The Importance of Being Married: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “A brilliant job,” he said, turning back to me. “So, Jess. Handbags, eh? Inspired. Ingenious. And that whole charade at the beginning—amazing. Risky strategy, but totally worked. Kept us all guessing, didn’t she, Max?”

  His eyes were twinkling at me, like we were sharing a private joke.

  Max nodded. “She certainly did,” he said, but he wasn’t grinning anymore. I looked at him uncertainly, expecting a big smile, a nod of congratulations, but instead he didn’t meet my eyes. He simply walked toward the door.

  Anthony, on the other hand, couldn’t stop slapping me on the back.

  “Our new best executive,” he said as Marcia reappeared through the door. She looked at him, happily, then her expression blackened slightly as it dawned on her that he wasn’t talking about her. “And well done, Marcia, for suggesting that Jess do the presentation,” he continued. “That shows real insight.”

  Marcia smiled weakly. “Well, yes, it does,” she said, after a slight pause. “I thought it would be a good idea. And I’m sure she’ll be of great help to me on this account.”

  “You’re…I mean…you’re still leading the account?” I said, before I could stop myself.

  “Well of course I am,” Marcia said. “After all, it was my pitch.”

  “I thought you said Jess wrote it,” Max said, hovering in the doorway, a little smile playing on his lips.

  Marcia frowned. “Well, she did, I mean she put it together, technically, but it’s still my account. Isn’t it, Anthony?”

  Anthony looked at her for a moment, then turned to me. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “if Jess wrote the pitch, it makes sense for her to take on the account, doesn’t it?”

  “Really?” I stared at him in delight. God, I loved Anthony. You know, in a not-wanting-to-marry-him kind of way. Oh, what the hell, even marrying him was beginning to seem like a good idea. “Me, leading the Jarvis Private Banking account? Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am,” he said immediately. “The Project Handbag account. What do you reckon, Marcia? Means you don’t have to lead a…what did you call it? A boring finance techie account?”

  That was it. I was in love. Marcia stood stock-still. “Project Handbag?” She swallowed awkwardly, then forced a smile onto her face. “That’s not really finance, is it? I mean, not anymore.”

  “Not once our star turn Jessica Wild got her hands on it, no!” Anthony said, grinning at Marcia. “So that’s settled then. And I know you’ll help Jess out if she needs it, right, Marcia?”

  “Right! I mean, if you think it’s the right thing to do, then yes. Of course!” Marcia smiled weakly, as Anthony winked at us both.

  “Nothing like great teamwork, is there?” he asked benevolently.

  Marcia and I both smiled back brightly. “Teamwork,” she said. “Nothing like it.”

  Chapter 8

  “SO?” HELEN WAS WAITING for me at the door when I got home that evening.

  “So?” I replied nonchalantly.

  “So what happened? Did you talk to him? Did he notice your hair?”

  My face broke out into a huge grin. “Helen, this was the best day ever. I’m leading a major account,” I squealed. “I presented to Chester Rydall, who’s the chief executive of this huge private bank, and it was nearly the worst hour of my whole life, but I thought about your handbag and had all these ideas and now I’m leading the account. And Max told me I was the best account executive.”

  Helen looked slightly nonplussed. “He did?”

  I gave her a quick hug, and as I took off my coat I told her everything. “It was the best day ever,” I concluded happily. “And if it wasn’t for you, I never would have thought of any of it.”

  “An account director,” Helen said flatly. “So, what, that’ll be more money?”

  I nodded. “Lots more. At least ten thousand pounds a year more.”

  “Wow. So that’ll really make a difference, then.”

  “Loads,” I agreed, then frowned when Helen flicked me in the forehead.

  “The same difference as four million?”

  “Helen, this is real, not some crazy plan,” I said seriously. “If I make account director, I’ll be set for life.”

  “Project Marriage is not some crazy plan, Jess. And if you inherit four million pounds, believe me, you’ll be more set.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Don’t be pleased for me. See if I care.”

  “I am pleased,” Helen relented. “But tell me more about the coffee. Tell me more about Anthony.”

  “Anthony?” I said, a little smile playing on my lips. “Well, he was the one who gave me the account. And he was great, too—I mean, he really knows how to get people excited about the company—”

  “Not the pitch,” Helen said, wearily. “Tell me about you and Anthony. You know, Project Marriage?”

  “Oh, right.” I blanched slightly. The whole “I love Anthony” thing seemed a bit childish now, but I figured I owed Helen something. “Well, um…”

  “Yes?” Helen said impatiently.

  “He bought me coffee!” I said suddenly, a note of triumph in my voice as I remembered. “And he said he liked my shoes. And my hair.”

  “He did?” Helen asked excitedly. “Really?”

  I nodded. “And he smiled at me a lot, too.” I looked encouragingly at Helen, who appeared mollified.

  “Did anyone else notice your hair?” she demanded.

  “Everyone,” I assured her. “Max didn’t recognize me. And Marcia wanted to know who my hairdresser was.”

  “You didn’t tell her, did you?” she asked accusingly. “Pedro’s my secret.”

  “I told her you did it.”

  “Me?” She was smiling now. “And she believed you?”

  “I think she might be giving you a call sometime.”

  “Good. She’s competition. I’ll give her a crop.”

  “See?” I moved closer to Helen and leaned back on the counter next to her. “It’s been a good day. A really good day.”

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “But you have to focus, Jess. This is not about work, this is about Anthony Milton falling madly in love with you.”

  “Sure, I know.” I pulled out two mugs and put tea bags in them. “But the better I do at work, the better Anthony will like me. You know, he was so excited about my presentation, whereas Max didn’t say anything about it,” I said casually, as I boiled the kettle. “He didn’t even smile once.”

  “No?” Helen asked. “So what? Why do you care what Max thinks?”

  “I don’t,” I said quickly. “I don’t care.”

  “Good. Because you have to stay focused on Anthony here.”

  “Sure, I know that,” I said just as the phone rang. Helen immediately swooped on it.

  “Hello? Oh, yes. Just one moment.”

  She handed it to me, pulling a face as she did so, and I pressed the receiver to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Milton? It’s Robert Taylor here. Of Taylor and Rudd.”

  “Mr. Taylor.” Immediately I reddened. “Hi. How are you?”

  “It’s about the funeral, Mrs. Milton…I mean, Ms. Wild. It’s on Wednesday afternoon—er, tomorrow—at three PM. I do hope that’s convenient.”

  “Oh, the funeral,” I said, reddening even more. “Tomorrow? Yes, of course.”

  “I’m so pleased. It’s at All Saints Church, in South Kensington. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

  “And perhaps if there’s time afterward, we might discuss the paperwork? Around Grace’s will?”

  I swallowed nervously. “Right. Um, yes. I mean, I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stay—work commitments, you know. But let’s see, shall we?”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Taylor. “Let’s.”

  I put down the phone and returned to the counter.

  “Shit. That was him, wasn’t it? The lawyer,” Helen asked worriedly. “I knew it was as soon as I
heard his voice. I should have said you were out.”

  “It’s okay. He just wanted to tell me that Grace’s funeral is tomorrow,” I said quietly.

  Helen nodded sadly. “Oh, right.”

  I bit my lip. “He was also hoping we might go through some paperwork.”

  “You can’t!” she said quickly. “You can’t go. You’ll have to think of an excuse.”

  “I have to go,” I said crossly, folding my arms. I felt tawdry, all of a sudden, planning Project Marriage with Helen when poor Grace wasn’t even buried yet. “Some things are more important than money.”

  “But you’ll have to leave early,” Helen continued. “I mean, you have to get out of signing anything.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to talk about it now,” I said, turning on the television. “Don’t worry about Mr. Taylor. I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 9

  PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 4

  To do

  1. Go to funeral. Avoid Mr. Taylor. Hope that hell doesn’t open up in front of me and suck me in.

  The day of the funeral was a washout—it started out dark, gloomy, and rainy, and it got progressively worse as the hours ticked on. After a brief attempt to flirt with Anthony had been foiled when Max came over and started talking to him about outstanding loans, I’d given up all thoughts of Project Marriage and instead focused on getting to the church and avoiding Mr. Taylor instead. It was only when I got off the tube to find the streets of South Kensington full of people hunched over under umbrellas while the rain tipped down like several thousand buckets of water being turned over at once that it hit me—today I was going to be saying my final farewell to Grace. I wasn’t sure I was ready to say good-bye, wasn’t sure how I’d react to seeing her buried.

  “Ah, Jessica. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  As I walked through the door, I immediately saw Mr. Taylor walking toward me, and bit my lip.

  “Hi, Mr. Taylor. How are you?”

  “I’m very well,” he said graciously. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  I managed a smile. “Well, of course. I mean, I wouldn’t have missed it. No way.”

  “Of course. Now, we must make an appointment to sort out the paperwork around the will. Are you free afterward? Perhaps we could go to my office?”

  “You know,” I said carefully, “today isn’t that great.”

  I saw Mr. Taylor’s eyes narrow slightly in curiosity and I swallowed uncomfortably.

  “Not great?” he asked.

  I nodded. Then I sighed. “To be honest,” I said, “I’m just not sure I want to discuss Grace’s inheritance on the same day that…well, you know…” I looked up toward the altar, and Mr. Taylor smiled.

  “Oh, I quite understand. But believe me, Grace wouldn’t mind. She’d positively encourage it.”

  “She would?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Absolutely. So, later?”

  “Later?” I gulped. “Well, maybe. I mean, I do have to get back to work, so maybe not, but…well let’s see, shall we?”

  Mr. Taylor smiled. “Of course. And Mr. Milton?” he asked.

  “Yes?” I asked, my heart stopping briefly.

  “Is he here with you?”

  I could feel myself getting hot. Of course. I should have my husband with me. Mr. Taylor was going to get suspicious. “Mr. Milton? Oh. No. No, he couldn’t come, I’m afraid. Business, you see. He’s…away a lot,” I said awkwardly.

  “Yes, I see,” Mr. Taylor said understandingly. His eyes flickered down to my left hand and I blanched. My fingers were bare.

  “God, look at that. Always forgetting to put my rings back on,” I said uneasily, quickly pulling the paste engagement ring and cheap wedding ring out of my coat pocket. I’d put them there that morning, thinking that I’d remember to put them on before the funeral. Which, of course, I hadn’t.

  “Back on?” Mr. Taylor asked curiously. “I thought people usually wore their wedding rings all the time.”

  “They do,” I said, flustered. “Of course they do. As do I. Except I was…washing up earlier. You know.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Taylor smiled, and I wiped a trickle of sweat from my nose. “And your husband is away, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Away working. It’s a nightmare, actually.” I forced a smile, wishing fervently that Mr. Taylor would leave me alone, wishing I’d never started this conversation. “He’s away a lot, Anthony. Always busy, busy, busy.”

  Mr. Taylor nodded sympathetically, then he smiled. “Shall we?”

  He motioned toward a pew just ahead, and, relieved that I didn’t have to talk anymore, I followed him, taking a seat next to him.

  Music started to play, organ music—I think it was Bach. And then the vicar walked in and everyone stood up, and he said something about peace or God or something, and then everyone sat down again. Then, just as he was saying the immortal line (Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today) that seems to start all the major services—weddings, funerals, christenings—I felt someone squeeze in next to me. I turned around in slight annoyance—there were plenty of spaces around and no need to sit quite so close.

  My mouth fell open in surprise. “Max? Max, what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “I just thought…” He picked up a hymnbook. “Thought you might like some company. Funerals are shitty things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are,” I said uncertainly. “But you came all the way here? You left the office to come?”

  He shot me an enigmatic smile. “I do leave the office on occasion, you know.”

  The organ started playing and before I could say anything, before I could interrogate him further, everyone stood up to sing another hymn—“Lord of All Hopefulness.” Duly, Max stood up; I followed. We were standing close together, and I felt his coat sleeve brushing against mine as we peered at our hymnals. My heart started to beat rapidly in my chest. I did my best to ignore it.

  Instead I decided to focus on the talk at hand, namely trying to sing in tune. After all, I told myself, I didn’t like Max. The object of my attentions was Anthony. Or no one. It certainly wasn’t Max. And even if I did like Max a little bit, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like anything was ever going to happen. I knew better than to get carried away. Getting carried away was dangerous. It led to heartbreak, to loneliness, to all sorts of problems. I was far too professional, far too…

  “Actually,” he whispered, “I did have an ulterior motive, coming here today.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop. “You…you did?” I looked up at him, held his gaze for a second.

  He smiled, and I found the corners of my mouth turning upward. “The style sheet you did for Marcia,” he said. “She appears to have lost it, and we’re seeing the client today so we need a copy urgently.”

  I stared at him for a second as his words sank in. Then I cleared my throat, aware that there was suddenly a big lump in it. It served me right, of course. God, I was an idiot.

  “You couldn’t have called me?” My voice sounded tight, strained.

  Max frowned. “I tried,” he said. “Your phone must have been turned off.”

  “Right. Of course.” I swallowed uncomfortably. “So, the style sheet,” I heard myself say. “I…well, I sent it to her by e-mail. So she should still have it…”

  Max raised his eyebrows. “If Marcia had it, I wouldn’t have had to come all this way,” he whispered loudly to be heard over the singing.

  “Right,” I said stupidly. I wanted to sink into the ground. Instead I shook myself and forced a smile. “Sorry, I forgot we were talking about Marcia. It’ll be in my sent folder. I’ll give you my password if you want?”

  “Thanks, Jess. You’re a star.”

  I wrote down my password on a scrap of paper and handed it to Max, who put it in his pocket. Then he picked up a hymnbook and started to sing loudly.

  “He managed to get away, then?” Mr. Taylor asked, leaning in closely so he could whisper in my ea
r.

  I looked at him vaguely. “Um, yes, I guess so,” I said, only realizing too late what he’d meant. “Not that he’s…I mean, this isn’t…” I whispered, frantically, but Mr. Taylor was already singing again and didn’t hear me.

  Then the hymn came to an end, and the vicar said a prayer, then started to talk about Grace. And gradually, I forgot about Max sitting closely next to me, forgot about Mr. Taylor and the will and the rings. Grace had been named perfectly, the vicar said—she had been full of grace, but also, as anyone who had met her knew only too well, full of determination and strength. He told stories about her—stories I’d never heard before—and talked about the many years she’d done the flowers in this very church, every week, without fail. And then, as the funeral march started to play, and Grace’s coffin suddenly appeared at the back of the church, it hit me like a boulder. She was really gone, and she wasn’t coming back. My sweet friend, sweet Grace, would never tell me about the joys of coral lipstick again; would never tell me that happiness was around the corner if you could only make yourself turn it; would never laugh at my silly stories or write down little recipes for me to try. She was dead—not away on holiday, not out of town, but dead. And I was on my own. Like I always knew I would be.

  Gripping the pew in front of me, I felt large, fat tears begin to cascade out of my eyes.

  “You okay?”

  I turned around to see Max looking at me concernedly.

  “Fine,” I said quickly. “Look, you should go back to the office. You’ve got a meeting to go to.” I didn’t want his pity, didn’t want him pretending to care.

  “I can stay,” he said, frowning. “The meeting’s not until this afternoon. Come on, you don’t want to be at a funeral on your own.”

  “Maybe I do,” I said, sniffing. “Maybe I like being on my own.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I nodded just as the hymn came to an end. Immediately Mr. Taylor turned around and held his hand out toward Max, who shook it uncertainly.

  “So, you finished your business early, did you?” he whispered, smiling.