Reunited At The Altar. Kate Hardy

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      Abigail sighed. ‘I don’t regret marrying Brad. I loved him. We just brought the wedding forward to before he went away to study rather than waiting until after he’d finished his degree, that was all.’ It had been Brad’s idea to elope and, although part of Abby had thought it wasn’t really practical to get married when he was about to go away and be a student, she’d been madly in love with him and thought he felt the same about her. So she’d said yes, squashing her misgivings.

      ‘But you regret eloping?’

      ‘Yes and no. Yes, it was romantic and fun to elope.’ Just the two of them. And they’d made love so tenderly in their cheap hotel room that night. Eighteen years old, with the whole world ahead of them. ‘But, in hindsight,’ Abigail said, ‘I regret not sharing the day with everyone else. It meant Dad didn’t get to walk me down the aisle, our mums didn’t get the chance to dress up and make a fuss, you weren’t my bridesmaid, and your dad wasn’t the best man. Looking back, I realise we were selfish. We should’ve shared that day.’ And maybe if they’d been mature enough to share their wedding, they would’ve been mature enough to make their marriage last.

      ‘Anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on it because you can’t change the past.’ Abigail opened up her laptop. ‘Right. Our list of things to do starts here...’

      Six weeks later

      Great Crowmell.

      Even the signpost made Brad’s stomach turn to knots.

      The town where he’d grown up.

      The town where he’d met the love of his life.

      The town where he’d lost her.

      He was dreading this. He’d avoided coming here at all since his father’s funeral—not for birthdays, not for Christmases, not for an off-the-cuff visit. The longer he left it, the harder it was to face. He’d seen his family—of course he had—but not here. He’d met them in London, organised posh afternoon teas and trips to the theatre with hard-to-get tickets, to make up for not coming here.

      Every nerve in his body told him to turn the car round again and drive back to London. Back to where he could bury himself in work and forget everything.

      But he couldn’t be that selfish. His sister was getting married and he had no intention of letting her down. This was the one thing that would make him come back: Ruby had asked him to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day and he’d promised her he’d do it. Even though the last time he’d set foot in that church and walked down that aisle, he’d been one of the pallbearers carrying their father’s coffin, he’d suck up his feelings for her sake.

      Though Brad hadn’t quite been able to face going back to stay in their childhood home, filled with his memories of their father—and with a hefty loading of guilt. Instead, he’d rented a holiday cottage for a few days. One of the ancient two-up, two-down fishermen’s cottages in the flint-built terraces just behind the harbour. A place with no memories, so he had a bolthole when the town and everything that went with it got too much for him: all the kindness and concern edged with speculation and gossip. He knew that Ruby understood and he hoped she’d talk their mother round. He wasn’t avoiding Rosie; he was avoiding the house. Just as he’d done for the last five years. He knew it was selfish, and it made the guilt worse.

      And then there was Abigail.

      How was he going to face her?

      More layers of guilt weighed down on him. He’d been the one to sweep her off her feet and ask her to elope with him; and when life threw its first hurdle in their way he’d let her down. He’d let her go.

      Even before Ruby had diffidently asked if he’d mind that Abigail would be her chief bridesmaid, Brad had known who she’d choose—the woman who’d been her best friend right from toddler group through to high school and beyond. He’d prepared himself for it so when it came, he was able to tell Ruby without batting an eyelid that everything was absolutely fine, and he and Abigail could be perfectly civil to each other on the day. But stupidly he hadn’t thought to ask Ruby if Abigail was taking anyone to the wedding. The idea of seeing his ex-wife dancing with her new man, laughing and smiling and kissing him in the moonlight, the way she’d once done with him, made him feel sick.

      He dragged in a breath. Maybe he should’ve asked one of his colleagues to be his plus one, just in case. There was still time; the wedding wasn’t until Saturday. Though who could he ask, without either giving out the wrong signals—and he really didn’t want the complication of someone at work thinking he was interested in a relationship—or having to explain the situation and becoming an object of pity throughout the lab and the office?

      Maybe he should’ve made an excuse not to come to the wedding in the first place. Maybe he should’ve said he was speaking at a conference and, because Ruby had only given him a few weeks’ notice, there simply wasn’t enough time to find someone to take his place.

      But then he’d hate himself for letting her down.

      He needed to brace himself and deal with it. Be the cool, calm, analytical scientist he’d spent the last five years turning himself into. The one who kept his feelings completely locked away and could deal with almost anything without betraying a flicker of emotion. There was no place in his professional life for guilt, for nervousness and wondering how people were going to react to him, so he shouldn’t let any of that have a place in his personal life, either.

      He could do this. The taste of bile in his mouth, the way his hands felt cold and tingling with adrenaline—that was all psychosomatic and he was going to ignore it. And he’d grab some paracetamol to deal with the tension headache that had started more than an hour ago, as soon as he’d crossed the county border to Norfolk.

      He pulled into the car park in the middle of the town, fed coins into the meter to get a pay-and-display car park ticket to tide him over to the next morning, and stuck the ticket on the inside of his windscreen.

      The letting agent had warned him that parking was tricky outside the rented cottage so he left the car and made his way to the address. He pulled up the four-digit key code for the safe box where the house keys were stored from the last email from the letting agent on his phone, retrieved the keys and dumped his luggage next to the stairs in the living room. When he headed into the kitchen at the back, there was a tray on the small kitchen table containing a plate, a mug, a spoon, a box of tea-bags and a tin of good instant coffee. There was also a white paper bag, and a note propped on top of it.

      Welcome to 2 Quay Cottages. There’s milk and butter in the fridge, bread in the cupboard, and a little something in the paper bag to keep you going until dinner. Any problems, please call in at number 1.

      Clearly the neighbour was happy to act as a kind of caretaker. That was reassuring, given that the letting agent was in London. OK, Brad thought, and opened the paper bag.

      A blueberry muffin.

      Home-made? he wondered. From the neighbour? Though surely the neighbour would’ve put his or her name on the note. Or maybe they’d been interrupted while they were writing the note and simply forgot to sign it. Whatever, the gesture was appreciated.

      Brad realised then that he was hungry. He’d worked through his lunch break so he could leave early and miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic for his three-hour drive from London to north Norfolk, but then he’d been too keyed up to eat when he’d stopped for a rest break. He hadn’t СКАЧАТЬ