The Best Man And The Bridesmaid
She arrived back at her office, breathless and feeling just a bit low. ‘Ah, Daisy, there you are.’
Yes, here she was. And here she’d probably be for the rest of her days; Robert’s best friend and standby date. She pulled herself together; feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help. ‘I’m sorry, George, I did warn you I might be late.’
‘Did you?’ George Latimer was nearing seventy, and while few could challenge his knowledge of oriental artefacts, his short-term memory was not quite what it might be.
‘I had to be pinned into the bridesmaid dress,’ she reminded him.
‘Ah, yes. And you had lunch with Robert Furneval,’ he added thoughtfully. In the act of hanging up her jacket, Daisy turned. She’d said she was lunching with a friend; she hadn’t mentioned Robert. ‘Your clothes give you away, my dear.’
‘Do they?’
‘You’re covered from neck to ankle in the most unattractive brown tailoring. Tell me, are you afraid that he’ll get carried away and seduce you in the restaurant if you wear something even moderately appealing when you meet him? I only ask because I get the impression that most young women would enjoy the experience.’
Her feigned surprise had not fooled him for a minute. His short-term memory might be a touch unreliable, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. And noticing things was what made him so good at what he did.
‘I didn’t realise you knew Robert,’ she said, avoiding his question.
‘We’ve met in passing. I know his mother. Charming woman. She’s something of an authority on netsuke, as I’m sure you know. When she heard I was looking for an assistant she called me and suggested I take you on.’
Daisy sat down rather quickly. ‘I had no idea.’ Jennifer Furneval had always been kind to her, taking pity on the skinny teenager who had hung around hoping to be noticed by her son. Not that she’d so much as hinted that she knew the reason why Daisy had developed such a fervent interest in her collection of oriental treasures. On the contrary, she had loaned her books that had been a blissful excuse to return to the house, to hang around, ask questions. And she had eventually pointed her in the direction of a Fine Arts degree.
Of course, she’d stopped hanging around for a glimpse of Robert long before then. She stopped doing that the day she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers.
She’d been sixteen, all knees and elbows, an awkward teenager whose curves had refused to develop and with an unruly mop of hair that had repulsed every attempt to straighten it—assaults with her mother’s curling tongs leaving her with nothing but frizz and the scent of singed hair to show for her efforts.
Her friends had all been developing into embryonic beauties, young swans while she’d seemed to have got stuck in the cygnet phase. The archetypal ugly duckling. But she hadn’t minded too much, because while the swans had made eyes at Robert they’d been far too young to win more than an indulgent smile. Daisy, on the other hand, had kept her eyes to herself, and had never asked for more than to sit and watch him fishing.
Her reward, one blissful summer when Michael had been away on a foreign exchange visit, had been to have Robert give her an old rod and teach her how to use it.
That, and the Christmas kiss he’d given her beneath the mistletoe. It was the best present she’d had that year. The glow of it had lasted until June, when she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers and realised there was a lot more to kissing than she’d imagined.
Lorraine had definitely been a swan. Elegant curves, smooth fair hair and with all the poise that a year being ‘finished’ in France could bestow on a girl. Robert had just come up from Oxford, a first-class honours degree in his pocket, and she had gone racing around there to just say hello. Congratulations. Will you be going fishing on Sunday? But Lorraine, with her designer jeans and painted nails and lipstick, had got there first.
After that she had only gone to see Jennifer Furneval when she’d been sure that Robert was not there.
He had still dropped by, though, when he’d been home. Her brother had been in the States, doing a business course, but Robert had still called in early on a Sunday morning with his mother’s dog, or with his rods. Well, he’d always been able to rely upon Daisy to put up some decent sandwiches and bring a flask of fresh coffee, and maybe Lorraine, and the succession of girls who had followed her through the years, hadn’t cared to rise at dawn on a Sunday morning for the doubtful honour of getting their feet wet.
‘She worries about him, I think,’ George Latimer continued, after a moment’s reflection.
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
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.
‘He doesn’t,’ she snapped back. ‘I love my job.’ Perhaps it was guilt at lying to him that made her so sharp. She certainly didn’t feel capable of the usual easy banter that sustained their conversation. ‘Shall we go?’
Robert Furneval reached the pavement and without thinking hailed a passing taxi. ‘We could easily have walked,’ Daisy said.
‘If you’ve been working, you deserve to ride.’ If? What on earth had made him say that? The feeling that she hadn’t been quite honest with him? Daisy had looked so guilty when she’d told him that she’d been working late. Guilty and unusually glamorous. If George Latimer had been forty, thirty years younger even, he might have suspected there was something going on.
Ridiculous of course. But being busy until nine-thirty smacked of the kind of affair where the man needed to be home with his wife and children at a respectable time. He glanced across at her, and even in the dim light of the cab he could see that her eyes were very bright. And she’d flushed so guiltily. But Daisy would never have that kind of affair. Would she?
He thought he knew her, yet it occurred to him that he had no idea what she might do if tempted. What exactly did she do in the evenings when the shutters came down at the gallery?
She never talked about herself much. Or was it that he never asked? No, that wasn’t right. He was good at relationships, knew how to talk to women … But he knew Daisy so well. Or thought he did. The girl sitting beside him in the taxi seemed more like a stranger.
He’d always thought of her as Michael’s kid sister, always there. Good natured, fun, a girl who didn’t make a fuss about getting a bit muddy. But tonight her eyes were shining and her cheeks looked a touch hectic. It was a look that he knew and understood. On Daisy, it made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Almost as if he had lifted aside a veil and seen something secret.
She turned and caught him looking at her, and for a moment he had a glimpse of something much deeper. Then she cocked a quirky eyebrow at him and grinned. ‘What’s up, Robert? Still missing the gorgeous Janine?’ she teased.
He relaxed. She hadn’t changed. He was the one who was tense. ‘Hurt pride, nothing worse,’ he admitted.
‘You’re getting slow. If you’re not very careful one of these days you’ll find yourself walking down the aisle and you won’t be the one behind, flirting with the bridesmaid, you’ll be the one in front, with the ring through your nose.’
‘That’s it, kick a man when he’s down.’
‘I’ll give you half an hour before you’re bouncing right back. Tell me, which terribly nice young man are you planning to send me home with tonight?’
‘Who said I was planning to send you home with anyone?’ he demanded.
‘Because you always do. I sometimes think that you must keep a supply of clones handy, to be activated in emergencies.’
‘Emergencies?’
She clutched her hands to her heart. ‘You know … Fabulous redhead … Let’s go on to a club … Duh! What’ll I do with Daisy …?’ She grinned. ‘That kind of emergency.’
‘Oh, cruel! For that, miss, I shall take you home myself and—’
‘And?’
And what? He might have teased her about boyfriends, but as far as he knew she’d never taken things further than goodnight-and-thank-you with any of the guys he’d deputised to take her home, some of whom had begged him for the privilege. Not that he was going to tell her that. She didn’t deserve to be flattered. ‘You won’t get away with a polite handshake and goodnight with me. I’ll expect coffee and a doorstep-sized bacon sandwich for my trouble.’
‘How do you know they just get a polite handshake?’ she asked archly. ‘Do they report back to you?’
‘Of course,’ he lied. He didn’t need to be told, their disappointment was self-evident. ‘I want to know that you arrived home safely.’
She grinned. ‘And it never occurred to you that they might not be telling the truth?’
‘They wouldn’t dare lie.’
‘Is that right?’ She was laughing at him. So that was all right. Wasn’t it? ‘One day, Robert, you’ll come seriously unstuck. But if you can tear yourself away from the first gorgeous redhead who smiles at you, or the first blonde, or brunette, you can have all the coffee and bacon sarnies you can eat. But don’t expect me to be holding my breath.’
‘Actually, I’m saving myself for the lovely bridesmaids,’ he said, mock seriously. ‘You did say they were lovely, didn’t you?’
‘Stunning. I’ll give you a run-down over supper. If you remember.’
‘Cat,’ he murmured, as the taxi slowed. He climbed out first, and by the time he had paid the driver Daisy was inside, the welcoming crowd parting to swallow her up in its warm embrace. She was, he knew, one of those girls everyone was glad to see. He was always glad to see her, too. He didn’t see her often enough.
Someone put a drink in his hand, then he was grabbed by an acquaintance who wanted some free advice about an investment, and he had just been buttonholed by a girl who seemed to know him, but whose name he couldn’t remember, when he saw Daisy chatting to a tall, fair-haired man he didn’t know. A man who was looking at her in a way that suggested he had only one thing on his mind.
It was a look that aroused all kinds of ridiculous protective male urges in him. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured to the blonde, abandoning her and the mental struggle for her name without a second thought.
The man was Australian, lean and suntanned and revoltingly good-looking, and Daisy was laughing at something he’d said. In fact she looked as if she was having a very good time. That irritated him. She was his date. ‘Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?’ he said, slipping his arm about her waist.
‘No, thanks,’ she replied, turning to look at him with some surprise. Justifiable surprise, since he rarely worried about her once they were at a party. After all she knew everyone. Almost everyone. ‘Nick’s looking after me. Have you met?’ she asked. ‘Nick, this is Robert Furneval. Robert, Nick Gregson.’
Robert gave the Australian the kind of look that suggested it was time to find someone else to talk to. For a moment he looked right back, then, getting no encouragement to stay from Daisy, he shrugged and disappeared into the crowd.
‘What’s the matter?’ Daisy asked, turning to him. ‘Didn’t the blonde go for your usual chat-up line?’ She raised her voice as someone turned up the music.
He got the impression Daisy wasn’t very pleased with him. ‘What chat-up line?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve no idea, but you must have one. You can’t possibly think up something new to say to every girl you meet.’
‘You’re very touchy tonight, sweetheart. Is this my payoff for agreeing that you’ll look like a duck at Michael and Ginny’s wedding?’
‘What?’
‘For saying that you’ll look like a duck …’ Unhappily, ‘‘… you’ll look like a duck …’’ coincided with one of those sudden drops in noise level that occasionally happens in a crowded room, and everyone turned to stare.
Daisy flushed. ‘Well, thanks, Robert,’ she said. ‘I really needed that.’ And she placed her glass in his hand and walked away.
Daisy was furious. She couldn’t ever remember being angry with Robert before, and the sensation was rather like taking a deep breath over the bottle of smelling salts that her mother used as a reviver on particularly strenuous jaunts around stately homes. A dizzy blast that was a lot more intoxicating than the wine she had been drinking.
Maybe that was why, when her natural circulation of Monty’s flat brought her back to the Australian with the sun-bed tan, she was rather more encouraging than she might have been. Especially since Robert was glowering at him rather than giving his full attention to a luscious brunette who quite evidently hadn’t learned a thing from her predecessors’ mistakes. But then maybe she didn’t care about commitment. Robert was very good looking.