Bridget had left Ascot immediately. The bitch would pay, she thought as she pulled away in her black Range Rover. She was so angry she almost ran into a child running across the car park as she left. The little brat.
Who was she anyway, this Lucy? This little bloody upstart who had felt she had the right to talk to her like that? Bridget was furious she hadn’t known more about her. Some secret she could have embarrassed her with, instead of being the one who was left red-faced.
She was the only woman for Hartley; she knew exactly how to behave in their circle. It came naturally to her. She chided herself for occasionally confiding too much to him. In the last few weeks of their relationship she had been rather honest about certain friends in their group. Well, it was hard to be Miss Perfect all the time. She had acted so sweetly when they first met, charm personified, saying only nice things about everyone and everything. But being sugary-sweet was exhausting – and boring. Bridget had no doubt her friends admired her honesty and drive, but all the same she wished she had been a little less vocal. Hartley never seemed to say a bad word about anyone. Never mind, she would behave like a delicate mouse when she got him back.
She had called her mother as soon as she returned from their trip to Paris and told her to dig out the family tiara she had worn on her wedding day. Indeed the heirloom had been in the family for generations and now it was Bridget’s turn. She’d told Daddy that nothing other than a Vera Wang dress, top of the range, thank you very much, would do. After all, it would be the society wedding of the year and feature in Tatler, Hello! and Harper’s Bazaar. Perhaps Jimmy Choo shoes for the bride were a little played out. Bridget made a mental note to call Manolo Blahnik and ask for their bridal range.
And then suddenly Hartley had ended her dream. She had had to contend with her mother, Lady Barbara Beames, rolling her eyes and tutting. She had been married when she was twenty and had both Bridget and her brother, Boris, before she was thirty. Boris was two years younger than Bridget, Barbara had reminded her daughter with a look of disdain, and was married with eighteen-month-old twins. Didn’t she realize time was ticking?
Fucking twins, Bridget thought. The golden boy and his mousy little wife, Miranda, had produced not one but two sprogs while she had none.
Miranda, or Plain Jane as Bridget and her mother had taken to calling her behind her back, didn’t like Lady Barbara being too hands-on, or ‘interfering’ as she had whined to Boris. It would be so special for Barbara if her only daughter had children she could fawn over and show off to her friends, who had taken to talking about their grandchildren all the bloody time.
Her mother also made no secret of her desire for Bridget to marry Hartley.
‘Such a gentleman,’ she repeated ad nauseam, ‘and an earl, Bridget. Really, why did you let him go?’
Bridget screamed at her mother that she hadn’t let him go and that she would get him back. She just had to remove his little girlfriend from the picture.
She had overheard someone in the crowd whisper how pretty Lucy was. Idiot. Bridget looked at her hands gripping the steering wheel. She was shaking with rage.
Yes, Lucy Summers would pay dearly. By the time she was finished with her, Hartley wouldn’t want her, and no one else would either.