by Sara Craven
Left to herself, Tarn wandered across the grass, moving between the groups of laughing, chattering people, exchanging smiles and greetings with those she knew, and realising ruefully how comparatively few of them there were. And this was only a small section of the Brandon empire.
‘It is Tarn, isn’t it?’
She turned in surprise to see an older woman, in a dark blue linen dress, her blonde hair in an immaculate chignon, whom she recognised as Caz’s principal PA, until now only seen from a distance in the office.
‘Oh.’ She hesitated. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Everett.’
‘Make it Maggie, please.’ The other’s smile was relaxed and friendly. ‘I was sure it must be you. I told myself there couldn’t be two people in the UK company with quite that glorious shade of hair.’
Tarn flushed. ‘Well—thank you.’
‘Caz asked me to look out for you,’ Maggie Everett went on and Tarn froze.
‘He did?’ she managed feebly.
‘Why, yes. In his unavoidable absence, I have strict instructions to make sure you have plenty of champagne. Although there are loads of iced soft drinks, if you prefer.’
She was steering Tarn towards the largest marquee. And as there was no longer any need to keep a clear head, Tarn decided that champagne it should be.
Mrs Everett, whose husband, she told Tarn, was a successful barrister who believed that wives should pursue their own careers if they wished, proved an amazingly easy companion for someone who was dubbed Caz’s Rottweiler by a number of the Brandon workforce.
Tarn couldn’t figure afterwards whether it was the other woman’s friendliness, her own emotional turmoil or the potent effect of a vintage wine that made her reckless, only that during a lull in the conversation, she found herself saying, ‘I knew someone who used to work at Brandon a few months ago. Do you remember Eve Griffiths?’
Maggie Everett thought for a moment. ‘The name rings no bells, I’m afraid,’ she said eventually. ‘Which department was she in?’
‘I believe she used to work for Mr Brandon himself.’
‘I really don’t think that can be possible.’ Mrs Everett frowned a little. ‘I know everyone who has worked for all the board members during the past year, even on a temporary basis, and there’s certainly been no-one called Griffiths. Your friend must have been employed elsewhere in the company.’
‘Oh, she’s hardly a friend,’ Tarn said swiftly. ‘Just—someone I met who said Brandon was a great company to work for. I probably assumed she worked for Caz—Mr Brandon, that is.’
Because that’s what Evie said in all her letters, and I can’t be wrong about it. I can’t be…
Mrs Everett’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘There’s no need to be so formal, I assure you, and certainly not with me. Anyway, relax—have some more champagne. You must be very disappointed that Caz can’t be here,’ she added. ‘But I know it has to be for the very best of reasons.’
Whereas I, thought Tarn as her glass was refilled, no longer know what to think—about anything.
Wanting a quick change of subject, she said, ‘That’s a very good band.’
‘All locals, who play here every year. But if you want a change of sound from Dixieland, there’s a string quartet in the drawing room who specialise in Mozart. And, of course, another band for tonight’s dancing.’
‘All tastes catered for,’ Tarn commented lightly.
‘Caz likes his staff to be happy,’ Maggie Everett returned.
At least until they’re surplus to his requirements, thought Tarn. Thought it, but did not say it.
Her companion’s mobile phone buzzed and she excused herself to answer it, moving away to a short distance.
When she came back, her eyes were dancing again. ‘Shall we continue our stroll? See what else is going on?’
Probably wiser than staying where they were and consuming more champagne, Tarn thought ruefully as they emerged from the marquee. For a moment, she paused, dazzled by the sunlight, blinking as she reached hurriedly into her bag for her dark glasses because she was seeing things. She had to be, otherwise Caz was walking towards her across the lawn, smiling, and that couldn’t be happening.
Because he couldn’t make it. He’d said so, she thought, and only realised she’d spoken aloud when she heard Mrs Everett laugh softly.
‘Nevertheless, here he is.’ She gave Tarn a gentle nudge. ‘Aren’t you going to welcome him?’
Tarn took one faltering step, then another, still unable to credit that he was really here, believing it only when she found herself in his arms and held close while he kissed her.
‘Surprised?’ he whispered.
‘Yes—yes, of course.’ Her head was whirling. ‘Someone said you were in France…’
‘I was. That’s where I called from. But the situation wasn’t as bad as I thought so I got an air taxi back.’ He let her go reluctantly. ‘God, Maggie was right,’ he said, his green gaze scanning her with delighted appreciation. ‘She said you looked absolutely beautiful. But a bit forlorn too. She thought you were missing me.’ He slid an arm round her waist and began to walk with her towards the band platform. ‘I hope that’s true. Still want to marry me?’
‘Caz—I…’
‘And the answer had better be yes,’ he went on. ‘Or I shall kiss you in front of all these people until it is. Now come on, sweetheart. We have news to break.’
The clarinettist stepped forward and helped Tarn up on to the stage while the trombonist handed Caz a microphone.
There was a pause while the trumpeter blew a ringing fanfare, then Caz spoke.
‘First of all, I want to welcome you all here on this special afternoon.’ His voice was clear and steady as people came forward, clustering round the edge of the stage. ‘Many of you will already know Tarn as a colleague. However it’s my great joy to be able to tell you that she’ll soon be taking on another job—that of being my wife. We both wanted all of you here to be the first to know, although there will be a notice in The Times on Monday.’
Amid gasps and a ripple of cheering, he reached down and took the champagne flute that Maggie Everett handed him.
‘So, I’d like you all to raise your glasses and drink to my adorable girl, the future Mrs Caz Brandon.’
The laughter and applause reached a crescendo, voices calling out, ‘To Caz and Tarn. God bless them,’ as the toast was honoured.
Caz took his grandmother’s ring from his breast pocket and slipped it on to her finger. He said softly, ‘Now it’s there forever, my love,’ and kissed her lightly and sensuously on the lips to even louder cheering.
Someone from the crowd who might have been Lisa shouted, ‘Come on, Tarn. It’s your turn. Speech.’
Caz handed her the mike. ‘It’s all yours, darling.’
Her fingers closed round it. She stared down at the sea of faces, all expectant, all smiling, and clearly all waiting for her to say—what? How happy she was? How much in love?
Yet somewhere in her brain, she knew, was a very different speech, one she had learned by heart for this actual moment.
So why couldn’t she remember one word of it?
All she could think of was how her heart had lifted in a kind of astonished joy when she saw Caz coming towards her.
How she’d found herself thinking as she stood in stunned disbelief, He loves me. He must do. Why else would he have dashed back to be with me? To do this?
A realisation that had thrown reason and emotion back into the melting pot.
She tried to visualise Evie, small and hunched in her chair, but could see nothing but the way Caz’s smile lit his eyes when he looked at her. As he was looking at her right then, drying her mouth and making her heart thud unevenly.
And she knew then and there that what she’d intended—how she’d planned the afternoon to end was now quite impossible, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
Someone called out, ‘A silent woman, boss. Aren’t you a lucky man.’
And on t
he roar of laughter that followed, Tarn found her voice.
She said shakily, ‘I can’t think of anything to say except—thank you for sharing this wonderful moment with us. I—I shall never forget it.’ She turned towards Caz. ‘And neither, I’m sure, will my fiancé.’
Because it’s not over yet, she told herself silently, as Caz took the hand that wore his ring and kissed it. It’s merely postponed—to another time—another place.
And somehow—then—I’ll find the strength and the will to go through with it at last.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘BUT what happened?’ asked Della.
Tarn shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It was the perfect opportunity, but—I—I couldn’t say it.’ She groaned. ‘Not with everyone looking at me and smiling.’
‘So what will you do at the wedding?’ Della’s tone was caustic. ‘Take this man for your lawful wedded husband so that everyone continues to smile?’
Tarn flinched. She said in a low voice, ‘There won’t be any wedding. I admit that the date’s been set and the register office booked, but that’s where it will end.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Everything I planned to say, I shall put in a letter to be delivered by courier just before the ceremony is due to take place.’
‘I see.’ Della was silent for a moment, then said more gently, ‘Have you worked out why you don’t want to confront him face to face?’
Tarn turned away. She said dully, ‘Yes, I know. And I can’t—I dare not risk it.’ She swallowed. ‘When he said he wasn’t going to be at the garden party, I really thought he was going to dump me, just as he’d done with Evie. But suddenly there he was, and I realised I’d misjudged him and I felt—well, that doesn’t matter—but that was another reason why I couldn’t do what I’d planned.’
‘That’s exactly what I was afraid of.’ Della sighed. ‘Oh, God, what an unholy mess. Didn’t someone once say that revenge was a two-edged sword?’ She paused. ‘I have to say that’s the most beautiful ring, and definitely the genuine article this time.’
‘Yes.’ Tarn bit her lip. ‘It is—very lovely. It will be enclosed with the letter.’
‘I suppose so.’ Della hesitated. ‘Did he say why he’d cried off from the party originally?’
‘Some problem at the Paris office, I think. He was going to tell me about it, then someone else came up to congratulate us, and afterwards, he said that, on second thoughts, it would keep.’
‘Always supposing he gets a second chance,’ said Della. She paused. ‘Have you told Evie yet what you’re going to do?’
‘I haven’t had the chance.’ Tarn pulled a face. ‘I wanted to see her the day after the garden party, but my request was turned down. And I wanted to ask her about her time at Brandon, too.
‘You see, she told me she worked for Caz, but Maggie Everett his chief PA has never heard of her.’
Della shrugged. ‘She could be under strict orders from above.’
‘But that could hardly be applied to the entire workforce,’ Tarn argued. ‘And the fact is that no-one remembers her working there, not even Tony Lee from the Art Department who makes a routine beeline for every pretty blonde.
‘He says there was an Emma who was a temp in the Finance section around that time, but she was Australian and engaged to a rugby player, so he backed off. But no Eve, Evie and Evelyn anywhere.’
She frowned. ‘Which just seems—odd. Because where could she have met Caz except at Brandon?’
‘Honey, the oddities about Evie and her mother, come to that, would fill several pages of A4.’ Della paused. ‘But isn’t talking openly about Evie something of a risk?’
‘I doubt anyone’s going to report me,’ Tarn said drily. ‘And, as I’m not on the payroll but just working a couple of days a week now to finalise a project, it’s probably my last chance.’
‘Did The Refuge offer any explanation for barring you yet again?’ asked Della.
‘No, and when I explained there was something I needed to ask her, the Professor said very curtly that she’d answered enough questions.’ Tarn sighed. ‘Heaven knows what that was supposed to mean.’
‘Her mother might know.’
‘Yes.’ Tarn’s voice was rueful. ‘That’s another visit I have to pay. Aunt Hazel still can’t understand why I haven’t waved my magic wand and got Evie out of “that awful place”. And her last message was so garbled, I could only pick out that she wanted me to help with some enquiries.’
‘Approaching her MP, perhaps,’ Della suggested. ‘I can imagine my mother’s reaction if I was shut up somewhere and she wasn’t allowed to see me. Especially if my ex-boyfriend was responsible,’ she added darkly.
‘Yes,’ Tarn said wearily. ‘I haven’t forgotten that—even for a minute.’
It was something that haunted her continually—the strange dichotomy between Caz’s ruthless treatment of Evie, and his entirely different behaviour to herself.
She’d walked round the gardens at Winsleigh Place, her hand in his, floating on a cloud of good wishes. And later, she’d danced the evening away in his arms like an enchanted princess with her prince, as if, for them, midnight would never strike.
But it had, and here she was once more, facing the harshness of reality.
‘Are you meeting him later?’ Della asked.
‘Yes, we’re going to look at another flat this evening. The agent says it’s an older property that’s been completely renovated, and it could be the blank canvas we’re looking for.’ She bent her head wretchedly. ‘Oh, God, I’m such a hypocrite.’
‘Caz Brandon, of course, being squeaky clean.’ Della gave her a straight look. ‘Knowing what he’s capable of, could you ever truly trust him or be happy with him? Be honest.’
Tarn smiled unhappily. ‘Then, in honesty, I can only say—I don’t know.’
But the certainty she could not bear to contemplate, she thought, pain wrenching at her, was the misery that would be waiting for her when he was no longer part of her life.
And how soon that day was approaching.
‘Well, you’ve taken your time,’ was Aunt Hazel’s greeting, her plump face set in martyred lines. ‘I told you it was an emergency.’
Tarn bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I came as soon as I could.’ She kept her tone gentle. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to find out what’s going on.’ Aunt Hazel spoke with energy. ‘What the police are doing with my poor Evie. It’s not a criminal offence to try to kill yourself—not any longer, so why is she being harassed like this? If they want to chase someone, it should be the brute who drove her to it, and you must tell them so.’
Tarn was startled. ‘Evie’s involved with the police? Surely not.’
Mrs Griffiths nodded. ‘Helping them with their enquiries, which is what they always say.’ She snorted. ‘Her father must be turning in his grave at the very idea.’
‘But there must be some mistake…’ Tarn began, but was testily interrupted.
‘Well, of course there is, and you must sort it out, before she does something else desperate.’ And Aunt Hazel began to cry, helpless, genuine tears running down her face.
Tarn found tissues, made tea and uttered comforting noises, but her brain was in free fall.
At least, she thought, a police investigation explained why visitors were being kept at bay. But what could Evie possibly have done to deserve it?
When the older woman was calmer, she said, ‘Aunt Hazel, how did you find out—about the police, I mean.’
‘Mrs Benson’s nephew is a solicitor. You weren’t doing anything to help, so he wrote a letter for me to that place, to insist on my being allowed to visit my poor little girl, and that’s what he was told. He generally does wills and property, not police matters, so he didn’t feel he could take it any further. But you must.’
Tarn said carefully, ‘Aunt Hazel—was there anything going on in Evie’s life that ever caused you concern—made you wonder?’
‘Evie was always as good as
gold.’ Bright spots of colour appeared in Mrs Griffiths’ cheeks. ‘She had a wonderful life—until she met that dreadful Caspar Brandon creature who ruined it for her. I wish she’d never gone to work for his horrible company.’
‘Do you know how long she was there—and what exactly her job was?’
‘She was some kind of executive, and when she changed to that other place—the Scottish company—she was promoted to top management.’
‘Scottish company?’ Tarn echoed. ‘What was that?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember. Mac something or other.’ Mrs Griffiths hunted for another tissue. ‘And why are you harping on about the past, when it’s now that Evie needs help?’
But Tarn was suddenly remembering the paperwork she’d found at Evie’s flat. She said, ‘Was it the MacNaughton Company she went to?’
‘It may have been.’ Aunt Hazel sniffed. ‘How can you expect me to think about trivia at a time like this?’
‘I don’t.’ Tarn gave her a quick hug. ‘And I give you my word I’ll try and find out what’s going on,’ adding silently, In all kinds of ways.
The MacNaughton company occupied smart offices in Clerkenwell.
‘Good afternoon.’ Tarn smiled at the blonde receptionist. ‘I was wondering if you could supply me with some information.’ The girl gave her a dubious look. ‘If it’s about a job, I should warn you that the company demands very high standards from our domestic and office cleaners, and requires at least three references.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Tarn. ‘I wanted to ask about a relation of mine who worked here quite recently, as some kind of executive.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ the other returned stonily. ‘This is a family firm, owned and managed by Mr and Mrs MacNaughton, and their two sons.’
‘But I’m sure I have the right company. My—cousin’s name is Griffiths—Eve Griffiths.’
There was an odd silence, then the receptionist said, ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’
‘Is there someone else I could speak to—Mrs MacNaughton, perhaps.’
