was there, watching her thoughtfully. Warily?
It’s still not too late.
She felt Leo ease his arm out from under her hand and step away, and she felt—abandoned?
It was her wedding day. She should feel a sense of joy, of completeness, of utter, bone-deep rightness—but she didn’t.
Not at all.
And, as she glanced up at Nick, she realised that neither did he. Either that, or he was paralysed by nerves, which was unlikely. He wasn’t remotely the nervous type.
He took her hand briefly, squeezed it in reassurance, but it felt wrong. So wrong...
She eased it away, using the excuse of handing her bouquet to the waiting bridesmaid, and then the vicar spoke, everyone started to sing ‘Jerusalem’, and she felt her mouth move automatically while her mind whirled. Her mind, this time, not the voice in her head giving her grief, or a moment of panic, stage fright, last-minute nerves or whatever. This time it was really her, finally asking all the questions Leo’s ‘Are you ready?’ had prompted.
What are we doing? And why? Who for?
The last echoes of the hymn filtered away, and the vicar did the just cause or impediment bit. Was there a just cause? Was not loving him enough sufficient? And then she saw the vicar’s lips move as he began to speak the words of the marriage service, drowned out by her thudding heart and the whirlwind in her head.
Until he said, ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’ and Leo stepped forward, took her hand with a tiny, barely perceptible squeeze, and gave it—gave her—to Nick.
Dear Nick. Lovely, kind, dependable Nick, ready to make her his wife, give her the babies they both longed for, grow old with her...
But Nick hesitated. When the vicar asked if he would take this woman to be his wife, he hesitated. And then—was that a shrug?—his mouth twisted in a wry smile and he said, ‘I will.’
The vicar turned, spoke to her, but she wasn’t really listening any more. She was staring into Nick’s eyes, searching them for the truth, and all she could see was duty.
Duty from him, and duty from her? Because they’d come this far before either of them had realised it was bound to be—what were Leo’s words?—a disaster?
She gripped his hands. ‘Will you? Will you really?’ she asked under her breath. ‘Because I’m not sure I can.’
Behind her she heard the slight suck of Leo’s indrawn breath, the rustle from the congregation, the whispered undertone of someone asking what she’d said.
And then Nick smiled—the first time he’d really smiled at her in weeks, she realised—and put his arms around her, and hugged her against his broad, solid chest. It shook with what could have been a huff of laughter, and he squeezed her tight.
His breath brushed her cheek, his words soft in her ear. ‘You cut that a bit fine, my love.’
She felt the tension flow out of her like air out of a punctured balloon, and if he hadn’t been holding her she would have crumpled.
‘I did, didn’t I? I’m sorry, Nick, but I just can’t do this,’ she murmured.
‘I know; it doesn’t feel right, does it? I thought it would, but...it just doesn’t. And better now than later.’ She felt his arms slacken as he raised his head and looked over her shoulder.
‘Time to go, sweetheart,’ he murmured, his mouth tugging into a wistful smile. ‘Leo’s waiting for you. He’ll make sure you’re all right.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek and stepped back, his smile a little unsteady now. ‘Be happy, Amy.’
She searched his eyes, and saw regret and relief, and her eyes welled with tears. ‘You, too,’ she said silently, and took a step back, then another one, and collided with Leo’s solid warmth.
His hands cupped her elbows, supporting her as everything slowly righted itself. She turned to him, met those steady golden eyes and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
And then she picked up her skirts and ran.
* * *
She’d done it. She’d actually done it. Walked—no, sprinted, or as close to it as she could in those ridiculous shoes—away from disaster.
Leo watched her go, her mother and bridesmaids hurrying after her, watched Nick turn to his best man and sit down on the pew behind him as if his strings had been cut, and realised it was all down to him. Appropriate, really, since in a way he was the cause of it.
He hauled in a deep breath, turned to the stunned congregation and gave them his best media smile.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it seems there isn’t going to be a wedding today after all. I’m not sure of the protocol for this kind of thing, but there’s food ready and waiting for you in the marquee, and any of you who’d like to come back and enjoy it will be more than welcome to do so before you head off. I gather the chef comes highly recommended,’ he added drily, and there was a ripple of laughter that broke the tension.
He nodded to his father, who nodded back, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket to set the ball rolling with their catering team, and with a brief nod to the vicar, Leo strode swiftly down the aisle and out of the church after Amy.
The sun warmed him, the gentle rays bringing the life back into his limbs, and he realised he’d been stone cold at the prospect of watching her make a disastrous mistake. He flexed his fingers as he walked over to the vintage Bentley and peered inside.
She was in there, perched on the seat in a billowing cloud of tulle and lace, surrounded by her mother and bridesmaids all clucking like mother hens, and the villagers gathered around the gate were agog. As well they might be.
He ducked his head inside the car.
‘Amy?’ he murmured, and she stared blankly up at him. She looked lost, shocked and confused and just a little crazy, and he could read the desperate appeal in her eyes.
‘Take her home, I’ll follow,’ he instructed the driver tersely, and as the car whisked her away one of the crowd at the gate yelled, ‘What’s going on, Leo?’
He didn’t answer. They could see what was going on, they just didn’t know why, and he had better things to do than stand around and tittle-tattle. He turned to scan the throng of puzzled guests spilling out of the church, milling aimlessly around, unsure of what to do next, and in the midst of them he found his parents heading towards him.
‘Is she all right?’ his mother asked worriedly, and he nodded.
‘I think so. She will be. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got things to do.’
* * *
She’d done it.
Stopped the train and run away—from Nick, from the certainty of her carefully planned and mapped-out future, from everything that made up her life, and she felt lost. Cast adrift, swamped by a million conflicting emotions, unsure of what to do or think or feel.
Actually,
