by Anne Weale
Shelley was ready before her and, sensing that her sister would like some time to herself, joined the others in the sitting room while Fran was still putting the finishing touches to her light make-up. As usual, she had done her hair herself, not wishing to let a strange hairdresser loose on it.
The white outfit had looked good with her pearls. With Reid’s emeralds it looked fabulous. She knew she had never and would never look better than she did today, her appearance of confident elegance at odds with the profound unease inside her.
When she walked into the sitting room, her mother burst into tears.
‘For goodness’ sake, Daphne...’ Gran expostulated impatiently. But her own eyes were suspiciously bright as she looked at her younger grandchild who had grown up so tall and poised and was making a brilliant marriage.
‘You look drop-dead gorgeous,’ said Shelley, faintly surprised to see that her sister wasn’t wearing a hat or any form of headdress.
Very soon they were all in the huge limousine taking them to the register office where there was no sign of the bridegroom’s relations but he was waiting on the pavement, looking especially debonair in a grey suit, white shirt and an apricot tie with an apricot rose in his buttonhole.
With the driver holding the door and Reid ready to assist them, the others climbed out first and had their hands kissed, probably the first time it had ever happened to them, thought Fran, watching.
Then it was her turn to follow. As she stepped onto the pavement, Reid brought from behind his back a small exquisite posy of old-fashioned Parma violets.
‘Good morning, Francesca.’
The formality of his greeting was at variance with the appreciative gleam in his eyes as they appraised her.
She put the flowers to her nose, inhaling a fragrance redolent of a more gracious era. As she did so, she realised they were held by something she recognised as a small silver posy holder, probably Edwardian or Victorian.
‘How pretty...thank you.’ She added, ‘And thank you for these,’ touching the emerald beads. ‘I have a memento for you, but I’ll give it to you later.’
The three other guests were waiting for them inside and Reid performed the introductions. Then it was time for the ceremony.
Fran had always expected to get married in the country church where Shelley and John had made their vows. The register office ritual had hardly begun before it was over and they were leaving the building to return to the hotel, Reid and herself in the car by themselves, with the others following on.
His first kiss as her husband, in the register office had been a feather-light brush of his mouth against hers. He didn’t attempt to repeat it, more warmly, as they drove the short distance back.
‘That’s a lovely dress,’ he told her.
‘I think you must be psychic,’ said Fran.
When he lifted an enquiring eyebrow, she unbuttoned her jacket and showed him the belt of velvet ribbon round her waist. It was exactly the same colour as the violets.
‘Did you choose them yourself?’
‘Naturally. Did you think I’d delegate the choice of my bride’s flowers to my secretary?’
‘No, but you might have asked Mrs Heatherley’s advice.’
He shook his head. ‘My mother collected small silver objects. The posy holder was one of them. The violets seemed the right colour to go with your hair.’
In the private room where they were having lunch, a large round table was decorated with white flowers and greenery. Fran drank her first glass of champagne quickly, needing the buzz. She was still very strung up.
Although the meal was delicious, starting with a grilled goat’s cheese salad followed by poached sea trout with truffle mayonnaise and braised baby shallots, Fran found it hard to do it justice. Lady Kennard, on her left, kept up a non-stop flow of small talk and Gran was doing the same thing on Reid’s right.
Fran’s mother and Mrs Heatherly were deeply immersed in garden problems and Shelley and Mrs Onslow were talking about babies. Glad that they were enjoying themselves, but longing for it to be over, Fran drank more than she ate, not realising how much until Reid suddenly turned to her and said quietly, ‘A little more blotting paper and a little less bubbly might be a good idea.’
It was said in a good-humoured tone and no one else overheard it, but Fran felt deeply embarrassed. It was only then that she realised how assiduously the waiter had been topping up her glass and how unwisely rapidly she had been emptying it, especially as champagne was famous for entering the bloodstream faster than still wines.
When the pudding was served, nectarines marinated in something alcoholic, she knew his warning had been justified and wished she had eaten more bread and new potatoes when she had the chance. It was too late now. She would just have to be extra careful when she stood up.
It was Mrs Heatherley who, in the absence of the customary toasts, suddenly rose to her feet, saying, ‘I should like to say a few words. We hear a great deal of talk, both in public and private, about the breakdown of marriage. It’s my belief that there never were very many perfect marriages. But they happen and, I believe, will go on happening. I hope many years ahead Reid and Francesca will look back on today as the beginning of one of those strong and satisfying relationships. We all wish them well.’
She raised her glass and smiled across the table at them. ‘To Reid and Francesca and their future together.’
The others echoed the toast. As Mrs Heatherley sat down, Reid stood up. ‘Thank you, Granny... Thank you,’ he said to the rest of the party. ‘It’s almost time for my wife’—he paused to smile down at her—‘to change, so I’ll keep this brief. You all know the adage “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”. I persuaded Francesca to marry me in haste. I intend to make sure she never repents that decision.’
‘Well said, lad.’ Mrs Webb began clapping and the others joined in.
Smiling, Reid went on, ‘The rest of you may like to stay and talk and perhaps have tea before you leave. But as we’re due to take off from Heathrow an hour from now, you’d better get cracking, darling.’
Shelley went upstairs with Fran to pack her wedding clothes for her. They would be left in the care of Lady Kennard.
‘Reid’s very generous...sending cars to fetch us and take us home,’ said Shelley, as Fran undressed down to her new-on-today Italian bra, briefs and satin half slip. ‘You’re going to be cushioned in luxury from now on, Franny. More so than we were by Dad. He could be a bit mean at times. I’m sure he spent more on his girlfriends than he did on Mum. I can’t see her marrying again which is sad really. She’s only forty-six. If I’d been her, knowing Dad was unfaithful, I’d have found myself a lover. But Mum would think that was wicked.’
Fran wasn’t in the mood to discuss their mother’s sex. life. Right now she felt envious of her. Tonight, when she went to bed, Mrs Turner would probably spend an hour engrossed in a favourite gardening book from her large collection. Fran herself would be ending the day very differently: in bed with a man who as a lover could be anywhere on the scale from one to ten. From what she had heard from girlfriends about their men, it was risky to assume that because a man was attractive he would be an ace between the sheets.
She put on co-ordinated separates; a dark grape-coloured skirt with a pale lilac silk shirt and an aubergine blazer, the offbeat colours she loved and that set off her hair and also the emerald beads.
‘I wonder if I should take these, or leave them in Lady K’s care?’ she pondered aloud.
‘Ask Reid,’ Shelley suggested. ‘I should think the sort of hotels you’ll be staying in will all have safes in the rooms. Most five-star places do.’
When Fran consulted Reid, he said, ‘It might be better to leave them behind.’
The farewell embraces took another five minutes and then they went to the waiting car.
‘Are you glad that’s over or did you enjoy it?’ Reid asked, as it glided away from the hotel’s palatial entrance.
‘Some of it.’ S
he was still smarting slightly from his reproof at the table.
‘I hope the photographs are good so that our children can see how beautiful you looked. You have very good taste. I like that outfit too,’ he said, looking at it.
‘Would you have married me if I’d had dreadful taste?’
‘You would still have been you.’
He was very good at diplomatic answers, she thought, and he was doing his best to behave as if this were an ordinary marriage.
She had brought the posy of violets with her. Inside the silver holder, she had discovered, their stems were encased in a small plastic bag with a damp tissue inside it. They reminded her that the time it took to reach the airport was an opportunity to give him the memento in her shoulder bag. She took it out, neatly wrapped in thick brown paper tied with dark green tape sealed with red wax.
‘I hope you’ll like this. It’s my wedding present to you.’ She had raised the money to buy it by selling two favourite possessions, an eighteenth-century fan and a portrait miniature of a lady with powdered hair. She had found them in a country antique shop when she was still in her teens and they had appreciated in value. It had seemed important to buy something for him with money she could call her own.
Rather surprisingly, Reid had a Swiss army knife clipped to the back of his belt. It wasn’t the sort of accessory she expected a banker to have concealed on his person.
He cut the tape and unfolded the paper, his eyebrows rising as he uncovered a slim leather-bound volume inside. He opened it, reading the title page.
‘I’ve been looking for this for years. How did you know? How did you find it?’
‘The head of my school said I was resourceful,’ she reminded him.
He turned the pages, glancing at the engravings illustrating the text. Then he closed the book and studied the binding with a lyre stamped in gold on the front. Finally he looked at her, a long intent look that she couldn’t interpret.
‘You couldn’t have given me anything that would have pleased me more. Thank you, Francesca.’ He leaned towards her, taking her chin in his free hand and, for the second time that day, kissing her lightly on the lips.
At the check-in desk she found out where they were going from the indicator board behind it.
The last place she would have expected. Bordeaux, in south-west France.
But that couldn’t be their final destination. People honeymooned in Paris. It was one of the classic locations. Bordeaux’s image was different and much less romantic. It was a major centre of the wine trade, a mecca for connoisseurs of fine wine, a city frequented by shippers of vintage claret.
As the conveyor swept their cases away, Reid insisted on carrying her flight bag as well as his own. They went through Security, Fran showing her new married-name passport. It would take time to get used to being Francesca Kennard. She still felt like Fran Turner. But as Reid preferred to call her Francesca, that was probably how she would be known to the people she met in this new life starting today.
In the public departure lounge they bought magazines for the flight before going to the first-class lounge of the French airline they were flying with. Flying first class wasn’t a new experience. She had done it before, many times, but always going somewhere more glamorous than Bordeaux. Predictably, most of the other passengers in the lounge were well-fed middle-aged men with cigar smokers’ florid complexions accompanied by middle-aged wives or much younger women with the equally recognisable attributes of the trophy companion.
Very soon it was time to board. As she settled herself in the window seat, Fran remembered the aerial view of a French château in the folder Reid had handed her the first time they met. Perhaps it belonged to him and that was their destination. But she didn’t intend to ask.
They were still on the tarmac when a stewardess of fered them champagne or orange juice or a mixture of both. Fran chose juice and asked for a glass of water in which to refresh the violets. She had seen people glancing at them but doubted if any one of them guessed that they were, in effect, her bridal bouquet.
They were met at the airport by a driver holding up a placard with ’M. Kennard’ printed on it. Travelling with her mother, Fran had always been in charge, doing everything she could to relieve Mrs Turner of the smallest anxiety or effort. Now it was she who was being cosseted.
It wouldn’t have surprised her to see nothing of the city but its bypass. Instead it was soon apparent they were heading straight for the centre. Although the rush hour was over, traffic was still heavy and the driving competitive.
Presently they drew up outside a splendid hotel and went through the customary ritual of arrival at such a grand establishment. Very soon they were being ushered into a spacious suite overlooking the hotel’s formal garden.
After a conversation in French with a dapper assistant manager, Reid said to her, ‘Would you like a maid to unpack for you?’
‘No, thank you.’
A pass key rattled in the lock of the door of the adjoining bedroom. Their luggage had arrived. The dapper young man wished them an enjoyable stay in French and English, the baggage porters accepted their tips and closed the door behind them. They were alone.
‘I’m going to unpack and change,’ said Reid. ‘The dining room here is probably fairly formal. Perhaps it would be more relaxing to go out and find a bistro. What do you think?’
‘That would be fine with me.’
‘Give me your keys and I’ll unlock your case.’
Fran handed over her key-ring and watched him deal with the little gold padlock, open the two long zips, and fold back the top of the case.
‘Thank you.’
She took off her jacket and began to unpack, conscious that most newly married couples would have been in each other’s arms by now, probably on the brink of making love for the first time as Mr and Mrs or Monsieur and Madame. But her husband seemed more interested in distributing his belongings than in claiming the intimate privileges to which he was now entitled.
The fact that he was unpacking everything made it seem that her guess had been wrong. This was their destination. As they hung their clothes in the generous closet space, she wondered if he could be cold-blooded enough to combine business with pleasure; expecting her to please him at night but to spend the days on her own while he did deals with the city’s leading wine barons.
She was still unpacking when Reid started to change by sitting down in a chair and taking off his black shoes and grey silk socks. He had already shed his tie and now he unbuttoned the cuffs and front of his shirt and pulled it free from his trousers. Although she wasn’t watching him doing this, she was aware of his actions out of the corner of her eye.
Weird as it might seem to many of her contemporaries, especially those who, on holiday, had a succession of one-night stands and thought nothing of it, because of Julian she had never been in a room with a man while he was undressing.
Reid emptied his trouser pockets of loose change before unbuckling his belt and unthreading it from the loops of his waistband. The sound of the zip being pulled down, inaudible to anyone with their mind on other things, seemed to Fran as loud as a piece of Velcro being ripped open. She was aware of him stepping out of his trousers and placing the hems together before turning away to hang them up.
For a moment, while his back was turned, she flashed a swift glance at his rear view and felt her insides turn over and her throat constrict. She had guessed from the way he moved that he was much fitter than most City men. But she hadn’t been prepared for the muscles rippling like sidewinders all over his broad brown back. She felt an instinctive frisson of fear and fascination.
From a formidable breadth of shoulder, his back narrowed down to a slim waist without an ounce of surplus flesh. A hard male backside was covered by a brief pair of light blue boxer shorts. Below them, his long legs had a naturally elegant shape with the exercised look of a sculler’s or a cyclist’s thighs and calves. Wherever he went to maintain this level of fitness, he was
a walking advertisement for the gym and its machines.
When she looked at him again he was in holiday mode: chinos, a cotton shirt and deck shoes with bare brown ankles. A dark blue blazer was slung over a chair, ready to be shrugged on when they went out.
Fran had decided not to change. What she was wearing might have been a bit formal for a village bistro, but here in Bordeaux it wouldn’t look out of place. Also she wasn’t ready to take off her clothes in front of him, but to do it in the bathroom might cause some sardonic comment.
‘Have you been here before?’ she asked, as they left the hotel.
‘Yes, many times.’ Reid took her elbow before they crossed the street, releasing it when they reached the opposite pavement.
This seemed to confirm her suspicion that he was here on business.
As they strolled through what was clearly a fashionable part of the city, the evening air was many degrees milder than this time yesterday in London. There it still felt like a chilly spring. Here it was early summer with an air temperature that made sitting outside not only possible but enjoyable.
By now the effect of the champagne at lunch had worn off. When a waiter came to take their order for drinks, Fran asked for white wine. Her schoolgirl French was equal to ordering food and drinks but she knew that her accent wasn’t as good as Reid’s which was why she said what she wanted in English to Reid, rather than speaking to the waiter.
It annoyed her that she lacked the confidence to speak French in front of him. It wasn’t like her. Usually she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. Why was she having these silly inhibitions with the man she ought to feel more at ease with than anyone else in the world?
‘I wish you would tell me how you managed to find that first edition,’ said Reid, while they were waiting for the drinks to come.
‘It wasn’t difficult. I looked up the telephone numbers of the leading antiquarian booksellers and rang them up to ask if you were a customer, explaining that we were going to be married and I wanted to buy a present for you. I struck lucky with the second call. They couldn’t have been more helpful. It turned out that book had been offered to them by a provincial dealer just a short time before I rang.’
