Ruthless Awakening

Out of all that had happened, she thought, that was the hardest thing to bear. Knowing that she had nothing left to hope for.

And having to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER THREE

IT OCCURRED to Rhianna that an excuse to stay out of harm’s way in her room was exactly what she’d needed, giving her a chance to catch her breath and regain some of her composure.

Working with immense care, she’d reduced the mass of tulle by two thirds, and the discarded lengths, their raw edges neatly hemmed, were back in the box.

Carrie was reluctantly reconciled to the idea of the shortened version, and by the time Simon’s mother discovered what had been done it would be too late. Although the fact that the veil could be subsequently reconstituted in all its voluminous glory might mollify her a little.

Whatever, thought Rhianna. Carrie and I will be long gone anyway, so she’ll have to fulminate alone.

But now the time was fast approaching for the next ordeal—a quiet dinner at home with the family. Including, of course, the master of the house.

‘The big party’s tomorrow evening,’ Carrie had told her happily. ‘At the Polkernick Arms. We’ve practically taken the place over.’

Her face had clouded slightly. ‘But Simon can’t be with us tonight. His godfather and his wife are travelling down from Worcestershire a day early, and Margaret’s insisted that he spends the evening at home with them.’

Rhianna had given an inward sigh of relief. At some point, sooner or later, she and Simon would have to face each other, of course. But she’d prefer that to be much, much later.

But his absence was not going to make the occasion any easier for her. Because he was not her only problem, she reminded herself unhappily. There was also Diaz to be confronted yet again, and although there might have been a brief moment’s complicity between them in the drawing room earlier, it had been no more than that, and she was totally deluding herself if she believed otherwise.

He would still be gunning for her. Watching her. Waiting for her to make one false move.

So she would have to make damned sure that he was disappointed, she told herself grimly.

And she was armoured for the challenge.

She’d showered, and changed into a silky skirt the colour of indigo, stopped with a white Victorian-style blouse, high-necked and pin-tucked. Demureness itself.

She’d drawn her hair back from her face, securing it at the nape of her neck with a silver clasp, and used the lightest of make-up—a coating of mascara to her long lashes and a touch of colour on her mouth. Nothing more.

She’d accentuated the body lotion used after her shower with a drift of the same fragrance on her throat and wrists, and fixed modest silver studs in her ears.

Neat, she thought, scrutinising herself in the mirror, but not gaudy.

She walked over to the window seat to repack Carrie’s sewing basket, and stood for a moment staring out of the window at the grassy headland, the blue ripple of the sea beyond.

It was the last time she would see it like this, because first thing tomorrow they were coming to put up the marquee. So she would take a long, final look now at this view, so familiar and yet at the same time so alien.

So many memories too, she thought wryly, and so few of them to be treasured. In fact, she could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. The feel of the short turf, cool beneath her bare feet as she ran. The hot gritty slide of the sand under her burrowing toes down in the cove, and the eventual, blessed shock of the sea against her heated skin. Misty mornings. Blistering afternoons, lying languid in the shade. All pure nostalgia.

But also tears scalding her eyes, like salt in her throat. And a man’s voice saying almost gently, ‘What’s wrong? There must be something…’

She stirred restlessly. That particular recollection had to go. It had no place in her memory. Not any more.

Perhaps this was really why she was here? she thought. To clear her mind of the past and prepare for a future that in so many ways was looking good. The kind of career many actresses her age could only dream of.

Except her dreams were different, and that was something she had to deal with once and for all.

To accept that she’d been crying for the moon all these years, and that the man she wanted had his own obligations, his own priorities, creating a void between them that could never be crossed.

She turned abruptly away from the window. Took several deep, steadying breaths from her diaphragm, as she did before she began an important scene. She opened her door, stepping into the passage—and ran straight into Simon.

‘So there you are.’ Abruptly he took her arm, propelling her back into her room and following. ‘What’s going on, Rhianna? I thought you weren’t going to be here. That’s what you let me believe, anyway.’

‘I told you I hadn’t made a decision,’ she defended, rubbing the arm he’d grabbed, aware that she was quivering inside, and a lot of it was temper. ‘What’s the matter, Simon? Conscience troubling you at last?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ His voice was harsh, goaded. ‘I made a mistake, that’s all. I’m not the first man and I won’t be the last to get spooked by the thought of marriage and have a fling before the gates finally shut.’

‘A fling?’ she echoed bitterly. ‘Is that what you call it? It’s rather more than that when you tell someone you love her. Make her believe in happy ever after, then dump her, leaving her pregnant with a child she thought you wanted too.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ he said hoarsely. ‘To tell me the termination’s been cancelled after all? Or to make some other kind of trouble?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘And—no. Does that put your mind at rest? But understand this, Simon. I’m keeping quiet about this whole hideous mess for Carrie’s sake, not yours. You don’t deserve her, you appalling creep, and you never have. But you’re what she wants.’

‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘she isn’t the only one—is she, sweetpea?’ He lifted his hand and stroked it insolently down her cheek.

Rhianna flinched away as if she’d been burned. ‘Just get out of here,’ she said harshly. ‘And you’d better make Carrie happy, that’s all. Don’t ruin her life as well, you complete and utter swine.’

‘No,’ he said, suddenly sober. ‘I won’t. Because I really do love her. Maybe it took a stupid, meaningless involvement to teach me how much. To make me realise I couldn’t bear to lose her. Can you understand that?’

‘I’ll never understand you, Simon.’ Her glance was cold and level. ‘Or anything that’s happened in the last months. Not if I live to be a thousand.’ She paused. ‘And my own loss, of course, doesn’t matter,’ she added bitterly.

‘Come off it, Rhianna.’ The mockery was back, coupled with a note of triumph. ‘How can you lose what you never had? Get real.’ He paused. ‘And now, sadly, I must tear myself away. But I’ll be back tomorrow, so remember that I’m about to marry your best friend and be nice, hmm?’ He gave her a valedictory grin, and departed.

Left alone, Rhianna sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling the inner trembling spread through her body, permeating every nerve, every sinew.

Calm down, she told herself. You’ve seen Simon. Spoken to him. You don’t have to do that again. By now he’ll be gone. Tomorrow there’ll be a mad rush to get everything done, and avoiding him should be pretty easy. The trick is not to make it too obvious, or Carrie will notice and wonder.

Tonight, you’ll simply be—pleasant, speaking only when spoken to. You know how to do that. God knows, you’ve had plenty of practice over the years, right here in this house, where you’ll always be the interloper. The unwanted guest.

And when dinner’s over you can yawn, say you’re tired after the journey. Make that your excuse for an early night.

But above all you will not—not—cry. Certainly not now. But not even tonight, when it’s dark, and you’re lying on your own, thinking of—him. Trying not to want him and failing miserably. Just as you’ve done for so many nights in the past. As you’ll want to do for the rest of your life.

Having composed herself with an effort before venturing downstairs again, it was something of an anti-climax to walk into the drawing room, her head high, and find it empty.

But the rest of the party were clearly expected, because a tray of drinks, including large jugs of Pimms and home-made lemonade, plus a cooler containing white wine, had been set out on a side table.

The French windows were standing open, and the evening sun was pouring into the room like warm gold, accompanied by the faint whisper of the sea like a siren call.

Rhianna took two steps towards the open air, then paused. However pressing her desire to escape, she was hardly dressed for scrambling over rocks and sand, or for paddling through the creaming shallows of the tide, she reminded herself drily. Far better to stand her ground and hope the evening would pass quickly.

She wandered back towards the wide stone fireplace, and stood looking up at the portraits which flanked it of Tamsin Penvarnon and her Spanish husband.

Carrie had told her all about them one afternoon, when they’d been alone because Simon had been dragged unwillingly to Truro, shopping with his mother.