The Runaway Bridesmaid

‘No, Freya, I won’t tell Jacob. But I have to tell you how shocked I was at your behaviour. I thought, hoped, that all your crazy, wild exploits were behind you when you accepted Jacob’s proposal. He’s a decent guy, you know, and he adores you. He deserves your loyalty.’

‘I promise you I will work hard at being the best wife I can be for Jacob.’ Freya paused, and for the first time in a long time Rosie heard a serious tone creep into her sister’s voice. ‘Romantic love is not all it’s cracked up to be, Rosie. You should find someone who will provide for you, too. Don’t tell me that’s not better than slogging your life away in that sweatshop of an office.’

Sorrow tinged Rosie’s heart at the possibility Freya had settled for less than a burning-hot passion for her handsome husband. She wished with all her heart that today she could have fully rejoiced in the vicarious happiness of her sister’s wedding day. Her head considered Freya’s proposition as a possible alternative to her loneliness, but her heart screamed traitor.

‘Are you telling me that you don’t love Jacob with all your heart and soul?’

Freya was listening but the words clearly didn’t penetrate into her brain. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony, Rosie, it’s such a shame you missed it. I know you said ivory roses and peonies are classy and sophisticated, but I still wish you had gone for something a little more show-stopping like I wanted.’

‘Goodbye, Freya. Send my love to Dad.’

Rosie stood on her balcony hugging her mug of camomile tea – the balm of choice for all scenarios in apartment 4B. The tea tasted like cat’s pee to Rosie, but its warmth and sweetness achieved the intended goal. She mused about where her excessive caring gene had originated. Her sister, her father, her college friends and work colleagues all held a spot on her long list, but where had such compassionate interest led her? Was she responsible for spoiling Freya; had she had a hand in moulding her self-focused behaviour?

Rosie felt a failure on all levels. Self-interest, single-minded ambition and determination led to arrogance and pride. She only had to look at Giles to know this was true. Those characteristics might be bad, but they provided the impetus and tenacity to strive for the fulfilment of your dreams – the accomplishment of which delivered a happy life.

Should she strive to achieve her own dreams now? Seek a relationship with a random passing stranger as Freya had advised, just so she wouldn’t die alone like her aunt? She caught her breath and shook these thoughts from her mind. God, no! That depressing scenario would not be her future.

As evening swept its cloak over New York City, Rosie’s pain passed into exhaustion. In her pristine bedroom, a necessary sanctuary from the chaos and clutter preferred by Freya as they had been growing up, she leaned against her silk cushions and scrolled through her cell phone messages. Five missed calls from Lauren now. Not one from Giles. She jabbed the ‘off’ button and wished she could repeat the action with her life – evaporate from this agonising world she had tumbled into. When would she be granted leave from the trauma constantly inflicted on her weary soul?

As her internal dialogue chattered with irrelevant, circular arguments, and fear cast a shadow over her aching heart, fatigue delivered her into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_fcf6023d-563e-5d93-836a-27212f2243c3)

Rosie woke in the early hours, fully clothed. A burnt orange mohair throw prickled at her chin. Her body was still exhausted from her unconscious exploits; of seeking to find a way out of the labyrinth of sadness and self-recrimination for what life had thrown at her. The bejewelled clock on the lamp table, a birthday gift from Lauren, ticked each painful second by, delivering with each one a slash of pain as she came to realise Giles and Freya’s betrayal had not been a dream after all. The question was: would she allow the resulting shock and bitterness to poison her soul?

As a shaft of moonlight glanced through the drifting clouds, she dragged her aching bones to the tiny galley kitchen. She brewed up a pot of her favoured Lady Grey using fresh tea leaves, her actions measured and mechanical. She welcomed the scalding of the fragrant liquid on her tongue as evidence she was still able to feel physical pain and therefore still alive. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the French windows – a gaunt, transparent doll engulfed by the velvet darkness. Her eyes fell down the sheer drop to the sidewalk below, high enough to ensure certain death if she were that way inclined. Would the descent be a smooth journey to oblivion or too swift to register?

She clasped the spreading warmth from the china mug, saddened that the birth of a new day had not brought the solace she so desired. The cool light of dawn began to spread its insistent fingers through the south-facing window and the black, wrought-iron frame of the balcony glistened with morning dew. She allowed her weary mind to meander the streets of Manhattan, those she and Giles had sauntered together over the last three months: the snaking paths of Central Park as the stark, spindly branches awakened with spring buds; the urban grids of Lower Manhattan explored in the slicing rain in search of a stolen moment from the frenetic activity of the office for which she now endured the inevitable punishment.

She forced her thoughts to linger on her relationship with Giles. Her chest tingled with an unidentifiable emotion. Their liaison had perhaps been inevitable. As she spent most of her waking hours either at the office or networking at client dinners, conferences or launches, no other potential date had crossed her radar.

She smiled as she recalled their first night together after a conference in Boston, both too drunk and too exhausted to do anything beyond kiss and pass out. She knew Giles was unpopular in the office; his defensiveness of his higher status scratched the egos of those striving to catch him or replace him, but she had glimpsed his softer side. And no one could fail to be drawn to his charismatic charm, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, your conversation the most sparkling he had ever heard. Not to mention his dark, brooding, sexy good looks and come-to-bed eyes.

Rosie realised their relationship had been born of convenience; a snatched hour after work here, a grabbed weekend there. She loathed herself and her emotional weakness for craving the brief episodes of solace he offered in her solitary life. But mostly her conscience was gnawed by the acid of guilt because he was her boss and office romances featured as a forbidden transgression in the Office Manual. She’d been unsuccessful in keeping their relationship a secret from eagle-eyed Lauren, who had cautioned her against its continuance. She was grateful for a confidante with whom to share her woes, but Lauren had refused to let her ignore the inadvisability of such a slip in her usually level-headed judgement.

Giles was not only resented as the current possessor of the power to have the final say on his team’s promotion prospects, but for his tendency to grab every ounce of credit where credit most certainly was not due. His mediocrity of talent required the skilful manipulation of that possessed by others. Accuracy and honesty were superfluous in this regard. It was this renowned corporate trait possessed by Giles which alarmed her the most. She had been adamant she would not hand over her Baker-Colt Family Trust file for him to complete a share purchase the following week. She knew Giles would grasp the opportunity to milk all the credit for her hard work.

Annoyingly, now she intended to fly to the UK for her aunt’s funeral, Giles would get his way after all – but there was no alternative. Monday was the deadline for their purchase. She had been excited and grateful to at last be sufficiently trusted to handle a transaction based solely on her own thorough research and advice. This portfolio investment was for a wealthy family’s trust fund set up in the name of their deceased daughter, Charlotte Baker, and Rosie had been meticulous in her preparation and planning.

She shook her head to clear her scattered thoughts and forced herself into the shower before calling a taxi to take her to the airport and the long flight to Heathrow. Her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective.

Rosie prayed that now Freya had curtailed her frequent jaunts to the party hot spots of Europe and was settling down to married life with Jacob, she could at last relinquish the presumed-temporary caring role. She hoped she had performed her last familial duty. Her sister’s wedding had been the first of the last seven she’d actually had a date. Daniel, one of her gay friends, had offered his services as wingman, but she feared an outburst of British honesty similar to the last time he’d met her sister and casually enquired of her what personal qualities had first attracted her to the multimillionaire, Jacob Bennett, Jr. She had politely refused his kind offer to be her plus-one.

Of course, this had meant admitting that Giles had stepped up to accompany her – something Giles had wanted to keep secret as dating between colleagues at Harlow Fenton was frowned upon. She’d been happy to oblige; it kept things simple, and she would most likely be the one to take any flack about work place dating.

Once the happy couple were safely dispatched on their honeymoon to Hawaii, Rosie had intended to ratchet up her work rate at the office, but now she had no idea what she was going to do. After she had attended the funeral, met with the English solicitor and sorted her aunt’s legal affairs, could she really see herself back at her desk by the following Friday morning?

Chapter Eight (#ulink_7c739c92-f4fa-5ec0-98d3-3bdb817bed6f)

As tiny Devonshire hamlets and the rolling hills of Exmoor National Park flashed by the taxi’s window, and the low orb of the sun rose above the horizon, the diaphanous light of dawn skimmed its silvery fingers over thatched rooftops. Mist draped its veil over the fields and dew sparkled on emerging leaves, as Rosie’s exhausted brain meandered the labyrinths of memory to alight upon the time she had spent with her aunt the previous year – repairing her broken heart and expanding her soul.

The abiding image from those recollections was of Thornleigh Lodge, its scarlet front door bedecked with a garland of ivory roses and its garden swathed in vibrant fuchsias and violet cat-faced pansies. The whole bucolic scene had been presided over by a majestic cherry tree under whose canopy of blossoms she and Bernice had lingered, reading, sketching, painting, talking, the latter activity being the balm and then the cure for her broken heart.

She had assured Bernice that she intended to continue these quiet pursuits which had generated such a sensation of calm when she returned to Manhattan, but of course she hadn’t. Nor had she undertaken the promised return visit to the UK, a failure which once again produced a squirm of discomfort in her abdomen.

As they entered Bernice’s home village of Brampton, a flash of familiarity hit Rosie. She couldn’t prevent a curl appearing at the corners of her lips when she noticed the proclamation above the Brampton village road sign proudly announcing ‘Winner of Britain in Bloom Contest’. She experienced that illusive feeling of coming home, which she never experienced when she returned to the neighbourhood of her apartment in Manhattan.

The taxi followed the road, running like a ribbon through the pretty English village, past the shop and adjacent tearooms – opened early that morning for the residents to collect their daily news. As Thornleigh Lodge came into view, Rosie’s smile of anticipation drained from her lips.

She had expected to see the neat chocolate-box cottage crowned with a thatched roof, white, sweet-smelling roses arched like a moustache over its front porch, and with neatly manicured front lawns divided by a pressed-shingle footpath, its nets floating at the windows. But instead the lodge bore a careworn mantle of neglect and melancholy.

She paid the silent taxi driver an exorbitant amount of money and dragged her wheelie suitcase to the picket gate, where she paused. Under the glow of the now-risen sun, the front garden was a riot of vivid colours and tangled grasses. The gravel path leading to the front door sprouted weeds like nasal hair and overgrown ferns fanned their frothy fingers across the sash windows.

Rosie forced the reluctant wheels to the formerly scarlet door, its smooth paintwork now blistered like sunburnt skin. Overgrown, dew-soaked carnations slashed at her naked shins, and the heels of her stilettos sunk deep into the path’s tiny pebbles. She scrabbled around under the geranium-filled terracotta pots where she knew she would find Bernice’s front door key. Did her aunt really think an intruder wouldn’t possess the brains to look there?

She smiled at the stark contrast between this pretty, albeit dilapidated cottage and the inhabitants of the rural Devonshire village, with her own tiny Manhattan apartment and her community neighbours. Every person living in Brampton had a working knowledge of their neighbour’s recent history and current daily life, thus imbuing the resident with a feeling of belonging, rather than the lack of privacy such intrusions would be labelled in her apartment block where she had met only one of her eight fellow tenants.

Yet, despite this communal kinship, Rosie had been relieved to return to the high octane, disinterested environment of New York after a month’s immersion in all things rural, and she would be repeating the escape this time as soon as formalities allowed.

It was Monday morning. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday and her appointment at Richmond Morton Solicitors was on Thursday for the reading of her aunt’s will and the signing of the paperwork, after which she intended to scoot straight back to Heathrow for her Friday morning flight.

As she inserted the ancient Yale key into the lock, she felt the slithers of regret worming their way into her conscience. Just because Giles had cheated on her in the worst way possible, did that mean she should consider resigning? Why should she suffer for his despicable actions? Maybe she was being too hasty in her reactions to his treachery.

Rosie shouldered the reticent front door, a mound of mail slowing her entry. The cottage smelled of lingering dust and sadness but held a top note of dried lavender, a favourite of Bernice’s – almost her signature scent. The reminder brought tears to Rosie’s eyes.

On her last visit, the lodge had throbbed with a vibrant welcome, the warmth from the stove enveloping her grief at the loss of Carlos and squeezing it from her soul, replacing the pain with acceptance, and then peace. Today, its inherent life had drained away. A gloomy hallway led to a dank kitchen, draping Rosie with a shroud of loneliness and reproach. The cream Aga stood silent and stern. She shivered, goose-bumps prickling her body.

She dumped her Gucci duffle bag on the scarred pine table – the designer bag such an incongruous accessory in Bernice’s farmhouse-style kitchen. Her cell phone tumbled from the bag onto the floor and as she bent to retrieve it, it burst into song.

She checked the caller ID and a bolt of pain so strong it whipped her breath away shot from her heart down to her fingertips.

It was Giles.

She checked her silver watch. New York was five hours behind Devon so that would make it just after seven a.m. He would be at Harlow Fenton, lounging behind his desk in his favourite Armani suit artfully cast open to reveal a tantalising glimpse of purple silk lining, his shirt cuffs turned back to display a pair of his many quirky cufflinks. She could almost sense the smirk on his face as he waited for her to answer his command to speak to him.

That’s it! Never again did she intend to endure his casual, back-handed criticism of her abilities. She gritted her teeth, took a deep breath and swiped the answer button.

‘Giles, what a pleasant surprise.’ Even the most rhinoceros-skinned person couldn’t fail to recognise the heavy sarcasm that laced Rosie’s greeting.

An uneasy laugh spluttered down the phone line.

‘Hello, Rosie. We were just wanting to confirm that you are over in the UK to attend your aunt’s funeral and checking on your return date. Let me just say that I’m in the boardroom on speaker phone. I have CEO George Harlow with me, as well as Lauren, Toby and Brad Carlington.’

‘Perfect!’ Clearly Giles had gathered a group of colleagues around him, believing that she would never take him to task for his abhorrent behaviour in front of them. He was right, of course. But that was before he’d cheated on her with her sister. In fact, she felt even more inclined to speak her mind in front of an audience to ensure she did not retract what she was about to do. Lauren already knew what he had done of course, but only via a text, she didn’t have the details.

‘Rosie, I know how you must be feeling, how close you were to your aunt…’

‘Giles, I resign.’ Wow, how liberating it was to say those words. The concrete block that had taken up residence in her chest since the afternoon of the wedding shifted a little. ‘Yes, I resign.’