Innocent On Her Wedding Night

Any fleeting plan of having the locks changed in Daniel’s absence no longer seemed to be an option, she thought, her mouth twisting.

She realised she wasn’t shocked or even particularly surprised by Jamie’s tale of woe. He seemed to have been tottering from one disaster to the next since adolescence. Flirtations with alcohol and drugs had led to expulsion from two schools, and he’d distinguished himself at the third with a brief and unsuccessful career as a bookmaker in the sixth form. Only the fact that his final public examinations were looming had saved him from yet another ignominious exit.

His time at university, however, had been relatively peaceful, and he’d apparently transferred seamlessly to Cowper Dymond.

Laine had hoped her brother’s problems were behind him, but how wrong could anyone be?

She supposed he was not entirely to blame. As their family life had begun to fall apart it was Jamie who’d absorbed most of the resultant pressure. Their mother’s dependency had been transferred to him.

Nobody expected very much of me, Laine thought. I was the youngest. The baby. The little sister.

She replaced the phone on its rest, and stood up. The ice pack had helped reduce some of the swelling to her ankle, and she’d apply another one later.

But now she had things to do. And making Jamie’s room at least habitable was the first of them. Comfort could follow once the place had been emptied tomorrow.

As Daniel had piled everything neatly in one corner, she could actually move around it as long as she was careful. She began by clearing her clothes from the bed, and hanging them in the fitted wardrobes, alongside the few things Jamie had left, then filling the empty drawers in his dressing chest.

She fetched clean linen and made up the bed, before devoting half an hour’s energetic cleaning to the scruffy bathroom, throwing away half-used toiletries and oddments of soap, and scouring the basin and tub.

Particularly the tub—because she had plans for that.

When basic hygiene had been restored, she stripped and put on her favourite robe, an elderly blue velour, much rubbed, but as comforting as a hug from a friend.

She unpacked her bag and put the modest amount of clothing it contained into the washing machine, along with the garments she’d just discarded. Her precipitate departure meant that she’d had to leave much of her stuff behind.

I seem to be spending my entire life in flight, one way or another, she derided herself. But now the thing I’ve dreaded most has happened, so there’s no point in running any more.

Finally, she ran herself a generous bath, scenting it lavishly with her favourite oil. She gave her hair a vigorous shampoo using the hand-shower, before sinking down with a grateful sigh into the water, immersing herself to the tops of her breasts. She leaned back, closing her eyes as the fragrant warmth caressed her skin.

This was heaven. The shower on the boat had been intermittent at best, and at times totally non-cooperative. Her last exchange with Andy had been on that very subject. She’d said they must get it fixed before the next season. He’d grunted.

Nothing new in that, she thought. But maybe she should have reckoned up the number of grunts per conversation and drawn some kind of conclusion from them. Then she might have been more prepared for his selling their only asset and doing a runner with the proceeds.

She’d known, of course, that Andy bitterly resented the fact that she’d refused any physical involvement with him, and supposed he could not, in truth, be blamed for that. However, she’d made no actual promises, she told herself defensively.

It had been the chance of a new life halfway across the world, out of harm’s way, that she’d wanted. Not him. And she’d agreed to go with him just as his business partner, not his lover. He should have taken nothing for granted.

But he was a good-looking example of the blond, curly haired, rugged corner of the market, and charming with it—on the surface at least—so he probably hadn’t had too many rejections in his life. No doubt he’d believed that proximity would do its work, and that he’d persuade her round to his way of thinking in due course.

Well, she thought with a swift shiver, at least I was spared that. The money was all he got from me.

He’d totally underestimated her indifference to him sexually, just as she’d completely missed the signs that beneath the charismatic son-of-the-sea pose was a common swindler.

A brilliant fisherman, of course, in every way. Bait the hook, she thought bitterly, and reel ’em in.

But they’d had a good business going there, she reflected with regret. Their clientele had registered few complaints, and an abundance of compliments, especially about the good food she’d managed to produce in a galley that just bordered on the adequate, and money had been there to be made. But she could see now that, outside the thrill and glamour of the chase for the big game fish, it had all been too much like hard work for Andy. He wanted easy pickings, and no slog over bookkeeping or maintenance.

In retrospect, she could see she should have been warned that all might not be as it seemed. Except that she hadn’t allowed herself time to think—or to wonder what she might be getting into.

Oh, his proposition that she should invest in his business had come at exactly the right moment, she thought, her mouth twisting in self-derision. And when you’re thrown a lifeline, you don’t always check the rope for durability. You’re just too thankful to be rescued …

Dear God—some rescue! As she’d come back to the boat that day, weary and disheartened by lack of success in finding their business the new shore premises it needed, she had already known that persuading Andy to sit down and talk through their current difficulties would present a mammoth problem.

So, she’d not anticipated an easy time. She had, however, expected that he’d be there. Not that she’d find the revolting Dirk Clemmens waiting for her down in the saloon, a bottle of bourbon open on the table in front of him beside a sheaf of papers.

Of all their clients, this wealthy South African had been her least favourite. She’d loathed the way he made any excuse to touch her, brushing past her unnecessarily close. Making sure their hands met when she passed him a drink or served food. She didn’t like the friends he brought with him either, overweight and loud-mouthed. Or the girls who lay around sun-bathing, wearing only thongs when not completely naked.

Andy’s mouth had curled, however, when she’d complained about Clemmens and his groping. ‘Why should you care?’ he’d demanded sullenly. ‘We both know he’s on a hiding to nothing with you, sweetheart.’

And, suddenly, inexplicably, the burly South African had been right there, back on the boat, and she’d seemed to be alone with him, which had bewildered her as well as filling her with an odd sense of foreboding. But she’d hidden it well, keeping her voice cool. ‘Where’s Andy?’

‘Oh, he’s gone.’ He sounded almost casual. ‘We did a deal, chickie, and I’m now the new owner—in full possession.’ He had soft pink lips that always looked wet, and he stretched them now in an ingratiating smile. ‘Welcome back.’

Laine had stayed very still. She said quietly, ‘There must be some mistake. Andy and I were partners.’

‘Yeah, he told me. Sleeping partners.’ He gave a lascivious chuckle. ‘Which suits me just fine—so let’s keep the arrangement going, shall we?’ He pushed a glass towards her. ‘Sit down, honey. Have a drink while we discuss your—duties, eh?’

She said desperately, ‘But surely he must have left me a message of some kind?’

‘Yeah, he did. Now, how did he put it?’ He pretended to think for a moment. ‘Oh, I remember. He said to tell you, “So long, honey, and don’t think it wasn’t nice.’”

The shock of what he was saying brought bile into her throat, but it seemed wiser to take a seat while she tried to assimilate the full horror of Andy’s defection, and this resultant change in her circumstances.

She poured some whisky into her glass, and took a minimal sip as she waited for her mind to stop reeling.

Andy, she thought. Andy—whom she’d trusted—had done this to her. Had cheated her, stolen from her, and left her to this creature, whom he knew she hated. Was this his idea of revenge for turning him down—to abandon her to the mercies of a man whom she knew wouldn’t take no for an answer?

Was every man she came across going to betray her in some way?

Her stomach churned as she tried to think what to do next. Her instinct was screaming to her to make a dash for it, but, although Clemmens was a big man, he was light on his feet, and she wasn’t sure she could out-run him. And the thought of being caught by him—subdued—was terrifying.

No she would have to be more clever than that. Besides, she couldn’t simply leave empty-handed. Her wallet, with what ready money she possessed, was with her in her shoulder bag, but her passport was in her cabin with the rest of her things, and she needed it.

However, he’d clearly been celebrating his purchase, and this could work in her favour. She’d seen him drink before and, despite appearances and his own bragging, he didn’t have the hardest head in Miami.

She waited until he started shuffling through the papers, muttering with satisfaction, then swiftly tipped her drink down her skirt. It felt horribly clammy, and she immediately stank of spirits, but she could only hope Clemmens had imbibed enough himself not to notice that.

She poured another modest amount for herself, then refilled his glass, pushing it within easy reach. His fingers closed round it, and he drank.

He wiped his mouth with his fist, belched, and looked at her. ‘Andy tells me that once you’re in the sack you’re not nearly as prim and proper as you make out, sweetie.’ He laughed again. ‘I sure hope that’s true, because I pay by results.’

She smiled at him. Raised her glass in a semi-toast. ‘Then I trust you’re prepared to be generous, Mr Clemmens.’

Andy, you total bastard! Whatever you’ve done with the money, you could have spared me this—animal.

She sipped, then sent the rest over her skirt, as he splashed more bourbon into his glass, spattering his papers in the process.

He swore. ‘Get a cloth.’

She obeyed reluctantly, hoping he wouldn’t notice her damp skirt. But he simply grabbed the cloth from her hand, and began to dab clumsily at the top document.

‘God, it’s hot in here.’ He ran a finger round the collar of his polo shirt. ‘Isn’t there a fan or something?’

‘There used to be.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe Andy took it with him.’

‘No, he took nothing but the asking price. I saw to that.’

Her heart skipped a beat, but her tone held nothing but indifference. ‘Then it’ll be somewhere in the guest quarters.’

‘Well, don’t just sit there.’ He leaned back against the cushioned seat, closing his eyes. ‘Get it.’

Laine rose and picked up her bag from the side of her chair. Was it really going to be this easy?

She went straight to the tiny space she’d occupied since she came on board, and changed swiftly out of her ruined skirt into a pair of white jeans.

She retrieved her passport, and thrust as much as she could carry into the smaller of her two travel bags, knowing that she needed to travel light.

Then, soft-footed, she went up on deck. She’d just stepped on to the gangplank when Dirk Clemmens’ voice sounded just behind her. ‘Where d’you think you’re going, chickie? You come here, now, like a good girl.’

As he reached for her Laine ran, hurling herself headlong on to the dock. Clemmens, panting close behind, made a grab for her but missed, and, bawling with rage, overbalanced and fell flat.

Laine, landing awkwardly, twisted her ankle, but kept going somehow, biting her lip against the pain. A glance over her shoulder showed that a small crowd was already gathering round Clemmens, who was trying to sit up.

She heard his voice like a wounded bull. ‘Stop her—she’s a thief.’ But she didn’t falter, or slacken her pace. She received a few curious looks, but no one attempted to detain her.

She turned abruptly and dodged into a bar that she knew, and made her way through the groups of drinkers as if on her way to the women’s room. Once at the rear, she took the emergency exit instead, finding herself in a quiet backstreet.

However, she’d shot her bolt, and she knew it. She was limping heavily now, and her ankle was swelling up like a balloon, so she hailed the first cruising cab she saw and asked to be taken to the airport.

And now here I am, she thought mirthlessly, as she climbed out of the bath and swathed herself in a towel. Out of the frying pan, straight into the inferno.

She towelled herself down swiftly, then rubbed the excess moisture from her hair and combed it back from her face with her fingers, grimacing as she remembered that her hairdryer was one of the items she’d been forced to abandon on the boat.

But I had a spare one here, she thought, getting back into her robe. I kept it in my dressing table.

Will it still be there—and do I have the nerve to check?

Yet, it was safe enough, she assured herself. Daniel was at the office, and she was surely entitled to retrieve her own property?

She limped across the living area, pushed open the door of her bedroom, and went cautiously inside—only to pause with a small, shocked gasp as she looked around her.

Because it was unrecognisable. The pretty wallpaper with its delicate tracery of honeysuckle had been painted over in plain ivory, and her pale yellow silk bedcover had been replaced by something far more austere in dark brown. The curtains were brown too, and even the bedside rugs had been changed.

Every trace of her, every charming personal touch that her earnings from the gallery had provided, seemed to have been deliberately erased.

They say you shouldn’t go back, she thought, because you’ll find the space you occupied has gone.

And I’m suddenly beginning to feel as if I no longer exist.

As if everything I loved most has been taken away from me. My father first, when I was a baby, then Simon, and eventually Abbotsbrook. Maybe it was never the sanctuary I imagined, and my last memories of it were pretty hideous, but it held a kind of security all the same.

I always thought one day I’d go back, and somehow rediscover everything that was precious from my childhood.

She bit her lip. Oh, come on, now, she adjured herself impatiently. You’re here to dry your hair, not collapse into sentimentality.

She took a breath, then raised her head and looked across the room into the dressing table mirror. If Daniel hadn’t changed, there was little difference in her either. Her hair was still mousy, albeit streaked by the sun, and her figure remained like a stick. Her eyes would always be more grey than green, although she did have her mother’s cheekbones, which perhaps redeemed her face from being totally nondescript.

But not a great deal to set, all the same, against Daniel’s known preferences in womankind. The glamorous leggy blondes with the knowing eyes who’d made her adolescence miserable.

Or Candida, she thought, flinching as she recalled the sultry mouth, the body that swayed inside its clothes as if impatient to be free of them, and the sweet husky voice like poisoned honey.

How could any man resist her?

Deep within her something twisted in renewed agony, and she heard herself gasp.

‘Do not,’ she said aloud, her voice vehement. ‘Do not go there.’

But it was too late. And suddenly it was all too much, the throb in her ankle swamped by this other fiercer pain. She was alone, broke and scared. And she’d been through forty-eight hours of sheer trauma only to find a different kind of hell waiting for her in the place that should have been her refuge.

And Laine put her hands over her face, sank down on the edge of that immaculately smooth, alien bed, and wept, her whole body shaking with her sobs, until she had no more tears left.

CHAPTER THREE

FOR a long time after she was calm again Laine remained where she was, lying face downward on the bed, her fingers digging almost convulsively into the quilted satin of the bedcover.

But she knew she couldn’t stay there. Recognised, in fact, it would have been better if she’d never entered the room at all. Because Daniel was here, all around her, tormenting her senses and her memory.

The faint scent of his cologne was in the air. The subtle musky fragrance she’d always associated with him. That she’d breathed in so many times in the past with all the helpless longing of first love.

‘Time I wasn’t here,’ she said aloud.

She got slowly to her feet, meticulously restoring the coverlet to its former pristine condition. Making sure there was no untoward sign of her presence. And she managed to find her hairdryer, too—not where she’d left it, of course, but at the back of a shelf in the row of immaculately organised wardrobes.

Out of sight—out of mind, she thought as she crossed the living area to the other room. Rather like myself.

He’ll probably never know it’s gone.

And at that same moment she heard the rattle of a key in the front door.

Oh, God, she thought, her heart thudding. He’s back. I got out just in time.

She tossed the hairdryer onto the bed, and turned defensively, pulling the door shut behind her as Daniel came in. He looked preoccupied and not particularly good-tempered.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said stiltedly, wincing at the absurdity of the remark.

His tone was acid. ‘Who were you expecting?’

‘Well, not you. Not so soon.’ She paused. ‘You—startled me.’

‘I can see that,’ he said brusquely. ‘You look like a ghost.’ He walked over to her, putting a finger under her chin as his frowning gaze scanned her face.

‘Don’t.’ Laine pushed his hand away.

‘You’ve been crying,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Is it any concern of yours?’

‘Probably not. But I’ve no wish to share my living space with the human equivalent of a leaking tap.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Do us both a favour, Laine, and give some thought to growing up.’

He walked over to the other room, disappearing briefly to emerge a moment later with a laptop computer in a carrying case slung over his shoulder.

She braced herself, but he made no comment, so it seemed she’d covered her tracks successfully.

‘See you later,’ he tossed at her as he passed.

‘As if I had a choice,’ she returned bitterly as the door closed behind him.

And he would, of course, catch her looking like something the cat dragged in, with wet hair and her old robe. Although that was probably safer, under the circumstances. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel even a momentary attraction to her. Not that it was likely, she reminded herself, and went into her room to dry her hair.

Although thick, it was soft and fine, and needed skilful layering to give it any real shape. No chance of that, however, until she discovered just how dire her financial situation was, she thought as she put down her brush.

She dressed swiftly in a blue denim skirt and a thin, collarless white blouse. Her ankle was still making her flinch whenever she put weight on it, so she fetched some more ice cubes and stretched out on the sofa, resting the aching joint on a cushion.

But she couldn’t completely relax. Her mind was buzzing—on fire—teeming with stray images from the past, all as vivid as they were unwelcome.

Reminding her starkly that she could barely remember a time when she hadn’t been in love with him.

Recalling the day when, at six years old, she’d emerged on hands and knees from her special den in the garden and looked up to see him—this stranger—standing at Simon’s side, tall and dark against the sunlight.

‘I told you this is where she’d be,’ her brother had said, his voice teasing and affectionate. ‘Jamie built this little place as a hide, so he could watch birds, but as usual he got bored with it, and now it’s Laine’s. Get up, scrap, and be polite to my mate Daniel.’

As she scrambled to her feet, she said with dignity, ‘It’s my secret place. You’re not meant to tell.’

Daniel bent and carefully removed a dead leaf from her hair. ‘My lips are sealed,’ he said. ‘I promise.’ He paused. ‘Are you a birdwatcher too?’

She shook her head. ‘I come here to read.’

‘What’s the book of the moment?’

She looked back longingly. ‘Treasure Island.’

‘Good God,’ he said, exchanging amused glances with Simon. ‘So, who’s your favourite character?’

She gave it some thought. ‘I don’t think any of them are very nice. They’re all greedy, and Jim spies on people.’ She paused. ‘Ben Gunn isn’t too bad, I suppose, because he only wants toasted cheese.’

‘You heard it here first, folks,’ Simon said, grinning. ‘Stevenson, eat your heart out. Come on, Dan, let’s leave her to her pirates and get some tennis in before tea.’ He ruffled her hair, dislodging more dead leaves. ‘See you later, Lainie. And clean up a bit before Ma sees you. She seems a bit agitated today.’

‘That’s because Mr Latimer was here yesterday,’ Laine informed him. ‘She’s always in a bad mood after that, because she hates him. She calls him that “bloody man”.’

There was a brief silence, then Dan turned away, apparently overcome by a coughing fit, while Simon looked down at his younger sibling, his young face suddenly weary.

He said quietly, ‘But you don’t have to do the same, Lainie. Is that understood?’

She said uncertainly ‘Are you cross too?’

‘No,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘No, of course not. It’s just that a visit from the trustee isn’t the ideal start to a vacation.’

It was good that Simon was home, Laine thought contentedly, as they departed and she went back to her book. Because it meant that Mummy would stop frowning, and smile instead.

The housekeeper, Mrs Evershott always sounded the gong for meals five minutes early, so she gauged she’d have plenty of time to wash her hands and comb her hair before tea.

But that day her mother had arranged for it to be served on the lawn, as a tribute to the good weather, and there was no way she could reach the house unobserved.

‘Elaine!’ Angela exclaimed from the shelter of her parasol. ‘What have you been doing? Rolling in mud? And where’s your hair ribbon?’ She turned to the others at the table, shrugging helplessly. ‘What a ragamuffin. A cupboard full of pretty dresses, and she insists on those old shorts.’

She sighed. ‘I don’t think her poor father would recognise his Lily Maid these days.’

‘Lily Maid?’ Daniel queried politely, while Laine stared down at the grass, shuffling her feet in their blue flip-flops, knowing what was coming next, and dreading it.

Angela sighed again. ‘My mother-in-law was a big Tennyson fan, and when she saw the baby for the first time she was folded in a white shawl—looking like a lily, apparently. So Mama persuaded Graham to christen her Elaine, after the girl in the poem—The Lily Maid of Astolat.’

There was a pause, then Dan said politely, ‘That’s a charming story.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Laine said with sudden fierceness. ‘Elaine’s a silly name, and Jamie says she was a wuss for dying just because Sir Lancelot wasn’t in love with her—and he says I’ll grow up to be a wuss, too, because I’m called after her.’

There was an odd silence, then Simon put down his plate and began to laugh, to be joined by Dan and eventually Angela.

‘It’s a bad day for literature in this house,’ Simon managed at last, wiping his eyes. ‘And we’re laughing with you, scruff, not at you. Now, come and have some tea, and I’ll have a word with Master Jamie when he shows up.’

Everyone had laughed that summer, Laine thought. It was one of the happiest she’d ever spent, and the start of many more.