* * *
It was the glimpse of Zara’s wedding dress that did it.
Sophie only saw the Oscar de la Renta dress hanging on the back of the open bedroom door in the bridal suite because she was stepping aside to let both Raven and André get the angles they wanted for these candid, champagne breakfast shots. She had to stay well out of shot because her working clothes for her busy day consisted of well-worn denim jeans, a tee shirt and sneakers. While her tee shirt and sneakers were both white, her pinafore apron with its lovely pockets – big enough to easily accommodate her phone and her tablet and other essentials – was a deep shade of gold with cream polka dots, which would have totally ruined the pure wedding vibe of this setting.
Zara and her bridesmaids were all wearing ivory-coloured, floor-length, mulberry silk bathrobes with shawl collars and long, wide sleeves, tied loosely enough to offer tantalising hints of perfect spray tans and lacy underwear. Choosing eye-catching poses as they were about to put food into their mouths was apparently great fun and the sound of feminine laughter rippled across the room.
Sophie could still feel the genuine enjoyment of this scene that went a long way to making how meticulously choreographed it was acceptable. The aromas of coffee and chocolate and truffles were clear enough to almost taste them but, suddenly, she wasn’t seeing the elegant satin strapless gown that frothed into a dramatic train at the back.
She was seeing the Disney Princess-style dress that she’d chosen for her own wedding, with the gorgeously beaded bodice, the puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline and hooped petticoats, hanging on the back ofherdoor as she fled into her bedroom as if it might be possible to hide from reality. She could smell the acrid dried blood on the clothes she was wearing and even on her hands, having just come back from the hospital where she’d been allowed time to hold the still-warm body of the man she’d been going to marry in a matter of hours. And she could feel, overwhelmingly, a shaft of the grief that had come so close to destroying her.
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and turned, so that when she opened them, she would not be looking at a wedding dress. Flashes of this kind of pain were so rare these days she had forgotten how debilitating they could be but, thankfully, this one lasted no more than a heartbeat. It morphed with surprising swiftness into a stab of resentment towards the person who was responsible for triggering it.
Raven Vale. He had his back to her as Sophie opened her eyes again, his head bent over the small screen of his camera. She had dismissed his intrusive query earlier simply by saying it was not up for discussion, but the reminder had not been so easy to dismiss. It was a heavy weight on her chest that she could feel whenever she took a breath.
‘Perfect, Zara.’ Raven’s tone suggested that he had moved on to something far more enjoyable. ‘No, don’t lick off those croissant flakes just yet. Pick up your champagne. Now close your eyes and look as though you’re eating the most delicious thing in the universe. Now you can lick your lips. Yah… that’s the shot…’
‘Yeah…’ A young woman was using her phone to take photos of the same pose. ‘Hashtag Zara’s Big Day. Time to get this party started…’
‘Let me see,’ Zara demanded. ‘Nothing gets posted that I haven’t okayed.’ She moved to view what was on her social media content creator’s phone as well as Raven’s camera.
Sophie could move again but her resentment wasn’t fading as quickly as the flash of grief. It was, in fact, deepening into something closer to anger, but that had always been a familiar aftermath of a flashback, hadn’t it? She was confident it would dissipate with her next outward breath because the anger didn’t really have anything to do with this journalist.
Maybe it didn’t even have much to do with the man who’d actually been responsible for the destruction of life as she’d known it nearly ten years ago. Perhaps it needed to be directed inwards. For allowing herself to give him any headspace at all.
Luc. The man who’d been driving Tom home from the stag do. The man who’d been driving the car too fast that night. The man who’d had too much to drink to be behind the wheel of any vehicle, let alone the brand-new luxury sports car that had been Tom’s wedding present from his father.
Sophie blew out her next breath silently but deliberately. Why was it that the harder you tried to forget someone, the harder it seemed to become to achieve that goal?
The buzzing of the phone in her pocket was a welcome distraction. Especially when she saw Greg’s name on the screen.
‘Greg.’ She turned her back on the breakfast scene, walking towards the mullioned windows with the stunning view of the château’s vineyards and a paddock that was populated by a very picturesque herd of donkeys. ‘Whereareyou?’
‘Sophie…’ To her horror, Greg’s voice was rough enough to suggest that speaking was difficult. ‘I’m so sorry… I’m in hospital. In Nice. I’ve had a heart attack…’
‘What? Oh, my God, Greg… Aheartattack? Are you okay? No…’ Sophie’s head was spinning. ‘Sorry… what a stupid thing to ask. Of course you’re not okay…’
‘I’m still alive…’ Greg made a sound that could almost be an attempt at laughter. ‘It seems that’s a good start. And I’m about to get fixed with some stents or some such thing. I just rang to say I’ve found someone to cover the photography today.’
‘Forget the photography,’ Sophie said, her voice catching. This was Greg all over, wasn’t it? Worrying about her when he might be dying? ‘Don’t even think about this wedding,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll sort it.’
She became aware of two things then. That the room behind her had become as silent as an echo chamber. And that Greg was speaking again.
‘Already done,’ Greg croaked. ‘And… we got lucky. The Phoenix is on his way.’
‘The Phoenix?’ Sophie’s voice rose. ‘You don’t mean “Le Phénix”, do you?’
‘That’s him…’ Greg’s voice was fainter. ‘Have to go… Talk to you later, love.’
He ended the call before Sophie could tell him that she’d be in touch with the hospital all day. That she’d be there to see him as soon as possible. That she would do whatever she could to help him recover. Dazed, she clutched her phone as she turned to find everyone in the room staring at her.
Raven broke the silence first. ‘Greg? Gregory Glasson? Your photographer’s had aheart attack?’
André had his video camera balanced on his shoulder and his expression said it all. This was a major glitch in what was probably the most important wedding Marry Me in Provence was ever going to cover.
But the expression on Zara’s face was, oddly, not one of horror. Her eyes were wide and her jaw had dropped.
‘ThePhoenix?’ she asked. ‘Are youkiddingme?ThePhoenix?’
