a torrent of abuse that would probably have them both ejected from the building by security staff.
Her mouth opened as she tried to form a word. Then it closed. She swallowed, helplessly. He knew exactly how she felt.
Someone pushed by him, muttering about people blocking the door and he found the use of his limbs, bent to pick up her things. When he straightened she hadn’t moved.
‘Willow—’
‘Mike—’
They both started and both stopped. Then tried again.
‘I should have—’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
Then he said, ‘You know, we really must stop meeting like this.’
‘Yes.’ She blushed this time, and his heart turned over, started beating again. Slowly. Pink and white skin, vivid blue eyes, hair like jet. The effect was not diminished by familiarity. ‘I—I was going to get something to eat.’
‘The queue is horrendous. I think there must be a coach party.’
‘Oh.’
She seemed poised for flight and he put out a hand to stop her. Keep her close. Then he snatched it back before he quite made contact. His memory filled in the blanks, how her skin would feel like silk beneath his fingers, what would follow… ‘I don’t suppose it will take long to clear,’ he said quickly and used his redundant hand to push open the door. To hold it for her. He didn’t want her to go anywhere. He had run from the wedding and everything that it symbolised. Not from Willow. ‘Shall we risk it?’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like—’
‘An explanation.’ Willow wanted to run. Wanted to stay. Wanted to die. To jilt a man at the altar was bad enough. To meet him on the motorway as you made your escape was retribution on a scale dished out by old-time Sunday-school teachers. Be good, or your sins will surely find you out. But he was entitled to an explanation. Not carefully chosen words in a letter, but face to face. It would be harder this way. But afterwards, afterwards she might just feel a bit… She balked at the word, better. Nothing would ever make her feel better about what she’d done. ‘Yes,’ she said.
She took her bag from him, stowed all the stuff she’d been carrying so chaotically about her person, except for the newspaper which wouldn’t fit, then walked through the door he was holding for her and took a tray from the pile. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To stop her from throwing herself at him and telling him that she was sorry, that it was all a terrible mistake. That she loved him.
‘Are you very hungry?’ she asked inanely—she had to say something as they moved along the carefully lit displays of food.
‘Not particularly. I just need some coffee and some carbohydrate so that I don’t pass out on the motorway. I couldn’t face breakfast.’
‘Yes. Me too. To both of those…’ She glanced at him. ‘You didn’t, um…’ What? Stay? Have lunch with their guests? That would have been fun…
‘I thought you’d be at home—’
‘With my mother? I can think of more comfortable places to be. Outer Mongolia springs to mind…’ Shut up, Willow. Flippancy is not going to help. ‘Shall we try the pasta?’
‘Anything.’ He glanced at the woman waiting to serve them. ‘Make that pasta for two.’
Willow picked out a couple of plates of side salad and moved over to the drinks. She flinched from the freshly squeezed orange juice, taking a bottle of mineral water. Mike recoiled from the orange juice, taking a can of cola. ‘I’ll come back for coffee,’ she said, putting the tray down to look for her purse. She couldn’t let him pay for her lunch. He paid while she was still searching, his expression suggesting argument was pointless.
‘Where are you going?’ They’d been pushing the pasta around their plates for a while.
Mike took her question as a cue to give up on the food, and sat back in his chair. ‘As far from Melchester as I can before nightfall. I suppose you’re on your way to London? The big time?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about that. I just wanted to get away from my family.’
‘The sympathetic looks.’
‘I don’t know about sympathetic—’
‘The sudden embarrassed silence every time you walk into any room, anywhere.’ He closed his eyes briefly, as he dwelt on what he’d done to her. ‘It was an unforgiveable thing to do.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mike—’
‘I’m really sorry, Willow—’
They both spoke at the same, the words coming out one at a time, slow and painful. Then they stopped, looked up.
Willow started again. ‘I can’t expect you to understand—’
‘I can’t begin to explain,’ Mike said, ‘to expect you to—’
Then Willow frowned. ‘What are you apologising for, Mike? I’m the one who ran out on the big day. Left you standing at the altar.’ She couldn’t bear to look at him. ‘It was that awful juicer,’ she raced on before he could say anything, tell her how much he was hurting. She could see that for herself. He looked grey. ‘I had this nightmare picture of me in that vast kitchen, frilly apron, big Stepford-wife smile, every morning for the rest of my life. Squeezing oranges.’ He was staring at her. ‘I know that’s what you wanted, I thought it was what I wanted, but it isn’t. Not yet. Not for years—’
‘Willow—’
‘Actually, I hope I’ll never be ready for that.’ She sat back. ‘Is that a terrible admission? To admit that I want a career more than—?’
‘Than me?’ he asked.
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