The Runaway Bridesmaid (18 page)

‘I don’t know.’ Charlie stared unseeingly through the kitchen window into the garden before muttering, more to himself than Rosie, ‘Maybe it was my money and status she was really interested in, not me.’

Rosie pulled a face at his attempt at a joke. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

‘Don’t be sorry Rosie, be wonderful. You don’t need a marriage for happiness – you need a soul mate. Stop apologising all the time. Stop being a bloody doormat!’

‘I’m not!’

‘I bet you even apologised to your sister for blundering in on her sojourn with your boyfriend.’

‘I did not!’ A burning anger clawed at her chest. ‘You were in the same quandary. So, what did you do?’ she challenged, her eyes blazing. This man could send her emotions see-sawing in the space of five seconds.

‘I punched Rupert’s lights out! What did you do?’

She waited. ‘I ran away.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘You don’t know me or anyone involved.’ Her usually dormant temper had been ignited, her face flushed with ire. ‘I think it’s time you left, please!’

Charlie pushed his chair back on the slate-tiled floor, raising his palms to her face in surrender. ‘Okay, I’m going. You know, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry.’

She flung a tea towel at his retreating back as he exited the front door. But her anger wasn’t directed at Charlie, it was directed at herself. Charlie was right; she had been guilty of perpetual doormat behaviour as far as Freya was concerned. She couldn’t deny it, and hearing the truth from him had struck a nerve.

Rosie mounted the creaky stairs, exhausted both physically and emotionally. She was homesick and, despite the pain waiting for her back home, she knew she should be brave and face it. Her future did not lie in the UK, but in the US, and the sooner she gathered the courage to chase her demons, the sooner she would be able to move forward and leave them in her wake. She decided she would ring Austin on Monday morning and instruct him to go ahead with the sale of the lodge to Brian Dixon. She would consign Charlie’s views to the recesses of her cluttered mind where they could gather the dust and decrepitude they deserved.

Her internal dialogue argued that she had honoured her aunt’s memory, at least in part, by tidying up the garden. The front door gleamed a cheery scarlet welcome and the privet hedge boundaries delineated the size of the plot.

She curled up in the narrow bed, her aunt’s diary on her knees, parting the pages with the silk bookmark at March 2012. Tears flowed as she meandered through the catacombs of her aunt’s life story. Rosie was convinced that the diary, and the
Bake Yourself Better
manuscript, had been retained specifically by her aunt in that pock-marked trunk for her to discover one day, as it catalogued events from the past as well as from the present in her aunt’s daily résumé.

The personal tome recorded that Bernice had enjoyed a carefree life as she grew up with her sister, Rose, Rosie’s mother. On turning eighteen, her childhood sweetheart had proposed marriage but she’d turned him down believing herself to be too young for the responsibility of marriage. By the time Bernice had sent Rose and Jack down the aisle, Gordon had become involved in another passionate relationship, one with which Bernice could not hope to compete. A career in the cloisters of the local parish church had beckoned.

Over the years they had maintained a solid friendship, but they had never taken it further. Bernice had devoted her life and her heart to a man she loved, but Rosie didn’t know if those feelings had been reciprocated.

Rosie thought back to Bernice’s posthumous letter urging her to date, to find happiness with a man and to have a family of her own; a life like her mother’s, not like Bernice’s. As she laid the diary on the bedside table and switched off the lamp, she thought of her discussion with Charlie that afternoon and acknowledged he had been right. She
had
been hung up on her need to care for her sister and she should start to concentrate on her own happiness. She needed a soul mate. She thought of the sacrifices Bernice had made for her enduring love of Gordon. Their regular meetings her aunt had recorded with such love and joy, until he had left the area two years ago and she hadn’t set eyes on him again in this lifetime.

Chapter Twenty-One

The last day of August arrived – the day Lauren and Brett were due to find out the results of their second round of IVF. She glanced at her watch and cursed the time difference between the two countries. Lauren’s appointment at the clinic was not until three p.m. EDT which meant she would have to endure an interminable wait until eight p.m., BST. How on earth would she get through the day? She needed something to occupy her whirring mind.

Decision made, she hauled out her aunt’s precious
Bake Yourself Better
journal and flicked through the pages for the most complex recipe she could find. She settled on one that was accompanied by a beautiful pencil drawing of a sprig of oregano. She read her aunt’s words of wisdom then ran her eyes down the ingredients and instructions.

Focaccia and Olive Oil to Help Ease the Turmoil

Oregano means ‘mountain joy’. How lovely! The herb is also said to contain a rich source of iron and fibre and vitamin K. But, Rosie my darling, for this recipe to be successful you need to knead! Concentrating on the rhythmic, repetitive massage of the dough redirects the thought processes and takes your mind off the turmoil.

Her aunt was right, the strenuous kneading required to develop the gluten strands in the dough did relieve some of the gathering helix of tension. It really was time to go home and she needed to bite the bullet and make the arrangements. For one thing, she had run out of savings.

Her elbows began to ache, and she could wait no longer to speak to Lauren. She scrabbled for her iPhone and selected her number, dousing her hair with a generous sprinkling of flour as she held her cell phone up to her ear.

‘I just wanted to wish you and Brett luck today, Lauren. I know you would both make amazing parents.’

‘Thanks, Rosie. I’m so nervous I feel nauseous and I know that’s not good for pregnant women. Anyway, I’m pleased you called, and I don’t want to add to your woes, but I’ve heard rumours about Freya.’

‘Oh, God, what now?’ Rosie rolled her eyes.

‘Just that she was seen over at Hoochies Bar in Brooklyn with a guy who definitely wasn’t Jacob. Maybe you could have a sisterly word with our flighty friend?’

‘Lauren, what can I do? She’s a married woman, and anyway, when has she ever taken any notice of what I say? It’s her life. She has to be left to fight her own battles and face the consequences of her actions, good or bad. Perhaps if I’d left her to do just that in the past she would have been more responsible now.’

‘Rosie! You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that. At last you’ve severed the apron strings. I’m so proud of you. Now, you just need to get yourself home, sort out your career issues and, maybe, just maybe, buy that “Best Godmother in the World” badge to wear with pride! Oh, and don’t forget the treasure trove of vintage garments you promised me. It’ll be like an early Thanksgiving!’

‘Thanks, Lauren. I miss you.’

‘Not for long, darling. And at least in the UK you’re busy, you have friends, and can gather some perspective. What’s the position with the cottage?’

‘I’ve signed the contracts. They’re not exchanged yet as I’ve been prevaricating, but I really just want to tie things up in my aunt’s estate and come home. That’s was my plan, anyway.’

‘I wish I could come over to the UK to be with you, Rosie. I’m desperate for a break myself. Brett is livid at the excessive hours I’m putting in at work. He blamed me for the failure of the last round of IVF, I’m terrified of his reaction if this one has failed too. He’s now quite understandably demanding I make a choice, my career or a family. Not an unreasonable proposition to make, if I’m honest.’

‘Oh, Lauren, I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there to support you.’

‘I’ll be fine, Rosie. I have Brett. I have my sister and two sister-in-laws. Even my neighbour, Martha, will be cheering from the side-lines. Attendance levels are so high I’m thinking of selling tickets. It’s time you thought about yourself now. Brett and I were actually discussing taking a trip over to the UK at the end of October. We thought we might stay at that old English country manor you told me about. It would be a dream to stay in five star luxury, but its website says it closes at the end of September for the season. What sort of establishment shuts its doors to the paying public for six months of the year?’

‘Brampton Manor is a family home. The Campbell-Wrights have lived there for more than five generations, I think. They only open in the summer to make ends meet. It’s prohibitive, the cost of running these old mansions. Lots of families have had to sell their ancestral homes. I’ve met one of the guys who’s working there over the summer season. His job finishes at the end of the month and he’ll be going back up to London.’

‘Life’s tough, Rosie, isn’t it? Tough to start, tough in the middle and tough at the end. But it’s sure better than the alternative!’

For a reason she couldn’t explain, after her conversation with Lauren Rosie succumbed to a bout of tears. She thought she had mastered her tendency to burst into hot tears whenever anyone uttered a kind word or asked about her plans for the future. But she missed her best friend immensely and so wanted her to hear good news that afternoon at the clinic. Lauren deserved it, she would make a loving parent, Rosie knew it.

Rosie had never partied like the other girls at college, so she hadn’t bonded with anyone in particular. She could count her true friends on the fingers of one hand. Those women she had stepped into Jimmy Choo bridesmaid shoes for probably couldn’t even remember her now as she had never had the time to coo over their wedding photos on Prosecco-fuelled nights dissecting every detail of the reception and the honeymoon. They were probably now drinking Perrier on spa weekends, desperately trying to remember her name – Was it Ruthie or Ruby? – as they rubbed their baby bumps and reminisced about the best day of their lives.

A sharp rap on the door broke into Rosie’s reverie. She prayed it wasn’t Charlie as she couldn’t cope with a dose of his brand of chirpy banter. She wanted time to wallow in self-pity for a little while longer and he’d encountered her puffy, red-rimmed eyes too often already.

‘Hi. How’re things in the Hamilton household?’ Emily’s shrewd chestnut eyes took in Rosie’s demeanour and she clearly concluded they weren’t good. ‘Come on, I’ll make tea. Camomile? And is that bread I smell burning? I thought you’d tamed the beast?’

Over china cups, Rosie confided in her friend her anxiety that all her US friends had married, settled down and were nurturing their expanding broods. For her, even finding her soul mate was proving a challenge too far.

‘So, extend your stay, Rosie,’ Emily coaxed. ‘But this time, follow your heart, not your head for once. Date sharp-suited Austin. Or scorchingly-sexy Charlie? Let Charlie show your aunt’s recipe journal to his publisher friend, find out if he’s still interested. Maybe get the book published! What a fitting epitaph that would be for Aunt Bernice. Her recipe journal is something different – very commercial, I’d say, what with ‘baking mania’ sweeping the nation – and it’s something
you
can become involved in. What’s this Charlie like, anyway? When do I get to meet him?’

Emily flicked her mahogany bob behind her ears and watched with delight as Rosie’s cheeks flushed to her roots. ‘Oooooh, what are you not sharing with Auntie Emily? Come on, Rosie, spill. Why don’t you give Charlie a chance, just relax and see how things go?’

‘I don’t know, Emily. Sure, he’s good-looking in a sultry, Mediterranean sort of way. And yes, I can see you, like Lauren, would find him attractive. But he’s definitely
not
my type, too rough around the edges, too goddamn chirpy. We had a slight disagreement the last time we met anyway, so I’m sure he’s not thought any further about his offer to pitch my aunt’s journal to his publisher friend.’

‘What did you argue about?’ Emily set down the huge brown teapot, the perpetual deliverer of calm and balm, on the kitchen table and drew up a chair, placing her elbows on the table, her chin in her palm, staring Rosie down with her big brown eyes.

‘He called me a doormat!’ Rosie exclaimed. Sipping her camomile tea, which left the familiar residue akin to cat’s pee in her mouth, she noticed there was no immediate denial, or expression of sympathy, for that label from Emily. So she continued with her indignation against the accusations levied by Charlie, on the basis that attack was the best form of defence.

‘Well, he’s got room to talk. His life hasn’t been perfect, either. Did you know his wife of three months ditched him for his college roommate and she’s having his baby at Christmas? And what’s
he
done with his life so far, anyway? Part-time chef at Brampton Manor, then he slinks up to Pimlico for the winter. He leaves at the end of the month, by the way.’

‘Mm, methinks the woman doth protest too much.’ Emily smirked. ‘You know, Pimlico is a very wealthy part of London. If he shares an apartment with friends there he must be making decent money at whatever he does in London.’‘I doubt it. He’s upset to be losing his job at the Manor.’

‘That could be because he’s leaving the rural idyll that is Devon for the smoke-filled air and litter-strewn streets of the capital. Like you, maybe Brampton is where Charlie has found his little haven of tranquillity away from the bright, harsh lights of London.

‘I can see why the Campbell-Wrights can’t wait to close their gorgeous home to the paying public, though,’ continued Emily. ‘I know they hold the occasional wedding or conference over the winter months, but always in a gargantuan marquee tucked away at the bottom of the garden next to the croquet lawn. It must be heart-breaking to look down on the hordes of braying tourists trampling all over your flowerbeds and having to endure their sticky fingers handling your ancestral heirlooms. But still, what a fabulous place to call home. Charlie’s fortunate to work amongst all that majesty, even if he is a lowly kitchen hand. Anyway, madam, since when did you get so snobbish and patronising? He’s probably working his way up from the bottom and there’s no shame in that, Miss Hamilton! Did he, by any chance, say where he worked when he was up in London? Did you even ask?’