wasn’t she? Ironing a few shirts for Mike would have been a lot simpler than living through her mother’s idea of the perfect wedding and Mike’s father’s idea of the perfect house.
It was as if their lives had been taken over by aliens.
Perfectly amiable aliens maybe, but aliens who, in their excitement, their desire to help, had accidentally switched off their ‘listening’ button. And had clearly never had any kind of grasp of the word ‘simple’.
For Willow, a simple wedding conjured up visions of a small country church, a dress from the local bridal shop, standard grey morning suits all round for the men, two bridesmaids. Two grown-up bridesmaids who could be relied upon not to eat their posies, burst into tears, or worse. A simple reception.
Her mother’s version of simple involved Melchester Cathedral, scrubbed choirboys in starched-white surplices, massed bell-ringers and a full-scale posse of bridesmaids and page-boys. Add in enough flowers and ribbon to keep a florist in business for a year…
Then there was the reception.
No. She was stressed enough, she absolutely refused to contemplate the reception. Or the vast edifice of the confectioner’s art that was her wedding cake. Forget simple. From Willow’s perspective her life appeared to be attracting complications in the manner of a magnet confronted with a open box of iron filings.
And the wedding was just the visible, outward sign of ‘complicated’. Liveable with. Just. Real complications came in small, less obvious packages. Long white envelopes with the logo of a national newspaper in the corner.
If life was simple, she’d phone the telephone number on the letter in her bag, say, thanks, but no thanks. She was no longer available. They’d left it too late to offer her the job of her dreams. She was getting married on Saturday. She’d phone and she’d say all that and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from grinning while she said it. But she kept putting it off.
Which was why it was so complicated.
‘Are you all right, Willow?’
‘What?’ She started, realising that Emily Wootton was staring at her with concern. ‘Oh, yes. It’s nothing.’ And she lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a convincing shrug. ‘I’m getting married on Saturday—’
‘Really?’ The older woman smiled. ‘How lovely.’
Willow had her doubts. ‘I’m sure everyone else will enjoy themselves. I’m just looking forward to next week when I’ll be on a beach in St Lucia and the last few weeks will be nothing but a blur.’ She made a big effort at a smile. ‘You were telling me about these cottages the Trust has been given by the Kavanaghs?’ she invited, before she broke down and poured out her misgivings to a woman she’d only met a couple of times. But who else was there? No one who knew Mike and had seen the house, could be expected to understand; she didn’t understand herself. If she could just go back to the night he’d proposed, hear him say it again. Convince herself that he really meant it. He’d seemed so distracted lately… ‘You need money to convert them into a holiday home for deprived children, is that it?’
‘No, that’s all done. All that’s left is the decorating and we’re looking for volunteers to help out.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you to change your honeymoon plans? I mean who really wants to go to the West Indies?’ A great fat tear escaped and slid down Willow’s cheek. ‘Willow?’ She wanted to put her head down on her desk and howl. ‘Willow, dear, is there anything I can do?’
‘No.’ She sniffed, searching her pocket for a tissue. ‘It’s just pre-wedding nerves.’ Probably. Pre-wedding nerves and the strain of trying very hard not to let anyone see that she’d fallen in hate at first sight with the house Mike’s parents had bought for them as a wedding present. A huge red-brick edifice with five bedrooms, three bathrooms and half an acre of landscaped garden that would take every minute she could spare from cooking and dusting to keep it from reverting to wilderness.
She and Mike hadn’t come to any decision about where they’d live. His flat or hers. They were both convenient, easy to run, perfect for a busy couple. Then—whammy. An invitation to lunch from Mike’s parents at a country pub with a route that just happened to bypass the house from hell. The kind of house that needed a full-time wife, not a woman with a life of her own and a career that was about to take off into the stratosphere. Or would be, if she wasn’t getting married.
It was becoming clear that as Mike’s wife she wouldn’t have a life of her own.
No more Willow Blake. She’d be Mrs Michael Armstrong, consort to Michael Armstrong, newspaper proprietor. In the fullness of time she’d become mother to the statutory two-point-four children, with a busy life as a champion of local good causes and all-round pillar-of-the-community. In ten years she’d have turned into every woman’s worst nightmare, a carbon copy of her mother.
Oh, she’d carry on working for a while—quietly shunted off into the more ladylike stuff, the WI meetings, the garden club, local celebrities. Just until the babies came along. That house demanded babies to fill its echoing spaces. Mike’s father was already referring to bedroom number two as ‘the nursery’. As if the Peter Rabbit decor wasn’t enough of a hint.
As for Mike, well she didn’t know what he was thinking any more. Suddenly he was more distant than the Khyber Pass.
Which was why the letter offering her the job of her dreams was still in her bag, still unanswered. A lifeline.
‘It’s, er, rather a big house, Mike. Not quite your usual style. A bit different from the hayloft,’ Cal pressed anxiously.
‘That depends on your view of big.’ Michael Armstrong was eager to cut off any discussion about what his usual style entailed. Cal was his oldest friend, his best man, and he knew him far too well to be easily fooled. ‘Willow was brought up in a ten-bedroom mansion.’
Mike had been working up to taking her to Maybridge, gauging her reaction to an alternative lifestyle; her excitement over the house had made him realise that it was going to be a non-starter.
‘Right. Well, I suppose if you’re both happy with it, that’s all that matters.’ Cal clearly wasn’t convinced, but let it drop. ‘When are you supposed to be moving in?’
Mike dragged himself back from some place where he wasn’t expected to live to this monstrosity of a house which his father, with all his plans apparently about to be fulfilled, had sprung on them as a wedding present. There had been no prior consultation because his father had known what his answer would be. The cunning old fox had relied on Willow to do his dirty work for him. And since she’d clearly loved the place, he’d choked back the ‘thanks, but no thanks’. There was no way he could refuse it.
Realising that Cal was regarding him with a look that suggested his face was betraying his innermost thoughts, Mike quickly answered, ‘The house is supposed to be ready when we get back from honeymoon.’
‘You don’t sound…’ his friend hesitated as he sought for the appropriate word ‘…optimistic.’ Mike ignored the underlying invitation to say what he really felt and kept quiet. ‘Ookaaay.’ Cal stretched out the vowels in acknowledgement that, as a topic of conversation, it was going no further. ‘I’m sure you and Willow can live without carpet for a week or two. And there’s no hurry to furnish the nursery,’ he added, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, gesturing at the giveaway decor of the second bedroom. ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling
