Tomorrow's Bride

by Alexandra Scott

  Simply because she was weary—at least, that was how she tried afterwards to justify her weakness—because she was tired, she allowed him to brush her protests, half-hearted in any case, to one side. It wasn't always easy to pick up a taxi and there was no reason why she shouldn't make use of him since he was offering.

  A few minutes later, sitting well back in one corner of the rear seat, she tried with a land of desperate futility to concentrate on the grey peaked hat in front of her, but found that all her attention was on the man by her side.

  Paris. The moment she had stepped from the plane at the airport the magic of the place had simply seeped into her bones. Even with him. Or...blindly she looked out on to sun-baked pavements... especially with him. As they drove along the Champs-Elysees, it ought to have been everything that was romantic. At least, she made the correction with firm accuracy, once it would have been. But, right now, sheer unrelieved torture would have been a more apt description. Everywhere she looked, it seemed, her eyes sought out particular pairs of lovers, who had few inhibitions about telling the world just how tender, how delicate, how overwhelming their feelings were...

  Oh, this was so idiotic. She closed her eyes tight as they drove past a smiling, entranced young couple. He had been brushing a finger across the outline of her lips and... And causing havoc with the wholly detached feelings of someone he had never even met. Leigh tried to find some amusement in the situation but the struggle with her emotions was intense, and even when she heard his voice she could not bring herself to reply until he had repeated the question.

  'What?' Her tone was impatient, verging on the aggressive, and she opened her eyes wide as she turned her head, hoping he might realise that he was intruding into her private space. But then the expression in his eyes held her. She who had once been able to read and sense his every mood was for an instant shocked by the look of stormy anger, something very close to dislike in the dark, searing gaze which raked her. But in a moment it had changed, as if a blank, impassive shutter had been lowered.

  Shaken, she tried to warn herself. Be careful. Detachment is what you must show. Tm sorry, I was miles away again.' Her voice was admirably calm.

  'I was asking about what you've been doing... since... since we last met.'

  'I presume you mean since last week.' It was a half-hearted attempt to turn it into a joke.

  'You know that's not what I mean.' For a second time she sensed his restrained edginess.

  'Well, let me see.' By pretending to consider she regained a little self-confidence. 'I started off doing some research for an MP.' Difficult to resist the word 'tinpot', but why give him the satisfaction of knowing how it had rankled over the years? 'Then I was with an advertising agency for some time—not exactly the career profile I had mapped out when I was slogging for my degree, but there... Anyway, about two years ago I was approached by Kyle to see if I'd be interested in working for him. And of course I was, couldn't resist the challenge, and... well, here I am. Things couldn't have worked out better,' she added triumphantly.

  'So... no regrets?'

  'None at all.' And even if she had, then this man was the very last one who would hear about them. 'I love the work and Kyle is a very considerate boss—demanding too, but I like that. And, of course, working abroad is a bonus.'

  'Of course.' His tone was so dry, so very nearly sarcastic that in spite of herself she swung round to study his face, and was able to see from the lights of passing cars his cynically smiling mouth.

  'You sound surprised.' Her sharpness betrayed the anger she felt.

  'A little, perhaps.'

  'Why? I wonder. Don't most people these days look for at least a spell abroad?'

  'I do so agree.' The sarcasm again. 'Only... I thought in your case...' As her brain was trying to latch on to the way his mind was working she was thrown by another question, which at first seemed wholly disconnected. 'How are your parents?' His tone was deceptively casual. 'I meant to ask about them earlier.'

  'My par-----' Of course, how could she have been so foolish, handing him sticks to beat her with? Her skin burned guiltily, and she turned swiftly aside in an effort to conceal it. 'My parents are fine. My father is still at Great Whencote.' Maybe he wouldn't ask about her mother. Some time later she might let it drop about...

  'And your mother too, I presume?' How lightly it was tossed, innocently, as if nothing lay behind his persistence.

  'Yes, she's well. Better than she's been for many years. In fact she's in New Zealand right now; she's spending some time out there with her sister.'

  'I see.' A simple comment, but his tone implied that he was placing all kinds of interpretations on the information, and nothing, she told herself with silent passion, nothing would induce her to make excuses on her mother's behalf. He wasn't the type to be sympathetic towards other people's weaknesses. Families like the Cavours, so strong and healthy in every way, just wouldn't understand. Her mother was entitled to a long holiday with relatives she hadn't seen for years, and besides, it wasn't that he was interested in her mother; he merely wanted to remind her of her refusal to go to Bangladesh, and she was damned if she would allow herself to be reminded, much less excuse herself or apologise.

  Instead she decided that she would attack, and sat quietly trying to compose a pertinent question about Gillian Place without—most certainly without—giving a clue to the corrosive jealousy which had afflicted her for years. But before she could find the right words he was leaning forward, speaking to the chauffeur in French so fluent that it was a moment before she took in what was being said.

  'But—-' she was breathless with indignation '—there is no need for that.'

  'Nonsense.' Even as he spoke they were leaving the main traffic stream, turning into one of the quiet squares and slowing down. I'll see you safely inside and-----'

  'But...' Almost at once she was being helped from the car. 'But I heard you telling the driver that-----'

  'That's right.' Patrick retrieved her bag from the boot, slammed it shut, waved the driver off and strode across the pavement to the entrance of an apartment block. 'I told him I would walk back. It's only a short distance and I enjoy stretching my legs.'

  She found herself ushered through the glass doors, heard the concierge being asked for the key, then she was being guided towards the lift, and all without the slightest reference to her.

  'You know-----' her irritation was barely controlled '—I am quite capable of asking for my own keys. Even in a foreign language.'

  'Of course you are.' To her surprise and, rather more unexpectedly, to her pleasure, he gave a tiny shamefaced grin. 'I'm sorry. I'm inclined to be bossy at times, or so my mother tells me.'

  '"Overbearing" is the word I would have used.' But at the same time she softened towards him; his attitude had done much to defuse her anger. At one time, the thought fluttered unbidden into her mind, long ago, she would have chosen the word 'masterful', would even, such had been her naïveté", have approved. How simple could one be, for heaven's sake? Now she asked, knowing that she ought to have done so before, as soon as he had mentioned his mother, 'How are things at Loughskerrie?'

  'Oh, everything's all right. Lots of changes, of course.' They reached the door of the service flat and he held out the key. 'I won't come in, thank you. But...'

  Quickly glancing at his face, she saw no sign of mockery, but decided he needed putting in his place. 'I had no intention at all of inviting you.' But it was impossible to control her mouth completely, which was curving, faintly, it was true, but with a distinct suggestion of amusement.

  'But,' he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, the dark eyes holding hers in a way that invited her to share memories, with a look which she remembered so well and which she discovered could still threaten havoc, 'there's a lot I could tell you about Loughskerrie and the family—they still speak of you, you know. So I was going to suggest that, if you agree, I could come and pick you up later. We could have dinner—there's a quiet little bist
ro—and... I could bring you up to date...'

  'Oh...' How could she, in spite of all her determination, have let it come to this? She might have guessed what was in his mind, seen the invitation coming. 'Oh, no, thank you. I have plans for this evening and...' She shook her head, feeling the dark mass of hair float out, but because her face was so deliberately averted she missed the way his eyes followed its filmy movement, missed, too, the sudden naked pain so swiftly contained in their depths.

  'Ah... Then some other time perhaps.' 'Perhaps,' she agreed, but in a particular tone of contradiction which was unmistakable. 'Oh, and-----' she had barely noticed his goodnight, and called after him as he stepped into the lift '—and thank you.' But the doors slammed shut and she was uncertain that he had heard.

  The door to the tiny hall was barely closed, and she had hardly taken a step towards the single bedroom she used in Paris, when a sudden rat-a-tat, imperative and impatient, took her hurrying back, cheeks glowing, heart hammering in excited relief and a quite inexplicable anticipation.

  'Pa-----' The greeting was stifled on her lips. Her sense of disappointment was like a blow when she saw who was standing there. She held open the door. 'Oh, Kyle.' Her voice was flat, weary. 'I didn't expect to see you. I thought you were due on an early flight for Strasbourg.'

  'I just wanted to give you this.' He offered her a file which she took without enthusiasm. "Thought it would help with your meeting tomorrow.' 'Is Anna with you?'

  'Mmm. Downstairs in the car. I met Patrick Cavour in the hallway.'

  'He gave me a lift from the airport—we were on the same flight from Strasbourg. Just by chance,' she added, to her own vexation.

  'Really?' He didn't sound even family interested, for which she was thankful and which made her self-conscious excuse doubly redundant. 'Well-----' he glanced at his watch '—I must dash or we'll miss our plane, but thanks, Leigh, for sparing Anna for the last few days. It really did make life much easier while I was here.'

  'Good.' She looked up from the file she was holding. 'Well, it was a chance for her to come to Paris. She coped with everything?'

  'Yes. Marvellously. And, as you say, it's been good experience for her. Well, see you in a few days.'

  'What? Oh, yes. Goodbye, Kyle.'

  When she was alone in the flat, Leigh walked to the window and stood looking out over rooftops gleaming softly in the light from street-lamps but without seeing them. Thoughts of Kyle, of Anna, of her own reasons for being in Paris at all were totally submerged in an overwhelmingly dismal sense of loss and deprivation which was difficult to explain.

  And, annoyingly, those feelings seemed to be centred on the fact that she had been invited out to dinner by a man from her past, an attractive man, most people would agree, but the one man in the world to whom she was no longer susceptible.

  So why, in heaven's name, had she refused so precipitately? The query floated into her mind in a despairing kind of way. Here she was, being offered the perfect opportunity to convince herself that her feelings for him were, if not entirely platonic, at least under control, and she had tossed it away, had even given him the impression that any subsequent invitations would e similarly rejected.

  He was bound to have picked up the idea that | she didn't trust herself in his company; the very I notion was humiliating. She ought to have gone I with him, made polite, light-hearted conversation, asked all sorts of questions about his family—in short, acted exactly as she would have done with all the other old friends from those days. That would have cemented in his mind the futility of hankering after the past... and maybe even in her own mind.

  She thrust aside the idea that she needed any convincing, but all the same.. .it would have been nice if she could have rid herself of the load of bitterness and pain which she had carried around with her all these years. She might even have been able to eliminate the baleful significance that Gillian Place's name had assumed in her thoughts. If she had been able to frame a light-hearted question she could have discovered how deeply he had been involved.

  Back here, alone in her flat, it was easy to imagine herself with him in the restaurant, when they reached the coffee stage, when her wine glass had been drained and she was feeling mellow and relaxed. She would lean forward, elbows on the table, fingers linked together, supporting her chin, and she would ask, frowning a little, as if the thought had just come into her head, 'And how did that girl—what was her name, now?— she was a nurse, I think, a friend of Debbie... Oh, yes.' Her face would clear as the name burned on her mind all at once came to her. 'Gillian Place. How did she fit into the project in Ashala?'

  She could imagine no situation in which Patrick Cavour would actually blush, but he would certainly be taken aback; most likely he I would look down into his coffee-cup, spend a great deal of time stirring slowly, then he would look up at her. 'So you know about Gillian, do you?'

  ‘Mmm.' She would sip her coffee, press her lips together as she savoured the brew. 'Yes, Debbie told me that you had taken her out to Bangladesh with you. I expect you found her a great asset, a qualified nurse, and doubtless in other ways too.'

  Oh... what was the use? Angry with herself, she turned abruptly from the window. There was no way she could remain cool and detached if she were to bring up that name. The mere mention of it to Patrick Cavour and her voice would become all wobbly, and more likely than lot she would burst into tears and have to make a blind dash for the ladies' room, returning with some transparent fiction about an allergy which posed her to cough and sneeze at the most inconvenient times.

  No, she had made entirely the right decision. She refused to consider any regrets where he was concerned. Her life nowadays was good, and all the time getting better. At this moment all she wanted for complete contentment was a quick shower, a pleasant meal and then an early night with some escapist fiction.

  The tears which streaked her cheeks were very soon obliterated in a douche of warm water.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As SHE finished dressing, Leigh stood in front of the mirror swiftly applying make-up, acknowledging that her depression was beginning to lift. All day she had been feeling down—something to do with a restless night in a strange bed, and added to that the stultifying boredom of the meeting she had had to attend. She must remember to dodge Kyle's suggestions in future. Even an afternoon window-gazing along some of the most exciting streets in the world hadn't managed to eliminate her melancholy.

  But now, about to set off on a visit which promised only pleasure, devoid of the near-trauma of recent encounters, she felt she might be on the road to recovery. Besides, it was very difficult to remain depressed when the mirror was giving such very encouraging signals, when the blouse she had picked up in a tiny boutique looked so good with this favourite skirt.

  Holly had implied that it was to be a casual evening so the tiered cotton skirt would be about right. The gauzy blouse with ruffled plunging neckline and full bracelet sleeves... well, a bit fancy perhaps, but then she never could resist those intense midnight shades, which had a magical effect on her looks as well as her spirits, and her hair was long enough to twist into the cottage-loaf style which suited her.

  Almost satisfied now, she stood back, approving the elegant sway of the skirt, adjusting the wide belt which drew attention to the slender waist. A touch more lipstick to outline the mouth, a tiny spray of flowery scent, and she was ready to meet Paul Santorini III and IV. Just the parcels to pick up—a gorgeous teddy bear with a huge red tartan bow, pralines for chocoholic Holly and whisky for Paul, of whose preferences she was entirely ignorant. She walked downstairs just as her cab pulled up in front of the apartment block.

  'Doesn't she look glamorous?' Having introduced her husband and her best friend, and expressed delight over the gifts, Holly swept them both in front of her and into the long, elegant salon.

  'She does.' Offering a tray with glasses of chilled wine, Paul exchanged an amused glance with Leigh. Tm very impressed.'

  'Did I descr
ibe her properly?' Then, without waiting for a reply, 'She hasn't changed a bit.'

  'I wonder if you described me properly to Leigh?' her husband teased. 'And, come to that, does she think you've changed much?'

  'Oh, me?' Holly shrugged ruefully. 'I bet all she notices is that I've put on about twenty pounds. That,' she sighed, 'is what being blissfully happy and having a baby does for you.'

  'I can't entirely agree with you there.' Paul was perfectly serious. 'I've had a baby too, wouldn't dare to be less than blissfully happy, and haven't gained an ounce.'

  'Idiot.' His wife threw a cushion at him and missed. 'People who won't put on weight make me sick. But, speaking of babies... I'm sure Leigh is dying to see our little wonder.'

  'I thought you'd never mention it.' Leigh spoke with more tact than truth and a moment later she was being led across the hall and into the nursery.

  'We'll just peep at him, but you're sure to see him later because he always wakes up about ten.'

  When they were leaning over the cot and Leigh had made all the appropriately admiring comments she said softly, at the same time putting out a finger to touch the downy, incredibly soft cheek, 'I'm glad you're so happy, Holly.'

  After a pause her friend agreed. 'So happy. And so lucky, I just can't believe it. After what happened in Strasbourg...' She referred to a disastrous affair she had had two years earlier. ‘That was all such a waste of time.'

  'Yes, you're lucky to have met a man like Paul, and-----' Leigh glanced round the beautifully appointed nursery '—to have such a lovely home.'

  'Mmm, we were lucky to find it. It's a fairly international block—several Americans, which suits Paul, and a general mix of Europeans.' From the hall they heard the doorbell ring, the faint sound of feet walking on thick carpet, followed by a door opening. 'As a matter of fact, we've asked one of our neighbours to join us for supper—that'll be him arriving now. Paul knew him slightly before... We'll go now. As I said, Pauli will be sure to wake before you go.' Switching off the light, Holly guided her guest back towards the salon, to the murmur of voices, the chink of glasses. Then a sudden low laugh brought Leigh to a halt.