The Runaway Bridesmaid. Daisy James

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      As they entered Bernice’s home village of Brampton, a flash of familiarity hit Rosie. She couldn’t prevent a curl appearing at the corners of her lips when she noticed the proclamation above the Brampton village road sign proudly announcing ‘Winner of Britain in Bloom Contest’. She experienced that illusive feeling of coming home, which she never experienced when she returned to the neighbourhood of her apartment in Manhattan.

      The taxi followed the road, running like a ribbon through the pretty English village, past the shop and adjacent tearooms – opened early that morning for the residents to collect their daily news. As Thornleigh Lodge came into view, Rosie’s smile of anticipation drained from her lips.

      She had expected to see the neat chocolate-box cottage crowned with a thatched roof, white, sweet-smelling roses arched like a moustache over its front porch, and with neatly manicured front lawns divided by a pressed-shingle footpath, its nets floating at the windows. But instead the lodge bore a careworn mantle of neglect and melancholy.

      She paid the silent taxi driver an exorbitant amount of money and dragged her wheelie suitcase to the picket gate, where she paused. Under the glow of the now-risen sun, the front garden was a riot of vivid colours and tangled grasses. The gravel path leading to the front door sprouted weeds like nasal hair and overgrown ferns fanned their frothy fingers across the sash windows.

      Rosie forced the reluctant wheels to the formerly scarlet door, its smooth paintwork now blistered like sunburnt skin. Overgrown, dew-soaked carnations slashed at her naked shins, and the heels of her stilettos sunk deep into the path’s tiny pebbles. She scrabbled around under the geranium-filled terracotta pots where she knew she would find Bernice’s front door key. Did her aunt really think an intruder wouldn’t possess the brains to look there?

      She smiled at the stark contrast between this pretty, albeit dilapidated cottage and the inhabitants of the rural Devonshire village, with her own tiny Manhattan apartment and her community neighbours. Every person living in Brampton had a working knowledge of their neighbour’s recent history and current daily life, thus imbuing the resident with a feeling of belonging, rather than the lack of privacy such intrusions would be labelled in her apartment block where she had met only one of her eight fellow tenants.

      Yet, despite this communal kinship, Rosie had been relieved to return to the high octane, disinterested environment of New York after a month’s immersion in all things rural, and she would be repeating the escape this time as soon as formalities allowed.

      It was Monday morning. The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday and her appointment at Richmond Morton Solicitors was on Thursday for the reading of her aunt’s will and the signing of the paperwork, after which she intended to scoot straight back to Heathrow for her Friday morning flight.

      As she inserted the ancient Yale key into the lock, she felt the slithers of regret worming their way into her conscience. Just because Giles had cheated on her in the worst way possible, did that mean she should consider resigning? Why should she suffer for his despicable actions? Maybe she was being too hasty in her reactions to his treachery.

      Rosie shouldered the reticent front door, a mound of mail slowing her entry. The cottage smelled of lingering dust and sadness but held a top note of dried lavender, a favourite of Bernice’s – almost her signature scent. The reminder brought tears to Rosie’s eyes.

      On her last visit, the lodge had throbbed with a vibrant welcome, the warmth from the stove enveloping her grief at the loss of Carlos and squeezing it from her soul, replacing the pain with acceptance, and then peace. Today, its inherent life had drained away. A gloomy hallway led to a dank kitchen, draping Rosie with a shroud of loneliness and reproach. The cream Aga stood silent and stern. She shivered, goose-bumps prickling her body.

      She dumped her Gucci duffle bag on the scarred pine table – the designer bag such an incongruous accessory in Bernice’s farmhouse-style kitchen. Her cell phone tumbled from the bag onto the floor and as she bent to retrieve it, it burst into song.

      She checked the caller ID and a bolt of pain so strong it whipped her breath away shot from her heart down to her fingertips.

      It was Giles.

      She checked her silver watch. New York was five hours behind Devon so that would make it just after seven a.m. He would be at Harlow Fenton, lounging behind his desk in his favourite Armani suit artfully cast open to reveal a tantalising glimpse of purple silk lining, his shirt cuffs turned back to display a pair of his many quirky cufflinks. She could almost sense the smirk on his face as he waited for her to answer his command to speak to him.

      That’s it! Never again did she intend to endure his casual, back-handed criticism of her abilities. She gritted her teeth, took a deep breath and swiped the answer button.

      ‘Giles, what a pleasant surprise.’ Even the most rhinoceros-skinned person couldn’t fail to recognise the heavy sarcasm that laced Rosie’s greeting.

      An uneasy laugh spluttered down the phone line.

      ‘Hello, Rosie. We were just wanting to confirm that you are over in the UK to attend your aunt’s funeral and checking on your return date. Let me just say that I’m in the boardroom on speaker phone. I have CEO George Harlow with me, as well as Lauren, Toby and Brad Carlington.’

      ‘Perfect!’ Clearly Giles had gathered a group of colleagues around him, believing that she would never take him to task for his abhorrent behaviour in front of them. He was right, of course. But that was before he’d cheated on her with her sister. In fact, she felt even more inclined to speak her mind in front of an audience to ensure she did not retract what she was about to do. Lauren already knew what he had done of course, but only via a text, she didn’t have the details.

      ‘Rosie, I know how you must be feeling, how close you were to your aunt…’

      ‘Giles, I resign.’ Wow, how liberating it was to say those words. The concrete block that had taken up residence in her chest since the afternoon of the wedding shifted a little. ‘Yes, I resign.’

      ‘Ah, come on, Rosie. I know you may be a little put out about the… well, the situation we find ourselves in, but you don’t have to resign ! We value your involvement at Harlow Fenton…’

      ‘Actually, I do. I do have to resign. With immediate effect.’

      ‘Well, I’ll need to check your contractual obligations with HR. I may be wrong, but I believe you are required to give the firm six months’ notice of your wish to terminate your employment.’ Rosie could hear the officious tone that had crept into his voice. Why hadn’t she noticed his tendency to petulance before?

      ‘Really, Giles? Is that so? I have a contractual obligation? Is that the same as an obligation owed by a boyfriend to his girlfriend not to cheat on her with her sister ?’ She realised too late that instead of taking the moral high ground as she had intended, her voice had escalated an octave to shriek mode in place of the dulcet, sarcastic tone she was aiming for.

      ‘Ha, ha, Rosie. I do love your sense of humour. Maybe what we have here is a case of mistaken identity…’ She could almost hear the beads of perspiration bulge from his salon-steamed pores.

      ‘No, Giles. I’d recognised those pallid buttocks anywhere, even when they are concealed in the linen closet of the most expensive hotel Stonington Beach has to offer its residents. I’m resigning so that I don’t have to set eyes on your bouffant, lacquered locks, your plucked and tinted eyebrows and chemically enhanced lips ever again.’

      ‘Come СКАЧАТЬ