flirtatious remarks, her purple sequined shoes a glittering blur as she jitterbugged merrily away.
‘If you like,’ a voice offered in Daisy’s ear, ‘we could dance together while you’re making your groveling apologies to me.’
It was Dev Tyzack, the expression in his eyes faintly mocking, his tone conversational. No longer sporting jeans and a polo shirt, he now wore a well-cut dark suit. He had loosened his tie and there was a faint peach-tinted lipstick mark on the collar of his white shirt.
Oh well, get it over with, thought Daisy. Being forced to be polite to people who didn’t deserve it was all part of the joys of hotel management. At least after today she’d never have to see him again.
‘I’m sorry. How could I ever have doubted you? Your friend Dominic did nothing wrong and my chambermaid was entirely to blame for what happened earlier. Please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies,’ lied Daisy, shooting him the blandest of smiles.
‘Oh dear.’ He started to laugh. ‘That wasn’t very convincing. Surely you can do better than that.’
I could,
thought Daisy, but I’m jolly well not going to.
Treating Dev Tyzack to another blatantly insincere smile, she said, ‘I meant every word.’
‘And I think you could do with a drink.’ Effortlessly catching the attention of a passing waitress, he presented Daisy with a flute of champagne.
It was a mocking gesture, clearly designed to tell her that it was time she loosened up.
As if.
‘No thanks.’ Daisy shook her head. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘Of course you are. Well, we could still have that dance.’
He was so enjoying having the upper hand.
‘I don’t think so.’ She nodded briefly in the direction of his neck. ‘You’ve got lipstick on your collar, by the way.’
Dev raised an eyebrow. ‘Lucky you aren’t my wife, then.’
‘Very lucky.’ Very lucky for me, thought Daisy.
‘So are you married?’ He glanced with some amusement at her ringless left hand.
‘No.’
‘Incredible. Who’d have thought it? You know, if you relaxed more,’ Dev advised, ‘I’m sure you could find yourself a husband.’
Luckily, the cake-cutting knife had by this time gone back to the kitchen.
‘A husband?’ Daisy opened her eyes wide. ‘One of my very own, you mean? Or somebody’s else’s?’
He laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, I understand. Young girl running her dad’s hotel, desperate to prove to him that she’s up to the job. It can’t be easy having to admit that you made such a big mistake.’
Don’t retaliate, don’t retaliate…
‘It isn’t easy.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Daisy saw that both the mother and sister of the bride were watching her. ‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Tyzack. And as I said before, I can only apologize. Still, at least it’s ended well. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. I’m sure the bride and groom will be very happy.’
‘You don’t think any such thing,’ Dev Tyzack remarked cheerfully. ‘You think Dominic’s only marrying Annabel for her money.’
Daisy looked innocent. ‘Why, does she have some?’
‘Her father was in the underwear business, in quite a major way. When he died last year he left forty million pounds to be shared between his family. That’s the three of them—his wife, Jeannie, and Annabel.’
Forty million. Phew. That explained a lot. Crikey, forty million.
‘In that case,’ said Daisy, ‘it must be true love. What’s more,’ she went on sweetly, ‘I can’t imagine what you’re doing wasting time talking to me. You really should be over there dancing with Annabel’s sister.’
***
‘Come in, come in, look at you, you’re soaked through,’ Maggie chided, ushering Daisy in out of the driving, icy rain and through to the welcoming warmth of the living room. ‘Shift your big bottom, Tara, let the poor girl sit by the fire.’ Apologetically she added, ‘You’ll have to excuse her, Daisy, she’s a bit maudlin.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Teasingly, because she knew how much Tara hated it, Daisy reached over and ruffled her spiky, peroxide-blonde hair.
‘I’m not maudlin,’ Tara defended herself, batting Daisy’s hands away from her head. ‘Just mad. Pissed off with men in general and complete arseholes like Dominic in particular. I’ve decided to be a spinster all my life, like Maggie. A metaphorical spinster,’ she added, wagging her finger as Maggie opened her mouth to object. ‘OK, so you were married once, but that doesn’t count. I’m talking about now and next year and the next twenty years after that. You know, I used to feel sorry for you,’ Tara earnestly informed her aunt. ‘I used to think it was dead sad, you leading such a boring lonely life with nothing ever happening in it, but now I realize you have absolutely the right idea. And that’s it. From now on, I’m going to model myself on you.’
‘Blimey, how much wine has she had?’ Daisy seized the bottle of Montepulciano and held it up to the light. ‘I think I’d better drink the rest of this.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, I’m not totally bollocksed,’ Tara grumbled. ‘Not hog-whimpering drunk. Just… just… piglet-whimpering.’ God, why did whimpering have to be such a hard word to say?
‘And you have every right to be.’ Daisy gave Tara’s arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘But if you want to carry on living here in this cottage, I’d stop calling your brilliant and generous auntie a sad, lonely old spinster if I were you.’
Tara shook her head emphatically, slopping red wine down the front of her sweatshirt. Luckily, being her designated staying-in-and-getting maudlin sweatshirt, it was used to being slopped on.
‘No, no, no. I meant it in a nice way. It’s a compliment! Maggie has the loveliest life of anyone I know, and from now on I want to be just like her. I’m going to start making jam and sewing things and listening to The Archers and baking cakes.’
‘Fantastic.’ Daisy kept a straight face.
‘I’m going to give up nightclubs,’ Tara was warming to her theme, ‘and take up tapestry.’
‘Oh, good grief, now I need a drink too,’ exclaimed Maggie, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a chilled bottle of Frascati and two more glasses. ‘All this fuss over some silly ex-boyfriend you didn’t even care about. Daisy, red or white?’
‘But that’s the whole point,’ Tara argued. ‘If someone you don’t even care about can cause this much trouble, think what could happen if it was someone you were madly in love with! I’m telling you, I’m better off out of the whole thing. Go on then, I’ll try the white now you’ve opened it.’
‘You won’t be able to drink like this when you’re a professional spinster,’ said Daisy. ‘You’ll end up baking the tapestries and sewing the jam.’
‘How did the wedding go?’ Maggie sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire. ‘Everything run smoothly in the end?’
Daisy pulled a face. ‘Well, they got married.’
‘I don’t know why he’s bothering,’ Tara snorted. ‘He’ll only cheat on her.’
‘I could hazard a guess.’ Daisy’s tone was dry. ‘He’s probably bothering because she’s just inherited a few million. Her father was big in knickers, apparently.’
‘So she’s loaded. No wonder he married her. Oh well.’ Tara sighed and pulled the sleeves of her black sweatshirt over her knuckles. ‘That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose. At least nobody’s ever going to want to marry me for my money.’
‘Speaking of fathers.’ Eager to get Tara off the subject of Dominic, Maggie turned to Daisy. ‘How’s your dad? When I bumped into him outside the shop the other day he told me he’d done something to his knee.’
‘It’s fine again now.’ Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘When I left the reception he was still dancing away, charming the slingbacks off all the women there. Do you know, they were actually arguing over who was next in line for a dance? And the bride’s mother was foxtrotting around the room with him looking the picture of smugness. Honestly, she was like a whale wrapped up in a shiny purple shower curtain. Oh God,’ Daisy groaned at the thought, ‘and she’s a stinking rich widow, probably on the lookout for husband number two. Poor Dad, what chance does he have? By the time I get back she’ll have carted him off to Gretna Green.’
Laughing, Maggie topped up their glasses. ‘I’m sure your father can look after himself.’
‘She had an awfully determined glint in her eye. And huge long purple nails.’
‘Speaking of nails,’ Tara raised her head in order to rejoin the conversation, ‘why did that best man look familiar? I know I don’t know him, but I’m sure I’ve seen him before.’
‘Dev Tyzack,’ Daisy explained for Maggie’s benefit. ‘He used to play rugby for Bath and England. He retired last year. But I don’t see what he has to do with nails.’
‘He’s as hard as nails. As mean as nails. All sharp and pointed a
nd horrible, and I’d love to hit him on the head with a hammer.’ At the sight of their blank faces, Tara shrugged and slumped back down on the sofa. ‘Oh well, it made sense to me.’
‘Dev Tyzack.’ Maggie was visibly impressed. ‘He is rather gorgeous.’
Tara curled her lip. ‘Shame he doesn’t have a personality to match.’ She looked at Daisy. ‘So did you have to apologize to him?’
‘I did. But I made sure he knew I didn’t mean a word of it.’
‘And he was OK about that?’ Tara raised her eyebrows. ‘I mean, was he nice?’
Daisy thought for a moment.
‘How can I put this?’ she said finally. ‘Uh… no.’
***
An hour later Daisy headed back to the hotel. The wedding party was winding up; already two taxis had passed her as she made her way along the High Street. The rain had eased off once more but the road was still wet and the temperature was dropping fast. Lucky old honeymooners, heading off for their three weeks in balmy St Lucia. Then again, Daisy thought, if marrying Dominic Cross-Calvert was the price you had to pay, she’d rather stay here freezing her doo-dahs off in Gloucestershire.
Except… was she being too hard on Dominic? What had he done really, other than find himself unexpectedly faced with an ex-girlfriend and, in the heat of the moment, get a bit carried away?
Then lie about it, of course, when he was caught out. Lie until he was blue in the face and swear he’d been the innocent party. Again, being brutally honest here, was there really anything so astonishing about that? About to marry Annabel, he’d simply panicked. And, who knew, maybe he wasn’t marrying her for her bank balance, maybe it was her irresistible personality he’d fallen in love with after all.
‘Yeeeuurrgh,’ Daisy spluttered as a third taxi shot past, careering through a huge puddle and sending a great wave of muddy, ice-cold water over her. Great, just what she needed; the cream wool coat Hector had bought her for Christmas was now a filthy, wet brown-stained cream wool coat. Furthermore, the soaking had been so comprehensive that even her face and hair were splashed with mud. What a brilliant end to a truly brilliant day.
