‘YOU’VE done what?’
Jane, curled up on her best friend’s sofa, with a mug of tea clutched comfortingly between her hands, repeated her news. ‘I’ve asked Mark Hilliard to marry me.’ She lifted her shoulders, bunching them against her neck. This was harder than the actual deed. ‘At least, I manoeuvred him into a position where he asked me, which is much the same thing.’
‘How?’ she demanded. ‘I could use some help in levering Greg into a proposal.’ Then she grinned. ‘You’re a dark horse, Janey. I knew you were potty about the man, but I didn’t know things had progressed to hand-holding over the desk. Your mother must be over the moon—’
‘She doesn’t know. The ceremony is going to be on Tuesday at the register office. Just the two of us and a couple of witnesses. That’s why I’m here. To ask if you and Greg will be our witnesses.’
‘Are you out of your mind? Your mum expects these things to be done properly. The full fairy tale bit. Bells, choir, a three-tier cake and enough champagne to launch the QE2—’
‘Yes, well, this isn’t exactly a fairy tale wedding. Which is why I’m not telling them until Wednesday.’
‘She’ll kill you. No, she’ll think you’re pregnant and she’ll send your father to kill him…’ She stopped. ‘Ohmigod! You are pregnant!’
Jane’s hands were shaking so much with delayed reaction that she put down her mug before she slopped tea over the sofa. Her voice was steady enough though, even if her smile was wry. ‘One step at a time, Laine. One step at a time. He has to kiss me first.’
‘Actually that’s not true…’ Then, as the penny dropped, ‘Oh, crumbs, Janey, I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Did she? This morning she’d been absolutely certain, but suppose she was still in the guest suite when they were celebrating their silver wedding? Suppose he never saw her as anything other than ‘good old Jane’?
‘Janey?’ Laine prompted, seeking reassurance.
‘Mark doesn’t want any fuss and neither do I,’ she said, choosing to answer her concerns about the wedding arrangements rather than her concern about the marriage. ‘Let’s face it, Laine, I was never cut out to play the beautiful blushing bride.’ But she crossed her fingers before she said, ‘Trust me. It’s my wedding and I know what I’m doing.’
There was a pause while Laine digested this statement. ‘Well, you usually do, I’ll grant you that,’ she conceded eventually.
‘I get the man I love, a darling little girl…’
‘Do you? Get him?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Marriage is enough of a gamble even when you’re head over heels.’
‘Rather less so when both parties have so much to gain and know exactly what they’re getting. There are none of those untidy emotions to mess things up.’
‘I’m sure fate will find some way to throw a spanner in the works. The ghost of his first wife, for instance. You’ll always be in her shadow.’ When Jane didn’t answer, Laine pushed harder. ‘Wasn’t she a famous beauty? One of the “girls in pearls”? A perfect English Rose?’
While Jane was pure Celt. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and struggling to make five foot three in her outdoor shoes. ‘I’ll have to get busy with the pruning shears, then, won’t I?’
Laine didn’t laugh. ‘Well, if it’s what you want, then of course Greg and I will be your witnesses.’ She waited, apparently expecting some response. ‘It is what you want?’
‘I love him, Laine.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t respond with the obvious question—does he love you? Which suggested she did see. Only too clearly. But then Laine could read a three-volume novel from a tone of voice. ‘So, Mark Hilliard gets a live-in nanny and a housekeeper. What do you get out of it?’
‘To be needed.’
‘Don’t underrate yourself. You’re worth more than that.’
Jane was getting a little tired of the word ‘underrate’. She was underrating nothing, least of all herself. ‘At ten o’clock this morning nothing was further from Mark’s mind than getting married. By eleven o’clock he’d set the date.’ She kinked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘Just who is underrating whom, here?’
Laine regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then she laughed. ‘Right. So why are we drinking tea? Let’s celebrate!’ Then, as she took a bottle of wine from the fridge, ‘Please, please, please can I help you shop for “bad girl” underwear?’
‘I think the situation calls for subtlety rather than a sledgehammer.’
‘Silk French knickers are subtle. Satin camisoles are subtle.’ Then, ‘You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?’
‘Down to the last detail,’ she said. ‘I’ve even got my mother sorted. She’ll be so delighted to get her youngest daughter off the shelf that she’ll happily forgo the fancy wedding.’
Laine grinned. ‘You can hope.’
‘No, honestly,’ she said, her face deadpan. ‘And if you’d ever seen my dad’s reaction to the announcement that yet another daughter was getting married, heard his pitiful pleas for her to elope, you’d understand that I’m doing them a kindness.’
‘Your dad didn’t mean it.’
‘No?’ Then she grinned, too. ‘And I always thought he was serious. Oh, dear. But it’ll be too late by then.’
‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes when your mother finds out. You’ll have to flee the country. Go on an extended honeymoon until the dust settles…’ Laine glanced at her. ‘Is there going to be a honeymoon?’
‘Not until the design contract for the Maybridge Arts Centre is signed. Maybe my parents could go away instead? They could console themselves with a luxury cruise on the money I’m saving them.’ She took the glass of wine. ‘I do have one problem, though. What am I going to wear on Tuesday?’
‘Something elegant.’
‘But simple.’ She didn’t want to turn up in some fancy outfit that would startle Mark. He saw the occasion as nothing more exciting than taking an hour out of the office to marry his plain, comfortable Jane; if she turned up in ‘bride’ clothes he’d probably take one look and run a mile.
But even with just a couple of witnesses it had to look like a wedding, feel like a wedding. He needed to be reminded that this wasn’t just some job promotion with ‘living in’ privileges. The ceremony might be little more than a pared-to-the-bone formality, but they were both going to be making some solemn vows on Tuesday morning.
He was taking her as his wife.
Whatever anyone else might think, she wanted Mark left in no doubt about that.
‘I’m sorry I had to bother you with that, Mark,’ Jane said, as they left the register office. ‘I should have realised you’d have to sign the form personally.’
‘It’s not a bother. We’d have had to go into town anyway. The banks want your signatures for the accounts you’ll need—credit cards, that sort of thing.’
‘Accounts?’
‘Personal, housekeeping.’
‘Oh.’
‘You won’t be working, so I thought if I gave you the same allowance as your salary? If you need more—’
‘No! No,’ she repeated, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. She hadn’t given much thought to what she’d do for personal money, but it had never occurred to her that he’d just keep paying her a salary. But why not? That was the way he saw her. Laine was right. This was a mistake. ‘Mark—’
‘And you’re going to need a ring.’
Her heart turned over. ‘A ring?’
‘A wedding ring.’ She bit on her lip, fighting an overwhelming urge to weep with joy. All morning he’d been distant, absolutely businesslike, and her heart had been shrivelling up inside her. Suddenly the world felt wonderful. ‘We might as well get it now,’ he said, matter-of-factly. It didn’t matter. He’d been thinking about it.
‘Wedding rings?’ The jeweller beamed. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ Jane said quickly, when Mark looked slightly bemused.
‘What are you looking for? Something classic in gold? Or platinum’s very fashionable now,’ the man said. ‘And there seems to be something of a trend towards wedding rings set with precious stones.’
Mark turned to her. ‘Choose whatever you want, Jane,’ he said, apparently under the impression that it had nothing whatever to do with him.
‘A wedding ring shouldn’t be a fashion statement. It should be practical. It has to take a lot of hard knocks.’ She smiled at the man. One of them should be smiling. ‘I want something in gold, absolutely plain, not too wide.’ Her finger was measured and then she was brought a selection of rings to look at. It wasn’t difficult to choose. ‘This one,’ she said, picking out the kind of ring a woman could live with for a lifetime. She realised the jeweller was waiting for her to try it on and rather self-consciously slipped it onto her finger. ‘Yes, it’s fine. Mark?’
She expected him to nod and reach for his credit card. Instead he reached for her hand, holding it so that her fingers were stretched across his palm, and looked at it for what seemed a lifetime.
It was the nearest he’d come in the two and a half years she’d known him to an intimate gesture.
Did this count as ‘hand-holding’?
His long, elegant, fingers, vibrant and warm against hers, seemed to spark a chain reaction of warmth that raced through her body, just as it had a thousand times in her imagination. Her imagination had been light years from reality.
Oh, yes. This was hand-holding on an epic scale.
‘You’re absolutely sure?’ he asked, finally looking up at her.
As her hand began to tremble, betraying her calm exterior for the act it was, she snatched it back, pretending to take a closer look at the ring.
His touch had meant nothing; she must read nothing into it. He was simply concerned that she was choosing the plainest ring in the tray out of some misplaced reticence.
Utility wife, utility ring.
She reassured him. ‘Mark, this is the ring I’d choose if I were marrying the Sultan of Zanzibar.’
He continued to regard her with his steady grey eyes. ‘Are you telling me I’ve got competition?’
‘Absolutely,’ she replied, matching his serious expression. ‘He calls me day and night, begging me to join his harem.’
‘Is that right? Well, next time he calls, tell him you’re spoken for.’ He turned to the jeweller with a smile. ‘That was surprisingly easy.’
‘The young lady certainly seems to know her own mind. A classic choice, if I may say so. Now, if I can just check your size, sir, I’ll bring a matching ring for you to try.’
‘Oh, but—’
Jane felt rather than saw Mark’s small instinctive gesture as he curled his fingers, lifting his hand back no more than an inch. It was enough for her to see that he was still wearing the ring that Caroline had placed there.
‘There’s no time right now, Mark,’ she said quickly. ‘We have to get to the bank.’ It was the first thing that came into her head. That and regret that she hadn’t kept to her original plan to tell him that she wanted to wear her great-grandmother’s ring. This was exactly the kind of situation she’d been hoping to avoid. She wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible. She didn’t want him jerked into painful reminders at every turn. But she’d been betrayed by the need to be noticed, recognised. By her singing pleasure that he’d been thinking about her. ‘And Shuli will be getting hungry.’
Once outside, he stopped and said, ‘I’m sorry, Jane.’ She covered his left hand briefly with her own in a wordless gesture of comfort. She could not bring herself to say that it didn’t matter.
It did.
Back in the office, she ensured that her replacement was coping and then collected Shuli from the care of a curious receptionist so that everyone could work in peace.
‘Is it true that you’re leaving?’
With Patsy installed at her desk, already busy organising her own replacement, she could hardly deny it. Why would she want to deny it? ‘Yes, it’s true. Patsy’s taking over from today, although I’ll be in and out for the rest of the week,’ she said, fastening the little girl into her pushchair.
‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? There’s a wild rumour going around that you’re marrying Mark Hilliard.’ She said it as if it had to be some kind of joke, but Jane wasn’t in the mood to be patronised, and since Mark had already informed his doubtless much relieved partners of the imminent improvement in his domestic situation it was scarcely a secret.
‘Is there? Well, even a wild rumour has to be right once in a blue moon,’ she said. And came close to adding that the speed of the wedding was due entirely to the fact that she was pregnant. With triplets.
She restrained herself in the sure and certain knowledge that the rumour machine was already way ahead of her with that one. Instead she contented herself with a smile, adding, ‘If anyone is looking for me, I’m taking Shuli shopping for something totally gorgeous to wear for the occasion.’ She didn’t say which of them the ‘totally gorgeous’ something was for.
Mark returned to his office, but couldn’t concentrate on work. Instead he sat at his desk, turning the wedding ring round and round on his finger. It was so much a part of him that it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be expected to wear a new one. It did occur to him that he wasn’t thinking about anything very much except his own feelings.
Jane had covered for him when he’d instinctively recoiled from the thought of a new ring. She had reached out to him offering instant reassurance rather than the reproach he’d deserved. The warmth of her touch still lingered comfortingly against his skin.
Only her eyes, huge and brown, had momentarily betrayed her hurt at his thoughtlessness.
He took one last look at the ring before slipping it from his finger, then, uncertain what to do with it, he tucked it away in his wallet before reaching for the intercom. ‘Penny?’ No, that wasn’t right. ‘Pansy?’
‘Try Patsy,’ a disembodied voice advised.
‘Patsy. Of course. Sorry. I have to go out for half an hour. Can you ring round and put back the weekly progress meeting?’
‘No problem. Everyone will understand.’ Then, ‘Look, I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I’ve made a provisional booking at the Waterside for lunch on Tuesday.’
About to ask why she’d thought that necessary, he just managed to stop himself in time. ‘Did Jane ask you to do that?’
‘No, I used my own initiative. She said you’d want me to.’ After another pause, ‘If you’ve made other plans I can cancel, but Jane said you weren’t going away. I thought you might like to surprise her.’
‘And your initiative suggested lunch at the Waterside would be a suitable surprise?’
‘Absolutely. If I’d just been swept off my feet with a whirlwind wedding I’d want a romantic lunch somewhere quiet by the river. Well, short of Paris in the spring.’
Paris? Jane wouldn’t expect to be taken away, would she? He tried to imagine walking along the banks of the Seine at night with Jane. The picture wouldn’t come into focus. ‘Paris will have to wait until we’ve signed the Maybridge contract, I’m afraid. And when you confirm the reservation at the Waterside make sure they’ve got a high-chair, will you?’
‘Is Shuli going to be a bridesmaid? How sweet. Do you want me to organise flowers?’
Rings, flowers, bridesmaids. What had happened to the simple no-nonsense ceremony he’d envisaged? He recalled the uneasy feeling he’d had that it couldn’t be that easy. And wondered what else he’d overlooked.
As he tensed his hand he could still feel the ring that until a few minutes ago had been part of him. Could still see the mark, feel the weight of it.
Could still feel the warmth of Jane’s reassuring touch.
Then, realising that Patsy was still waiting, he said, ‘No. Thank you. I’d rather organise the flowers myself. I’ll be out of the office for about half an hour.’
Choosing the flowers was a pleasure, he discovered, until, opening his wallet to get out his charge card, he saw the wedding ring glinting in its depths. It brought back the flash of hurt in Jane’s eyes and he tried to imagine how she’d feel if she ever saw the ring. Or found it in the back of a drawer.
He didn’t want, ever, to make her look like that again. She deserved his total loyalty.
Which was why, on his way back to the office, he took a detour by the river and dropped the ring into the deepest part.