As Weekends Go (Choc Lit) (26 page)

The orangery put Rebecca in mind of a giant, lemon-scented greenhouse, albeit one with a jazz quintet playing in one corner. Swathes of glass panelling suffused the room with natural light, making it perfect for hosting a champagne reception. Waiters bearing silver platters of yummy looking canapés circled the room, weaving their way through rows of miniature citrus trees, to serve their guests.

Greg plucked two flutes of champagne from the tray of a cheerful waitress and handed one to Rebecca, ushering her forward.

There must have been two hundred people in the room already, yet Rebecca spotted Nina O’Donnell instantly. Old photo or not, the hair hadn’t changed a bit. She looked fabulous, draped in easily the brightest and most dramatic dress on show. Lustrous ruffles of deep pink taffeta gathered at the waist, with a fishtail skirt and bow effect on one shoulder.

She had her head flung back, laughing, one hand clamped over the arm of Greg’s boss, the other grasping the hand of his boss’s wife, Sylvia.

As for whether her bazookas were real or not, Rebecca would need to get a closer look.

Greg had seen Nina, too, judging by the stilted expression on his face.

‘
Rebecca!
’ Sylvia leapt forward, air-kissing Rebecca on both cheeks. ‘Lovely to see you again, dear. Angelic as ever, I see.’

‘Thank you. As are you,’ said Rebecca, casting an equally approving eye over the older woman’s shimmering black gown.

‘Evening, Sylvia.’ Greg planted a kiss on her hand. He then greeted his boss and two couples Rebecca had never seen before, plus one other man. All Torrison connected, she guessed.

‘Ah, Rebecca!’ Greg’s boss gave her a huge smile and a peck on the cheek before introducing her to everyone. She could hear Nina teasing Greg about how handsome he looked in his tux, roping Sylvia in for a second opinion.

And so came the big moment …

‘Re
becca!
’ Nina proffered an impeccably manicured hand and a dazzling row of teeth. ‘At last, we meet.’

‘Hello, Nina.’ Rebecca held her piercing gaze. She might feel like an outcast in her own marriage at present, but no way was she letting Nina’s superwoman aura, flirty chat and three-inch height advantage intimidate her. Not outwardly, anyway.

‘So good of you to help us out with our little quiz. I’d love to stand here and chat to you further, but I can see one of my fundraiser colleagues looks in dire need of guidance,’ said Nina, signalling to the badge-wearing lady on their left that she’d be two minutes.

‘No, problem. I’m sure we’ll talk more later,’ said Rebecca, giving her an overly joyous smile.

What a shame!
Not!

Greg had sidled off with his boss to view the silent auction items available. Some were listed in the orangery, others on display in the foyer between there and the main banqueting suite. A team of auction monitors stood enthusiastically encouraging guests to participate.

‘I fear we may have an intensely determined joint bid on our hands, vis-à-vis this exclusive golf package on offer,’ whispered Sylvia in Rebecca’s ear, casting an indulgent look towards their men. ‘A premeditated male cunning plan, as they say.’

‘You know more than I do, Sylvia.’

‘You mean Greg hasn’t told you about it? Brian’s talked of nothing else all week.’

‘Must have slipped his mind,’ said Rebecca, unsurprised.

‘Speaking of auction bids, some of Torrisons’ clients have donated some marvellous items. The whole event has been very generously sponsored indeed. This alliance could be the best thing that’s ever happened to Rutland Finance, dear. I’m so pleased we both fully comprehend what’s expected of us.’ She patted Rebecca’s hand. ‘From what Brian’s told me, Nina O’Donnell and her team have no end of contacts.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Rebecca, glancing across at Greg’s back. She wondered how much of his past Sylvia knew about, deciding that it probably wouldn’t make much difference. It was all about Rutland’s new image, to which Sylvia had wholly subscribed. She’d also, Rebecca assumed, fully forgiven her for coleslaw’ing her silk trousers at the barbecue.

‘Crab tartlet, ladies?’

‘Ooh, yes, please,’ trilled both women, taking advantage of the hovering waiter’s tempting offer. Rebecca hadn’t eaten since midday; a small croissant she’d quickly chewed during a brief pit stop at Warwick Services on the way north. She’d already dropped a dress size since York. This halter-neck would be falling off her before long if she didn’t start eating properly again.

She smiled at the waiter, also succumbing to a salmon and crème fraiche blini, a couple of sweet chilli tiger prawns and an exchange of empty champagne flute for a full one. She’d have to pace herself. One of Nina’s pals was already giving her the once-over.

Greg made his way back over to her as a dinner gong banged.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please proceed to the Roundhay suite for dinner. May we also remind you that silent auction bidding will remain open until 9:30 p.m.’

Rebecca linked arms with Greg and followed Nina and the rest of them into the vast dining room.

Wow!

A shrine to purple.

Purple ceiling drapes, purple and gold upholstered chairs, mauve pillar candles and orchids of pink and lavender in long-stemmed crystal vases adorned with gold ribbons gracing the centre of each table. Even the linen had a mauve hue to it. Posh-wedding-reception-like.

Rebecca watched people slowly file past the dance floor and fan out to find their seats, at easily the swankiest do of Greg’s she’d attended.

Their table, two rows back – suitably prominent – going by Nina’s yelp of delight, had been set for ten, with Rebecca seated between Greg and his boss and, Nina, shock horror, to Greg’s right.

Rebecca placed her wrap around the back of her chair and her bag by her feet as she sat down. A piano, scarcely audible above all the chatter and laughter, tinkled away in the background, as all around her guests greeted one another with a kiss or a handshake.

Nina, it seemed, knew everyone. A tap on her shoulder here, squeeze of her arm there, and made sure she introduced Greg to each person, deeming it unnecessary to include Rebecca.

A rebuff of epic proportions, as Abi would describe it.

Why couldn’t Greg introduce her himself? All he had to do was turn around and say: ‘And this is my wife, Rebecca.’ How could she be in such a crowded room, yet feel so isolated?

One of the Torrison crew started ribbing Greg’s boss about him being outbid on the golf package.

‘Don’t listen to him, Brian,’ shouted Greg across Rebecca, zoning back in. ‘That item has our names written all over it.’

‘That’s my boy!’ Brian tipped Rebecca an exaggerated wink. ‘Hope you’ve given him licence to spend big tonight, my dear.’

Before Rebecca could answer, the compere addressed the audience, running through the evening’s events, lapping up the wild applause.

Greg grinned at her as the quiz was mentioned. A bit of fun, the compere said, courtesy of Table eleven, Torrison Products & Solutions who, together with Rutland Finance had kindly compiled it for them. A hundred pounds per table entry fee. Case of Bollinger to the winning team, also donated by Table eleven.

Propped against each crystal vase was a gold envelope containing the question and answer sheets which were to be handed in after dinner. All proceeds would be going to tonight’s sponsored charities.

The compere listed each one, mainly local schools and hospitals, to more applause and whistles of appreciation. Rebecca held her breath as Greg’s boss and Sylvia clapped specifically in her direction.

Please don’t let them single me out.

She needn’t have worried. Nina was already on her feet, soaking up the credit.

Greg turned to Rebecca as the wine waiter descended upon them. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Well, I was a bit apprehensive,’ she admitted, touching his arm. ‘You know, about meeting Nina and—’

Greg spun round as Nina tugged his other sleeve, leaving Rebecca staring at the back of his head, not so much as an ‘Excuse me!’ or ‘I beg your pardon’ from either of them.

He swivelled back round a minute later as though nothing had happened and started pointing out some big-shot chief executive to her, lauding the man’s achievements, reeling off statistics to her, saying what a great role model he was, whilst Nina sat nodding in agreement beside him.

Rebecca wanted to punch his arm and holler, ‘Hey, Mr leave-me-hanging-in-the air-mid-sentence Stafford, I was flippin’ well talking to you.’

How bloody bad-mannered!

The noise level in the room intensified; the clatter of cutlery and crockery indicating that dinner was imminent.

Greg was talking across her again, discussing silent auction bids and strategies with his boss and Sylvia whilst Nina laughed riotously with a couple on the next table. Rebecca jumped as a waiter stationed behind her bellowed instructions above the racket to another waiter three rows back; a din so cacophonous, she could hardly hear what the compere was now saying. It was only the tumultuous round of applause erupting that shut them all up.

‘Guests of honour,’ Greg informed her, craning his neck towards the front tables.

He stood up, as did Nina and several others.

Rebecca could see sod-all.

She pushed back her chair and was halfway to peering over Greg’s right shoulder when she heard the words: ‘
And last, but by no means least, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Statton Rangers captain and England International, Alex Heath.
’

Applause thundered around the room.

Rebecca reeled back as the shock hit her, blindly groping for her chair, treading on Greg’s boss’s toe in her haste to sit back down before she fell down.

‘Whoah! Lose your footing, did you?’ he said, reaching out to help her.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ asked Sylvia, agog with concern.

‘What is it?’ Greg hissed, flashing an apologetic look round the table as he sat back down.

‘Nothing! I stumbled,’ said Rebecca, desperate to deflect attention.

‘Stop embarrassing the poor girl,’ said Nina as the starters were placed in front of them. ‘Alex Heath making an entrance is enough to put any woman off her stride. Isn’t that right, Rebecca?’ She pouted at Greg, all-girls-together style, giving Rebecca a conspiratorial wink. ‘I think he may be giving a small after-dinner speech. He and his club do so much for their local community.’

Rebecca knew this. She remembered Kenny Mills reminding Alex of it in the bar at Hawksley Manor only a month before.

‘He’s pretty special with a football too,’ Greg added, his love of the game overriding any umbrage he may have taken at such effusive praise for the man.

Alex had been seated at one of the larger tables at the front. Confident that she could keep out of his eyeline if Greg stayed where he was, Rebecca rounded her shoulders and flopped her hair forward, thankful she’d worn it down.

‘Tuck in!’ Greg’s boss ordered, watching her push her salmon ravioli round her plate.

Rebecca struggled to eat, fearing she’d bring it straight up again, her stomach tensing with every mouthful.

Greg had already devoured his. He leaned back, giving Rebecca a clear view of Alex who was chatting to an older lady on his left who looked beguiled.

The main course may as well have been cardboard. Rebecca had no hope of tasting her braised lamb. All she could concentrate on was a temporary escape route to the Ladies’ toilets to compose herself.

‘Quiz is going down well, Rebecca,’ said Greg’s boss, topping up her wine glass.

‘Yes, it’s causing quite some debate on the table behind me,’ Sylvia added.

‘
Really?
’
Rebecca didn’t dare elaborate in case they outed her.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Greg snapped, staring down at her stack of uneaten veg.

‘Must have been all those canapés I forced you to eat, dear,’ said Sylvia, racing to her rescue.

Greg had no choice but to smile sweetly.

‘I expect she feels a bit overwhelmed,’ Rebecca heard Nina mutter to him under her breath. ‘I thought she looked nervous in the orangery, poor kitten.’

Patronising cow!

The effort of not peeping at Alex again proved impossible. He looked immaculate. Clean-shaven, black tux, bow tie. Rebecca’s eyes welled up, thinking about how she’d left him sitting on Kenny’s balcony in Battersea. It tortured her not being able to go over and see him.

‘Dessert looks scrumptious,’ Greg’s boss bellowed in her ear. Rebecca hadn’t even noticed it go down in front of her.

She hastily picked up her spoon, aware of Greg’s rising irritation.

‘What
is
wrong with you?’ he hissed at her. ‘Stop staring into the middle distance.’

‘Good news, Gregory,’ his boss shouted, sparing Rebecca further humiliation. ‘We’ve secured the golf package.’

Greg’s demeanour changed completely.

It was like sitting between two male cheerleaders.

Coffee and mints were served. Nina’s fundraiser buddies moved between the tables, collecting quiz sheets and selling raffle tickets, capturing everyone’s attention, gifting Rebecca the perfect chance to make a dash for it.

How best to get out without walking past Alex’s table?

She’d wait until both Nina and Sylvia were deep in conversation to avoid being chaperoned, then leg it.

Bingo!

She saw off her coffee in two mouthfuls and turned to Greg. ‘Just going to powder my nose, as Mum says. Won’t be long.’

‘Well, don’t be. People will start asking questions, otherwise.’

She eased back her chair, grabbed her wrap and handbag and didn’t break stride until she reached the foyer.

Head bowed, she headed for the Ladies’ toilets farthest away from the dining room. Only four women in there. None of whom she recognised.

She whizzed into one of the cubicles and fished out her phone. It took her nearly five minutes to summarise events to Abi.

No response after ten minutes.
Shit!
She couldn’t loiter for much longer.

She unlocked the door and washed her hands, holding a damp paper towel to her face to cool her cheeks, before touching up her make-up.