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‘Girls’ was just about the only way to describe them. Jemima thought of Saskia with her board-flat stomach, Lucinda with her exquisite and very large solitaire engagement ring, Felicity with her nails…
‘Everyone’s very friendly.’
‘But?’ Rachel prompted. ‘Go on, tell me. I can hear it in your voice. How’s it going really?’
There was going to be no escape. ‘Everyone’s incredibly friendly,’ she said slowly. ‘Just a little young, maybe. I feel a bit like Methuselah.’
‘You’re only thirty,’ Rachel objected. ‘And so am I, for that matter! Nothing old about being thirty.’
Jemima smiled. ‘Well, I reckon the average age of the female staff is about twelve. Thirteen at the outside. And I don’t think there’s a woman in the building apart from me who doesn’t have prominent hip-bones and the kind of skin that doesn’t need foundation. It’s all a bit depressing.’
Rachel gave a cackle of laughter. ‘You should be used to that. Growing up with Verity as your sister must have been really depressing.’
‘You’d think so,’ Jemima agreed, ‘but honestly, Saskia makes even my sister look fat. They all sit around at lunchtime telling each other they’re completely full on a plate of lettuce and make me feel guilty for eating a cheese sandwich. At least Verity moans about being hungry.’
‘You’re wicked. What about the guy you’re working for?’
‘England’s answer to Casanova?’ Jemima said with a sudden smile. ‘He’s nice enough. Very calm in a crisis, obviously brilliant at his job and completely full of himself. Yesterday he got me to send a dandelion to this poor woman he’d met at a party the night before. Says it works every time…’
Jemima trailed off as she watched her ex-husband’s silver BMW drive up the road.
‘Did it work?’
‘Rachel, I’m going to have to go. I’ve just seen Russell arriving. I’ll see you tonight.’
Jemima finished the call and called out, ‘Ben. Sam. Daddy’s here.’
She glanced across at the mantelpiece clock. He was five minutes early. He’d now sit in the car until it was exactly ten. She hated the way he did that. Why couldn’t he be like other absent fathers and gradually drift out of their lives? It would be so much easier if he simply disappeared.
Guilt slid in—as it always did. She shouldn’t have thought that. She didn’t mean it. It was great that Russell didn’t let his boys down. Turned up when he said he would. Great that he paid everything he should—and on time. Really, really great.
Jemima uncurled from the sofa and threw the cushion across to the armchair. It just didn’t feel so great.
‘Ben. Sam.’ She walked to the foot of the stairs and shouted again. ‘Ben? Did you hear me? Daddy’s here.’
Ben appeared, shuttered from all emotion. Almost. His eyes were over-bright and his body was stiff. ‘I don’t want to go.’
She hated this. ‘I know, darling,’ she said softly.
‘I want to go to the football tournament.’ Ben walked slowly down the stairs. ‘Everyone’s going to be there. Joshua’s mum is going to take a picnic.’
‘I know, but Daddy has been looking forward to seeing you. He loves his weekends with you.’
The front doorbell rang. Jemima glanced at her wrist-watch. Exactly ten o’clock. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Russell was so…damn reasonable.
She looked at Ben as he picked up his bag. ‘It’ll be fun when you’re there.’ What a stupid thing to say. That wasn’t the point. Ben was eight years old and he wanted to play football with his friends. Of course he did…
‘You’ll be okay.’
He nodded.
‘And you’ll have a really great time.’
Ben put his backpack on his shoulders. ‘What are you going to do, Mum?’
‘Me?’ What was she going to do without them? Cry a little…Miss them a lot…The same as every other weekend they spent with their father. ‘I’m going to spend the day trying to decorate the bathroom, maybe get some tiles up, and then I’m going to go and have supper with Rachel and Alistair. I’ll be fine.’ She forced a bright smile and wondered how convincing she was. ‘It’s not long. Just one night and you’ll be home again.’
The doorbell rang again.
‘Will you go and hurry Sam up for me?’
She watched him climb the stairs and counted to ten before she opened the front door. It didn’t matter how prepared she thought she was, seeing Russell always felt strange. In the space of a millisecond she remembered the first time he’d kissed her, the proposal in a felucca in Vienna, the way he’d cried when Ben was born…
Russell looked good. Clearly he’d decided to keep up his gym membership and she liked the way he’d let his hair grow a little longer. Jemima wrapped her arms protectively around her waist. ‘Ben’s just gone to find Sam. They’re all ready.’
Russell nodded. ‘There’s no hurry.’ Silence and then, ‘How are things?’
‘Fine.’
Another pause. ‘That’s excellent.’ He rattled his car keys and looked uncomfortable.
He always did that too, Jemima thought. What exactly did he think she was going to do? Cry? Scream at him? He flattered himself. She was a long way past that. ‘You?’
‘Yes, well, we’re fine.’ He stood a little straighter. ‘Stef’s just got a promotion…’
‘That’s…great.’
‘She’s heading up a team of three.’
Jemima nodded. She was proud of herself for being so grown-up and dignified. But why exactly did Russell think she’d be interested in the career progression of the woman he’d left them for? No, she corrected swiftly. The woman he’d left her for.
‘Daddy!’ Sam hurled himself along the hallway. ‘It’s Daddy!’
The change in Russell was instantaneous. The smile on his face gripped her heart and screwed it tight. He reached down and caught the tornado. ‘Hiya, imp.’
‘I’ve lost another tooth.’ Sam pulled a wide grin, showing a huge expanse of pure gum.
‘Did the tooth fairy come?’
Ben pushed past. ‘There’s no such thing. It’s Mum. No one believes in the tooth fairy any more.’
Above his head Russell met her eyes. Jemima gave a half smile, then a shrug. ‘Have a good time.’ She reached out and touched Ben’s head. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Then she had to watch the three of them walk to the car.
She really hated this.
Still.
How many weekends had it been now? Was there ever going to be a time when it didn’t feel as if part of her was being ripped out of her body when she saw her sons walk away? She felt exactly like a piece of string which had been pulled so tight it had started to fray.
Miles locked his Bristol 407 and sauntered over to the three-storey Victorian house where Alistair and Rachel had bought their first flat together. It was nice. High ceilings, plenty of original features, good area…and that oh, so rare commodity—outside space in the form of a tiny courtyard garden.
Normally he really enjoyed his visits to their home. Every so often it was pleasant to spend an evening where there were no demands placed on him, no expectations. They were a calm oasis in a life that was becoming increasingly pressured.
But…
He pulled a face. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely looking forward to the next few hours. An evening spent discussing weddings wasn’t exactly high on his list of favourite things to do with a Saturday night. But hey…
He reached up and rang the bell. If his old school friend had finally decided to take the plunge, the least he could do was be there to see it. The poor beggar probably only had a year or so before their country place in Kent was filled with bright plastic toys and the first of several mini-Mackenzies. Grim.
The door opened suddenly and Rachel met him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you’d be Jemima,’ she said, glancing up the tree-lined street. ‘I wonder where she’s got to. I bet her car is playing up. She was coming early to look at my shoes.’
‘Would you like me to look at your shoes?’ he asked lazily.
Rachel turned back to him. ‘You behave or I’ll make you wear a pink floral waistcoat! Go on in.’
‘For you—anything,’ he glinted, leaning forward to place a light kiss on her cheek.
‘You’ll find Alistair in the kitchen doing something clever with the duck.’
She shut the door behind him and Miles shrugged out of his tan leather jacket and threw it over the oak church chair they kept in the hall. ‘So, tell me, will I fancy the bridesmaid?’
‘Quite possibly—’ she grinned up at him ‘—but I doubt it’ll be reciprocated. She’s a woman of taste and discernment. Actually, I don’t think I have any friends who would deign to join your harem.’
Miles smiled and wandered through to where Alistair was stirring something in a small saucepan. He looked up as his friend walked in. ‘Talking about Jemima?’
‘He wants to know whether he’ll fancy her,’ Rachel said, leaning over to see how the sauce looked. ‘Should it be that lumpy?’ Then, as the doorbell rang, ‘That’ll be her. Excellent.’
Alistair watched her leave with an expression of amusement and turned back to his sauce. ‘Lumpy! Just about escaped with her life. Miles, grab yourself a drink.’
Miles sauntered over and poured himself out a large glass of red wine from the bottle on the side. ‘You?’
‘Got one,’ Alistair said, with a nod at the glass by his side. ‘How’s work? I saw Lori Downey’s double page spread and thought you might be having it tough.’
Miles grunted and took a mouthful of the full-bodied wine. ‘This is nice.’
‘Rachel and I got it in Calais last month. Our car was so laden it’s a wonder we weren’t stopped.’ In the hallway they could hear the mumble of female voices. ‘Sounds like Jemima’s here at last.’
Miles perched on a high bar stool, feeling more relaxed than he had done all week. He set his wineglass down on the side and idly started stirring the sugar in the bowl. ‘I’ve got a Jemima temping for me at the moment. Amanda sent her to me.’
‘Good?’
‘She’s fine.’
Alistair smiled. ‘Damned with faint praise.’
‘Something like that. You can’t fault what she does when she’s in the office, but she arrives at the last possible moment and leaves as soon as she can. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t socialise with the girls.’ Miles picked up his wineglass. ‘She dresses like her mother and obviously thinks my florist bill is too high.’
‘Can’t blame her for that. Rachel thinks your florist bill is too high.’
The voices from the hall became louder.
Miles watched as Alistair carefully decanted his sauce into a jug. ‘That doesn’t say much for Rachel’s judgement. Are you sure about marrying her?’
Alistair laughed. ‘One of the most attractive things about Rachel is that she prefers me to you. Go easy on the futility of marriage stories tonight. Jemima’s been through a traumatic divorce. Russell left her with a house to renovate and two boys to bring up on her own. She’s a bit brittle.’
‘So I’m not even allowed to flirt with the bridesmaid—’ He broke off as soon as the door opened, but he could see from Alistair’s face that he thought they may have been overheard. He felt a vague sense of sympathy. If he knew anything about women—and he did—Rachel would have her fiancé’s kneecaps for that fauxpas.
‘Miles—’ Rachel’s voice sounded ominously clipped ‘—this is Jemima. My bridesmaid.’
He turned round, ready to pour oil on troubled waters…and felt his smile falter. It was as if he’d stepped through a portal to an alternative universe. Rachel was standing with her arm tucked through Jemima Chadwick’s.
And, stranger than that, Jemima Chadwick as he’d never seen her before.
Her red hair was a riot of curls and she was dressed in a simple linen sundress. She looked crumpled, curvy and surprisingly sexy. He felt that familiar kick in the pit of his abdomen that was pure reflex. It was all a bit surreal.
‘This is Miles Kingsley. Alistair and Miles were at school together and, scarily, have known each other for something like thirty years.’
Somehow he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Thoughts were whizzing through his head, but they didn’t stay still long enough to know whether they were worth putting words on. Even a simple hello seemed to elude him.
Alistair leapt into action, clearly motivated to bonhomie by the ‘brittle’ mistake. ‘Absolutely right. Miss Henderson’s class. Aged five. Abbey Preparatory School, Windsor. What can I get you to drink, Jemima?’
She moved further into the room. ‘White wine would be lovely. Thank you.’
Jemima Chadwick.
Here.
And looking so different. Smelling of…roses. Her red curls still damp…
Miles found that his mind was thinking in expletives. It was almost unbelievable that Jemima Chadwick could have transformed herself so entirely. The woman who’d left the office on Friday evening bore very little resemblance to the one who’d arrived for dinner tonight.
At work she looked…bland. Completely invisible, as though she didn’t expect to be looked at. In fact, very married. His eyes flicked to her ring finger. Nothing. He’d not noticed that. He hadn’t noticed she had legs like that either…
Miles took a sip of wine and tried to recall exactly what he’d said about his temporary secretary to Alistair…and then he winced. Thank God he could trust Alistair not to land him in it when he realised they’d been speaking about the same Jemima.
Damn. This couldn’t be happening to him.
What was the probability of Jemima Chadwick being Rachel’s bridesmaid? It had to be zillions to one. Except, of course, she was Rachel’s friend and Amanda was Rachel’s elder sister. Damn it! It wasn’t so much improbable as extremely likely.
Alistair poured out a glass of wine. ‘Miles was just saying he’s got a temporary secretary working for him at the moment who’s also called Jemima.’
Miles felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling as when your dinghy was about to capsize and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop it. He was going over. It was inevitable.
‘That’s quite a coincidence. It’s not a particularly common name, is it?’ Alistair continued, sublimely oblivious to the missile he was hurling in their midst.
‘I heard.’ Jemima looked directly at Miles. Her green eyes were steady, like lasers. ‘She dresses like her mother.’
