The Marriage Truce

‘I think it’s exactly what you need,’ she’d said. ‘Something to take your mind off—everything else. I know you still need to grieve, honey,’ she’d added, more gently. ‘But you won’t have time to brood. So, let’s give our team a chance.’

So, almost before she knew it, Jenna had found herself a partner in a modest gallery, selling paintings, pottery and small sculptures. And discovering success.

Ross had moved out of the house they’d shared, and disclaimed any financial interest in it, so Jenna had sold up. Impossible to remain there alone, haunted by her delusions of happiness. She’d bought a smaller place, investing the surplus funds in the business and giving herself an equal stake with Natasha.

So now, two years on, she had a home and a career, for both of which she was inordinately grateful. Professionally, her life was fulfilling. Socially too she kept busy. She went to the theatre and the cinema, with Natasha and other friends. And as her circle of acquaintance had widened she’d begun to attend dinner parties. She smiled and chatted to the pleasant men who’d been invited to partner her, and, watched with wistful anxiety by her hostesses, politely evaded the inevitable follow-up invitations.

There would come a time when her personal life would need fulfilment again; she was sure of it. But that time was not yet. At present, celibacy seemed much the safer option.

And right now she had another choice to make. Should she stay, or should she run? Her primary instinct told her to get out, and fast. She had suffered enough already at Ross’s hands.

But reason advised caution. Maybe this meeting, so long dreaded, was the very catalyst she needed in order to close the lid on the past once and for all. Achieve some kind of closure on a relationship that should never have existed in the first place.

And there were other factors to take into account—Christy’s disappointment at losing her matron of honour not being the least. It would be selfish and unkind to upset arrangements that had been months in the planning. And it was improbable that anyone else could possibly wear the slender sheath of primrose silk that she planned to wear as she followed Christy up the aisle.

Besides—and this was important too—Ross would doubtless be expecting her to vanish back to London—to take the coward’s way out, she thought, her mouth twisting. And why should she oblige him by being so predictable?

Far better to let him see how little she cared about the past by standing her ground and toughing it out.

After all, it was only three days to the wedding, and then she could quite legitimately return to London—although she knew her aunt and uncle had been hoping she might stay on for a few days.

I, she thought, can survive three days.

‘Jenna.’

Over the boom of the surf, and the mourning of the wind, she heard her name spoken.

For a moment she was very still, telling herself with a kind of desperation that it couldn’t be true. That it was just a figment of her imagination, conjured up because she had allowed herself to think about Ross—to indulge memories that were best ignored.

‘Jenna.’

She heard it again, and knew there could be no mistake—and no respite either. The moment she had feared all these months was upon her at last.

Because no one else had ever said her name with quite that same intonation, the first syllable softened and deliberately emphasised.

There was a time when that sound alone had had the power to melt her bones, as if she felt the touch of his hand, the brush of his lips on her naked skin.

Now it seemed as if a stone had lodged, hard and cold, in the pit of her stomach. Her hands tightened briefly, convulsively, on the back of the bench, and the roar of the sea was no louder than the thunder of her own pulses as slowly she turned to face him.

He was, she discovered, startled, only a few yards away from her. How could she not have known—not been aware of his approach? Her emotional antennae must have been dulled by all those false alarms in the past.

Striving for composure, she balled her hands into fists and thrust them deep into the pockets of her jacket. If they were going to start shaking it was no one’s business but her own, she thought, and she made herself meet his gaze.

Although it was not easy to do so. His eyes went over her, slowly, searchingly, the straight black brows drawing together in a slight frown.

She knew exactly what he was seeing. The brown suede covered a tawny jersey. A silk scarf was knotted at her throat, and her long legs were booted to the knee under a brief skirt in pale tweed.

A successful, even affluent look—casual, but confident.

And she needed every scrap of confidence that was at her disposal.

He, she saw, was wearing black. Close-fitting pants that stressed the length of his legs, a roll-neck sweater and a leather jacket.

Belated mourning? she wondered bitterly, as the block of stone inside her twisted slowly. Agonisingly.

He said abruptly, ‘You’re thinner.’

It was so totally typical of him, Jenna thought, almost stung to unexpected laughter. None of the niceties or formalities of polite conversation for Ross. No cautious breaking of the ice between two people who had parted badly and never met since.

Well, if that was how he wanted to play it …

She shrugged. ‘Then I’m in fashion.’ She kept her tone cool to the point of indifference.

He smiled, that familiar, ironic twist of the mouth. ‘Since when did you care about that?’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed,’ she said. ‘People do.’

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘You haven’t changed so much,’ he said. ‘Or how would I have known where to find you?’ He gestured towards the sea. ‘This was always your favourite place.’

‘You came—looking for me?’ She could not suppress the note of incredulity, but managed a tiny laugh to cover it. ‘And I thought it was just a ghastly coincidence.’

‘I thought perhaps we should—talk a little.’

‘I really don’t think we have anything left to talk about,’ Jenna told him crisply. ‘Our lawyers said all that was necessary quite some time ago.’

‘However, they’re not here,’ he said softly. ‘But we are. And that’s the problem.’

‘Is there a problem? I didn’t realise …’

He sighed. ‘Jenna—do you want to play games or talk sense?’ He paused questioningly, and when she did not reply went on, ‘Can we at least agree that this isn’t a situation either of us would have chosen?’

‘Your stepmother clearly thinks differently.’

‘Thirza is a genuinely kind woman,’ he said. ‘But sometimes her kindness leads her in strange directions.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say?’ He was silent again for a moment. ‘Please believe that she didn’t see fit to mention to me that Christy was to be married at this time—or that you would be attending the wedding. Otherwise I would not be here.’

‘Well,’ Jenna said, trying for crisp lightness, ‘no one told me about you either. You’d almost think they were playing a late April Fool on us.’

‘And I think, unless we are careful, we could both end up looking like fools,’ Ross returned tersely. ‘So, if you’re thinking of doing a runner back to London, I advise you to forget it.’

Jenna gasped. ‘May I remind you that you no longer have the right to dictate my actions?’

He said gently, ‘And may I remind you that it was never a right I chose to enforce, anyway?’

She bit her lip. ‘You realise the local gossips will have a field-day if we both stay.’

‘They will have even more to enjoy if we leave.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they will think it means that we still matter to each other—when we know that’s not the case.’

‘On that,’ she said, her tone gritty, ‘we can agree, at least.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’re making progress.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, it will be equally harmful if we each pretend the other does not exist—and for the same reason.’

‘Ye-es,’ she acknowledged, slowly and reluctantly. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Then I suggest that for the duration of the wedding celebrations we maintain a pretence of civility with each other.’ He spoke briskly. ‘Not for my sake, of course, or even yours, but for Christy.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want her big day to be marred by the spectacle of us making ourselves ridiculous—or an object of speculation for the whole community, either,’ he added grimly. ‘I’m sure that’s a point of view you can share.’

‘How reasonable you make it sound,’ Jenna said with a snap.

‘Fine,’ he threw back at her. ‘Then go back to London. Let them think that you still care too much to be near me, even in public.’

‘Now you really are being ridiculous,’ she said coldly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d already made up my mind to stay. But I admit I hoped you’d have the decency to keep out of the way.’

‘Decency was never one of my virtues.’ His drawl taunted her. ‘And I gather Thirza has already told the Penloes that I will be escorting her to the wedding. So I think we’re going to have to—grin and bear it.’

‘By taking refuge in clichés?’

‘By doing whatever it takes.’ He paused again, and she was uneasily aware of that intent, assessing stare. ‘So, shall we each take a deep breath and declare a temporary truce—for the duration of the wedding?’

Jenna bit her lip. ‘It seems there is no alternative.’

‘Then shall we shake hands on it?’ He walked towards her, closing the space between them, and she couldn’t retreat because the damned bench was in the way. Could do nothing about the fact that he was now standing right beside her.

He held out his hand, his dark eyes mesmeric, compelling. Then a mischievous gust of wind suddenly lifted her loosened hair and blew it across his face.

Ross gasped and took a step backwards, his hands tearing almost feverishly at the errant strands to free himself.

For a crazy moment she wondered if he was remembering, as she was, the way he’d used to play with her hair when they were in bed together after lovemaking, twining it round his fingers and drawing it across his lips and throat.

And how she would bury her face in his shoulder, luxuriously inhaling the scent of his skin …

Sudden pain wrenched at her uncontrollably. Blood was roaring in her ears. Hands shaking, she raked her hair back from her face and held it captive at the nape of her neck.

She said hoarsely, looking past him, ‘I—I think the weather’s getting worse. I—I’ll see you around—I expect …’

She walked away from him, forcing herself not to hurry, across the short, damp grass.

And if he said her name again as she went the wind carried it away and it was lost for ever. And she could only be thankful for that.

Once safely inside the garden she began to run, stumbling a little as her feet crunched the gravel.

She fell breathlessly through the front door and met Christy, back from her shopping trip to Truro, coming downstairs.

‘Darling,’ Christy’s blue eyes searched her face. ‘Are you all right? Ma was worried about you …’

‘I’m fine,’ Jenna said, eyes fiercely bright, cheeks hectically flushed. ‘And, for good or ill, I’m staying. But on one condition—and it’s not negotiable.’

‘Oh, Jen.’ Christy hugged her. ‘Anything—you know that.’

Jenna took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m going into Polcarrow tomorrow—and I’m having my hair cut.’ She paused. ‘All of it.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE wind dropped during the early hours of the morning. Jenna could have timed it to the minute, if she’d felt inclined, as she’d done little else since she got to bed but lie staring into the darkness and listening to the grandfather clock in the hall below sonorously marking the passage of the night.

If I don’t get some sleep soon I’m going to look and feel like hell in the morning, she told herself, turning on to her stomach and giving her inoffensive pillows a vicious pummelling.

Even so, there was no way she would look as bad as Ross had done yesterday, she realised with a pang of reluctant concern. Any doubts she might have had about the seriousness of his recent illness had shattered after the first glance. Because he’d looked as if the virus he’d picked up abroad had taken him to death’s door and back again.

He had told her she was thinner, but he too had lost an untold amount of weight, and his dark face had been haggard, and sallow, with deep shadows under his eyes. He’d looked older, too, and quieter. And oddly weary. For a moment she had found herself confronted by a stranger.

She could understand now why Thirza had been so worried about him, even if she did not relish the solution that worry had produced.

She sighed, burying her face in the pillow. For a while she’d been seriously tempted to keep quiet about their encounter on the cliff, but she’d soon realised that would be impractical. Besides, the way that she and Ross planned to deal with each other would have a direct bearing on the next few days, and affect her family, so they probably had a right to know.

She’d broken the news of their truce over dinner, keeping her voice light and matter-of-fact.

‘The last thing either of us wants is to make the situation more awkward than it already is.’ She had tried to smile. ‘So, we plan to be—civil.’

There was a silence, then Aunt Grace said, ‘Oh, my dear child, how desperately sad.’ She directed a fulminating stare at her husband, who was placidly eating his portion of chicken casserole. ‘Henry—how long have you known that Ross would be bringing Thirza to the wedding—and why on earth did you agree?’

‘She rang to inform me just this morning.’ Mr Penloe smiled at his wife. ‘And she didn’t ask my permission,’ he added drily.

‘Typical,’ Grace Penloe said hotly. ‘Absolutely typical. If she’d had the least consideration for us all she’d have stayed away herself.’

Jenna laid a placatory hand over her aunt’s. ‘Darling, it’s all right—really. I admit I was upset when I first heard Ross was here, but that was—just me being silly.’ She gave a resolute smile. ‘It could be all for the best,’ she added, with a sideways glance at her uncle. ‘After all, we had to meet again some time.’

‘Probably,’ said Mrs Penloe. ‘But, for preference, not under the Polcarrow microscope. Oh, Betty Fox will make a meal of this,’ she added, stabbing at a mushroom as if it were the lady in question.

‘Betty Fox will have enough to do, criticising what we’re all wearing and finding fault with the decorations in the church hall and the caterers,’ Christy said, pulling a face. ‘Even she can’t make much capital out of a divorced couple being polite to each other.’

‘That’s what you think,’ her mother said tartly. ‘Oh, damn Thirza.’ She paused ominously. ‘And, Jenna, what’s this Christy tells me about you making an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow to have your hair cut?’

Jenna shrugged. ‘New attitude—new image. I’ve had long hair all my life. It’s time for a change.’

Mrs Penloe gave the smooth chestnut coil at the nape of her niece’s neck an anguished look. ‘Oh, Jenna, don’t do it. At least, not now. Wait until the wedding is over, please.’

Jenna stared at her. ‘Aunt Grace, I’ll be wearing a spray of freesias in my hair. The style won’t make any difference.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the headdress.’ Mrs Penloe shook her head. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘You’d think,’ Jenna said later, as she gave the condemned hair its final nightly brushing, ‘that I was having my head cut off instead.’

Christy, who was sprawled across the bed, turning over the pages of House and Garden, frowned. ‘Ma did overreact slightly,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t say I’m entranced with the idea myself, but it’s your hair, and your decision.’

She pulled a face. ‘Perhaps the wedding is starting to get to her at last. She’s been amazingly calm and organised so far, until dear Thirza dropped her bombshell, that is. I’ve told Pops that when it’s all over he should take Ma away for a holiday.’

A sharp gust rattled the window, and the girls exchanged wry glances.

‘Preferably somewhere warm and peaceful,’ Jenna said drily, putting down her brush.

‘Thank heavens we decided to have the reception in the church hall, instead of …’ Christy paused awkwardly.

Jenna sent her a composed smile. ‘Instead of a marquee on the lawn as I did?’ she queried. ‘It’s all right. You can mention it without me having hysterics.’ She pulled a face. ‘I suspect I’ll need to grow another skin over the next few days, anyway.’

Christy shut the magazine and sat up. ‘Jen—I’m so awfully sorry you should be put through this.’ She paused. ‘The village rumour mill had Ross totally bedridden and being fed intravenously, of course, so you’d hardly expect him to pop up on Trevarne Head, being civilised.’ She gave Jenna an anxious look. ‘Seeing him again—was it as bad as you feared?’

‘Heavens, no,’ Jenna said lightly. Worse—much worse.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Christy shook her head. ‘Not that it lets Thirza off the hook. As a contributor to consideration and family unity, she makes a terrific fabric designer.’

‘Well, she’s certainly that, all right,’ Jenna agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve often thought I’d like to stage an exhibition of her work at the gallery.’

‘You could always suggest it.’

Jenna shook her head. ‘She’d refuse. I was never her favourite person, even before the divorce.’

‘I could never figure that,’ Christy said thoughtfully. ‘After what she went through with her own husband, I’d have said her sympathies would have been with you.’ She paused ruefully. ‘Ouch, my big mouth again. Jen, I’m so sorry …’

‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’

‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’

‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’

‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.

‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.

Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.

But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.

Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …

Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.

‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.

And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.

She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.

She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.

On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.

In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’

‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.

‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.

Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’

‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.

She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.

And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.

Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.