The Runaway Bridesmaid

As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gulped in a lungful of calming breath, those heart-singeing words of the English lawyer looped around Rosie’s mind like a scratched record. To add to the turmoil of the day, a list of unanswered questions formed. Had Bernice died peacefully in her chair next to her ancient Aga? Had she had time to put her affairs in order? Say a final farewell to her friends? Despite not having married or had children, her aunt’s life had been peopled by a myriad of friends, neighbours and acquaintances. At least she had had the forethought to make a will.

It had stopped raining. The silence drew Rosie’s concentration back to the painful present. And she hadn’t thought it could get worse than the loss of her beloved aunt. What a fool she’d been.

Chapter Six

As she crawled along in traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge, the April evening sunshine glanced through the forest of vertiginous buildings and towering cranes of the Lower Manhattan skyline to her left, each yearning for pole position on the crowded horizon. But the iconic landmarks didn’t register on her radar as pain engulfed the crevices of her mind and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. As if Freya didn’t have everything already, she had to go one step further and take the only thing Rosie had that she didn’t.

Beneath the bridge, ferries and other leisure craft laden with weekenders inched along the East River, trailing cappuccino-like froth in their wake until they melted into the distance. Joggers darted by, plugged into their own world, ignorant of Rosie’s crumbling around her. Mothers and nannies with shining silver prams paraded proudly in the late afternoon sunshine, their precious cargo delivering another painful jolt to her heart.

She cleared the bridge. To her right, the network of shaded narrow streets teemed with workers and tourists alike; their gutters strewn not with leaves but with the detritus of human consumption – fast food cartons, aluminium drinks cans and that day’s printed news. Street signs swung in the mounting breeze, their rhythmic squeaks swallowed on the wind. Flags fluttered against a crystal sharp, turquoise canvas and the waft of ground coffee beans and freshly-baked bagels caused Rosie’s empty stomach to growl.

She steered a course for her apartment on the Upper West Side, dodging the throng of street artists, souvenir hawkers and food cart vendors spilling onto the road. As she screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with a speeding yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos. But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.

As she searched for the illusive Manhattan parking slot, a coil of remorse spread its tentacles through her anguish when she recalled the breach of her promise to pay her aunt a return visit. She had been unable to take time off from her punishing work schedule at Christmas and then she’d had the wedding of the century to arrange. Now she would never see her aunt’s kindly face, so reminiscent of her beloved mother’s, again.

But she could have the next best thing. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective. However, the opportunity was so tinged with sadness that she knew it could never be a repeat of her previous, soul-enhancing visit to her Aunt Bernice’s attractive cottage in Devon. Nor would the visit be coupled with her aunt’s astute observations on the machinations of the human psyche and the comfort of the role reversal, absolving Rosie from her caring obsession as substitute parent to Freya. Their mother’s absence had been felt most keenly today as the first of her daughters took their walk down the aisle.

She had always seen her aunt’s home, Thornleigh Lodge, as a refuge, a place she could run to whenever times were tough and threatened to strangle the life out of her. It was somewhere she could go to hide, to lick her wounds, to be loved in her own right with no strings attached. In a way, her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite.

Yes, it was exactly what she needed. But more than that, it was her responsibility to ensure that a member of the family attended the ceremony of thanksgiving and celebration of Bernice’s life. How could she have contemplated not going? What had her life become if she could not spare the time to fly to the UK and be at her funeral? And anyway, she really needed to get out of the country. To escape the inevitable tantrums (Freya’s), questions, (Lauren’s) and disbelief (her father’s). Giles no longer deserved her consideration.

This was her real life Bridget Jones moment and she intended to grab it!

In the first bit of luck that day – maybe even that year – she spotted a yellow BMW coupé pull away from the kerb only twenty yards from her apartment and she managed to wedge her car into it. Parallel parking had never been her forte. She traipsed back down the tree-lined street to her home’s familiar limestone and red-brick façade, blistered in places by the harsh breath of the Manhattan winters – yet, in Rosie’s opinion, the scarring only added to its beauty. Bruised clouds marched across the sky, tinted with the crimson and violet halo of dusk, bathing the rich amber brickwork in a kaleidoscope of colours. Rosie adored the unique character of their neighbourhood: the green splodges of the community gardens and roof terraces, the local, multi-cultural coffee shops and delis, and its proximity to Riverside Park and Central Park.

Feeling as though she had sustained a blow to her head, she trudged up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy oak entrance door leading into the foyer. As she clacked her way to the staircase up to her fourth floor apartment, she realised how much she loved the sound of her stilettos on the black-and-white tiled floor. The added height also gave her confidence a welcome boost; the vertiginous heels ensured she held her head high, shoulders erect and her back ram-rod straight – a stance with which she could usually face the world. It hadn’t worked its particular brand of magic that day though.

As she stabbed her key into the door, she paused to run her eyes over her ridiculous outfit. A sudden wave of anger grabbed her and her face flooded with heat. It was time for Rosie Hamilton to stand on her own two feet and take responsibility for fulfilling her destiny, whatever the director of fates had in store for her.

She dumped her Burberry bag on the counter in the galley kitchen and removed her prized Louboutins, massaging her ankle where the leather had dug into the skin. She extracted their dust-bag from the drawer in her sideboard and carefully slotted them into their protective cover like precious cargo. She wished she owned a cosy blanket in which she could seek protection from the scuffs and scrapes of the outside world.

There was just enough time to sling some essential items into her Gucci duffle bag, grab a few hours of sleep and drive out to JFK to catch the transatlantic flight over to London. She’d have to max out her credit card, but what the hell. She would take the train down to Devon, attend the funeral, make the meeting with her aunt’s solicitor for the reading of the will and once she’d sorted out Bernice’s affairs she would come home with a plan of her own. She had no idea what that would be. Could she continue to work at Harlow Fenton with Giles in her face every day, even with Lauren to protect her from his barbed comments? The agony columns were right – nothing good came of a dalliance with the boss.

The sooner she made a decision about her future, the less risk there was of her succumbing to her ostrich tendencies. Or of beginning her search for a reason that it was in fact her fault, that she was partly, if not fully, to blame for Giles’ indiscretion with her sister.

She ripped off her bridesmaid dress and crammed it unceremoniously into her hall closet with the other six. But the door wouldn’t shut and the gowns bulged out like stuffing from a rag doll. Rosie made a promise to herself that she would never, ever accept another request, or demand, to be a bridesmaid. For one thing, she just did not have the wardrobe space.

She scrabbled in her purse for her little white square of connectivity and depressed the ‘on’ button. The wedding ceremony would be over by now and she had to let her father, and Lauren, know she was okay – that she hadn’t dematerialised in a puff of smoke or been abducted by aliens. She glanced at the screen. Thirteen missed calls; three from Lauren, but the rest were from Freya. She sent a brief text informing Lauren and her father that she was on her way to England to attend Bernice’s funeral and would let them know when she had landed safely. Then she gulped in a steadying breath and dialled Freya’s number.

‘Hello, Freya.’

‘Why was your phone switched off? I’ve been trying to ring you for an explanation of your ridiculous vanishing act. Couldn’t you have waited until after the ceremony to fly off to England?’

‘So Dad has told you the sad news? I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?’ Rosie was astute enough to realise that her father would have put her shock disappearance and weird behaviour down to her grief over her aunt’s death and had shared the news with Freya to somehow explain her absence.

‘Very funny, Rosie. I need to talk to you about earlier.’

‘Yes, Freya, it was a huge shock. After all, she was only seventy-two. Relatively young really, nowadays.’

‘What are you talking about? I’m talking about you blundering in on me and Giles!’

‘Oh, yes, that.’ Rosie collapsed down onto her white leather sofa, the air suddenly whipped from her lungs. She shuddered in a breath and waited, fiddling distractedly with the earring in her left ear. She had no intention of making this easy for Freya.

‘Look, I know Giles was your date for the wedding, Rosie. But, well, it wasn’t serious between the two of you, was it? With him being your boss and all that? And he’s so handsome and charismatic, all that power at his fingertips. It was one last fling before the door’s slammed shut. You won’t tell Jacob, will you?’

This last plea was clearly the only concern on Freya’s mind – to save her own skin, blast the effect her actions might have on other people’s lives. Even the death of her aunt hadn’t registered on her sister’s emotional Richter scale.

Rosie decided to make her suffer, just a little. She deserved it, didn’t she?

‘Dad did tell you, didn’t he?’

‘Dad? Did you tell him? Oh, Rosie, no. You didn’t?’

Calm, calm, breathe, breathe, relax. She raised her eyes to stare out of the French window to the little wrought-iron bistro table she had managed to squeeze onto her tiny but prized balcony, for those early morning cappuccinos that had never materialised.

‘Hang on, Freya.’

‘What? What? Rosie?’

Rosie grabbed the brass handle to open the French doors and let the cool evening breeze snake into her living room. She inhaled the air laced with cinnamon and warm caramel from the bakery on the corner. It gave her the strength to continue with the conversation.

‘No, Freya,’ she continued, ‘about Aunt Bernice.’

‘Oh, yes, of course Dad told me. But I don’t see why you had to leave immediately?’

Rosie waited for Freya to express her sympathies for her beloved aunt’s demise. Whilst Freya had no relationship with Bernice, she knew Rosie had been close to her, that she’d spent a summer at her cottage the previous year, and their emails and old-fashioned written communications had fanned the flames of friendship ever since.

Nothing. Just like Giles when she had shared the news with him.

‘Well, are you, Rosie? Going to ditch me in it with Jacob? I’ve been so stressed about the wedding and now this uncertainty about your intentions has added to my anxiety. I can hardly concentrate on enjoying the best day of my life because of you!’

‘Because of me?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t get you on your cell phone. I’ve rang a hundred times. I need to know what you intend to do.’

Good grief, the gall of the girl! Her fault Freya couldn’t enjoy being the centre of attention? She doubted this assertion as Freya usually partied like a Rio showgirl. Her fault she had blundered in on a moment of forbidden lust before the door had slammed shut minutes before her wedding? Her fault she wasn’t available to reassure Freya of her silence in the matter, before Freya settled down to a glorious life with her handsome groom in his million dollar penthouse in Battery Park overlooking the Hudson Bay, Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty and the New Jersey shoreline beyond?

As she had practiced for years, Rosie crushed her rising indignation. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and gnawed on the skin inside her cheek which now threatened an ulcer.

‘I know you can’t come to the funeral, Freya. I’ve got a flight booked tomorrow from JFK. Don’t worry. I’ll sort out the paperwork with the English lawyer who contacted me yesterday to break the news. She died peacefully in her sleep, but she was alone.’

This last sentence had coiled around the labyrinths of Rosie’s mind since Mr Meadows had uttered it and, despite the slicing pain of all her discoveries in the last few hours, it was this fact which hurt her the most. For some inexplicable reason, her grief was mingled with guilt; that her aunt, who had guided her back to emotional health when Carlos had dumped her, had died without anyone to hold her hand.

‘Look, Rosie. Aunt Bernice was ancient. For whatever reason, she never married nor had children. She only knew you until you were eight when Mum and Dad left Devon to come to Connecticut. If you choose that way of life something like that is bound to happen. She should have settled for any random guy and she wouldn’t have had to die alone!’

‘Is that what you’re doing, Freya?’

‘What?’

‘Settling for some random guy so you’re not alone?’

‘No way! I love Jacob.’

A snort of derision escaped from Rosie’s lips before she could stop it.

‘Look, Rosie, Giles was just a panic encounter – the last before I have to hide myself away from all of life’s temptations.’

For goodness’ sake, thought Rosie, as an anvil-heavy weight thumped against her chest. It had meant nothing to Freya, those five minutes of pleasure. Unbeknown to her, she had destroyed Rosie’s dream of a new relationship – if it could be described as such as – and then discarded it with a flick of her platinum curls and a flash of her sapphire eyes. She and Giles were one of a kind – both of whom she’d willingly welcomed into her heart.

How unlucky was she?

But whilst she could wipe Giles from her life due to lack of merit, she was unable to do the same with her only sister. She couldn’t allow this nightmare to sow the seeds of bitterness in the hearts of those she loved.

‘No, Freya, I won’t tell Jacob. But I have to tell you how shocked I was at your behaviour. I thought, hoped, that all your crazy, wild exploits were behind you when you accepted Jacob’s proposal. He’s a decent guy, you know, and he adores you. He deserves your loyalty.’

‘I promise you I will work hard at being the best wife I can be for Jacob.’ Freya paused, and for the first time in a long time Rosie heard a serious tone creep into her sister’s voice. ‘Romantic love is not all it’s cracked up to be, Rosie. You should find someone who will provide for you, too. Don’t tell me that’s not better than slogging your life away in that sweatshop of an office.’

Sorrow tinged Rosie’s heart at the possibility Freya had settled for less than a burning-hot passion for her handsome husband. She wished with all her heart that today she could have fully rejoiced in the vicarious happiness of her sister’s wedding day. Her head considered Freya’s proposition as a possible alternative to her loneliness, but her heart screamed traitor.

‘Are you telling me that you don’t love Jacob with all your heart and soul?’

Freya was listening but the words clearly didn’t penetrate into her brain. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony, Rosie, it’s such a shame you missed it. I know you said ivory roses and peonies are classy and sophisticated, but I still wish you had gone for something a little more show-stopping like I wanted.’

‘Goodbye, Freya. Send my love to Dad.’

Rosie stood on her balcony hugging her mug of camomile tea – the balm of choice for all scenarios in apartment 4B. The tea tasted like cat’s pee to Rosie, but its warmth and sweetness achieved the intended goal. She mused about where her excessive caring gene had originated. Her sister, her father, her college friends and work colleagues all held a spot on her long list, but where had such compassionate interest led her? Was she responsible for spoiling Freya; had she had a hand in moulding her self-focused behaviour?

Rosie felt a failure on all levels. Self-interest, single-minded ambition and determination led to arrogance and pride. She only had to look at Giles to know this was true. Those characteristics might be bad, but they provided the impetus and tenacity to strive for the fulfilment of your dreams – the accomplishment of which delivered a happy life.

Should she strive to achieve her own dreams now? Seek a relationship with a random passing stranger as Freya had advised, just so she wouldn’t die alone like her aunt? She caught her breath and shook these thoughts from her mind. God, no! That depressing scenario would not be her future.

As evening swept its cloak over New York City, Rosie’s pain passed into exhaustion. In her pristine bedroom, a necessary sanctuary from the chaos and clutter preferred by Freya as they had been growing up, she leaned against her silk cushions and scrolled through her cell phone messages. Five missed calls from Lauren now. Not one from Giles. She jabbed the ‘off’ button and wished she could repeat the action with her life – evaporate from this agonising world she had tumbled into. When would she be granted leave from the trauma constantly inflicted on her weary soul?

As her internal dialogue chattered with irrelevant, circular arguments, and fear cast a shadow over her aching heart, fatigue delivered her into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

Chapter Seven

Rosie woke in the early hours, fully clothed. A burnt orange mohair throw prickled at her chin. Her body was still exhausted from her unconscious exploits; of seeking to find a way out of the labyrinth of sadness and self-recrimination for what life had thrown at her. The bejewelled clock on the lamp table, a birthday gift from Lauren, ticked each painful second by, delivering with each one a slash of pain as she came to realise Giles and Freya’s betrayal had not been a dream after all. The question was: would she allow the resulting shock and bitterness to poison her soul?

As a shaft of moonlight glanced through the drifting clouds, she dragged her aching bones to the tiny galley kitchen. She brewed up a pot of her favoured Lady Grey using fresh tea leaves, her actions measured and mechanical. She welcomed the scalding of the fragrant liquid on her tongue as evidence she was still able to feel physical pain and therefore still alive. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the French windows – a gaunt, transparent doll engulfed by the velvet darkness. Her eyes fell down the sheer drop to the sidewalk below, high enough to ensure certain death if she were that way inclined. Would the descent be a smooth journey to oblivion or too swift to register?

She clasped the spreading warmth from the china mug, saddened that the birth of a new day had not brought the solace she so desired. The cool light of dawn began to spread its insistent fingers through the south-facing window and the black, wrought-iron frame of the balcony glistened with morning dew. She allowed her weary mind to meander the streets of Manhattan, those she and Giles had sauntered together over the last three months: the snaking paths of Central Park as the stark, spindly branches awakened with spring buds; the urban grids of Lower Manhattan explored in the slicing rain in search of a stolen moment from the frenetic activity of the office for which she now endured the inevitable punishment.

She forced her thoughts to linger on her relationship with Giles. Her chest tingled with an unidentifiable emotion. Their liaison had perhaps been inevitable. As she spent most of her waking hours either at the office or networking at client dinners, conferences or launches, no other potential date had crossed her radar.

She smiled as she recalled their first night together after a conference in Boston, both too drunk and too exhausted to do anything beyond kiss and pass out. She knew Giles was unpopular in the office; his defensiveness of his higher status scratched the egos of those striving to catch him or replace him, but she had glimpsed his softer side. And no one could fail to be drawn to his charismatic charm, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, your conversation the most sparkling he had ever heard. Not to mention his dark, brooding, sexy good looks and come-to-bed eyes.

Rosie realised their relationship had been born of convenience; a snatched hour after work here, a grabbed weekend there. She loathed herself and her emotional weakness for craving the brief episodes of solace he offered in her solitary life. But mostly her conscience was gnawed by the acid of guilt because he was her boss and office romances featured as a forbidden transgression in the Office Manual. She’d been unsuccessful in keeping their relationship a secret from eagle-eyed Lauren, who had cautioned her against its continuance. She was grateful for a confidante with whom to share her woes, but Lauren had refused to let her ignore the inadvisability of such a slip in her usually level-headed judgement.

Giles was not only resented as the current possessor of the power to have the final say on his team’s promotion prospects, but for his tendency to grab every ounce of credit where credit most certainly was not due. His mediocrity of talent required the skilful manipulation of that possessed by others. Accuracy and honesty were superfluous in this regard. It was this renowned corporate trait possessed by Giles which alarmed her the most. She had been adamant she would not hand over her Baker-Colt Family Trust file for him to complete a share purchase the following week. She knew Giles would grasp the opportunity to milk all the credit for her hard work.

Annoyingly, now she intended to fly to the UK for her aunt’s funeral, Giles would get his way after all – but there was no alternative. Monday was the deadline for their purchase. She had been excited and grateful to at last be sufficiently trusted to handle a transaction based solely on her own thorough research and advice. This portfolio investment was for a wealthy family’s trust fund set up in the name of their deceased daughter, Charlotte Baker, and Rosie had been meticulous in her preparation and planning.

She shook her head to clear her scattered thoughts and forced herself into the shower before calling a taxi to take her to the airport and the long flight to Heathrow. Her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective.

Rosie prayed that now Freya had curtailed her frequent jaunts to the party hot spots of Europe and was settling down to married life with Jacob, she could at last relinquish the presumed-temporary caring role. She hoped she had performed her last familial duty. Her sister’s wedding had been the first of the last seven she’d actually had a date. Daniel, one of her gay friends, had offered his services as wingman, but she feared an outburst of British honesty similar to the last time he’d met her sister and casually enquired of her what personal qualities had first attracted her to the multimillionaire, Jacob Bennett, Jr. She had politely refused his kind offer to be her plus-one.