And no, she did not know where Archie was.
In fact, she hadn’t known where Archie was pretty much since they’d arrived at Mulverton last Tuesday, when he was either playing golf, in the pub, out with the dogs or catching up with old friends, while she ran around at the beck and call of every idiot with a question! She’d spent an inordinate amount of time with Elaine, which was never easy, feeling very much like her fiancé had abandoned her.
Having seen Dickie and Elaine Fitch up close over the years, she had watched the gilt she had mentally coated them with fall away, noticing small things at first that didn’t sit well with her. The way they slipped into French or Italian to exclude anyone who hadn’t stuck with languages post school or hadn’t picked up the lingo while summering in Europe. But nothing irked her as much as the fact that she now knew what his parents felt for each other bordered on detestation. Their jovial veneer fractured every time they drank gin, which happened most days at around 5 p.m.
It was to her a frightful way to live and a salient lesson to look behind the facade, picturing her mum and dad wittering away as her mum dusted the ornaments and her dad organised the bins like it was an exact science. She was sure he gave more thought and planning to the refuse situation in their house than entire government departments who couldn’t seem to organise the overflowing bins or solve the associated rat problem on the busy streets of the capital. Yet her parents were happy. It was all she wanted for her and Archie, that closeness.
It wasn’t as if she could offload any chores to Remy, who was up to her neck with two kids and a job. She’d watched her mother’s face fall, when with the best will in the world, Ruthie had suggested that to save on expenses, she was happy to make hundreds ofsausage rolls for the buffet. Ashleigh had to explain that even the wordbuffetwould send Elaine into shock. There would be canapés, a wedding breakfast and then cake, that was it! Her mum had stared at her as if offended.
‘But people love my sausage rolls.’
‘I’m sure they do, Mum, but no!’
This thought about food reminded her to make a phone call. The linen napkins that had been delivered were bright pink and not the rose pink she had ordered. One more frustrating thing to be dealt with. But it did need dealing with. Bright pink would throw her whole aesthetic and she couldn’t have that.
‘You all right, Brett?’ Guy called from one of the leather sofas in the library, where he sat with an open book in one hand and a tumbler of something amber in the other. The sight of him caused a weird reaction that raised both envy and dislike. How she would love nothing more than to sit, read, and enjoy a drink like it was any other weekend, and how irritating was it that he and everyone else, it seemed, was so relaxed while she ran around like the proverbial headless clucker!
It wasn’t fair.
‘I’m not sure.’ She walked in and closed the library door behind her. ‘There’s so much that needs doing! And explaining what needs to happen to other people only makes the chore take twice as long. It’s easier to do it myself, all if it!’ she vented. It felt good to get it off her chest.
‘You’re getting married tomorrow.’ He snickered like a schoolboy.
‘So it would seem.’ Sinking down at the other end of the sofa, she stretched out her legs until her bare feet, and recently pedicured toes, were touching his jeans. They’d been good mates for a very long time, and he had always been an anchor in the storm.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem to be shitting glitter and rainbows, which I think is what’s expected of all brides-to-be.’
‘Hmm.’ She took a deep breath and reached for his drink, took a sip and, discovering it was whisky, handed it straight back. She hated whisky. ‘First, let me tell you it’s all a conspiracy; the joy, the fun, the shared sweet moments, the pampering, the memory making. All I’ve done since I agreed to this bloody wedding is chores! Choosing things, writing lists, trying on frocks, fretting over seating plans, arguing over guest lists, making endless phone calls, organising transport, sampling food, being at the beck and call of my soon to be mother-in-law, and having to gee up Archie in all of the above just to get him to participate. It’s been bloody hard work, and it’s not over yet! I knew it would be like this. I told Archie I was happy being his fiancée, we work perfectly well as we are! But apparently his parents had started to raise eyebrows about ourlongengagement and the fact we weren’t strictly legit. I’m sure it’s got more to do with tax and inheritance than romance,’ she joked, because she adored Archie, and her friend knew it.
Guy threw his head back and laughed loudly. ‘That’s the spirit!’
‘Am I awful?’ she whined.
‘No, just a realist, and a perfectionist, and a control freak, but that’s why I love you.’
‘You do love me, don’t you?’ she laughed, and dug her toes into his jeans, her lovely mate.
And then Guy stopped laughing and looked straight at her, and there was a flicker, a moment when she felt the weight of the question, and after what seemed like an age he responded. His voice barely audible, his eyes wide.
‘Since the moment I met you.’
It was ghastly, unbearable, excruciating, and unexpected. She felt the cold sweat of unease coat her skin. Guy was her bestfriend. Archie’s best friend too. She had only ever, ever seen him as a friend. As if scolded, she folded her feet beneath her legs and smiled broadly, doing what she did best, as she changed the subject.
‘I think the Sutton property will go through this week, fingers crossed.’
She watched him double blink and take a large glug of his drink.
‘I do too, and then we can pay the rent, get the windows cleaned, put petrol in the cars, eat!’
They both laughed.
She had done it, steered them on to safe ground. Here they rested, talking about their business. Their hard-won, much-loved business that now paid them a paltry salary as they ploughed every penny into it, watching it grow with a reputation for excellence. Gallow and Fitch estate agents, into which they had both invested so much time, energy, and money that to have it derailed by a single moment when one of them had sipped too much whisky and had given in to a misguided, wistful slip of the tongue ... well, that would be too terrible to contemplate. And that before she considered what it might feel like to have to tell Archie, to have to confront Guy, to have to admit to herself what had just occurred. Guy was her go-to, her buddy; the thought of upending their friendship and not having him on the end of the phone was unfathomable.
‘I’d better crack on. No rest for the wicked!’ She jumped up, relieved and ridiculously wishing she’d left the library door open, knowing it would have made their whole exchange feel less clandestine.
‘It’ll all be over in a blink, Brett. Before you know it, you’ll be heading back down the M4 with a hangover.’ He laughed and went back to his novel.
She paused, hand on the door, and turning to him, asked, ‘We’re okay, aren’t we, Gigi?’
