“I’ve no idea.” Richard stretched his legs out, then abruptly stood up. “We must go and tell Mr. Winters about this.”
“Dad! I can’t!”
“You’re going to have to. It’s not fair on him.” Richard looked sternly at Antony. “He seems a very decent and honourable man, and we owe him the truth.”
“But he’ll kill me!”
“That I doubt.” A smile came to Richard’s lips, in spite of himself. “We don’t live in the age of the shotgun wedding any more, you know.”
“Shotgun wedding?” Antony stared at him, aghast. “But we didn’t even . . .”
“I know you didn’t. I’m joking!” Richard shook his head. “You youngsters grow up too quickly,” he said. “It may be fun, to drink and smoke and sleep in one another’s beds. But these things bring their problems too, you know.” Antony shrugged awkwardly. “I mean, look at you,” continued Richard. “You’re only fifteen. And Zara’s only just fourteen!” Antony looked up.
“Actually, Dad,” he said, “there’s something else I should tell you. About Zara’s age. And about . . . other things.”
“What about Zara’s age?”
“About her birthday. Remember? The birthday she had a few weeks ago?”
“Of course I remember!” said Richard impatiently. “What about it?”
“Well,” said Antony, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It’s a bit difficult to explain. The thing is . . .”
“Hang on,” said Richard suddenly. “What’s . . .” His voice was incredulous. “What’s that?”
Creeping down the drive, like something out of a dream, was a huge, shiny, navy blue Rolls-Royce. It purred to a halt outside the house, and then stopped.
Slowly, glancing at each other uncertainly, Richard and Antony began to approach it.
“Have they got the right house?” said Antony. “Do you think it’s a movie star?” Richard said nothing. His mouth was taut, his neck rigid with hope and nerves.
From the front seat appeared a uniformed driver. Ignoring Richard and Antony, he walked round the car to the passenger door nearest the house, and opened it.
“Look!” said Antony, giving a squeak of excitement. “They’re getting out!”
A leg appeared. A long, pale leg, followed by a red-sleeved arm.
“It’s . . .” Antony glanced at his father. “I don’t believe it!”
“Fleur,” said Richard in as calm a voice as he could muster.
She turned at the sound of his voice, hesitated, then took a few steps forward and looked at him, her mouth trembling slightly. For a moment neither said anything.
“I came back, you see,” said Fleur eventually, in a quivering voice.
“Yes, I see,” said Richard. “You came back. Have you . . .” He glanced at the Rolls-Royce. “Have you an answer for me?”
“Yes, I have.” Fleur lifted her chin. “Richard, I’m not going to marry you.”
A dart of pain ran through Richard’s chest; dimly he heard Antony’s disappointed gasp.
“I see,” he heard himself saying. “Well, it’s very good of you to let me know.”
“I won’t marry you,” said Fleur fiercely. “But I’ll . . . I’ll stick around for a bit.” Her eyes suddenly glistened. “I’ll stick around, if you’ll let me.”
Richard stared at her speechlessly. Slowly the pain in his chest ebbed away; slowly the tension of the last week began to disappear. A cautious, hopeful happiness began to rise through his body.
“I’d like that,” he managed. “I’d like you to stick around.”
He took a few steps forward, until he was near enough to grasp Fleur’s hands, to bring them up to his face and rub his cheeks against her pale, soft skin. “I thought you’d gone!” he said. Suddenly he felt close to tears; almost angry. “I really thought you’d gone for good!” Fleur looked at him honestly.
“I nearly did,” she said.
“So what happened? Why did you decide—”
“Richard, don’t ask,” interrupted Fleur. She lifted a finger and placed it on his lips. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re sure you want to know the answer. Because the answer . . .” Her eyelashes fluttered and she looked away. “The answer may not be what you want to hear.”
Richard gazed at her face for a few moments.
“Gillian said something very similar to me,” he said at last.
“Gillian,” said Fleur, “is a wise woman.”
“Where’s Zara?” said Antony, bored with obscure adult talk. He looked around. “Zara?”
“Zara, sweetie,” said Fleur impatiently. “Get out of the car.”
Slowly, cautiously, Zara climbed out of the Rolls-Royce. She stood still for a moment like a hostile cat, looking around as though suddenly unsure of her surroundings. Antony was reminded of the first time he’d seen her.
“OK,” she said, catching his eye. “Well, we’re back.” She scuffed her foot on the ground. “You know. If you want us.”
“Of course we want you!” said Antony. “Don’t we, Dad?”
“Of course we do,” said Richard.
He gently let go of Fleur’s hands and went over to Zara.
“Come on, Zara,” he said kindly. “There’s someone inside who very much wants to meet you.”
“Who?” said Fleur at once.
“I think you know who, Fleur,” said Richard, looking straight at her.
For a moment they gazed challengingly at each other. Then, as if in acquiescence, Fleur gave a tiny shrug. Richard nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, and turned back to Zara.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on, little Zara. We’ve had our turn. It’s your turn now.” And putting his arm tenderly round Zara’s narrow, bony shoulders, he led her slowly into the house.
THE END
Keep reading for a sneak peek of more Madeleine
Wickham novels you won’t want to miss!
THE WEDDING GIRL
Available in hardcover from Thomas Dunne Books
At the age of eighteen, in that first golden Oxford summer, Milly was up for anything. Now, ten years later, Milly is a very different person. Engaged to a man who is wealthy, serious, and believes her to be perfect—she is facing the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable. Milly’s past is locked away so securely she has almost persuaded herself that it doesn’t exist—until, with only four days to go, her secret catches up with her . . . And when “I do” gives you déjà vu, it could be a problem.
SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS
Available in Griffin Trade Paperback edition
When two families arrive at a villa in Spain for their vacation, they get a shock—it has been double-booked. An uneasy week of sharing begins, and tensions soon mount in the soaring heat. But the temperature isn’t solely to blame: There’s a secret history between the families—and as tempers fray, an old passion begins to resurface . . . With her trademark style of keen insight and razor-sharp wit, Madeleine Wickham will
keep you on the edge of your seat. So sit back, grab a cool drink, and get ready for a wonderfully wicked trip you’ll not soon forget!
COCKTAILS FOR THREE
Available in Griffin Mass Market edition
The Wedding GirlEach month, three staffers of The Londoner gather at a nearby lounge for a night of cocktails and gossip. But the events of one April evening will have permanent repercussions for the trio. Madeleine Wickham combines her trademark humor with poignant insight to create an edgy, romantic tale of secrets, strangers, and a splash of scandal.
A group of tourists had stopped to gawp at Milly as she stood in her wedding dress on the registry office steps. They clogged up the pavement opposite while Oxford shoppers, accustomed to the yearly influx, stepped round them into the road, not even bothering to complain. A few glanced up towards the steps of the registry office to see what all the fuss was about, and tacitly acknowledged that the young couple on the steps did make a very striking pair.
One or two of the tourists had even brought out cameras, and Milly beamed joyously at them, revelling in their attention; trying to imagine the picture she and Allan made together. Her spiky, white-blond hair was growing hot in the afternoon sun, the hired veil was scratchy against her neck, the nylon lace of her dress felt uncomfortably damp wherever it touched her body. But still she felt light-hearted and full of a euphoric energy. And whenever she glanced up at Allan—at her husband—a new, hot thrill of excitement coursed through her body, obliterating all other sensation.
She had only arrived in Oxford three weeks ago. School had finished in July—and while all her friends had planned trips to Ibiza and Spain and Amsterdam, Milly had been packed off to a secretarial college in Oxford. “Much more useful than some silly holiday,” her mother had announced
firmly. “And just think what an advantage you’ll have over the others when it comes to job-hunting.” But Milly didn’t want an advantage over the others. She wanted a suntan and a boyfriend, and beyond that, she didn’t really care.
So on the second day of the typing course, she’d slipped off after lunch. She’d found a cheap hairdresser and, with a surge of exhilaration, told him to chop her hair short and bleach it. Then, feeling light and happy, she’d wandered around the dry, sun-drenched streets of Oxford, dipping into cool cloisters and chapels, peering behind stone arches, wondering where she might sunbathe. It was pure coincidence that she’d eventually chosen a patch of lawn in Corpus Christi College; that Rupert’s rooms should have been directly opposite; that he and Allan should have decided to spend that afternoon doing nothing but lying on the grass, drinking Pimm’s.
She’d watched, surreptitiously, as they sauntered onto the lawn, clinked glasses, and lit up cigarettes; gazed harder as one of them took off his shirt to reveal a tanned torso. She’d listened to the snatches of their conversation which wafted through the air towards her and found herself longing to know these debonair, good-looking men. When, suddenly, the older one addressed her, she felt her heart leap with excitement.
“Have you got a light?” His voice was dry, American, amused.
“Yes,” she stuttered, feeling in her pocket. “Yes, I have.”
“We’re terribly lazy, I’m afraid.” The younger man’s eyes met hers: shyer, more diffident. “I’ve got a lighter; just inside that window.” He pointed to a stone mullioned arch. “But it’s too hot to move.”
“We’ll repay you with a glass of Pimm’s,” said the American. He’d held out his hand. “Allan.”
“Rupert.”
She’d lolled on the grass with them for the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sun and alcohol; flirting and giggling; making them both laugh with her descriptions of her fellow secretaries. At the pit of her stomach was a feeling of anticipation which increased as the afternoon wore on: a sexual frisson heightened by the fact that there were two of them and they were both beautiful. Rupert was lithe and golden like a young lion; his hair a shining blond halo; his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face. Allan’s face was crinkled and his hair was greying at the temples, but his grey-green eyes made her heart jump when they met hers, and his voice caressed her ears like silk.
When Rupert rolled over onto his back and said to the sky, “Shall we go for something to eat to night?” she’d thought he must be asking her out. An immediate, unbelieving joy had coursed through her; simultaneously she’d recognized that she would have preferred it if it had been Allan.
But then Allan rolled over too, and said, “Sure thing.” And then he leaned over and casually kissed Rupert on the mouth.
The strange thing was, after the initial, heart-stopping shock, Milly hadn’t really minded. In fact, this way was almost better: This way, she had the pair of them to herself. She’d gone to San Antonio’s with them that night and basked in the jealous glances of two fellow secretaries at another table. The next night they’d played jazz on an old
wind-up gramophone and drunk mint juleps and taught her how to roll joints. Within a week, they’d become a regular threesome.
And then Allan had asked her to marry him.
It was too hot to work, thought Chloe, standing back and pushing tendrils of wispy fair hair off her forehead. Certainly too hot to be standing in this airless room, corseting an anxious overweight girl into a wedding dress which was almost certainly two sizes too small. She glanced for the hundredth time at her watch, and felt a little leap of excitement. It was almost time. In only a few minutes the taxi would arrive and this torture would be over, and the holiday would officially begin. She felt faint with longing, with a desperate need for escape. It was only for a week—but a week would be enough. A week had to be enough, didn’t it?
Away
, she thought, closing her eyes briefly.
Away from it all
. She wanted it so much it almost scared her.
“Right,” she said, opening her eyes and blinking. For a moment she could barely remember what she was doing, could feel nothing but heat and fatigue. “Well, I’ve got to go—so perhaps we could leave it there for today? If you do want to go ahead with this particular dress—”
“She’ll get into it,” cut in Mrs. Bridges with quiet menace. “She’ll just have to make an effort. You can’t have it both ways, you know!” Suddenly she turned on Bethany.
“You can’t have chocolate fudge cake every night and be a size twelve!”