The Best Man And The Bridesmaid. Liz Fielding

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ