The Runaway Bridesmaid. Daisy James

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СКАЧАТЬ yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos. But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.

      As she searched for the illusive Manhattan parking slot, a coil of remorse spread its tentacles through her anguish when she recalled the breach of her promise to pay her aunt a return visit. She had been unable to take time off from her punishing work schedule at Christmas and then she’d had the wedding of the century to arrange. Now she would never see her aunt’s kindly face, so reminiscent of her beloved mother’s, again.

      But she could have the next best thing. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective. However, the opportunity was so tinged with sadness that she knew it could never be a repeat of her previous, soul-enhancing visit to her Aunt Bernice’s attractive cottage in Devon. Nor would the visit be coupled with her aunt’s astute observations on the machinations of the human psyche and the comfort of the role reversal, absolving Rosie from her caring obsession as substitute parent to Freya. Their mother’s absence had been felt most keenly today as the first of her daughters took their walk down the aisle.

      She had always seen her aunt’s home, Thornleigh Lodge, as a refuge, a place she could run to whenever times were tough and threatened to strangle the life out of her. It was somewhere she could go to hide, to lick her wounds, to be loved in her own right with no strings attached. In a way, her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite.

      Yes, it was exactly what she needed. But more than that, it was her responsibility to ensure that a member of the family attended the ceremony of thanksgiving and celebration of Bernice’s life. How could she have contemplated not going? What had her life become if she could not spare the time to fly to the UK and be at her funeral? And anyway, she really needed to get out of the country. To escape the inevitable tantrums (Freya’s), questions, (Lauren’s) and disbelief (her father’s). Giles no longer deserved her consideration.

      This was her real life Bridget Jones moment and she intended to grab it!

      In the first bit of luck that day – maybe even that year – she spotted a yellow BMW coupé pull away from the kerb only twenty yards from her apartment and she managed to wedge her car into it. Parallel parking had never been her forte. She traipsed back down the tree-lined street to her home’s familiar limestone and red-brick façade, blistered in places by the harsh breath of the Manhattan winters – yet, in Rosie’s opinion, the scarring only added to its beauty. Bruised clouds marched across the sky, tinted with the crimson and violet halo of dusk, bathing the rich amber brickwork in a kaleidoscope of colours. Rosie adored the unique character of their neighbourhood: the green splodges of the community gardens and roof terraces, the local, multi-cultural coffee shops and delis, and its proximity to Riverside Park and Central Park.

      Feeling as though she had sustained a blow to her head, she trudged up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy oak entrance door leading into the foyer. As she clacked her way to the staircase up to her fourth floor apartment, she realised how much she loved the sound of her stilettos on the black-and-white tiled floor. The added height also gave her confidence a welcome boost; the vertiginous heels ensured she held her head high, shoulders erect and her back ram-rod straight – a stance with which she could usually face the world. It hadn’t worked its particular brand of magic that day though.

      As she stabbed her key into the door, she paused to run her eyes over her ridiculous outfit. A sudden wave of anger grabbed her and her face flooded with heat. It was time for Rosie Hamilton to stand on her own two feet and take responsibility for fulfilling her destiny, whatever the director of fates had in store for her.

      She dumped her Burberry bag on the counter in the galley kitchen and removed her prized Louboutins, massaging her ankle where the leather had dug into the skin. She extracted their dust-bag from the drawer in her sideboard and carefully slotted them into their protective cover like precious cargo. She wished she owned a cosy blanket in which she could seek protection from the scuffs and scrapes of the outside world.

      There was just enough time to sling some essential items into her Gucci duffle bag, grab a few hours of sleep and drive out to JFK to catch the transatlantic flight over to London. She’d have to max out her credit card, but what the hell. She would take the train down to Devon, attend the funeral, make the meeting with her aunt’s solicitor for the reading of the will and once she’d sorted out Bernice’s affairs she would come home with a plan of her own. She had no idea what that would be. Could she continue to work at Harlow Fenton with Giles in her face every day, even with Lauren to protect her from his barbed comments? The agony columns were right – nothing good came of a dalliance with the boss.

      The sooner she made a decision about her future, the less risk there was of her succumbing to her ostrich tendencies. Or of beginning her search for a reason that it was in fact her fault, that she was partly, if not fully, to blame for Giles’ indiscretion with her sister.

      She ripped off her bridesmaid dress and crammed it unceremoniously into her hall closet with the other six. But the door wouldn’t shut and the gowns bulged out like stuffing from a rag doll. Rosie made a promise to herself that she would never, ever accept another request, or demand, to be a bridesmaid. For one thing, she just did not have the wardrobe space.

      She scrabbled in her purse for her little white square of connectivity and depressed the ‘on’ button. The wedding ceremony would be over by now and she had to let her father, and Lauren, know she was okay – that she hadn’t dematerialised in a puff of smoke or been abducted by aliens. She glanced at the screen. Thirteen missed calls; three from Lauren, but the rest were from Freya. She sent a brief text informing Lauren and her father that she was on her way to England to attend Bernice’s funeral and would let them know when she had landed safely. Then she gulped in a steadying breath and dialled Freya’s number.

      ‘Hello, Freya.’

      ‘Why was your phone switched off? I’ve been trying to ring you for an explanation of your ridiculous vanishing act. Couldn’t you have waited until after the ceremony to fly off to England?’

      ‘So Dad has told you the sad news? I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?’ Rosie was astute enough to realise that her father would have put her shock disappearance and weird behaviour down to her grief over her aunt’s death and had shared the news with Freya to somehow explain her absence.

      ‘Very funny, Rosie. I need to talk to you about earlier.’

      ‘Yes, Freya, it was a huge shock. After all, she was only seventy-two. Relatively young really, nowadays.’

      ‘What are you talking about? I’m talking about you blundering in on me and Giles!’

      ‘Oh, yes, that.’ Rosie collapsed down onto her white leather sofa, the air suddenly whipped from her lungs. She shuddered in a breath and waited, fiddling distractedly with the earring in her left ear. She had no intention of making this easy for Freya.

      ‘Look, I know Giles was your date for the wedding, Rosie. But, well, it wasn’t serious between the two of you, was it? With him being your boss and all that? And he’s so handsome and charismatic, all that power at his fingertips. It was one last fling before the door’s slammed shut. You won’t tell Jacob, will you?’

      This last plea was clearly the only concern on Freya’s mind – to save her own skin, blast the effect her actions might have on other people’s lives. Even the death of her aunt hadn’t registered on her sister’s emotional Richter scale.

      Rosie СКАЧАТЬ