by Anne Weale
‘Janie?’
‘Our “treasure”’—wiggling her forefingers. ‘The person who opened the door to you.’
‘Does she live in?’
‘Yes, she’s been with us for years.’
‘How will your mother cope with life on her own when you leave home?’
‘It won’t bother her. She’s a naturally solitary person. It was having to leave the garden that was wrecking her. Her plants are her closest companions. She talks to them.’
‘My other grandmother does that. It sounds as if she and your mother have a lot in common,’ said Reid. He looked at his watch. ‘I must go if I’m going to be at the airport on time.’
‘It was a long way to come for such a short stay... especially when you must be tired from your trip.’
But he didn’t look jet-lagged, she thought. He had the air of someone who has just come back from a holiday on a high of energy and vitality.
Fran went with him to the car where, having unlocked it, he took off the coat of his suit and tossed it in the back. Then he took off his tie, a more conservative choice than the one he had worn when they dined together.
‘I thought I’d better look respectable when I came to ask for your hand,’ he said, rolling the tie round his fingers, his mouth straight but his eyes amused.
‘How ought I to dress to make a good impression on your family?’ Fran asked.
He looked at the sweatshirt, jeans and deck shoes she had put on to walk the dogs.
‘From what I’ve seen so far, you have an impeccable dress sense. Wear whatever seems appropriate.’
He put the tie in the car and unbuttoned the neckband of what, from the way it fitted the extra-broad span of his shoulders, had to be a made-to-measure shirt. With the collar open, exposing the base of his throat, he looked younger and less formidable.
‘By the way, I hope you don’t want an elaborate wedding. They take too long to organise. Also it seems to be one of Murphy’s laws that the more elaborate the wedding, the less chance there is of the couple making a go of it. I’m thinking of most of the weddings I’ve been to over the last ten years...and I’ve been to a lot.’
‘So have I and you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘There’s also the point that a white dress and yards of veil look incredibly bogus when everyone knows the bride and groom have been sleeping together, if not living together, for so long that the honeymoon will just be another holiday for them.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘But would you have wanted to live in the days when the dress and the veil weren’t merely nods to tradition and the honeymoon, at least for the bride, was a voyage into unknown territory?’
For a moment she considered putting her cards on the table, saying bluntly, ‘That’s what it will be for me. I’ve never slept with anyone. I’ll be a virgin bride.’
Some instinct she couldn’t analyse restrained her. ‘I wouldn’t have minded. I’m not sure that, all in all, today’s way is so much better. There are just as many unhappy people as there ever were. But now they’re unhappy singles instead of being miserable in pairs. My parents didn’t get on, but Shelley and I didn’t know that till later. I’m sure we felt much more secure than if Mum had been a single parent. I don’t think she could have coped.’
Reid undid another button, giving a glimpse of a chest that, even more than his face, was still brown from time in the sun.
‘They say that before a man marries he should take a close look at his prospective mother-in-law, because that’s what her daughter will be like in twenty or thirty years’ time. If you’re going to turn out like yours, that will be fine with me. She seems a very nice woman, even if she and your father weren’t an ideally matched couple.’
‘What makes you think you and I are?’
‘I trust my judgment. When you’ve decided what train to catch, leave a message on my answering machine. I’ll come and meet you. Goodbye, Francesca.’ He blew her a kiss before sliding his long frame into the driving seat.
She watched the car glide down the drive. Before turning out of the gate, he put his arm out of the window and gave her a final wave.
Fran raised a hand, half regretting that she hadn’t turned away as soon as he started the engine. She had the feeling she ought to be playing it cooler instead of surrendering all control of the situation to him.
She went to see if her mother needed help with the watering. It had been a dry winter and already there was a hosepipe ban in place which Mrs Turner observed with more conscientiousness than some of her neighbours, even though carrying cans made her back ache.
‘Has he gone already?’ she asked, as her daughter joined her, a full can in either hand.
‘Yes. What do you think of him?’
‘He’s got lovely manners. Gran will be thrilled. He’s the sort of young man she hoped you’d marry. But how long have you known him, love? It all seems to have happened very quickly.’
‘I wanted to keep it quiet until I was sure,’ said Fran, knowing the truth would horrify her mother and start her worrying again. ‘Reid felt the same way. I haven’t met his family yet. I’m going to meet some of them tomorrow. I’m not sure they’ll think as highly of me as you do of him.’
‘I don’t know why they shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Turner, a touch indignantly. ‘Most people would count themselves lucky if their son took home a girl half as nice as you.’
‘You’re prejudiced, Mum,’ Fran said, smiling.
‘No, I’m not. You are a nice girl...a lovely girl. Neither you nor Shelley gave me or your Dad a moment’s worry...not like some people’s daughters... staying out till all hours...sleeping around... smoking and drinking and worse. You’ve never done any of that.’
Only because I was waiting for Julian, thought Fran. If I hadn’t been in love with him, I might have tried everything on offer.
To steer away from this topic, she said, ‘We’re not going to have a big wedding so you don’t need to worry about organising the kind of show Dad insisted Shelley must have. She didn’t want all that fuss. It was his idea.’
Like many self-made men, her father had seized every opportunity to show off. Her sister had walked up the aisle followed by six small bridesmaids and three maids of honour, the bill for her dress and theirs running to thousands of pounds. Not to mention the cost of the lavish floral arrangements and a sit-down wedding breakfast for three hundred people.
Fran had never wanted that sort of show but, daydreaming about her marriage to Julian, she had designed a succession of white bridal dresses. In her mind’s eye, she had always arrived at the church veiled in a cloud of diaphanous tulle.
‘But you will have a church wedding, won’t you?’ Mrs Turner asked.
‘I don’t know yet. Possibly not. We haven’t discussed the details.’
Her mother looked at Fran’s left hand. ‘When are you choosing the ring?’
‘I don’t know that either. Reid may have a family ring he wants me to wear.’
Fran gave a great deal of thought to how best to present herself to Reid’s grandmother who, although she might or might not be a major influence on him personally, was clearly the matriarch of the family and therefore someone whose approval would smooth Fran’s path.
She remembered the girls at her boarding-school, who, when they arrived, had been in one of three categories: the daughters of Old Money families, the daughters of Newly Rich parents, and the girls whose backgrounds were unimportant because they had brilliant brains.
Later on there had been other divisions: girls who excelled at games, girls who were natural leaders, unpopular girls and amusing girls who, more often than not, were also girls with a weight problem.
By the time they left school, the divisions were less apparent. They had all been changed by mixing with each other and by the school’s ethos. It aimed to produce young women who would have an influence on society, either in the world at large or—as they were regularly reminded—in the equally important sphere of family life.
&
nbsp; Fran had been a leading member of the school’s dramatic society but had never had showbiz ambitions. She knew she could easily present herself as the Sloane Ranger type of girl most conventional upper crust women would want their grandsons to marry. She had clothes in her wardrobe which fitted that image. But she wasn’t really a Sloane so why put on an act? Why not just be herself and chance the old bird’s disapproval?
Which still left her in a quandary because she had often felt that, personality-wise, she was like an iceberg. The part of her that showed was the Fran Turner other people wanted her to be. But there was a mass of potential under the surface. She had always sensed there was more to her than met the eye, but had been drifting along, obsessed by Julian and an idyllic future which, as matters had turned out, was never going to materialise.
Now she felt she was waiting for some titanic event which would reveal what she was really made of. Maybe this process had already begun. Maybe the uncharacteristic flare of anger which had made her storm out of Reid’s office had been the beginning of it.
In the end she went to London wearing the two things she would snatch from her wardrobe if the house was on fire. One was a light silk raincoat, the colour of a black grape, bought in New York where smart women wore similar coats to go to the theatre and restaurants.
Under this she wore a delicious extravagance found a few weeks before her father’s business crashed. It was French, from a shop where the prices were such that the door was kept locked and customers had to press a bell for admittance.
She saw Reid waiting for her before he spotted her. His height and the way he carried himself made him stand out even in the crowded concourse of a main-line railway station. As it happened the way he was dressed was less conformist than anything she had seen him in so far. He was wearing a soft suede windcheater, the colour of butterscotch, with grey trousers and a grey silk shirt, open at the neck. He didn’t look like a banker, even an off-duty banker. She wasn’t sure what he looked like...except that the sight of him gave her an undeniable buzz.
But it wasn’t anything like the feeling she had had when Julian came home. That had been a more soulful, less physical reaction.
‘Hello.’ He kissed her cheek and took charge of her overnight case. ‘I don’t use the car in London. We’ll get a taxi.’
As they joined the line-up for cabs, Reid said, ‘Your hair looks magnificent.’
‘Thank you.’
For each of their previous meetings it had been under restraint, held with pins or a clip or, yesterday, with a ruffle of ribbon on an elastic core.
Today she’d decided to go for the big-hair look, brushing it into a cloud of resplendent redness which had made her mother say doubtfully, ‘Oh, Franny, love, do you think...?’ And then, typically, quash her doubts with, ‘Well, I expect you know best.’
‘Is that colour natural?’ he asked, after they had secured a cab.
‘Yes, but my eyelashes aren’t. That’s one thing your investigator missed out. I have them professionally darkened. My eyebrows as well. But otherwise I’m as nature intended.’ She bared her teeth in a broad smile. ‘No caps, no implants...what you see is what you get.’
‘And very nice too. I like this.’ He touched the earring nearest to him, a flamboyant silver hoop set with tiny chunks of unpolished turquoise. ‘Which reminds me...’
He felt in his pocket and produced a small leather box. ‘I did some impulse shopping in New York. It may not fit your engagement finger or you may prefer something more classic. If so, you can wear it as a dress ring. Someone else at the bank who’s recently got engaged took his girlfriend to a goldsmith who designed her wedding and engagement rings as a complementary pair.’
Opening the box, he showed Fran a ring for which if, a few months ago, it had caught her eye in a Bond Street jeweller’s window, she would have willingly gone into overdraft.
Unlike her earrings, which were inexpensive costume pieces, this was a serious jewel, a combination of aquamarine, emerald and sapphire set in a swirl of gold which had to have been inspired by the designer leaning on the rail of a yacht, looking down through the sunlit surface into the depths of the sea.
‘I thought it went with your eyes...and your hair,’ said Reid. ‘Try it on. See if it fits.’
She was not sure what made her say, ‘I think you should put it on for me.’ And then add, ‘That’s the usual form, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been engaged before.’ His eyebrow went up. ‘Have you?’
‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head, fanning the fingers of her left hand and holding them towards him.
He took the ring from its velvet bed. The lid of the case was lined with matching satin gold-stamped with the name of a famous Fifth Avenue jeweller. He slid the ring over her knuckle and settled it in place, his fingertips making contact with the sensitive webs of skin between her fingers and sending a flash of sensation shooting up her arm.
‘It might have been made for me,’ she said, turning her hand this way and that to admire the effect. ‘It’s a wonderful ring. Thank you, Reid.’
And then, swept by an impulse which had a lot more to do with that erotic reaction than with complying with ‘form’, she put her hand up to his head, took a gentle hold of his ear and, drawing his face down to hers, gave him a soft-lipped kiss, full on the mouth.
What happened next was as disconcerting as her impulse. Outwardly, nothing happened. Her fingers released his ear and their heads drew apart. But neither of them looked away and Fran knew, from the heat in Reid’s eyes that, in a culture that permitted it, he would have grabbed her and made for the nearest place where they would be undisturbed while he gave rein to his instincts.
But as they were civilised people in a taxi in the heart of London, he was forced to restrain his urges and to say, ‘I’m glad you like it,’ while dealing, as best he could, with a reaction which she hadn’t intended to arouse and could only deal with by pretending a sudden interest in the passing scene.
As she averted her face, showing him the lovely line from her cheekbone to her jaw, Reid felt like hauling her into his arms and returning the kiss with interest. Had it been dark he would have done so.
The driver had closed the glass partition when they got in. With a fare on their own he might chat, glance in the rear-view mirror or, at traffic lights, even turn round to look at the person behind him.
With a couple on the back seat, one a sensational girl, he would keep his eyes on the road. But at this time of day pedestrians could catch a glimpse of a couple embracing and Reid preferred to do his necking in private.
His grandmother and his aunt both kept fairly early hours. Tonight, after they had retired, there would be plenty of time to resume what Francesca had started. He expected to spend the night in her bedroom. His grandmother would certainly disapprove and even his more broad-minded aunt might not entirely condone it. But he doubted if sex had ever been among their pleasures, even when they were younger. They were both the sort of women who, during their fertile years, had lain back and thought about their herbaceous borders.
Francesca’s passionate mouth and, sometimes, her body language made it obvious she wouldn’t be like that... once she got over her understandable reservations about the pragmatic nature of their relationship.
At the moment, although she was doing a good job of not showing it, he was aware of the tension she felt about meeting his family. That was understandable. His grandmother would undoubtedly classify George Turner as ‘an absolute bounder’, and with justification.
But Reid knew that his grandmother’s choice of a suitable bride for him would bore him out of his mind. He had problems enough without adding an incompatible wife to the existing difficulties of his life.
Sneaking a covert glance at him, Fran was dismayed to see that while he was looking at the back of the driver’s head rather than at her, his face suggested that, although he had been turned on a few minutes ago, his mood at this moment was one of extre
me displeasure.
The set of his mouth was severe, not to say grim. It was hard to believe her kiss was the cause of that glowering expression. But clearly something was annoying him.
Then the forbidding look lightened and he turned his head and said pleasantly, ‘I expect you’re feeling a bit nervous. Meeting one’s future in-laws is always like walking through a minefield. But what any of them think isn’t really important. The only person we have to get along with is each other.’
It was meant to be reassuring and, up to a point, it was. But she couldn’t help wondering if the subtext was that he knew his relations wouldn’t like her but didn’t care because he had never cared for anyone else’s opinion... and when they were married would disregard hers as well.
The knowledge that they were virtually strangers with nothing in common beyond a strong physical attraction made her wonder if the beautiful ring she was wearing was a token she would come to wish she had never accepted.
Lady Kennard and her daughter, Mrs Onslow, were not unlike Gran and Mum in that one was bossy and the other compliant. Fran saw that in the first five minutes of their acquaintance.
She also saw that there the resemblance ended. Both these women were stuck in a time warp, their outlook and values those of an era that had passed and most people had forgotten, if they ever knew it existed.
‘Are you an actress?’ asked Lady Kennard, taking in Fran’s appearance and clearly deciding that only someone in the theatre would wear her hair like that and dress in such extraordinary garments.
‘No, I don’t have a career. I live at home with my mother...like the girls in Jane Austen’s novels,’ Fran said demurely.
‘But with rather more freedom than they enjoyed,’ was Reid’s dry comment.
