headdress shaped like an elaborate coronet, each of its ornamental stems crowned by a large artificial pearl.
It looked, Rhianna thought dispassionately, like something the Wicked Queen might wear in a remake of Disney’s Snow White. Only not as good.
In the terrible silence that followed, she did not dare look at Carrie.
Eventually, Carrie said slowly, ‘Well, it’s a lovely thought, but I wasn’t actually intending to wear a veil, just some fresh flowers in my hair. Didn’t I explain that?’
‘Ah, but a bridal outfit is incomplete without a veil,’ said Mrs Rawlins brightly. ‘And although I’m sure your dress is very fashionable and modern, I know Simon is quite old-fashioned at heart, and he will like to see you in something rather more conventional too.’
She paused. ‘You’ll have to be very careful with the coronet, of course. It’s extremely delicate, and one of the stems is already a little loose.’
Rhianna found herself looking at Margaret Rawlins with fascination and some bewilderment. She recalled Simon’s mother as a perfectly pleasant woman, a good cook and devoted to her family, who had joined in all the local activities with open enjoyment.
So how on earth had she come to turn into the Control Monster?
As for her comments about Simon…
Was it ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘conventional’for a bridegroom to have been sleeping with someone else for the past three months? Telling that someone else that he loved her? Inventing that special deal in the Bahamas in order to be with her for a few stolen days? And eventually committing the overwhelming error of making her pregnant?
My God, she thought, a tiny bubble of hysteria welling up inside her. What a truly great tradition to uphold.
She glanced at Carrie and saw her looking anguished, while Moira Seymour’s mouth was tight with outrage.
And then the door opened, and Mrs Henderson came in pushing a laden trolley. The tension, perforce, subsided—if only temporarily.
It helped that it was a superb tea, with plates of tiny crustless sandwiches, a platter of scones still warm from the oven, accompanied by a large bowl of clotted cream and a dish of homemade strawberry jam, together with a featherlight Victoria sponge and a large, rich fruitcake.
Mrs Rawlins fussed endlessly about getting the veil back into its protective wrappings before any of it was served—much to Rhianna’s regret. A well-aimed cup of tea would obviously have solved that particular problem for good.
So she’d have to think of something else.
As she returned her tea things to the trolley, she casually picked up the coronet and carried it over to the French windows, as if to examine it more closely.
‘Oh, do be careful.’ Mrs Rawlins’ voice followed her. ‘As I’ve said, one of the stems is very fragile.’
‘So it is, but I’m sure I can fix that,’ Rhianna said brightly, as her fingers discovered that the stem in question had actually become partly detached from the base.
Well, I’m already the least favourite guest, she thought, so what have I to lose? And she gave it a sharp and effective tweak, before gasping loudly in dismay and turning contritely back to the owner.
‘Oh, heavens, it’s come off altogether now.’ Her voice quivered in distress. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Rawlins. I can’t believe I could be so clumsy.’
‘Let me see it at once.’ Margaret Rawlins was on her feet, her face furiously and unbecomingly flushed. ‘Perhaps it can be repaired.’
‘I doubt it very much.’ Diaz had risen too, unexpectedly, and was crossing to Rhianna’s side, taking the mutilated object from her hand. ‘It looks seriously broken to me. But it’s probably better for this to happen now instead of during the ceremony. That would have been really embarrassing.’ The smile he turned on the agitated Mrs Rawlins was charm personified. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose so,’ the older woman returned after a pause, lips compressed. ‘But I don’t know what Simon will say when he hears.’
Rhianna stared down at the carpet, as if abashed, her long lashes veiling the sudden flare of anger in her eyes. Simon, she thought grimly, has other things on his mind to worry about.
Fussily, Mrs Rawlins picked up the box with the veil. ‘You had better take this upstairs, Caroline—before there’s another accident,’ she added, with a fulminating glance at Rhianna.
‘Yes,’ Carrie said without enthusiasm. ‘Yes, of course.’ She glanced appealingly at Rhianna, who picked up the cue and immediately followed her.
‘You’re a star,’ Carrie said simply, tossing the box onto the bed in her room. ‘But what the hell am I going to do with a thousand yards of dead white tulle when I’m wearing ivory satin? Look.’
The dress was lovely, Rhianna thought instantly as it was removed from its protective cover and displayed. A simple Empire line sheath, needing no other adornment but Carrie’s charming figure inside it.
She considered. ‘What flowers are you wearing in your hair?’
‘Roses,’ Carrie said. ‘Gold and cream, like my bouquet.’ She took the veil from the box and lifted it up. ‘But they won’t be substantial enough to hold a weight like this.’
‘Then we’ll just have to make it manageable.’ Rhianna paused. ‘Got a sharp pair of scissors handy?’
‘Oh, God,’ said Carrie. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Cement my reputation as the arch-vandal of the western world,’ Rhianna told her cheerfully. ‘Simon’s mother will never speak to me again, of course, but that’s a small sacrifice to make.’
Besides, she would have far more powerful reasons to hate me—if she knew…
She took the veil from Carrie and placed it on her own head, studying herself in the full-length mirror. ‘Heavens, it swamps me—and I’m taller than you. However, if we just use one layer we’ll be able to see your hair through the tulle, and the flowers will help too, of course. Besides, if I’m careful, it can all be sewn back together afterwards,’ she added, grinning, and gave Carrie an encouraging push towards the door. ‘Now—scissors and sewing kit.’
Left alone, she picked up the dress with immense care and held it in front of her to see the whole effect. She’d use the veil’s shortest tier, she thought, as it would only reach Carrie’s shoulders and therefore wouldn’t detract from the lovely simplicity of the dress itself.
At least she hoped so. After all, she’d had enough costumes practically re-made on her to know what worked and what didn’t, she thought drily.
Then paused, staring at herself, suddenly stricken, as she asked herself what she was doing. Why was she taking this trouble over a wedding that shouldn’t even be happening? How she could be helping her friend marry a man who had already betrayed her so terribly?
Especially when there was no guarantee that it would never occur again, she thought bitterly. That Simon would suddenly
