pair of blondes stepped in front of Trudy, blocking her way.
Trudy tried hard not to groan.
‘Are you ready to blow this joint?’ Daryl asked.
Beatrice laughed. It was not a pleasant sound and Trudy thought she could detect an edge of cruelty beneath the mirth. ‘“Blow this joint”?’ Beatrice repeated. ‘Are you trying to make yourself sound butch and macho?’
‘Do you want me to be butch and macho?’ Daryl asked.
Within an instant they were kissing again.
Beatrice had a way of kissing Daryl, holding her face with both hands. Daryl pulled the woman into her embrace and rested one hand on Beatrice’s yin-yang tattoo. It was an intimate way to deliver a kiss and Trudy could see it was enough to capture all of Daryl’s attention.
She took the opportunity to step quietly past the pair.
‘I’ll catch up with you in a minute,’ she said. She wasn’t sure they heard. By way of explanation she added, ‘I need to see Imogen before I leave.’
Daryl broke her kiss with Beatrice and called after her, ‘Don’t leave without us. I’ve got a date organised for you when we get home.’
Trudy shuddered. Daryl’s attempts at matchmaking were fast becoming a problem. She stumbled into the kitchen, relieved to have escaped the sound of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ and the clatter of shouted conversations.
The kitchens were all but empty, manned by a solitary plongeur wiping down surfaces. He nodded a polite greeting to her. Trudy said hello as she walked towards the office in the centre of the kitchen. She was hoping to find Imogen so she could give her a quick hug and tell her how splendid she had looked as maid of honour. Stepping into the office she saw Imogen was just resting her baby on the couch.
‘Trudy,’ Imogen said carefully. ‘I thought I saw you earlier.’
She didn’t smile. Her behaviour seemed a little stilted. Her eyes were wide and she was staring unhappily. At first Trudy thought she’d done something to upset her friend. It was only when she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her that she realised Imogen was staring unhappily at a figure in a shadowy corner of the room.
Trudy didn’t dare follow the line of the woman’s gaze. In truth, she didn’t need to. She already knew who would be standing there.
‘Trudy?’
She recognised his voice immediately.
He looked resplendent. His jacket was currently wrapped around his grandson, Imogen’s baby, but its absence only made him look more dashing. He wore a silver waistcoat over a crisp white shirt and it hugged his broad physique. His hair, the colour of polished steel, shone almost as brightly as the glint in his diamond-blue eyes. When his gaze met hers a smile faltered uncertainly on his lips.
Don’t you dare smile at me, she thought bitterly. Don’t you dare smile.
It made sense that he would have been spending five minutes chatting with his daughter in his own office. She didn’t know why the sound of his voice was so shocking but she supposed it was because she hadn’t wanted to talk with him today. At the back of her mind she had figured a meeting would be inevitable but she had hoped the encounter would be somewhere busy, made unimportant by a crowd of acquaintances, in a location that was sterile, without any personal associations.
This was a room where they’d had sex half a dozen times.
This was a room where they’d spent countless working nights discussing business and passions and unrealised futures. And this was a room from which it looked like Imogen was trying to make a discreet exit.
‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ Imogen began.
‘No need,’ Trudy said stiffly. She turned to Bill and said, ‘Congratulations.’
‘I didn’t –’ he began.
She didn’t let him finish but held up a hand, cutting him off, and turned to Imogen. ‘I’m just about to head home with Daryl and Beatrice. They’ve organised a date for me this evening. I just wanted to say that I thought you looked beautiful today.’
Imogen’s smile was genuine and broad. She started to say a thank-you but Bill was speaking over her.
‘You’re going on a date with Daryl and that model? Have you turned gay?’
She turned to face him. ‘I’m going on a date,’ she told him. ‘Straight or gay, what business is it of yours, Bill?’
His shoulders slumped. He nodded defeat and turned away. As soon as he stepped out of the office Imogen was speaking in his defence. ‘There were circumstances,’ she explained. ‘If you knew why he married her –’
‘Are you still working at Finlay’s shop in the morning?’ Trudy asked.
Imogen said she was.
‘I’ll probably see you there tomorrow. He’s organising a consignment of spices for a new product I’ll be working on. We can talk more then.’
‘Aren’t you staying for the evening celebrations?’
Trudy shook her head. The question was asked with such obvious concern she didn’t dare say another word for fear of bursting into tears.
‘Are you OK?’ Imogen asked.
Even though she’d practised her response until the words should have been automatic, Trudy wasn’t going to attempt them this time. She nodded, turned abruptly and rushed out of the office and into the kitchen.
At first she thought her body was trembling with the threat of tears. It was only as an afterthought that she realised her mobile was vibrating to alert her to the fact that she’d received a text message. She’d put the phone on silent as a courtesy for the wedding ceremony. Reading as she walked, anxious to get away from Boui-Boui and the rest of the guests who might come and ask her if she was fine, or OK, or bearing up, she inwardly cursed when she saw the message had come from Donny.
I hear your sugar-grandpa just married one his former wives. LOL.
A tear spilled down her cheek and sliced through her mascara.
There were flowers waiting on the doorstep of Eldorado when she returned. Beatrice grabbed them and exclaimed over their beauty. A bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses, in a nest of lush green fern and vibrant white Baby’s Breath. They reminded Trudy of the last bouquet of flowers she had received. Those had been a bad omen.
‘These are beautiful,’ Beatrice called. She read the card and passed them to Daryl. ‘It says they’re for Trudy.’
Daryl passed the flowers to Trudy.
Trudy put the bouquet in the recycling bin.
Beatrice
