Misleading Engagement

Her car was, of course, where she had parked it. For just a second she wondered if the best man might have had it moved after all. That would have been victory for the male sex. But not this time, she thought with a wry grin as she unlocked it, threw in the holdall and jacket and set out to drive to the Brent residence, a few miles away, where the reception was to be held.

She did not turn into the drive, but found a place to leave her car further along the lane beside the high wall which surrounded the grounds, and walked back to where a large marquee had been put up on the lawn of the impressive mansion of Sir William Brent.

It was hot inside, with an overpowering smell of flowers and cut grass. Two long trestle-tables indicated that the meal was to be a buffet, and maids from a catering firm were bustling about with plates and glasses. The food would no doubt be brought from the house at the last minute.

Anne enquired of an older woman who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings where the wedding cake would be placed, so that she could position herself out of the way but at the best angle to record the cutting of the cake and the speeches. She found a corner to place the microphone and waited for the next stage of the proceedings. She was beginning to feel tired and very hot. She would be thankful when it was all over.

The parents were the first to arrive, followed by the bride and groom, and a line was formed to welcome the guests. Last lap! Anne told herself.

Soon the marquee was full of people, and the smell of expensive perfume mingled with that of flowers and the delectable goodies on trays which the maids were carrying in and laying out on the tables. Champagne followed in buckets of ice, and lastly the cake, a glorious pyramid of dazzling whiteness. The sound of talk and laughter rose and fell and finally rose in a crescendo as the bride pretended that she had to be helped by her husband to cut the cake.

Anne was working mechanically when it came to the speeches, and as soon as they were over she parked her camera and tripod with her holdall and jacket in a comer of the marquee and found her way out into the cool air. There was a garden seat under a clump of trees quite close and she sank down onto it, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the refreshing breeze.

She wasn’t aware of a tall figure approaching across the grass. ‘Hello, Miss Grey.’

Anne’s eyes flew open to see the best man standing before her, a plate in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. He held the glass out to her. ‘A peace offering,’ he said.

Her earlier resentment had faded, the memory of it erased by the moment when his eyes had looked into hers so closely—so intimately, it had seemed—through the lens of her camera.

‘Oh! Oh, thank you,’ she murmured weakly. She felt absurdly shy and lowered her face over the glass as she took a long drink of the blessedly cold champagne. ‘That’s lovely.’

He sat down beside her. ‘I thought you looked as if you needed it. I’d no idea that recording a wedding involved such hard work.’ He still wasn’t smiling but his tone was friendly now. ‘And I did my best to make things more difficult for you,’ he added wryly. ‘Please have some cake as an indication of your forgiveness.’ He put the plate on the seat between them.

Anne tried to think of something concise and witty to say in reply, but the words didn’t come. Instead she smiled at him through her large glasses and took a bite of the delicious wedding cake.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now all debts are settled.’ He leaned back in the wooden seat. ‘Have you finished your labours yet?’

This was easier. She chased a crumb of cake round the plate and said, ‘Not quite. I still have to wait for the bridal couple to leave for their honeymoon. Then I can pack up and go home. But there will be at least twelve more hours to spend on editing the tapes. I’ll wait for tomorrow to tackle that.’

He nodded. ‘You’d better keep an eye on the goings-on inside. I don’t suppose Andrew and Liz will hang about long; they’ve got to drive to Dorset. Andrew has a cottage and a boat there. They plan to spend their honeymoon cruising round the Greek Islands and I think they want to make a start today.’

Anne drank the last drops of her champagne and put the glass down on the empty plate between them. ‘What a lovely idea.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the sustenance and the kind thought, Mr...’

‘Rayne,’ he said. ‘Mark Rayne.’

As he rose she smiled up at him. He was very tall; if only he would smile he would be really handsome, she thought. She knew he could smile. The photograph in the newspaper had shown him smiling beatifically at his lovely fiancé. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t here with him that he looked so gloomy.

‘Well, thank you again, Mr Rayne,’ she said, turning to go.

‘It was the least I could do,’ he replied gravely.

There was a spring in Anne’s step as she hurried back into the marquee. She hated to be on bad terms with anyone, and Mark Rayne had apologised very handsomely even if he couldn’t manage a smile.

The bridal couple were no longer in the marquee; they must have gone into the house to change before leaving. Anne collected her camera and tripod and made her way round to the front of Sir William Brent’s impressive Neo-Gothic mansion. At the foot of a long flight of steps an open car, a Mercedes, was pulled up. Other expensive-looking cars lined the forecourt and the overflow was parked diagonally down the wide drive. She set up her tripod in a spot beside the long, shiny bonnet of the car and hoped for the best.

Very soon the guests began to drift out of the marquee and stand around the car and up the steps, but they were all too polite to push in front of her. It seemed a long wait, but at last the chatter died down and bags of confetti were produced as the small party from the house came down the steps. Anne swivelled her camera round and got a marvellous view of the bride, dressed now in a honey-coloured suit that matched her hair, which hung round her pretty face like a golden halo as it caught the sunlight. Her husband, in a lightweight suit, was beside her, and next to him the best man, Mark Rayne, with the parents and close relatives.

Anne felt rather absurdly conscious of him as he took his place on the bottom step, almost by her side. He looked down at her as she lifted her head for a moment and nodded. She would have liked to move away, but of course that wasn’t possible.

Confetti was falling like rain all over the car now. People were calling out, kissing, laughing, but at last the bridegroom helped his bride into the passenger seat of the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Anne kept her eyes glued to the camera. That was a most beautiful shot of the bride. She looked so blissfully happy as she lifted her face towards her new husband. Already Anne was composing the end of the video in her mind.

Then—suddenly—something hit her on the head, and she looked up, startled, and saw what had happened. The bride had thrown her bouquet high in the air and it had landed on—of all people—the woman taking the video. Anne clutched it, her cheeks scarlet, as everyone laughed. She caught a whiff of the lilies of the valley as she threw it back into the crowd.

She felt a touch on her arm and heard Mark Rayne murmur, close to her ear, ‘I noticed you were wearing a ring. That should speed matters up.’

She was disturbingly conscious of the feeling of his hand on her bare arm. He had beautiful hands, she noticed, the fingers strong and sensitive. She gave him a tremulous little smile before she turned back to her camera, and although he still wasn’t smiling she thought she detected a wicked glint in his dark eyes.

The car drew away to cheers and calls of good wishes and showers of confetti. Anne made her way hastily back to the marquee and packed her gear into the holdall. By the time the guests began to filter back, ready for more food and drink and socialising, she was on her way down the drive, making quickly for her car—and home.

She drove slowly along the country lanes. After a large wedding like this her head seemed full of moving pictures, and it took her a while to return to the real world. One picture kept coming back again and again—the face of Mark Rayne, the enigmatic best man. She would never see him again, except on video, when she edited the tapes, but it wasn’t a face she would easily forget.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS nearly nine o’clock and beginning to get dark when the blow fell. After a leisurely supper Anne was unpacking her holdall in the editing suite when the horrible fact emerged—cassette number two, the most important one, the one which held her recording of the heart of the wedding, was missing. A feverish search of every comer of the holdall confirmed the fact. She stared down at the worktop. Cassettes four, three and one were in order, but there was a gap where two should have been.

Don’t panic, she told herself. Think. Think. When did you take cassette two out of the camera and what did you do with it? She sank onto the stool and pressed a shaking hand to her forehead.

After the signing of the registry in the vestry, that was it. In a hurry to get down to the front of the church and record the bridal couple walking back down the aisle together, she had pulled the cassette out of the camera and slipped the next one in. It had been quite dark in her corner and she must have dropped cassette two on the floor instead of putting it back in the holdall, and later, when she’d been struggling to get her jacket free, she must have swept the cassette behind the pillar or under the choir stall. So—it must still be there, and all she had to do was drive back to the church and find it.

Another two hours’ driving! But it would be worth it—anything would be worth it if she could only lay her hands on precious cassette number two. Without it the video would be useless.

She had changed when she got home, into jeans and a cotton top, and now she hurried upstairs and pulled on a thick woollen jumper, swilled her face in cold water and went to get the car out again.

The church clock was striking ten when Anne reached Offleigh. The single streetlamp was situated in the main street of the village, some distance from the church. When she had parked her car and turned out the lights she had to wait for a moment to accustom her eyes to the darkness and then she found the front path and made her way to the porch. ‘Please let the church not be locked,’ she breathed.

She was fumbling with the heavy ring handle of the massive door when steps sounded behind her and the light of a torch shone round her feet. A gruff voice said, ‘Sorry, I’ve just come to lock up.’ Not the vicar’s voice. It must be the church warden.

Anne turned and the light of the torch fell on her face. ‘Oh, please,’ she said. ‘Could you wait for a few minutes? I was at the wedding this afternoon and I’ve lost something rather valuable. I know exactly where I dropped it, and if I could just have a chance to look round...’

He must have heard the desperation in her voice. He leaned nearer and looked into her face, and after a short time for consideration he said, ‘OK, come in. I’ll switch on the lights.’

‘Thank you,’ Anne whispered fervently. She scurried up the side-aisle to the place by the pillar where she had parked her gear. The church warden followed more sedately. He helped her to search while she explained the circumstances to him.

After ten minutes they had covered every square inch of the floor where the cassette might have fallen, but had drawn a blank. Anne felt like bursting into tears. ‘It isn’t here,’ she said in a wan voice.

The church warden agreed. ‘But the vicar might have it, miss. It might have been handed in to him.’

Anne clutched at the straw. ‘Where could I find him? Would you direct me to the vicarage?’

He shook his head. ‘He doesn’t live in the village. He lives in Lifton-on-the-Hill. He has to look after both parishes. And there won’t be any services here tomorrow.’

‘I see,’ Anne said in a defeated voice. ‘Well, thank you very much; you’ve been very helpful.’ She got back into the car as the elderly man switched off the church lights and ambled round to the side-door.

Anne drove a short way out of the village and stopped to think. Should she drive out to Lifton-on-the-Hill now? It must be over ten miles away, on the Stow road. It would be nearly eleven o’clock by the time she got there, and it would probably mean knocking up the vicar and getting him out of bed. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Putting the car into gear, she headed once more for home.

The journey back seemed to take hours as she stared ahead at the road and refused to let herself consider what it would mean if she had really lost the cassette. But once in the house the emptiness closed round her and panic stirred, giving her a hollow feeling inside. She relied mainly on recommendations from satisfied clients, and had had high hopes of doing a good job for the influential Brent family. Things soon got around—negative as well as positive. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have any dealings with Anne Grey—she’s most unreliable.’ She could almost hear the words already.

She had to face the fact that she might have lost the cassette for good. Perhaps one of the cleaners had thrown it into a rubbish bag, or a choirboy had picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. To a boy any video was a video and might be interesting. Anne shivered. The house felt very cold. She made a pot of strong tea—the panacea for all ills—and drank it sitting in the kitchen.

She tried to cheer herself up. There was still the vicar. She could find him tomorrow morning, and surely he would have the cassette? As she drank the tea she glanced wearily at her watch. She might as well go to bed; there was nothing else to do tonight.

She emptied the teapot and her glasses fell off into the sink. Picking them out, she saw that one of the side pieces had come off. A hasty search in the sink revealed the fact that the tiny screw had vanished—probably down the plughole. Tears of frustration came into her eyes at this final annoyance. This was definitely not her day. Leaving the glasses on the kitchen table to be dealt with tomorrow, she switched off the lights and started to climb the stairs, her head drooping.

She was halfway up when the front doorbell rang shrilly. Her heart thudded. Who could it possibly be at this hour? Holding onto the banister, she waited, hardly daring to breathe. But the bell rang again, and then again. Anne crept downstairs and across the hall, switching on the light. Without removing the chain she opened the door a crack and peered round it.

In the light from the hall she saw that there was a large man standing outside, but without her glasses she couldn’t make out his face. She felt a horrid qualm of fear. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

A man’s deep voice said irritably, ‘Open the door, can’t you? I’m not a burglar.’

She knew that voice. Mark Rayne. Her first thought was, He’s got the cassette. That’s why he’s here. Hope shot up like a thermometer plunged into hot water. She slipped off the chain and threw open the door. As the light from the hall fell on him she saw that he had changed out of his morning suit and was wearing jeans and a pullover.

He leaned closer and stared at her. ‘I’m looking for Anne Grey; I’ve got something for her.’ He patted his jumper as if expecting to find pockets there.

‘I’m Anne Grey,’ she said.

He peered closer, swaying slightly, and put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He shook his head. ‘Are you sure? You don’t look like her.’

‘I assure you I am,’ she said, and laughed. She realised that he might be a little drunk, but that didn’t matter beside the glorious fact that he probably had the cassette. ‘Won’t you come in? And then you can find—whatever it is you have for me.’ She mustn’t rush matters; he might get angry and go away.

He went on patting himself, feeling for non-existent pockets. ‘I know it’s here somewhere. I must have put it in my case.’ He turned round and walked rather unsteadily to his car, which was standing at the kerb. Anne pattered after him; she wasn’t going to let him get away until he had found what must be the cassette.

He opened the back door of the car and heaved a heavy suitcase along the seat. Balancing it on the edge, he began to fumble with its catch, muttering to himself.

Anne pulled the case away from him. ‘Let’s take it inside,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t see what you’re doing out here.’

He seemed a little surprised but he let her carry the heavy case into the house and dump it on a chair in the sitting room. He followed her inside and stood staring at her in puzzlement. ‘I don’t think you are Anne Grey,’ he said, slowly and carefully. ‘She looked like a ghost—and you look like...’ He thought for a long time and then finished triumphantly, ‘Like Goldilocks.’ He reached out and touched a lock of golden hair, which was now hanging in a wavy mass to her shoulders. ‘Nice!’ he said.

Anne moved away quickly. Had she been quite mad to invite the man into the house at this time of night? She must find the cassette and then get rid of him.

‘Won’t you sit down,’ she said, ‘and let me open the case?’

He stared at her as if he still wasn’t sure who she was. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, and collapsed backwards onto the large sofa. ‘Yes, by all means open it.’

She let him sit there while she managed to get the case open. It contained his morning suit, carelessly folded, three clean handkerchiefs, and a crumpled white shirt rolled round a pair of underpants. There was also shaving gear and a hairbrush and comb. She felt all round the edges of the case without success. As a last resort she examined the striped trousers. No large pockets in them! Then she held up the coat and found that it had an inside pocket which seemed to contain something bulky. Hardly daring to hope, she felt inside it—and drew out the missing cassette.

Anne couldn’t restrain a little whoop of pure joy and relief. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ she cried, looking at the man on the sofa. He was leaning back with his eyes closed. She shook his arm. ‘I’ve found it,’ she burbled.

He opened his eyes with an effort, mumbled, ‘Have you? Good,’ and then closed them again.

Anne regarded him doubtfully. He didn’t really look drunk, he looked absolutely exhausted. His face was colourless and there were deep dark smudges below his eyes. She would make some black coffee and then wake him up and somehow get him back in his car—although he really didn’t look as if he should be driving. Well, she’d have to see how things went.

While the kettle was boiling she took the cassette to the editing suite and placed it tenderly on the worktop. She’d run it through on the monitor to check up on it, even gloat a little, as soon as she’d got rid of Mark Rayne.

In the kitchen the kettle had boiled. Anne spooned coffee liberally into a mug, filled it and carried it back to the sitting room. In her absence the man had made himself comfortable. He was stretched out on the sofa, his long legs curled up like a child’s. He was breathing deeply and evenly, undoubtedly fast asleep. The thick black lashes that she had seen through the zoom lens rested on his cheekbones. His mouth, no longer held in a stern, tight line, was relaxed as he breathed deeply.

She put down the cup of coffee and went on staring at him. He really was fabulously good-looking. Anne’s mouth twitched into a soft smile—the smile of amused tenderness that she would bestow on any sleeping creature, human or not.

‘Yes,’ she said aloud. ‘You’re very appealing, no doubt. But you can’t stay here.’ She leaned forward and shouted, ‘Mr Rayne.’

No reply.

‘Mr Rayne, I’ve made some coffee. Wake up, can’t you?’ She shook his arm as hard as she could.

Silence, except for the faintest of grunts.

Anne frowned, perplexed. So—it was like that, was it? She couldn’t get rid of him unless she removed him bodily—which was impossible—or rang for the police—which was unthinkable.

She sighed. He wasn’t going to wake up for some time, and she did owe him a debt of gratitude for returning the cassette, however tardily. He might as well stay here and have his sleep out. She fetched a blanket and draped it over him. He didn’t stir when she pulled off his shoes. The suitcase lay on the chair, its contents hanging out. Well, he could pack that for himself when he left. He would probably wake some time in the night and let himself out.

She lit the table lamp and switched off the main light. Was there anything else? Oh, yes—his car. It had been left standing in the road, unlocked. Anne rushed out, holding her breath. There had been a car theft in this road only last week.

She breathed again when she saw that it was still there, with the keys hanging from the ignition. She regarded it doubtfully. Ought she to move it into the parking space at the back of the house? She’d never handled a powerful car like this in her life and the passage between the two houses was quite narrow. Better leave it where it was. There was probably some security gadget fitted. She locked the driver’s door and found that the other doors locked as well.

Taking the keys back to the house, she placed them on the low table by the sofa. Mark Rayne was even more deeply asleep. He looked very peaceful. Anne went out and closed the door. Now, at last, to watch the result of all her work this afternoon.

Fetching her glasses from the kitchen, she managed to perch them on her nose. She could see the monitor screen well enough if she didn’t move her bead. The recording proved to be superb—the best thing she’d ever done. Nothing of importance had been missed, the angles were just right and the lighting inside the church had been much better than Anne had expected. She ran it through to the end and shut off the monitor with a sigh of satisfaction. How truly terrible if she had actually lost it through her own carelessness! She felt a surge of gratitude to Mark Rayne for bringing it back to her.

Turning off the downstairs lights again, she listened for a moment outside the sitting-room door. There wasn’t a sound from inside. Well, let him enjoy his sleep, she thought, her mouth quirking into a soft smile.

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom she was suddenly overcome with tiredness. It had been a gruelling day, one way or another. She washed her face, cleaned her teeth and, standing by the bed, wondered for a moment whether she should keep her clothes on. After all, there was a strange man sleeping in the sitting room. Anne shrugged. She was almost sure he didn’t present a threat. But when she had pulled off her jeans and top and put her nightdress on she went across the room and locked the door. She climbed into bed and was fast asleep within five minutes.

Anne woke later than usual. The first thing she did was cross the room, pull back the curtains and look down into the road. Yes, the green car was still there, steaming gently as the sun dispersed the morning dew from its long, sleek bonnet. She was annoyed to find that her heart was beating faster than usual.

She didn’t have to worry about what the neighbours might think if they saw a strange man leaving her house with a suitcase early in the morning. Most of the houses in the road had been made into flats, and there was such a rapid turnover of occupants that she never had time to get to know anyone. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was how she was going to deal with Mark Rayne.

It was such a very odd situation. If he had been a man she knew, she could have turned the whole thing into an amusing episode and they would have laughed together and avoided any awkwardness. But she hadn’t even seen him smile yet. She wondered if he would remember saying that she looked like Goldilocks. Probably not. It had seemed out of character.

She wasn’t at all sure why she chose to wear a golden yellow top with her jeans this morning. Probably because it was her favourite and she needed something to boost her courage when she went down to deal with her unconventional visitor.