of slap would do the trick, Laurie.’
‘I wish! You know I’d give anything to be at your wedding, but I’ll just have to be there in spirit. The face would freak out the guests even without the limp.’ Laura tried hard for flippancy, but Fen wasn’t deceived.
‘You feel rotten, poor love, don’t you?’
‘I’ll live. Is everything going smoothly up at Friars Wood?’
‘Now the family’s started arriving it’s a madhouse up there! I’m thinking of camping out in the marquee.’ Fen leaned down and very carefully kissed Laura’s uninjured cheek. ‘I’ll ring in the morning, but I’ll go now before your mother comes to throw me out. Put the ice back on that eye and concentrate on getting better.’
Laura shrugged. ‘No choice—back to work on Monday.’
‘Stuff that!’ snorted Fen.
Isabel brought up a tray later, and settled on the window-seat to make sure Laura ate the poached egg she’d agreed to.
‘Term finishes at twelve tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll come home to see how you are, then go back to finish up with the rest of the staff.’
‘No need for that. I’ll be fine on my own. It’s my face that’s hurt—the rest is in reasonable working order.’
Isabel looked unconvinced. ‘You need rest, my girl. I don’t suppose you can read with that eye, and television’s out right now, but I’ve got a new audio book from the library. It’s a really gruesome thriller—you’ll like it.’
Next morning Laura sat up in bed gingerly, decided she felt halfway human again, and limped downstairs before her mother could toil upstairs with her breakfast.
‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ demanded Isabel.
‘Making sure you don’t run about waiting on me before you take off to school.’ Laura pulled a face. ‘I had a look in the mirror. The bruises are right down my neck now.’
‘You took quite a crack on your chin, too,’ said her mother, getting up to examine it. ‘How’s the ankle?’
‘Bearable. A couple of painkillers and a few more cups of tea will help.’
Fen rang during the morning with anxious enquiries and messages of sympathy from every member of the Dysart family.
‘Thank them for me,’ said Laura, touched. ‘Now go! Get on with being a bride, Fenella Dysart. Tomorrow is your big day, so concentrate on it and be happy.’
‘I’ll see you when we come back from Italy—we’ll have a little party!’
Time hung so heavy Laura was very glad of company by the time her mother came home from school that afternoon. But it took effort to be cheerful during the evening, knowing that both of them should have been at the pre-wedding family dinner up at Friars Wood.
‘There’s no reason why you couldn’t have gone, Mother,’ said Laura, but Isabel shook her head firmly.
‘Not without you, darling.’
Laura groaned in frustration. ‘It’s not fair that you should have to miss the fun, too.’
The wedding day dawned hot and sunny, but after an early call to the bride to wish her joy the morning was hard for Laura. It hurt to know she should have been up at Friars Wood in the thick of the Dysarts, having her face and hair done and helping with the trio of teenage bridesmaids, but, most important of all, just being there for Fen on her big day.
When Isabel came downstairs after lunch, the perfect wedding guest in a slim fawn linen dress and dashing bronze hat, she struck an exaggerated pose.
‘How do I look?’
‘Absolutely gorgeous! Off you go, or you won’t find a place to park. Take lots of photographs, and give Fen a big kiss for me.’ Laura hurried her mother to the door before either of them could get emotional, waved her out of sight, then with a sigh limped back inside to get through the long afternoon as best she could.
To kill time she washed her hair for the first time since the accident, but with a hair-dryer ruled out styling had to be restricted to gentle towelling and a very careful brush through. Afterwards Laura smoothed moisturiser into her skin, pleased that repeated applications of ice had at least reduced the swelling on the eye surrounded with arresting shades of maroon and plum. Making a face at it, she took wings of hair back from her ears, secured them on the crown of her head with a giant clip and let the rest hang down the back of her pink vest top to dry in the sun.
The garden went back a long way behind the house. In the years since the move Isabel had gradually transformed the bramble-choked wilderness into a haven of green lawn surrounded by flowering shrubs, which softened the outlines of the high laurel boundary hedges. A shallow rockery planted with alpines separated the lawn from the small, paved area outside the sitting room window, and during the morning Isabel had unfolded two director’s chairs, and put up the parasol over the picnic table there for an early salad lunch.
All morning Laura had maintained such a determinedly cheerful mood it was a relief to relax now she was alone. She found an extension lead to attach to her tape-player, filled a jug with orange juice and ice cubes, collected a glass and went outside to sit under the parasol. She propped her feet up on a stool, and, eyes closed, listened to the church bells welcoming the guests arriving to see the youngest Dysart daughter married. Her mouth tightened as she wondered if one wedding guest in particular had arrived—and if he’d come with company. Laura thrust the thought away, and when the bells stopped sent a silent message of love to the bride, switched on the tape, and concentrated fiercely until the plot absorbed her again.
She leaned back, bare legs outstretched, removed the barrette and combed her fingers through her damp hair, and then sat utterly still other than to change the tape at intervals and refill her glass. She grew so drowsy in the afternoon warmth as the hours passed that when the current tape ended she couldn’t be bothered to put in a new one.
Laura woke with a start from a restless doze and shot upright with a gasp of fright, her heart thumping madly at the sight of Domenico gazing down at her. Shaken and breathless, she shook the hair back from her incredulous face to meet blue eyes blazing with such horror she shut her own in self-defence. When she opened them again his familiar smile was firmly in place. A white gardenia adorned the lapel of a suit with the superb fit of all Domenico’s clothes, and Laura was immediately, resentfully conscious of her battered face and untidy hair, her short denim skirt long past its shelf-life, and the crowning touch of scruffy old trainers loose enough for her swollen foot.
‘Come esta, Laura,’ Domenico said gently.
She pulled herself together, trying to breathe normally. ‘Not at my best, I’m afraid,’ she said unevenly, and thrust her hair behind her ears to display the full effect of her bruises. ‘This is a surprise.’
He drew the other chair close and with a familiar ‘Permesso?’ sat down. ‘Ah, Laura!’ His voice was husky with compassion as his eyes travelled over her face. ‘Your mother told me of your fall, but I did not imagine—’
‘That I looked so scary?’
‘That you had been hurt so very badly,’ he contradicted.
