LITMIR.BIZ

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girls do like to make a man suffer. Once more round the block is it?’

      ‘Yes, once more round the block. Dad, I can’t do this to Mike. Can I? He’s in the church now, waiting for me—’

      ‘If you’re really that unsure, my dear, then I think you must.’

      ‘Mother will never forgive me.’

      ‘This has nothing to do with your mother. This is your life.’

      ‘But the reception—’

      ‘It won’t be wasted. People will still need to eat.’

      Was that the only reason she was going through with this? Concern about wasting some food, upsetting her mother? ‘Tell Mike—’ She stopped. What? That she loved him? That she loved him but she couldn’t marry him? Better to say nothing…

      ‘Leave it to me, sweetheart.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Drop me off at the corner, driver, and then take my daughter home.’ He got out, held the door for a moment. ‘Willow, about your mother… Maybe it would be a good idea to disappear for a few days.’

      Was that why he was doing it? Going through with the wedding? Taking on the Chronicle? Not to disappoint his father nor the Josies of this world? One life, Cal had said. He had one shot at getting it right. He didn’t have time to waste it living other people’s dreams.

      And Willow? What about Willow? Mike loved her. She was the best thing that had happened to him in years, but she wanted a career. He wasn’t stupid. She’d been aching for him to say she should take that job at the Globe.

      He’d seen it and part of him had wanted to say, go for it, don’t waste a minute of your life. But there was another, darker side that was all screwed up, that reminded him that she was the one who’d insisted on marriage. Well, she’d got it. She couldn’t have it all.

      What kind of start was that? How soon before they’d both be wishing they were somewhere else?

      Out of sight someone was playing the organ, quiet incidental music, a counterpoint to the quiet rustling as the wedding guests took their places, exotic hats surreptitiously angled as women glanced sideways at him, tipping close as they whispered to each other.

      The sun was shining in through the stained glass, spattering the marble steps with red and blue and gold. But he felt cold and the scent of flowers in the vast arrangements either side of the aisle was making him feel slightly nauseous.

      How much longer? He glanced at his watch. Willow was late. Last minute nerves? Suppose she didn’t turn up? How would he feel? Devastated or just relieved?

      ‘Don’t look so worried, Mike, I haven’t lost the rings.’

      Relieved.

      ‘Cal, what would you say if I told you I don’t want to do this?’

      Cal looked at him as if he was about to say something flippant, then he frowned. ‘Is that a serious question?’ His face must have been answer enough, because he said, ‘For the last week you’ve looked like a man on the way to the gallows. I thought it was the Chronicle—’

      ‘It was. That and Josie’s juicer.’

      ‘What has a juicer got to do with it?’ Cal waited, but when no further explanation was forthcoming he took in a deep breath. ‘You’d better make up your mind what you want, Mike. The minute Willow steps foot in this church you’re committed.’

      ‘I’m already committed. I can’t—’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, if you’ve got real doubts you must get out of here. Now.’

      ‘Tell her…’ What? What could he possibly say? That he loved her but that this life was not the one he’d ever wanted to live? ‘Tell her father that I’ll pay for all this…’

      ‘Sure. Now go. I’ve got things to do.’

CHAPTER TWO

      WHAT had he done? What on earth had he done?

      Mike drove, not caring where, just as long he got away from Melchester, responding to the heavy traffic on automatic, not really seeing the cars, or the trucks, not seeing anything but Willow arriving at the church in her beribboned car expecting him to be waiting for her, ready to pledge his life to her. She’d been prepared to give up the job of her dreams for him. And he wasn’t there.

      He dragged his hand over his face feeling sick and heartsore, stunned at the unhappiness he’d caused because he wouldn’t, couldn’t live the life expected of him from the moment of his birth.

      At least that was no longer an issue. His father had probably denounced him from the pulpit. Publicly disowned him. If he returned to Melchester any time within the next ten years he’d probably be lynched.

      He’d have to write her. Try to explain. What? That he wasn’t the man she thought he was? That his father had seized on their marriage and used it as an opportunity to pin him down, turn him into a mirror image of himself?

      How could he expect Willow to understand how the thought of that sucked the very life out of him? He should have told her, right at the start. But he hadn’t intended a flirtatious game of kiss-chase to turn into a lifetime commitment. Hadn’t expected to be sandbagged by love.

      And now it was too late for explanations. Far better to walk away. Have her loathe him rather than try to understand him. To risk her feeling even the faintest touch of guilt when what had happened was entirely his fault.

      It was over. Finished. Now all he had to do was disappear while the dust settled. But first he needed coffee, needed to eat something, or he’d pass out at the wheel.

      The motorway was packed with cars, roof-racks piled high with suitcases, as holiday-makers returned to London. Willow tried not to think about her honeymoon suitcase, packed and waiting at the hotel where she and Mike were to have had their reception, then spend their wedding night. A suitcase packed with swimwear, the lovely evening dresses and sexy underwear she and Crysse had chosen during a giggly, girly visit to London right after Mike had slipped a diamond ring on her finger. Right after the formal portrait of the pair of them appeared in the Country Chronicle, with the announcement of their forthcoming marriage.

      She glanced at her left hand resting on the steering wheel. It looked naked.

      A sign flashed by with those little life-saving icons, a cup and a knife and fork. With relief, she indicated and pulled off. She was on the point of a brilliant career. Not the time to have an accident because visibility was compromised by a totally irrational desire to weep.

      The car park was packed with more holiday-makers. She didn’t want to push her way into the restaurant, fight to be served. But she needed to eat. She hadn’t been able to face more than a mouthful of cereal and, as for lunch…well, lunch was to have been one of those once-in-a-lifetime affairs with witty speeches and many toasts to happy-ever-after while the staff photographer took pictures for the colour spread that would appear in the Chronicle’s magazine. She gulped and reached for the box of mansized tissues she kept in her car.

      She’d thrown jeans, T-shirts, underwear of the plain, serviceable variety into a zip-up bag for her flight from Melchester. Not what she’d planned to be wearing today.

      The handful of extra-strength tissues to mop up the deluge of tears weren’t part of her trousseau, either. Today all she’d anticipated needing was a small lacy thing, bridal-issue, perfect for dabbing away tears of happiness.

      She groaned and laid her head on the back of hands as they grasped the steering wheel and thought about what she’d done. Seeing Mike, in her mind’s eye, standing at the altar, waiting for her. Turning as her father appeared in the church doorway.

      Alone.

      How on earth could she have done that to a man she loved? Put him

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