For the whole of the next week it seemed to Annie that her feet barely touched the floor. A telegram to Jane brought her mother up to London by Tuesday, to help with the preparations and, as Jane herself readily and breezily admitted, to go into her interfering old bat routine with regard to what the bride should wear – about which she had some very firm opinions. She also quietly and efficiently took over the running of the household, coped with a Davie who was so excited he could barely keep his fingers out of anything, and remembered things like wedding cakes, cars and flowers. No matter how small the wedding, in Jane’s opinion it should be a day to remember, and for the right reasons rather than the wrong ones.
‘We must find the outfit as soon as possible,’ she announced to Annie over breakfast on the Wednesday morning.
Annie, smiling inwardly at the ‘we’, to say nothing of the capital letters that she found herself mentally envisaging in that sentence, nodded.
Jane munched toast and marmalade thoughtfully. ‘Harrods, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Or Debenham and Freebody? I did hear that Selfridges is very good this year? But no – Harrods, I think.’ The words were firm.
Annie pursed her lips doubtfully. ‘Harrods is very expensive,’ she ventured.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, child.’ Jane mounted her motherly high horse and dismissed that out of hand. ‘Richard will expect you to look your very best.’
‘Mother, it’s a wedding, not a bathing belle contest,’ her daughter objected with mild asperity.
Jane raised a brow.
Annie laughed. ‘All right. We’ll try Harrods first. But I mean it. I’m not spending a fortune on something I’ll probably hardly ever wear again.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jane said smugly.
And a couple of days later, as she had guessed, smug she could afford to be, Annie having fallen head over heels in love with a sumptuous cream- and coffee-coloured silk outfit with a matching hat and a price tag to freeze the blood.
‘It looks just wonderful, darling,’ Jane beamed. ‘It’s exactly right.’
Annie surveyed herself in the huge mirror a little worriedly. Her mother was right: the dress might have been made for her, and for the occasion. A wide boat neck with a coffee-coloured collar set off her shoulders perfectly. The slim-fitting sleeves belled slightly at the wrists, the cuffs, too, bound in coffee silk. A wide sash of the same colour settled with artful neatness about her hips, and the fashionable knee-length skirt was as short as decency would allow. The pale coffee hat was wide brimmed and decked with cream silk ribbon and cream roses.
Jane clapped her hands together delightedly. ‘Cream roses,’ she said firmly. ‘Of course. Cream roses to match the hat, with lots of trailing foliage. A perfect summer bouquet.’
‘It is awfully expensive,’ Annie observed, doubtfully.
The black-clad shop assistant, hands clasped dutifully before her, ignored the last words completely and nodded approvingly. ‘If I may say so, the outfit suits Madam very well indeed. Might I suggest that I send for someone from the footwear department to wait upon Madam? It’s so very difficult to visualise the whole effect without the right accessories—’
In the end of course she bought not only the dress, hat, shoes, bag and gloves, but pale silken underwear as well. Travelling home in a taxicab full of beautifully and expensively wrapped boxes and parcels, she looked at her mother, half-laughing, half-accusing. ‘Fancy letting me do that!’ she said, her indignation only partly assumed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the practical one in this family! You just wait. I’m coming with you when you go to buy your hat, and I’m going to make sure you get the most expensive one in the shop!’
Jane leaned forward and touched her hand, smiling. ‘The outfit is my wedding present to you, my dear. I didn’t say anything before, because I knew you wouldn’t spend that kind of money if you thought I was paying. You have your home, you have your pretty things. There’s nothing you need—’
‘Mother – you can’t!’
‘Indeed I can.’ Jane was collected. ‘Now – we have to think about Davie. I was wondering – he is very tall for his age – do you think we might allow him his first long trousers?’
Annie saw little of Richard that first week until the Saturday evening, when, leaving Jane and Davie at home in Kew, he took her out to dinner, to draw breath and to compare notes. They went to a quiet restaurant in Chelsea. ‘I’ve asked Charlie Draper to be my witness. He’s a good friend, as is his wife Katrina.’ He glanced up at her over the rim of his wine glass. ‘He’s the doctor I mentioned, do you remember? The one I thought might be able to help you?’
She opened her mouth to speak and he held up his hand, laughing.
‘That is not why I’ve asked him! He won’t be holding a consultation on the steps of the Register Office, I promise. As I say – he’s a very good friend. He’s been dying to meet you. They both have.’ He grinned again. ‘Especially Katrina. Any professional contact will be made through the proper channels later. But only if you want to. I thought it might be best for you to meet socially first. Now – the telephone will be connected whilst we’re away—’ Annie pulled a small face, and Richard laughed. ‘I know you don’t like them, but I do need to be in contact with the office and if we’re going to be spending a good deal of time at Kew—’
‘Yes, I know. There’s no need for me to use it if I don’t want to, is there?’
‘My darling,’ he said, amused, ‘I give you a month – no, a fortnight – before you’re on the thing all day long. The honeymoon is booked, as is lunch at the Savoy for the wedding day, and a room for us for the night. I pick up the special licence on Monday.’ He paused, thinking.
‘What sort of clothes should I pack?’
He smiled. ‘Are you angling?’
‘Not at all!’ She was indignant. ‘I was just wondering.’
He waved an expansive hand. ‘Anything you like. If you can’t get it in a case, there’s the whole of the back seat of the Wolseley free. Now; your turn.’
They returned to the Kew house to find Jane nodding in an armchair, an open book on her lap. ‘Richard, my dear.’ She came to her feet, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘How are you standing up to all of this rush?’
‘Very well. Thank you so much for coming to help.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. Well’ – she stood, as though considering, her head on one side – ‘apart from tonight, that is.’
‘What?’ Annie’s eyes were wide with concern. ‘Davie? Has he been naughty?’
‘No, no. Far from it. He’s been reading to me.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘All evening!’
Richard had begun to laugh. ‘By Car to India?’ he suggested.
‘Quite.’ Jane was tart. ‘The sainted and dauntless Major Forbes-Leith and his tedious machine en route through thick, thin and just about everything in between, to the subcontinent.’ She pointed a caustic finger. ‘I hold you entirely responsible, Richard, and consider that the least you can do is to ensure a constant stream of Champagne at the wedding lunch.’
‘Done,’ he said, grinning. ‘You shall have your very own bottle!’
‘There’s no need to go to extremes,’ she said primly, her eyes gleaming with laughter. ‘Did you know that wretched man covered two hundred and forty-nine miles over railway sleepers when he ran out of road?’
‘Did you count them, one by one?’
‘It feels so. Annie – what about a nightcap? I don’t know about Richard, but I could certainly do with one.’
Annie regarded her mother with solemn eyes. ‘Ovaltine?’ she suggested.
‘Whisky for me, thank you.’ Jane was unperturbed. ‘Though Richard might like the Ovaltine,’ she added helpfully.
Later, as they stood at the door, Richard gathered Annie into his arms and kissed her, very gently. ‘This time next week,’ he spoke quietly into her hair, ‘we’ll be man and wife. And setting out to live happily ever after.’
She leaned back to look at him. It was a sultry night; the air hung heavily and the sky was dark and starless. ‘We really will, won’t we? Live happily ever after?’
His arms tightened. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. Then after a moment he added quietly, ‘Annie?’
‘Hmm?’ She was standing sleepily in the circle of his arms, her head on his chest.
‘Will you promise me something?’
She had nodded, smiling, before the sudden intensity in his voice registered. Again she lifted her head to look at him. ‘What is it?’
He hesitated. ‘Whatever happens. Anything. You will believe that I love you, won’t you?’
She shook her head slightly. ‘I don’t understand. What’s going to happen?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m not saying—’ He stopped, caught her close again. ‘I just want you to know that I love you.’ The words were very quiet.
She laughed a little. ‘Why, of course you do. Why else would you be marrying me? Lord knows I’m not that much of a catch!’
This time the tightening of his arms took her breath away. ‘So long as you know.’
‘I know.’ And even at that moment she was surprised at the certainty of her own feeling. She did know. It must be so. Or the world would end.
With a finger under her chin he tilted her head and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘This time next week. A brand-new start. For both of us. Oh – and the honeymoon?’
‘Yes?’
The odd tension seemed suddenly to have left him. He grinned that boyish grin, hazel eyes crinkling and glinting gold in the light of the street lamp. ‘Bring your paddling sandals. And your sun hat. Oh, and your walking boots – don’t forget your walking boots.’
She watched him drive away, stood for a long time leaning against the door jamb, unwilling to close the door against the slightest breath of air that stirred in the night street. Next week. A brand-new start. For both of us.
She had to tell him. The thought came from nowhere and shook her to her soul. Then she lifted her head sharply. She couldn’t tell him. There was no need. The secret had been hers for so long…
A brand-new start. For both of us. How did secrets fit into that?
She stood quite still, biting her lip, carefully examining the chasm that was suddenly opening before her.
Then she shook her head and, suddenly tired, closed the door against the sultry night and climbed the stairs to bed.
In the bedroom her wedding outfit was hanging on the wardrobe, the material gleaming softly in the lamplight; it really was quite the most exquisite dress she had ever owned. She put out a hand and touched it gently with her finger. The silk was heavy and smooth, the colour of clotted cream. She drew it to her face, looked in the mirror. Her mother was right, the colour suited her beautifully.
She had worn white when she married Philippe. A hastily acquired dress that had not fitted her well – there had been no time in those last precious, pre-war days to have it altered. Her lace veil, delicate and fragile as a cobweb, had belonged to Philippe’s grandmother. Philippe – tall, golden-haired, his face bright with love as she joined him at the altar – had looked, even to her eyes, very young. That had been just ten days before war was declared and the world had descended to horror, brutality and death.
She sometimes thought it had been the worst day of her life.
Thunder rolled distantly.
A new start. Brand new. Clean. Oh yes, that, indeed, was what she needed.
As she slowly undressed and slipped on her satin nightdress, she did not bother to wipe away the tears that all at once were sliding soundlessly down her cheeks.
‘Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue. How are we doing on that?’ Jane asked next day over the breakfast table. The morning had brought no freshness to the weather: the clouds still hung low, the morning was airless.
‘Hadn’t thought about it.’ Annie was at the sink, filling the kettle. Her voice was distracted, almost irritable. She had not slept well.
‘You could borrow my pearls, if you’d like. They suit you well, and would go beautifully with the outfit.’
‘Thank you.’
Her mother glanced at her sharply. ‘Annie? Is something wrong?’
Annie almost jumped. ‘No. No. Of course not. I’m quite all right.’ She tried to focus her whole attention on what her mother was saying, but could not. During a sticky, sleepless night her courage had ebbed and flowed as violently as a spring tide. What had seemed right one moment had appeared totally wrong the next. The morning had brought no answers.
‘What about something old?’
‘I’ll wear my sapphire ring. That’s old, and it’s blue. It’ll do for both.’ The words were absent.
‘Perfect.’ Jane’s gaze was still on her, sharp and faintly puzzled.
Annie put the kettle on the gas ring and stood watching it with troubled eyes. Beyond the open back door the storm clouds gathered and billowed in the sky.
She stood outside the tall, elegant house and looked up uncertainly at the second-floor windows. Perhaps she had got the wrong address? And even if she hadn’t, Richard probably wasn’t in. If he were not, then the gods would have intervened. It would be a sign. She would go home, and leave it at that. If he were…? She drew a deep breath. The pretty, narrow street with its tall, elegant buildings and heavy-leafed trees was sunk in a warm, Sunday quiet. Thunder rolled over the Heath. The air was very still. A middle-aged woman in a light, flowery dress and fashionable straw hat came out of the door and walked down the steps, a tiny dog, little more than a bundle of silken fluff, tucked under her arm. She looked at Annie with undisguised, even slightly disapproving curiosity. ‘Good afternoon.’ There was faint enquiry in her voice.
‘Good afternoon. Please – could you tell me if Mr Ross lives here? Mr Richard Ross?’
‘Indeed he does. His apartment is on the second floor.’
‘Thank you.’ Annie was finding it strangely difficult to breathe in the oppressive atmosphere. She felt the woman’s eyes upon her as she mounted the steps and entered the hallway. It was cool, and gloomy. Polished wood shone and a long mirror glimmered in the shadows. A wide, curved staircase led up to an equally dim-lit landing. Annie took a deep breath and began to climb it.
Richard’s door was at the far end of the landing; his name was on the small brass-mounted card beside the knocker.
For one last second she hesitated. And then she knocked.
For a long moment nothing happened. Her heart calmed; he wasn’t there. She was about to turn away when the door opened.
‘Annie!’ His face lit with surprise and pleasure. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ And then, in sudden dawning concern, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I—’ She stopped, her courage failing her at the last moment. ‘No. Of course not. Mother’s taken Davie out for the afternoon. I… it’s silly, but I just wanted to see you. I was’ – she hesitated – ‘I was lonely.’ Her eyes held his. ‘I’ve never been lonely before. Never. See what you’ve done to me? I always used to enjoy being alone. Now…’ She shrugged, did not finish the sentence. ‘Anyway,’ she added, smiling hesitantly, ‘I decided it was time to come and find your lair.’
His own smile was gentle. ‘To beard me in my den?’
‘Exactly.’
He stepped back, laughing. ‘Welcome to Bluebeard’s Castle!’ He was wearing slacks and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled up in the heat. As always the sight of his smile, the look in his eyes all but stopped her heart. She didn’t have to tell him. The thought was almost defiant. What had past secrets to do with present happiness?
She followed him into a long, well-proportioned hallway with a polished parquet floor. It was lined with pictures that were lit by bright, modern lighting, and several doors opened out of it.
‘This way.’ He ushered her to an open door to her right.
She stopped on the threshold, eyes wide. ‘Richard! What a delightful room!’ The drawing room was very large, very light and positively exuded comfort and simple good taste. At one end was a large open fireplace, its currently empty fire basket hidden by a large screen exquisitely embroidered in modern style. The rugs on the wooden floor and the heavy curtains at the window were also of modern design, as was the furniture. The walls were hung with perhaps a dozen paintings, most of them in Impressionist style. A bowl of roses on a low table in the centre of the room scented the air. ‘You like it?’ Richard asked.
‘I love it.’ She went to the window, which looked out over what appeared to be a tiny park, though closer examination revealed that it was actually a large communal garden with lawns and benches, a pond and several huge and ancient trees. She turned back to survey the room. Richard had moved to a cabinet and was standing with a record in his hand. She watched as he slipped it from its cover and put it on. Ragtime filled the air; Richard turned down the volume and lifted his head, smiling.
‘I’m glad. I was afraid you might not like the style.’
‘I love it,’ she repeated. ‘It does seem strange, doesn’t it? That I haven’t been here before?’
‘There hasn’t been time, that’s all. Come.’ He took her hand, drew her to him and kissed her lightly. ‘I’ll show you the rest of the place.’
Every room in the apartment was to scale with the drawing room. The kitchen was vast – rather intimidatingly so, Annie found, though she did not say so – the bathroom luxurious. The main bedroom was panelled in light, beautifully grained maple, and the – again modern and beautifully designed – furniture was fashioned in the same wood: a large wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a tallboy and the biggest bed Annie had ever seen. It was the most masculine of rooms; a fact that she somehow found unexpectedly comforting. No woman had had a hand in this.
As so often happened, Richard seemed to sense her thoughts. ‘We can change it,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll need a dressing table, a wardrobe of course—’
‘There’s room,’ she said absently. ‘It isn’t important.’ Her eyes on the bed, she was suddenly very aware of his closeness. The window was open. Sultry air drifted in, carrying the scents and sounds of the garden. She turned to him.
He was watching her, smiling. She opened her mouth to speak; said nothing. Their eyes locked. He lifted his hand, brushed the back of it very gently upon her cheek. She turned her head a little, laid her lips upon his knuckles. His skin smelled as it always did, a familiar and to her almost intoxicating mix of sharp citrus soap and nicotine. The moment stretched, seemingly endless. ‘I’ll show you Davie’s room,’ he said at last, and cleared his throat.
She did not move.
The music had stopped. The apartment was very quiet.
His hand dropped to her shoulder, then moved to her breast. She took a small, shuddering breath and closed her eyes. ‘Annie, I didn’t want to do this – I wanted us to wait – that’s why I hadn’t brought you here before—’ His voice was suddenly harsh with strain. She could feel the trembling of his body. She curled her arms about his neck and kissed him.
There was nothing gentle about their lovemaking, nothing of tenderness. It was an alleviation of hunger, an assuaging of thirst – quick, fevered, almost brutal. They lay afterwards for a long time, half-dressed, dishevelled and slick with sweat in the humid air, saying nothing, drained yet oddly unsatisfied. Eventually Richard rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice muffled.
Annie came up on one elbow, looking at him, tracing the curve of his back and shoulder with the light touch of her finger. ‘Don’t be silly. Whatever for?’
‘I told you. I didn’t mean that to happen. And certainly not like that.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ she said, simply and candidly.
He lifted his head, rubbed big hands through his already furiously disordered hair. ‘So did I! Of course I did. It’s just… Annie, I told you – and I mean it – I want us to do things the right way.’ He turned his head to glance up at her, the sudden rueful laughter back. ‘And grabbing you like a demented adolescent a week before I marry you doesn’t really fit that particular bill, now does it?’
She smiled a little, swung her legs to the side of the bed, reached for her clothes. They dressed in silence.
‘Drink?’ he asked, watching her in the wardrobe mirror as she pulled a comb through her tangled hair.
She smiled faintly at his reflection. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Martini?’
‘Would be perfect.’
As he went out she studiously avoided her own eyes in the mirror. A moment later she heard music coming from the drawing room again, a soft, crooning melody of love and moonlit seduction. She cast a quick glance at the messily rumpled bed. Her smile was wry as she left the room.
Richard had the drinks waiting, the cocktail shaker and the stemmed, frosted glasses sitting on an ornamental black lacquer tray. Annie took hers, thanked him with a smile and went to the open window. In the past half-hour the sky had darkened ominously; there was the unmistakeable feeling of a storm in the air. As she watched she caught the faint, distant flicker of lightning. A woman’s voice called sharply; a child’s answered and Annie caught a glimpse of a small boy running from under a tree just as the first huge drops of rain splashed through the leaves. ‘It’s raining,’ she said.
‘It’s been threatening all day.’ She heard the clink of glass behind her.
Thunder rolled.
‘Annie?’ Richard’s voice asked from behind her. ‘What’s really wrong? Why did you really come?’ There was a quiet certainty in his voice that defied her to lie.
She did not turn. ‘To tell you something,’ she heard herself say.
There was a small, wary moment of silence. ‘You – haven’t changed your mind?’ he asked, his voice very even.
‘No. No, of course not. How could you think that after…’ She let the words trail off, bent her head to look at her glass. Her hands were shaking. She tossed back what was left of her drink, the dry bite of it catching in her throat. ‘It was something you said – something you’ve said more than once – about fresh starts, and honesty and not deceiving each other—’
‘Well?’ The word was tense.
The last, plaintive notes of the love song died. She took a breath. ‘What would you say,’ she asked, ‘if I told you that Philippe wasn’t Davie’s father?’
This time the silence was so long, and so fraught, that she turned to face him – and flinched from the expression on his face. He was staring at her; to her astonishment he had actually paled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘What I said.’ Suddenly she was desperately composed. ‘I was pregnant when I married Philippe. He didn’t know it; he never found out.’
It was a long, long time before he spoke. She saw the struggle in his eyes, the final understanding. Then, ‘How could you?’ he asked. ‘How could you have married him knowing…?’
She was regretting the impulse already. Too late. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, surely you can see how?’ She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Darling – please – try to understand. I was eighteen years old—’
‘You loved him,’ he interrupted her. ‘You told me that you loved him.’ He was watching her intently, his expression suddenly unfathomable.
‘l did. At least, insofar as I knew what love was, yes, I did.’
‘Then, how—’
She turned from him sharply. ‘I can’t tell you that. Please try to understand. I just can’t.’
‘And Davie?’ There was a tight edge of something close to anger in his voice. ‘Does Davie know?’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell him?’
The question that had haunted her for more than ten years. She hung on to her self-control by a thread. ‘One day, I suppose I’ll have to. Richard, please – please! – don’t make me sorry I told you. Don’t let it make any difference to us. I just felt I had to tell you.’
The room had become very dark. Outside the window a sudden intense flash crackled through the clouds and lit the sky. Annie jumped.
Richard reached for the cocktail shaker. ‘Another?’ he asked. His voice was cool. It was, she thought, as if he spoke to a stranger. She hated the sound of it.
‘No. Thank you.’
He poured one for himself. She could not see his face. ‘Richard?’ she ventured. ‘You aren’t… angry with me? It was all so long ago – it feels like a different lifetime—’
For a long moment he did not speak, then he turned, and to her relief the unnervingly chill look had gone from his face. ‘Of course I’m not angry with you. Why should I be? As you say, it was a long time ago. How could I be angry about something that happened long before we met? You were eighteen – and I’m willing to bet a not very experienced eighteen. I remember Paris in those last months before the war. It wasn’t the most calm or chaste of environments, as I recall.’ He put down his glass and came to her, putting his arms about her, drawing her to him. Thunder rolled and crashed. ‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said.
She drew a deep breath. ‘So am I.’
‘Tell me something – does Jane know?’
Annie shook her head against his chest. ‘No. No one does.’ She closed her mind to the thought that this might not be entirely true; she had said enough.
‘You’ll have to tell Davie. One day.’
She bit her lip and said nothing.
‘Annie?’
‘Not now. Not yet,’ she said.
‘Of course not.’
She stepped back, looking up at him. The long dark lashes were wet with unshed tears. ‘You are sure it hasn’t made any difference?’
He had taken a cigarette from his silver case and was tapping it on his thumbnail. ‘I’m sure. It… was a shock, that’s all. As I said, I’m glad you told me. I don’t want us to have secrets. Now – we don’t have to speak of it any more. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for being so brave. It couldn’t have been easy.’
She smiled a little shakily. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind – I’ll have that drink now.’
Outside the heavens had opened; the sound of the rain all but drowned her words. They stood at the window watching the storm. Lightning split the sky, gusts of wind tossed in the treetops, the world was drenched in the ferocious downpour. Darkness shadowed the room around them.
The telephone rang.
Richard cursed mildly, picked it up. ‘Hello?’
Annie, sipping her martini and watching the streaming rain, did not see the sudden sharp glance he threw her when he heard the answering voice. He turned his back, spoke quietly. ‘It’s a bit difficult at the moment’ – another bellow of thunder – ‘plans have changed… Yes… Look, old man, I’ll ring you tomorrow – fill you in. Sure. Talk to you then. Thanks. And you. Bye.’
He hung the receiver back on its hook and rejoined her. ‘If there’s one problem with the telephone, that’s it,’ he said easily. ‘Some people just never stop working. Now – another small one while we wait for this to clear, then I’ll call a taxi for you. Jane will be thinking you’ve been kidnapped.’ He nodded ruefully at the sheets of rain that were blowing against the window. ‘Or drowned.’ He saw the flicker in her eyes at that and shook his head gently. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, ‘I’m joking. That’s all. We’re going to get you over that, aren’t we?’ He bent to kiss her lightly.
‘If you want, I’ll try,’ she said. And meant it. At that moment she would have done anything in the world he asked.
‘Good.’ Richard went to the gramophone, picked up a record. ‘Ambrose and the Embassy Club.’ He smiled across the room at her. ‘Fancy a dance?’
An hour later the storm had died, and a taxi had pulled up outside the house. Richard escorted her downstairs and out onto the wet pavement. The storm had cleared the air and the birds were singing. ‘We’ll need to get together one day this week to make the final arrangements,’ he said. ‘How about Wednesday?’
‘That suits me.’
Richard opened the taxi door for her but, before she could get in, clicked his fingers and turned her to face him. ‘I’ve had an idea.’
She looked at him enquiringly.
‘Davie. Do you think he’d like to come and stay with me on Friday night? Some friends are taking me out on Thursday, but I’ve kept Friday free. I never could see the point of turning up hungover at your own wedding. I’d love to have Davie’s company. He could see the apartment, it would get him out of your way, and he could really do his best-man bit – get me to the church on time! What do you think?’
‘He’d love it,’ Annie said. ‘I think, much as he loves us, his women are rather getting on his nerves.’ She laughed. ‘He can bring that wretched book with him and you can read it together to your hearts’ content. What a splendid idea!’
‘Good! Tell him I’ll pick him up after school. He can bring his glad rags and we’ll get ready together.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ She kissed him, got in the cab, waved through the window as it pulled away.
Richard lifted a hand, stood watching as the taxi drove off.
Then, as it turned the corner he reached into his pocket for his cigarette case, and the smile faded from his face to leave it totally expressionless, the eyes cool and very, very thoughtful.