‘You can’t be serious, Rebecca. Why, the man is a nobody. He’s
working class. He’s a gardener …’
Aunt Victoria’s harrumph of dismay echoed down the line.
‘He’s going to be my husband,’ Becky finished calmly. ‘If you can’t
come, Aunt Victoria, I understand. Aunt Mindy will be there.’
‘And so will I.’ She sighed bitterly. ‘I have to. But, Rebecca, you’re disgracing your family.’
‘Nice to talk to you, too, Aunt Victoria,’ Becky said, hanging up. She
no longer cared about Victoria and Henry. She was miles past the stage where their rejection could hurt her.
Now it was only Logan’s rejection she cared about.
She booked the local village church, a glorious fourteenth-century
affair built of grey stone, with mediaeval frescos still visible on the ceiling, and had it decorated with the fruits of the season - gourds and nuts spray-painted gold, chrysanthemums in wonderful shades of ochre, yellow and white, hollyhocks, asters and trailing, fragrant masses of clematis. She paid the local caterer double to whip up a six-tiered cake with pale blue icing with a white trim, like a’piece of Wedgwood china.
The actual wedding ceremony was mercifully brief for Becky because
there was so much to do. Aunt Mindy, in a pretty green silk suit, was her matron of honour, and Sharon came behind in a matching dress carrying a bouquet of dried lavender and rose-hips with lilies. Becky smiled at stone-faced Aunt Vicky, at Ken Stone and at Logan’s parents, his mother, a small, friendly woman with a harried air, in tears in her purple tweed suit and straw hat with a large bow at the front. The vicar read from a Gospel text about Jesus changing water into wine at Cana, gave a short sermon, which Becky had particularly requested, the words were pronounced, and it was all over.
They processed out of the church, the small congregation smiling approvingly, to the strains of a choirboy she had tipped thirty pounds to sing ‘Panis Angelicus’. Anything to avoid having to belt out some hymn. When she had said, ‘I do,’ Becky had, for a second, let her control slip, but she thought that was OK.
Brides usually cried at their own weddings.
Just not for this reason.
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Becky thought how ironic it was. This was her wedding day, the day she had dreamed of ever since she’d draped a handkerchief over the head of her first Barbie.
And it was the worst day of her life.
She managed to smile and keep busy through the champagne reception in the walled kitchen garden, which they had closed to hotel guests, and to circulate throughout the delicious buffet lunch which she didn’t touch. But when Logan tugged at her sleeve, she couldn’t stop herself jumping out of her skin.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
‘We have to go.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘It’s three p.m.’
‘OK.’ Becky kissed Sharon, clapped her hands and made the announcement. Barkin drove the little horse and buggy decked out in white asters, which they had hired, around to the terrace, and Logan helped his wife up to it while the small crowd cheered and clapped.
She tossed her bouquet, and Logan’s cousin Francine caught it. Becky felt Logan’s thick body next to her wince almost imperceptibly, and at
the fresh snub, the tears sprang to her lashes.
‘Oh, look, she’s crying,’ Mrs Logan said.
‘I’m just so happy,’ Becky said miserably, through a rictus grin. ‘Drive on, for God’s sake,’ Logan hissed at the driver.
Barkin snapped the reins, and they drove away in a cloud of fragrant blossom, cheering and heartbreak.
The dirt road that ran down the side of Fairfield led directly to the little cottage. Becky supposed it might once have belonged to a worker on the estate. It was small and comYortable, with an idyllic thatched roof and a minute garden of its own at the back. She hadn’t been able to buy it, but the London owner had agreed to a year’s rental. It was furnished simply, with coarse linens and plastic-handled cutlery, but it would have to do.
Barkin pulled up.
‘Here you are, Mr and Mrs Logan, and I wish you much—’
‘Mmm. Thanks,’ Logan said. ‘Here you are.’ He gave the man a twenty-pound note.
‘Much obliged.’ Barkin grinned. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ He clicked, and turned the horse away.
Becky said, ‘There’s a key under the pot-plant.’
Logan bent down. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t want you to dirty your dress. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about this dress,’ she snarled. It was as though the lid was off, and all the tensions of the last fortnight were about to pour out. ‘It means nothing to me.’
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‘You’re such an unbelievable brat,’ Logan replied, in a chilling tone of quiet contempt. ‘Can’t you wait till we’re inside? You want to spoil everything we just did?’
Becky paused. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right.’ She handed him the key, and Logan unlocked the door.
The place had been scrubbed since she saw it last. There was a hamper on the table; she could see fresh bread, brown eggs, a whole cheese, bottles of champagne, truffles, fruit… In the small sitting room, a fire had been prepared in the hearth, artfully stacked with kindling, coal and crumpled newspaper. The sun had gone down, and it was already starting to get cold.
‘They’ve only made the double bed,’ Becky mumbled, ‘but I can make the single room up for you, if you want.’
He arched a brow. ‘You know how to make a bed?’
‘Oh, sod off,’ she snapped.
He sighed. ‘You’re right. Look, we both hate this, but it’s for the kid.
Right? So if we have to live together, we might as well be civil.’ Becky nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘You make the bed, and I’ll see to the fire and the hot water and supper.’
She hadn’t eaten all day. She was suddenly starving. ‘Sounds good to me.’
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‘Tell me about Fairfield,’ Pete Bessel said soothingly, ‘my lord.’
‘You can call me Rupert,’ he said, swinging his brandy glass around with dangerous abandon so that some liquor spattered into the fire and caused it to flare briefly. 1Kupert was slowly getting drunker, and he really didn’t give a shit. He liked Bessel. Man was a Yank and a grubby little advertising wonk, but he knew his place. He also treated Rupert properly, arranging for him to stay at Bessel’s pied-&terre on Madison, a luxurious studio flat decorated with erotic prints on the walls, wood floors stained black and an abundance of animal-skin rugs. It was a love nest for a mistress, maybe a succession of them, but it was sumptuous, in a trashy way. Bessel sent Rupert gifts of champagne and small vials of cocaine with glass stoppers and tiny silver spoons. He’d made a lot of money, and he wasn’t averse to sharing it, Rupert thought with satisfaction.
Not like those two bitches back home.
‘Historic. Family seat. My seat. Now she’s…’ Rupert grimaced ‘… whoring it out as a hotel. And she’s making a fortune with my property.
‘S not fair. She’s a woman. She cin’t pass on the family name.’
‘Did you see this, 1Kupert?’
Bessel unctuously passed over a folded sheet of newspaper, a report from The Times. Rupert blinked in horror.
‘Wait … She married William Logan? A gardener?’
He went so pale Bessel hastily gestured behind him to the exit for the bathrooms. He didn’t want this drunk asshole throwing up in the Oaks, the gentleman’s club in midtown to which Bessel had only just been admitted.
“S OK. Not gonna be sick. Feel sick.’
‘Understandably,’ Bessel soothed. He was really interested in Lira; whatever he could use to destroy Lita. Maybe the Becky woman could help. But Rupert Lancaster was essential to his plans, and Rupert needed to be listened to.
Like most failed drunks, Bessel thought with contempt.
But Lancaster had one thing to recommend him besides his name,
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and that was a certain amount of low cunning. He had managed to get money and power from both these women. The only reason it hadn’t destroyed them was because Lancaster had had no idea what to do with that money once he’d got it.
That wouldn’t be the case with Pete Bessel.
He’d invested wisely with the bonus he’d received for winning that ad campaign, and once Lita had left he’d become the star of Doheny. And that was about the last good thing that had happened.
Pete had been ticking along, sure. He was good, and he knew it. He retained his own clients. But the accounts that hadn’t jumped ship with Lita weren’t satisfied with his work. Slowly, they had defected to New Wave or other agencies. Slowly, the innuendos about Lita stealing his work were replaced by sneaky suggestions that she had always been the big talent after all.
He hated that. He hated it more when Harry Weiss left. It looked like a vote of confidence in Lita. It looked like an accusation of him.
Doheny was still a big player, but it was leaking. Prestige. Accounts. Clients.
Destroying New Wave had become Pete’s wet dream. But he had no idea how to do that - until 1Kupert Lancaster showed up.
With 1Kupert’s ideas and Bessel’s management, he thought it would be a piece of cake. And if he could harm Cousin lKebecca as a sop to the limey, so much the better.
‘I think the press would be interested in that, don’t you? The blue collar help and the rich heiress? And it’s on ‘the record that you won big orders for her company. And that Lita started out as a partner in your
‘That’s right.’ 1Kupert took another deep swig of brandy. The warmth of it mixed with the crackling fire and the comfortable leather armchair. There was an icy arctic wind whipping through the canyons of Manhattan outside, and he was enjoying the toasty sensation. He smiled blurrily at Bessel, suddenly gripped by an idea.
‘You know, Becky started out in the hotel division at Lancaster.’ He laughed. ‘One shitty little hotel. And … I helped her with that.’
‘Of course you did,’ Bessel prompted him. ‘She stole all your ideas, right? And Lita also walked off with your business plans?’
‘Absolutely,’ Rupert agreed firmly. He dropped his voice. ‘But it might be hard to prove.’
‘For a hotel business catering to an exclusive clientele, and for a commercials house, you don’t have to.’ Bessel grinned. ‘That’s the beauty of it. All you need to do is make enough of a stink.’ He smiled. ‘And maybe Becky will pay you to go away, once she’s seen what we do
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to Lita. Her clients will flee that little shop like cats with firecrackers tied to their tails.’ He stared at his guest. ‘I just need you to be with the programme.’
‘No problem there.’ Pupert smirked. ‘You can rely on me.’ ‘Good man,’ Pete said. ‘Another brandy?’
Becky avoided Logan as best she could, but it wasn’t easy. He transferred to doing work for local clients, but he arrived back at the cottage in time for supper. Winter was right around the corner, and there were Christmas and New Year’s events to organize, a full Hogmanay programme for the Edinburgh hotel and a Dickens Ckristmas Carol - themed week for the London property, but nothing could
change the fact that Becky came home to Logan every night. Distant. Cold. Arrogant Logan.
He left her notes instead of talking to her. ‘We need more logs. We’re out of bread.’ He left the room when she was sitting by the fire and read in the ancient rocking-chair in the guest room, usually with a bottle of wine that he didn’t ask her to share.
It hurt Becky like all hell, but she was proud of herself for not showing it. When the post slipped through the letterbox, and she had to pick up congratulatory cards addressed to ‘Mrs William Logan’, she didn’t let him see her wince.
Tonight she was in late. She had just come in from London, where they were putting the final touches to the London property, seamlessly sleek and elegant. The designers wanted a name for the front, and Becky had decided to simply call it The Lancaster. She would build a chain. The Scottish property would b The Lancaster, Edinburgh. Only Fairfield would never be called a Lancaster hotel.
Becky got out of her Mercedes and shivered. It was an icy night, because the sky was cloudless. In the country the stars were so bright they glittered like diamond chips over the arc of the inky heavens above her. Somewhere she could hear the faint hoot of a barn owl floating over the neighbouring fields. Behind her, Fairfield’s stately silhouette was lit up with the windows of the current crop of guests, her first Europeans - an Italian racing family with pots. of money who were presumably bored by endless sunshine. Becky didn’t care where the guests came from. As long as they paid in full, and went home happy, telling stories to all their rich friends. There were lights on in her little cottage, too; she could see the cheerful fire through the led panelled
window, and the light in the kitchen …
Logan was in. Of course.
Becky let herself in and shut the door behind her. ‘Will, I—’
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LJO(1.
Logan was standing there, naked. He had just walked out of the tiny bathroom. His body was hard, chiselled, his stomach muscular and lean. Steam from the warm water lifted off him. The black, wiry chest hair was plastered to his skin, with water dripping off it in tiny rivulets. His thighs looked as hard as a rugby player’s, and he was as large as she remembered.
‘Seen enough?’ he said dryly.
Becky snapped out of it. ‘You can’t use a towel?’
‘I put a wash on. They aren’t dry yet.’
Logan disappeared, ducking back into the bathroom, while she composed herself. Becky knew she was blushing. She hoped the firelight would camouflage it. He emerged a few seconds later, wearing his .jeans, barefoot, his chest still wet.
‘I thought you were going to be in London tonight,’ he said.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Becky retorted.
‘All this travelling must be hard on you.’ He didn’t rise to her bait.
‘You should try and take it easy for the baby. Pregnancy is no time to
get stressed.’
Becky tried not to let her eyes wander back on to those sharp
muscles. She gestured to the tiny cottage. ‘It’s kinda late for that, don’t you think?’ There was nowhere else to look. His body was like a magnet. ‘Please, put some clothes on,’ she insisted.