Christmas at Tiffany's (66 page)

She took a step closer to Gil, and he smiled in surprise at her move, spreading his fingers up her waist so that they brushed the bottom of her bra. Sometimes it was better to trust the devil you knew.

‘You seem down in the dumps my dear,’ Hattie said, coming to join Cassie at the empty table where she was slumped, watching a friend of Brett’s do his best Mick Jagger impersonation. She had suffered through the speeches and dinner, which Gil had dominated with a rare bombastic bonhomie, triggering unimpressed expressions even from Arch, and now everyone had scattered. Kelly and Brett had danced their first dance, Gil was somewhere at the bar ordering himself a whisky; Anouk was dancing to Abba with Archie, whilst Suzy went off to change her bra after her boobs leaked during coffee. Henry was still with the Jessica Rabbit lookalike two tables away. Cassie had her back to them, so she couldn’t see what they were up to, but from the nervous glances Anouk had been shooting her way, she was amazed they hadn’t found a room already.

Cassie straightened up and gave a brave smile. ‘Not at all, Hats. I’m just waiting for my second wind.’

‘What you need is some camomile tea.’

‘Camomile? At a wedding?’ Cassie grimaced. ‘That’s not the form. It said on my bridesmaid enrolment papers that I’m supposed to get slaughtered and snog an usher.’

‘Well now,
that
probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing! If you want my opinion, you could pick any man at random here tonight and you’d still make a better choice than that roué husband of yours.’

Cassie nodded stoically. The verdict was unanimous then.

Hattie jerked her chin in the air. ‘But you didn’t, so I’ll keep my opinions to myself. Anyway, camomile’s what you need. Energy in adversity. It’s just the ticket.’ She smiled sympathetically, patting Cassie’s hand.

She went to get up, but Cassie clutched at her. ‘What did you say, Hats? Energy in adversity?’

‘Yes, dear. It’s just the tonic for you right now.’

‘But why did you say those specific words? You could have just said it would revitalize me.’

‘Hmmm, yes, I suppose I could,’ she mused. ‘But I’m something of a stickler for being correct about these things. The language of flowers is open enough to interpretation as it is.’

‘The language of flowers?’

‘Yes. The Victorians ascribed specific properties to flowers, and they attributed camomile with “energy in adversity”.’

Cassie let go of her hand. She knew those very words, of course she did. They had been written on the tag that came with the grass seeds. ‘Energy in adversity’ had been Henry’s ‘motivational’ motto to her in New York. She thought about the list he’d given her: hosting dinner, running around the park . . . getting her going, getting her
living
again.

But there hadn’t been a ‘motto’ for Paris. And he’d been adamant she had to find out what the flowers were herself. Did he want her to decipher their identities . . . and then their
meanings
?

She felt her pulse quicken. She instinctively knew this mattered.

Hattie had moved on to the dance floor and was being twirled around by the vicar, who was more twinkle-toes than brimstone. Cassie stood up and stepped into the wriggling, giggling mass towards them.

‘Hats . . . Hats,’ she called, trying to tap Hattie on the shoulder. ‘So what is the meaning for Sweet Alyssum?’

‘What’s that?’ Hattie asked, cupping her ear and trying to hear over the drumbeat to Lady Gaga.

‘Sweet Alyssum,’ Cassie called, running in circles with her as the vicar attempted to whisk Hattie’s feet off the ground. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Uh . . . ooooh!’ she squealed as he achieved lift-off and she dissolved into a fit of girlish giggles.

‘Hats! Please!’ Cassie cried. She could see Gil paying for his drink by the bar.

‘I’m not sure. It’s been so long . . . “worth beyond beauty”, I think!’ the older woman called.

Cassie stopped running. Worth beyond beauty? Her motto for Paris, when she had lost all sight of who she was and no longer recognized her own reflection? She remembered sitting on the bridge with Henry just after he’d idiotically locked her padlock to the bridge.
You’ve tried to reinvent yourself when there is absolutely nothing about you that needs to be fixed . . .
Her mind slowed. He’d given her energy in New York, the will to fight back straight after her marriage had been dealt the knockout blow; tried to show her she had a worth beyond the cosmetic in Paris. So, then, for London . . . ?

She started chasing Hattie in circles again. ‘And Maiden’s Blush? It’s the last one, I promise.’

‘I’m sorry, dear. It’s been years since I looked at that book,’ Hattie said, shrugging apologetically.

Cassie’s face fell. ‘You really can’t remember?’

‘Check in the library. It’ll be there somewhere.’

The library? Gil was making his way back to the table; she could already see him scanning the marquee for her. She ducked down and moved across the dance floor, darting behind the DJ and running along the electrical cables until she found her escape through the caterers’ exit, past the bottle bins.

She ran over the terrace, startling Suzy, who was rocking Cupcake in her arms, through the French windows into the drawing room and beyond, into the library.

It was dim in there. Only a table lamp was lit and she could feel the bass of the music vibrating through the wide old oak floorboards beneath her. Quickly she began scanning the shelves. Decades’ worth of
Gardens Illustrated
magazines were lined up next to horticultural tomes and glossy coffee-table books paying homage to the gardening greats, Bunny Guinness, William Kent and Charles Bridgeman.

But the book she was looking for, and eventually found, was nothing like as grand. It was small and somewhat tatty, with yellowing pages and charming line illustrations.
Language of Flowers, illustrated by Kate Greenaway.

She thumbed to the front page. It was a first edition – 1884 – and the pages gave off that wonderful smell she loved so much. She read a message that had been written in pencil in a young hand:

She flicked through. It was like an index, running alphabetically, and there were soiled thumbprints at the corners of the pages. A few pages had been marked, some by a felt-tip pen, obviously wielded by a very young child, but others were ticked in the margins with a pencil, firm and sure. Her answers were here, she knew.

With shaking hands she went to M.

‘
Madder; Magnolia; Magnolia, Swamp; Mallow
. . .’

It wasn’t there! She took a deep breath and tried to focus. Then she remembered Cuisse De Nymphe. She went to C.

No luck.

‘Oh, come on,’ she murmured . . . R! It was a type of rose. It had to be sub-classified under rose.

She flicked through the pages as quickly as she could, but it was tricky – the book, though small, was hardback and the pages thick. But she knew she was on the right page before she even saw the letters. A tiny silver key was taped in by the spine, a miniature tag swinging from it that read:

It was the key for her padlock. It wasn’t lost at all. Had never been lost, simply withheld, and she could have it back now – could get the necklace back – if she wanted it.

She pulled the tape off carefully and dropped the key into her bra. Well, why wouldn’t she want it? Who in their right mind would willingly leave a solid silver Tiffany’s necklace padlocked to a bridge in Paris?

Her eyes scanned the opposite page.

‘Rose, Guelder; Rose, Hundred-Leaved; Rose, Japan; Rose, Maide—’

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it and she slid her finger slowly over the page, the slightly furred texture tingly beneath her skin.

‘
Rose, Maiden’s Blush . . . If you love me, you will find it out.’

Words rushed at her, ghosts clamouring. If you love me, you will find it out. If you love me . . . Not nothing . . . Everything. Unconsummated love . . . Find it out . . . find it out.

The book fell from her hands and she was back in Venice that first night, checking her make-up in the mirror.
His gaze swept into hers. And just for a moment, before the shame and humiliation came crashing down upon her, she felt a current pass between their reflections, a power-surge that threatened to slam her against the wall and knock all the air and sense out of her
.

In a thunderbolt of realization, she suddenly understood that it hadn’t been embarrassment that had made her run that day. It had been the look that had passed between them – it had been the moment of truth.

‘There you are!’ Gil said from the door, and through her shock she could hear the possession in his voice. ‘I was about to do a head-count of the groomsmen and start searching the camellia bushes.’

Cassie heard him place his drink on the table and walk over to her, his eyes drinking her in before he placed his cool, smooth hands on her. Slowly, he turned her around.

‘Darling, what is it?’ he exclaimed, looking startled. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’

She was quiet for a long time, and when she did speak, she felt dazed, remote. ‘You’re exactly the same.’

‘I am,’ he soothed, rubbing her hands as though to warm her up.

‘And that’s the problem. You’re frozen. Stuck. Whilst you’ve been busy staying the same, I’ve changed every aspect of my life. It’s been completely terrifying – but also exhilarating.’

She looked at him, watched him balk at the pity in her eyes. ‘You and Wiz gave me back my freedom, and, thanks to my friends, I grabbed it with both hands. You are the one left without choices in all this.’

‘I don’t understand . . .’ he said warily.

‘You’re still the husband I knew, Gil. But I’m not your wife.’

‘You are in law,’ he retorted obstinately, too flummoxed by the turn of conversation to remember to tread softly.

‘The law’s an ass. Isn’t that what they say?’

He stepped towards her, cupping the back of her head with his hand and gazing into her eyes passionately . . . but he saw that they weren’t his any more. They had belonged to him for the longest time, holding all the uncertainty and insecurity that he had fostered in her, the very thing Luke had first noticed and been attracted to in her. But all he saw now was purpose and confidence; a woman who knew herself. He pulled back, knowing somehow that, in the time it had taken to buy a drink, he had lost her.

‘I don’t want to be without you, Cass. I want you back.’ It was his final card – pleading, without pride.

Cassie looked at him, her gaze level. ‘But I don’t
want
you to want me, Gil. The only thing I want from you is my divorce.’

Henry was sitting at the same table, his cheek resting on the palm of his hand, when Cassie walked back into the marquee. The brunette was chattering excitedly about something, but Cassie could see, now that she looked, that he seemed more bored than enthralled by her.

She watched for a moment, wondering how to cut in, how to start this . . .

Then she walked across the matting floor, weaving between the tables towards him. He saw her approach from three tables away, her eyes locked on to him, and he lifted his head automatically – just in time for the glass of water she threw over him, which drenched his hair and shirt and left the brunette squawking pathetically. Archie and Anouk, nearby on the dance floor, burst out laughing, absolutely delighted, but Cassie didn’t stay to join in. As quickly as she’d soaked him, she turned on her heel and fled from the marquee, kicking her shoes off so that she could run faster, barefoot, through the meadow and down towards the lake.

After ten seconds, during which Henry sat there, stunned, he was up and straight after her. She could hear his outraged breathing advancing closer with every stride. She knew she could never outrun him and stopped abruptly, whirling round to face him so that he had to jump sideways to avoid mowing her down.

‘What the . . . what the
hell
was that for?’ he howled, regaining his balance, water still dripping from his hair.

‘You deserved it,’ she panted, her heart hammering inside her ribs.

‘For what?’

‘For behaving like such an arse towards me since you got here.’

Henry stared at her, flabbergasted. ‘
What?
’

‘Don’t try to deny it. Ever since you kissed me, you’ve acted like you hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you!’ he exclaimed, seemingly unaware that his hands were repeatedly balling into furious fists.

‘Oh, I know that
now
!’

‘Now that you’ve thrown water over me?’ He was incredulous at her behaviour.

‘Now that I’ve discovered your secret.’

There was a pause. ‘What secret?’ He looked like she’d slapped him.

She took a deep breath. ‘That you love me.’