The Best Man And The Bridesmaid

Daisy dragged herself back from the simple pleasure of a mist-trailed early-morning riverbank to the exotic Chinoiserie of the Latimer Gallery. ‘About Robert? Why? He’s successful by any standards.’

‘I suppose he is. Financially. But, like any mother, she’d like to see him settle down, get married, raise a family.’

‘Then she’s in for a long wait. Robert has the perfect bachelor existence. A flat in London, an Aston Martin in the garage and any girl he cares to raise an eyebrow at to keep him warm at night. He isn’t about to relinquish that for a house in the suburbs, a station wagon and sleepness nights.’ Not sleepless nights caused by a colicky baby, anyway.

He didn’t argue. ‘So that’s why you dress down when you have lunch with him?’

Yes, well, she knew George Latimer was sharp. ‘We’re friends, George. Good friends, and that’s the way I plan to keep it. I don’t want him to confuse me with one of his girls.’

‘I see.’

Daisy wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thoughtful manner in which George Latimer was regarding her, so she made a move in the direction of her office, signalling an end to the conversation. ‘Shall I organise some tea? Then we can go through that catalogue,’ she said, indicating the glossy catalogue for a large country house sale that he was holding, hoping to divert him. ‘I imagine that was why you were looking for me?’

He glanced down at it as if he couldn’t quite remember where it had come from. ‘Oh, yes! There’s a fine collection of ceramics up for auction. I’d like you to go to the viewing on Tuesday and check them out.’ She felt a rush of pleasure at this token of his trust. ‘You know what to look out for. But, since you’ll be representing the gallery, I’d be grateful if you’d avoid Robert Furneval while you’re there.’ He peered over his half-moon spectacles at her. ‘Wear that dark red suit, the one with the short skirt,’ he elaborated, in case she was in any doubt which one he meant. ‘I like that.’

‘I didn’t realise you took such an interest in what I wear, George.’

‘I’m a man. And I like beautiful things. Have you got any very high-heeled shoes to go with it?’ he continued before she could do more than retrieve her jaw from the Chinese rug that lay in front of her desk. ‘They’d do a fine job of distracting the opposition.’

‘I’m shocked, George,’ she said. ‘That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.’ Then, ‘Actually, I’ve seen a pair of Jimmy Choo’s that I would kill for. Can I charge them to expenses?’

The lenses gleamed back at her. ‘Only if you promise to wear them next time Robert Furneval asks you to lunch.’

‘Oh, well. It’ll just have to be the plain low-heeled courts I bought for comfort, then. Pity.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ua20c5e4c-d201-5326-aad4-dd667287b4b1)

SATURDAY 25 March. I’ve bought the shoes. Wickedly sexy, wickedly expensive, but I used the money Dad sent me for my birthday. Oh, the temptation to wear them to Monty’s party tonight! I would if Robert wasn’t going to be there. I wonder if anyone else notices that I dress differently around him? Michael, probably. But then I’m sure that Michael knows the truth and, since he’s made no attempt to matchmake, understands why. I’ll probably still be filling the ‘girlfriend gap’ when Robert’s heading for his pension. And still be going home alone.

Daisy had plenty of time in which to contemplate her wardrobe and worry about what she should wear to the party. Plenty of time to call herself every kind of idiot, too.

She could have been dining in some exquisite little restaurant with Robert when, for pride’s sake, she had chosen a lonely cottage cheese sandwich and the inanity of a Saturday-night game show on the television. The fact that it was the sensible option did not make it any more palatable.

This was no way to run a life. She switched off the television, abandoned the half-eaten sandwich and confronted her wardrobe. Just because she knew better than to join in the queue for Robert’s attention, it didn’t mean she shouldn’t make the effort to get into some sort of relationship, if only to allay her mother’s for once unspoken but nevertheless obvious fears that her interests lay in another direction entirely.

She might not be able to compete with Robert’s glamorous ‘girls’, but her lack of curves didn’t appear to totally discourage the opposite sex. Most of the young gallants that Robert had deputised to escort her home from other parties had at least made a token pass at her. One or two had tried a great deal harder. Asking her out, phoning her until she’d had to be quite firm …

Oh, no! He couldn’t! He wouldn’t! Would he? She flushed with mortification to think that Robert might have encouraged them to be, well, nice to her.

Could it be that his only motive in taking her along to parties was to try and match her up with some eligible young male? Was it possible that her mother had asked him to? With a sinking feeling she acknowledged that it was exactly the sort of thing that her mother would do. She could just hear her saying, Robert, there must be dozens of young men working at your bank. For goodness’ sake try and fix Daisy up with someone before she’s left on the shelf …

She knew she should be grateful that her mother had never harboured ambitions for her in Robert’s direction. Clearly he was far too glamorous, good-looking, too everything for the plainest member of the family.

She pulled out a pair of wide-legged grey silk trousers. She’d intended to match them with a simple black sweater which was elegant in a rather dull, don’t-notice-me sort of way. If she could have been sure that Robert wouldn’t be at the party, she would have worn something rather more exciting.

Maybe she should anyway?

After all, if Robert thought she was so unattractive that he pushed his reluctant juniors in her direction, what she wore wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference, was it?

Damn, damn, damn. Why did it have to be so complicated? She just wanted to be his friend. That was all. But you don’t patronise friends …

She blinked at eyes that were suddenly stinging, but nothing could stop the tear from spilling down her face. She had tried so hard to be sensible, but she loved him so much. Not like the constant parade of the lovely women who moved through his life. She wasn’t in the least bit impressed by the glamorous job in the City, his money, the fast cars, his good looks. She’d love him without any of the fancy trappings because she cared about him. She always had. Not because she wanted to. Because she couldn’t help it.

She’d hoped that going away to university would have stopped all that. Really hoped that she would meet someone who would make her forget all about Robert. Maybe she hadn’t looked hard enough. Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t wanted to. But maybe it was time to put a stop to this stupid game she’d been playing. Walk away, before she did something really stupid.

After the wedding, she promised herself, drying her cheek with the heel of her hand.

She’d stop being available. Make herself busier. Take up knitting.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Now she was being pathetic. Well, she could put a stop to that right now. This minute. Tonight she wouldn’t hang around waiting for Robert to remember to dance with her. Tonight she’d pick her own escort home, or at least leave with some dignity on her own.

She looked her reflection straight in the eye and promised herself that if she could sort herself out a date for the wedding, she’d do that, too. It would please her mother, if nothing else. She palmed her eyes, trying to cool them.

Then she blew her nose, stood up and headed for the shower, determined that there would be no dressing down tonight. None of that barely there make-up.

She painted her nails bright red, she sprayed on her scent with reckless abandon, and instead of squeezing her hair into a French plait in order to keep it under control she left it fluffy. It wasn’t chic. It wasn’t that sleek, glossy stuff that swung and caught the light and looked like a million dollars in the shampoo adverts. In fact all that could be said in its favour was that she did have a heck of a lot of it.

She’d tried cutting it short once, but it hadn’t helped. She’d simply looked like a poodle after a less than successful encounter with the clippers. The only thing that had stopped her cutting it to within an inch of her scalp had been the sure and certain knowledge that what remained would curl even tighter, and shaving her head would just have been a temporary solution. Maybe that was the answer now, she thought, grinning as she flattened her curls against her skull with her hands. Not even dear, sweet, kind Ginny would put up with a skinhead as a bridesmaid. Would she?

A brisk ring at the doorbell put a stop to such nonsense. She checked her watch; it was still a quarter of an hour until ten o’clock. He was early, impatient with her delaying tactics, and that was unusual enough to make her smile as she pressed down the intercom.

‘You’re early.’

‘Then I’ll have a drink while I wait,’ Robert’s disembodied voice informed her.

She let him into the building and then opened her flat door before retreating to her bedroom to paint her lips as red as her nails. ‘There’s wine in the fridge,’ she called from the bedroom, staring nervously at her reflection now that he had arrived, wondering if she’d gone a bit too far.

‘Shall I pour a glass for you?’

‘Mmm,’ she said. She definitely needed a drink. Oh, well. In for a penny … She fitted a pair of exotic dangly silver earrings to her lobes and then stepped into the new shoes. They would be wasted, she decided. No one would see them. She stepped out of them again and, like the coward she was, put on a pair of low-heeled pumps.

Robert, tall, square-shouldered, with the fine, muscular elegance of a fencer and utterly gorgeous in pale suit and a dark green shirt, paused in the kitchen doorway as he saw her. Paused for a moment, taking in the wide silk pants, the tiny black and silver top that crossed low over her small breasts like a ballet dancer’s practice sweater and tied behind her waist … and said nothing.

He thought she looked like a little girl who’d been caught playing with her mother’s make-up, but was too polite to say so; Daisy could see it in his face and wanted to run howling back to the bathroom to scrub her face.

‘Have you been somewhere special?’ he asked finally, handing her a glass. For a moment she couldn’t think what he meant. ‘You couldn’t make dinner,’ he reminded her, eyes narrowed.

‘Oh. Um …’ She floundered for a moment. ‘It was just a gallery thing.’ Work. That was it, she decided, clutching at straws. Anything rather than have him think she’d done this to impress him.

‘A viewing? I’d have come if I’d known. I’m looking for something for my mother’s birthday.’

‘Are you? What?’ she asked, hoping to divert him further.

‘When I see it, I’ll know. So? Was it a viewing?’ he persisted, refusing to be sidetracked.

‘Um … No. Not exactly.’ He raised one of his dark, beautifully expressive eyebrows and took a sip of wine without commenting, leaving Daisy with the uncomfortable feeling that he didn’t quite believe her. But what else could she say? She refused to own up to staying in and watching television rather than have dinner with him. He wouldn’t understand why and she certainly couldn’t explain.

‘You shouldn’t let George Latimer work you so hard,’ he said, after a silence that seemed unusually awkward.