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  Chapter Nine

  Will was trying hard, but it didn’t come naturally. Adrian could see that by the constant expression of confusion on his fiancé’s face. While happy enough to send emails to all their guests explaining the switch in location, Will seemed bemused by the rest of the arrangements, as if everyone was speaking a language he didn’t understand. He drove them to Crediton and accompanied Adrian and Catinca to the florist’s. While the gypsophila emergency was under discussion, he glazed over while looking out of the window. At the bakery, he made several positive cake-related comments even though he had never encountered the concept of wedding favours. His questions to the candlemaker were distracting and unnecessary. All things considered, Catinca and Adrian would have worked more efficiently without him.

  After they’d finished briefing the coach company on alterations to pick-up and drop-off locations, Adrian had every intention of releasing Will from his duties until the venue viewing tomorrow morning. They emerged from the travel agent’s onto the high street and Adrian opened his mouth to speak.

  “Oi!”

  Almost everyone in the town turned to the source of such a foghorn bellow. Adrian, Will and Catinca stopped short at the sight of Tanya running awkwardly towards them in her work skirt and high heels. Her hair blew around her head like a jellyfish’s tentacles and her face glowed red with exertion and cold. She caught up with them, breathless, and clutched hold of Adrian’s arms.

  “Tanya, what’s the matter?” he asked, horrible scenarios flashing through his mind. Matthew, cold and blue as his pyjamas, alone in his bed. Beatrice falling down an escalator in a London Tube station. A crumpled boy’s bicycle, one wheel still spinning. The wedding that was not meant to be.

  “Guys... we have a problem,” she gasped, her eyes wide. “I’ve been looking for you since... I got the email. You cannot... cannot get married at Silverwood Manor!”

  “What?” Adrian snapped.

  Tanya shook her head with real vehemence and bent over to regain her breath.

  Adrian took advantage of the momentary silence. “That is ridiculous! Didn’t you read Will’s message? Moor Hall has a burst drain and the wedding must be moved. Silverwood can take us...”

  “Was first choice!” added Catinca.

  “...for the same price and number of guests...” Adrian continued.

  Will interrupted, “And we’ve spent all morning making the rearrangements.”

  “...so there is no alternative. We either get married at Silverwood on Saturday or we don’t get married at all!” Adrian finished with a theatrical hand gesture as if sweeping a table setting to the floor.

  Tanya heaved herself upright, her complexion blotchy and suggesting tears, still shaking her head.

  Will placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice gentle. “Tanya, we’ve put a lot into rescuing this after the disappointment of that other venue. What possible reason can you have against us relocating to Silverwood?”

  Tanya turned to Adrian, eyes flooded. “Because... the Head of Event Management at Silverwood Manor... is my mum.”

  Adrian covered his eyes with his palms. “Oh dear God.”

  When he took his hands away, Will and Catinca were wearing the exact same expression of total bewilderment.

  Tanya clutched his arm. “Listen, I called an emergency meeting. Dad and Marianne ... they’re going to be at The Angel in Upton. I faked a migraine to get off work ... Beatrice won’t be back till tomorrow ... we have a couple of hours to fix this.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Will.

  “Where’s your car? Come on, let’s go. I can explain on the way.”

  No one had spoken for the last two miles. The sound of brains racing for solutions or processing information was almost audible. Will braked sharply to allow a pheasant to scuttle across the road, a sprinter breasting the finish line. The jolt seemed to wake everyone from their internal worlds.

  Will was the first to speak. “Let me see if I understand correctly, in tabloid speak. Nearly thirty years ago, Matthew Bailey ran off with Beatrice Stubbs, who happened to be his wife’s best friend. In the process, she wrecked a marriage, initiated a bitter divorce and two young girls became the product of a broken home. Pamela, Matthew’s ex-wife and mother to Marianne and Tanya, has never spoken to Beatrice since. The family take care to ensure their paths never cross. Until Saturday, when it becomes unavoidable.”

  Tanya leant forward from the back seat. “Tabloid speak? Will, I’m surprised at you. If I can damn well come to terms with what happened, I don’t expect judgement from someone who wasn’t even there. The reality is that Dad has never been happier since he and Beatrice fell in love. Mum was very angry and hurt for years, understandably. Marianne and I have learnt never to mention Beatrice in her presence because it only upsets her. Now she has a career and a husband who worships the ground she walks on. She’s fulfilled and successful but still has a blind spot when it comes to Dad and Beatrice.”

  “And if the wedding goes ahead as planned, they will come face to face for the first time since it happened,” Adrian added.

  Catinca sighed. “Shit gonna hit the fan.”

  “I’m sorry, Tanya.” Will met her eyes in the mirror. “I really was trying to look at it from the worst-case perspective to be prepared for what Catinca calls shit-hitting-fan. No disrespect intended.”

  “Yeah, OK, I get a bit defensive about the whole parents thing. And just a word of warning, Marianne is even worse. She’s Mum’s first-born and Beatrice’s god-daughter, so even the most innocent comment can send her into a tailspin. Tread softly.”

  Adrian was about to quote another poet, but in his case Philip Larkin, when Will elbowed him. “How come you never mentioned this before?”

  “It’s not my place. I only found out myself by accident. Matthew let slip a comment about his divorce and I realised he and Beatrice must have already been together. I pressed him and he explained, but even then he played it down. As for Beatrice, I’ve never spoken to her on the subject. Too scared.”

  Catinca spoke, her face directed to the window and voice wistful. “Families. What a mess. Should be grateful for each other, innit? I got three sisters and two brothers. Only in contact with one sister and my dad. Shame.”

  “What about your mum?” asked Tanya, her voice solicitous and kind.

  The car pulled onto the green. Adrian saw the pub and breathed a sigh of relief. Time to focus on the wedding, not old family feuds. This was a new start, a new family, a new life for him and Will.

  But Catinca hadn’t finished. “When I was little, Mum got new boyfriend. Left Dad, took us all kids and moved in with him. Bad guy. Tried messing with me and younger sisters. One year, after he killed pig for Christmas, Mum found him and older sister in bed doing same kind of squealing as pig. Massive fight and older brother got stabbed in leg. Stupid cow sister married that arsehole and Mum don’t talk to none of us no more.”

  “Oh my God, that’s awful. What about...”

  Adrian cut in. “Parking space at ten o’clock, Detective Sergeant Quinn. Ladies, focus please. We have a wedding to rescue. ”

  Only Matthew sat in the snug, doodling in the margins of The Times, the crossword not even begun. His forehead, with well-worn wrinkles, was more creased with worry than usual as he looked up to greet them.

  “Well, this is a bugger’s muddle and no mistake. What are our options, do you think?” He looked from one face to the other, finally fixing his gaze on Will.

  “Look,” Will began, throwing himself heavily into an armchair, “I’ve only just heard the back story to all this, so I might be out of line. But is it at all possible that this is not quite the disaster you think? It all happened nearly three decades ago. Perhaps Beatrice and Pamela are prepared to forgive and forget, or at least behave in a civilised manner when they meet?”

  Tanya shook her head. “We have tried to get Mum to bury the hatchet. She won’t even enter into a conversation on the subject. I honestly think w
e need to find another venue. Dad? Is there anyone at the golf club you could ask?”

  Matthew’s frown deepened. “It’s awfully short notice.”

  “Tanya, this is ridiculous!” Adrian said, his jaw tight. “I am not changing venue again. Sorry, Will, but I would rather cancel the wedding than have nasty sandwiches in a draughty golf club to celebrate marrying the love of my life. We found our dream venue and by a stroke of luck, it fell into our laps. There must be a way to have our perfect wedding with all my favourite people present.”

  Silence followed his speech, as the implications of the last line hit home. No one had dared suggest it but Adrian had cut off the thought before it could even be voiced. Beatrice would not be excluded, regardless of ancient history. The door opened and Marianne came in, her face pale but eyes bright.

  “Hi, all. Sorry I’m late, couldn’t get away from the office. Listen, I called Mum from the car on the way over. Just for a casual chat. And I think we might just get away with this.”

  “How?” demanded Tanya.

  “She is Head of Event Management, which means she works Monday to Friday. When they do weddings, she organises all the staff, decor and catering to run like clockwork, so she doesn’t need to be there on the day. As long as we leave the arrangements to Adrian, Will and Catinca, there’s no reason she would even know Beatrice and Dad are involved.”

  Catinca drew down her arm in a fist pump. “Yes!”

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Matthew, his forehead slightly smoother.

  “Yep. I didn’t ask outright, but checked on her plans for the weekend in case she fancied some last-minute shopping. She said an emergency wedding relocation was taking all her time this week, but she is off work from Saturday till Wednesday. So we’re going into Exeter together on Sunday morning. I’ll be back for the wedding, don’t worry.”

  Tanya released a huge sigh. “Why didn’t I think of that? This is why having a sister can occasionally come in handy. So, are there any flaws in this plan? Will, why don’t you apply your detective’s brain to this one?”

  Will reached out to shake Marianne’s hand. “You’ve saved our day. Thank you. I couldn’t have gone through all the rearrangements again. All right, let’s think this through. Nameplates and seating plan will need aliases for Matthew and Beatrice. Maybe we should take our own photos of this family group, to keep them out of the official shots. Erm, are we going to tell Beatrice about all this?”

  Everyone turned to Matthew. His brow concertinaed for a moment and then he shook his head.

  “One more thing she doesn’t need to worry about. Let’s simply suggest she takes a back seat to allow the happy couple and their wedding planner to take over. She’s usually in an excellent mood when she comes back from London so I am sure she’ll understand.”

  The whole party expressed agreement, and relief bubbled up in Adrian. “Right, let’s order some lunch and then Tanya, Catinca and I need to make plans. The viewing is at ten in the morning. Will, just leave the talking to me. You may be a professional detective but I am an experienced actor, well versed in the art of charming an audience.”

  Will gave him a sideways glance and picked up the menu.

  Chapter Ten

  Islington High Street bustled with last-minute shoppers, a sound system played George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ through the air, and frosty sunshine lit rosy cheeks and glowing eyes. Beatrice inhaled the spicy scent of the café’s Christmas cookies and for an instant she was overcome with a rush of affection for London. Sentimentality, of course. Had she still been a resident, she would have cursed the man with the awkwardly pointy John Lewis bag on the Tube and rolled her eyes at the giggling office workers with tinsel in their hair tumbling out of Zizzi’s.

  She sipped her coffee and wondered why on earth she had felt such urgency last week. Everything was fine. She was fine. When James asked the reason for her hastily arranged appointment, she would feel a fraud. Even worse, if he asked about her mood-stabilisers, she would have to tell a small untruth. Overall, she did take them regularly. She’d just had a lot on her mind and forgotten a few times. She checked her handbag, knowing as she did so the packet was still in the drawer in her bedside table. No matter. She’d be home tomorrow and would definitely take one then.

  The clock read three-fifteen and the festive decorations adorning the street glowed a little brighter as daylight began to fade. She finished her drink, picked up her gloves and bag, left a tip for the waitress and crossed the street to James’s practice. After her session, she would have half an hour to get to Westminster to meet Dawn after work. She smiled to herself, picturing the pair of them in The Speaker with a bottle of wine, sifting through the latest internal police politics. Maybe that was all she needed. Just a little trip to London and she was back on an even keel.

  James did not tut or sigh deeply when she announced the complete absence of any reason to be there. Instead he asked her to describe her feelings when she had made the emergency appointment.

  “Oh, the usual panicky stuff like nerves before a big event you’re dreading. As if it would only take one more thing to push me over the edge.” She explained about the death of Vaughan Mason, preparations for Adrian’s wedding and her own buoyant mood since arriving in the capital.

  James lifted his gaze from his notes. He looked directly at Beatrice and then his focus changed, to a picture on the opposite wall. She knew it well, a print of Beach at Low Tide by Degas.

  “Would you say that since you moved to Devon you associate being in London with satisfying a need? Not only your counselling sessions here but personal therapy on more than one level?”

  “I suppose I do,” Beatrice considered. “It’s Me-Time, when I get to be my old self again.”

  “I see.” He made a note on his pad. “How would you describe your progress in these sessions since your move?”

  “Well, it’s not really a question of progress, is it? The way I see these appointments is more like a check-up. Just making sure I’m still balanced and not going wobbly again.”

  “More a question of standing still than moving forward?” James gave her a gentle smile, his pen resting on his chin.

  “Yes, standing on my own two feet, with the support of my stabilisers. That would be you, my medication and Matthew.”

  He wrote rapidly, far more than her latest statement seemed to deserve. Finally, he looked up, his focus on the ivory gauze curtains veiling the window. “That concept of stabilisers is an interesting one. Some would say you don’t need stabilisers to achieve stasis. It’s only in motion extra support is required.”

  The word ‘stasis’ stung Beatrice. “There’s been plenty of movement, James. I have coped remarkably well with all the recent changes in my life. You make it sound like I have been slacking!”

  “My job, as we chose to define it, is to guide you. I lead you to examine and understand your own behaviour and patterns of thinking. It is reassuring to hear that you are not in reverse gear due to your retirement, move, wedding planner status and the emotional support you’re providing to your partner in a bereavement situation. That said, I would be ‘slacking’ as you put it, if I lost sight of the aim of our meetings. We need to move forward, Beatrice. Just coping is not enough. As a matter of fact, I wanted to raise the matter with you in our next scheduled session.”

  Beatrice frowned, a sense of foreboding darkening the mellow room. “What do you mean?”

  James placed his notes on the desk and leaned forward, clasping his forearms and holding her gaze. “My feeling is that in order to make the necessary progress, you need to step outside what has become a comfort zone. The association between your therapy and where you used to live conflates two very different emotions. This will be counter-productive in the medium to long term. Managing your mental health is daily diligence, homework, a commitment to doing the hygiene. Regarding that as part of a weekend jolly tells me you are simply treading water and not learning to swim. I think it might be t
ime to find you a new therapist, someone local to Devon. I did some research and would like you to try a person who comes highly recommended.”

  Over the years in James’s office, Beatrice had cried, yelled, sulked and apologised more times than she could remember. He’d seen her naked. Not physically, but mentally, and that was by far her ugliest aspect. Whenever he probed her tender spots and slammed the gates on her escape routes, she’d told herself she should change therapists. What did this pretty blond thirty-something know about what it was like to be her? Yet she had stayed, returning week after week, month after month, coming to see this man as sanctuary, this process as healing. He’d seen her at her worst and refused judgement. His and hers. Now, after all these years, he was rejecting her. She couldn’t find her voice.

  “I don’t want to attempt to influence your decision, because it must be you who decides. All I ask of you is to attend a couple of trial sessions with Gaia with an open mind and see how you get on. This folder has all her details and all email conversations I’ve had with her about your case. I want this transfer to be totally transparent. It’s a big step, which I understand is unsettling after all your recent changes, but I am convinced this could realign your commitment to constant vigilance and modification of behaviours that make you unhappy. Perhaps you’d like to think this over. Or if you have questions right here and now, I am ready to explain my rationale.”

  Beatrice shook her head, her gaze on the floor, her throat tight. “No, I ... no. This requires some thinking time. I’d better get on. I’ll be in touch, probably in the New Year.”

  “Beatrice, hold on a minute...”

  “Merry Christmas, James, and thanks for everything.”

  She grabbed the file and fled out into the sleety evening. Tears blurred her vision as she made for the Tube, her chest tight and one phrase echoing through her mind.

  He doesn’t want me anymore.