His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan Stephens

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      Yet here she was, she thought wretchedly. Trapped and, for the foreseeable future anyway, helpless.

      If it had been the same for him she could perhaps have steeled herself to bear it. Learned to move about in their shared space as if she was tiptoeing on eggshells. Taught herself to edge round him—live on some perimeter of this joint existence.

      But the fact was that he didn’t care. Because she didn’t matter enough to make him do so. She’d once been a burden, now she was no more than a nuisance—a vague irritant in the smooth running of his life. Nothing more.

      All the pain, the tears, the stumbling days and sleepless nights, and the yawning desolation of loneliness had been hers alone.

      And just the knowledge of that was the kind of anguish she’d prayed she would never feel again.

      An anguish she could never let him see in the weeks that stretched ahead. Because she wasn’t sure which would be worse to endure—his indifference or his pity.

      She swallowed thickly, pushing her plate away, and slid off the stool. Don’t think, she told herself. Keep busy.

      She worked like a robot, stacking the dishwasher and selecting a programme, then placing the extra chicken with its thick, aromatic sauce in a covered dish in the fridge, to provide her with her next evening meal, before tidying the kitchen and restoring the stove and surfaces to their earlier pristine gleam.

      Making certain she’d leave no trace of her presence for him to complain about there either, she told herself with cold resolve.

      It was a long evening. Laine tried watching television, but she soon realised she’d grown completely out of touch with current programming, and found herself flicking restlessly from channel to channel, searching for something that might grip her interest.

      In the end she gave up in exasperation, and decided to read instead. There were some books on the alcove shelves that were new to her—most of them thrillers that she guessed had been acquired by Jamie, and each of them triumphantly claiming to be ‘the new number-one bestseller’.

      They can’t all be that, surely? she thought, pulling a face as she picked the least overtly lurid. But the story failed to engage her particularly, and the identity of the villain seemed all too obvious even by chapter three, so, sighing, she abandoned that as well.

      One of the things she’d managed to rescue from the boat was her address book, and she sat slowly turning over the pages, trying to summon up the courage to ring someone—anyone. Fiona from the gallery, perhaps? Or Celia Welton, her best friend from school, who’d been her bridesmaid at that ill-fated wedding.

      At the same time she knew full well that she wouldn’t be doing so—or not yet, anyway. Because she wasn’t ready to face the inevitable questions—especially when it emerged that she and Daniel were back sharing a roof.

      She’d been let off the hook when their marriage had ended with such startling suddenness, because people had recognised that she was in desperate pain, and suppressed their natural curiosity and concern, standing back to allow her to recover. Celia, in particular, bewildered but loyal and kind, had helped picked up the pieces.

      But this new development would require answers that simply weren’t possible immediately.

      Because she was still in shock. She needed time to think things through. To come up with some feasible explanation for everything that had happened to her. And make it clear that sharing a flat with Daniel was not the basis for some kind of reconciliation—and never would be.

      She swallowed. Which meant, in turn, that at some point she might be asked about what had happened two years earlier. Why her marriage hadn’t survived the honeymoon, or even the wedding night, given the bleak significance of that swift annulment. Because after this length of time, tact would not be a primary consideration any longer.

      And if they did ask, what the hell could she say? she wondered wearily. Certainly not the truth.

      And if she tried saying that she’d realised she didn’t love him no one would believe her for a moment. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve too openly and for too long for that.

      She didn’t even know when it had begun. When Daniel had stopped being just Simon’s friend, and the surrogate brother he’d alluded to so acidly, and occupied a very different role in her hopes and dreams.

      But she could remember very clearly her first half-term at Randalls, when everyone else had gone home for the weekend, being told kindly by the matron that a visitor was coming to take her out to tea.

      Simon, she’d thought joyfully. It had to be Simon. But she’d been wrong, because it had been Daniel who had waited in the front hall as she came down the stairs, her heart thundering in nervous excitement.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I went down to Abbotsbrook to see you, and you weren’t there.’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t convenient this time. Mummy had other people coming to stay.’

      He nodded. ‘So I gathered. Therefore, I decided to pay you a visit here instead.’

      ‘But you shouldn’t have,’ she whispered, looking anxiously around. ‘It’s against the rules. We’re only allowed out with immediate family. Mrs Hallam is terribly strict about that. Is Simon with you?’

      ‘No, he’s off to the Cairngorms, climbing.’ He pulled a face. ‘The ruling passion, once again. I’m here in his place.’

      ‘Didn’t you want to go with him?’ she asked shyly. Simon might not be here, she thought, but neither was the horrible Candida. The Daniel she knew was back, and she wanted to turn a cartwheel in sheer joy.

      ‘God, no.’ He shuddered. ‘I get vertigo if I climb a ladder. Now, are you coming out to tea, or not? It’s all fixed. We have your principal’s blessing.’

      ‘But how? I don’t understand.’

      ‘Friends in high places, sweetheart.’ He swept her out to the long, low sports car waiting on the drive. ‘My father just happens to be on the board of governors. Mrs H can refuse me nothing. Anyway, I want to know how you’re getting on.’

      Over sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, and rich chocolate cake served in the hushed and luxurious environs of a nearby country house hotel, she told him everything, her face glowing. Told him about the challenge of the work, her favourite teachers, the ghastly savoury mince served on Mondays that she hated, the friends she’d already made, and the possibility that next term she might get into the junior swimming team.

      ‘And Celia Welton has asked her mother if I can stay with them during the Christmas holidays,’ she ended in triumph, adding breathlessly, ‘Coming here is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

      ‘Well,’ he said lightly, and smiled at her across the teatime debris. ‘That’s all right, then.’

      Rules and regulations notwithstanding, his visits had become a regular and anticipated feature of her life at Randalls, and Laine had soon found herself being quizzed about him by some of the senior girls, who tended to be much in evidence when he was expected.

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