drawing the TR7 in to the kerb outside the Victorian apartment building where Rachel and Jane had their flat. ‘I should be asking you that question,’ he said levelly. ‘It really is up to you, I suppose. I just wish you would consider my mother's offer, that's all.'
‘I have considered it.’ Rachel made a determined effort to appeal to him. ‘Darling, can't you understand? I don't want your mother interfering in something which is essentially the bride's prerogative.'
‘I think it's supposed to be the bride's parents’ prerogative,’ remarked Roger pedantically. ‘And as we both know, your parents are unlikely to care how it's carried out.'
Rachel pressed her lips together. ‘Roger, if it's only a question of paying for a reception, my father can do that. As to the other arrangements—my dress, and so on—I do have friends, you know.'
‘But Mother wants this to be a special occasion,’ persisted Roger. ‘She wants to make it easy for you, can't you see that? She could book the reception, organise the food, arrange about the cake; and as for yours and the bridesmaid's dresses—well, we are in business, aren't we?'
Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I only want one bridesmaid, Roger, and that's Jane.'
‘Jane!’ Roger was scathing. ‘For heaven's sake, Ray, do you want to make the whole affair look ridiculous? Jane's fourteen stone if she's an ounce! What kind of a bridesmaid would she make?'
Rachel seethed. ‘The very best kind,’ she declared tautly. ‘I wouldn't dream of leaving her out—simply because your mother has some idea of having a troop of little flower girls to follow me out of church!'
‘There you go again!’ Roger's jaw jutted. ‘Just because Mother wants you to look your best, you're determined to thwart her. Why? Why, for heaven's sake? Sandra's little girls would look delicious in pink satin!'
‘Delicious!’ Rachel's lips curled. ‘Can you hear yourself, Roger? I don't want our wedding to be remembered because of its pretty appearance! Marriage is a serious commitment. It's a serious occasion. And I want Jane to be a witness, because she's the best friend I've got.'
‘Perhaps you should be marrying Jane, then,’ declared Roger childishly, and Rachel knew a blinding moment of anger.
‘Perhaps I should,’ she retorted, thrusting open her door and getting out. ‘Don't bother to come in. There's no point in us discussing this any further.'
‘Aw, Ray——’ Roger leant across the front seat, calling after her. ‘Ray, I didn't mean it. Come back! We haven't even kissed goodnight.'
‘Call me tomorrow,’ replied Rachel, over her shoulder, and she heard the car roar away as she inserted her key in the door.
The following day was Friday, and Rachel went to work with a feeling of resignation. Still, she consoled herself, whatever was said, the weekend was close enough to dispel any rumours, and perhaps by Monday someone else might have done something noteworthy.
As luck would have it, Sophie was absent, and one of the other typists, who came to deliver a message from Mr Hollis, explained that her mother had called to say she was full of cold.
‘It's that draughty office,’ agreed Rachel sympathetically, nevertheless relieved to be free of any further explanations for the present, and the other girl nodded in agreement.
Even so, it was not one of Rachel's better days. Mr Black was in a foul mood, due no doubt to the fact that his wife had forgotten to collect his tonic from the chemist, and his chest had worsened accordingly, and Peter Rennison's appearance just before lunch did not improve matters.
Putting down the file Rachel had had one of the typists deliver to him the previous afternoon, he leant familiarly over her desk, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair. ‘Do I have you to thank for Sophie's sudden aversion to my presence?’ he enquired, bending to switch off her machine so that she could not continue typing. ‘It seems the poor girl has really taken fright. She hasn't even turned up to work this morning.'
Rachel bent and determinedly switched on her typewriter again. ‘Sophie is sick, Mr Rennison,’ she replied politely. ‘Was there something else you wanted? I'm afraid Mr Black has a client with him at the moment.'
Peter Rennison straightened. ‘Cool collected Rachel,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘Do you ever let your hair down? Emotionally, I mean?'
Rachel did not answer him, and infuriated by her lack of attention, he exclaimed: ‘I pity that poor devil you're marrying! Does he know what a frigid little madam you are? Or maybe he doesn't care. I hear he's quite a mother's boy. Is that true?'
Rachél looked up at him then, the wide blue eyes sparkling with contempt between their fringe of silky black lashes, and the man knew a frustrated sense of contrition. ‘Hell, I'm sorry, Rachel,’ he muttered, leaning on the desk again. ‘But you drive me crazy, do you know that? I wouldn't give a damn about any of the girls if you'd agree to go out with me.'
Rachel sighed and shook her head. ‘You're married, Mr Rennison. And I'm engaged. I—please don't ask me again.'
‘Don't bet on it,’ he responded, conceding defeat for the present and walking towards the door. ‘You tell that bloke you're marrying he'd better make you happy, or he'll have me to deal with!'
Rachel couldn't suppress an unwilling smile as he left the office, and she cupped her chin on one hand and stared disconsolately into space. She couldn't help thinking that if Roger had been more like Peter Rennison she might feel more sure of him, instead of harbouring the suspicion that his mother's feelings would always come first.
She was still sitting there in a daydream when the door opened again, and this time Mr Hodges, the caretaker, came into the office. To her surprise, he was carrying a long white box which he set down on her desk, and she gazed at it in wonder as he gave her his grudging smile.
‘This came for you, Miss Fleming,’ he said, touching the white ribbon which encircled it. ‘Aren't you going to open it? Looks like flowers to me.'
‘And to me, Mr Hodges,’ said Rachel eagerly, abandoning her daydream for an unexpectedly welcome reality, and tearing off the ribbon, she displayed the box's contents.
It was full of roses, pure white roses, as fresh as the moment they were picked from the bush. Long-stemmed, some starting to open their petals, others little more than ivory buds, they spilled their fragrance into the dusty atmosphere of the office, and as Rachel gazed at them, a lump came into her throat.
‘They must have cost someone a pretty penny,’ remarked Mr Hodges drily, bending his head to enjoy the bouquet. ‘Must be more than a couple of dozen of them in there. Roses in February! What next?'
Rachel lifted all the roses out, looking for the card which she was sure must accompany them. But there was none. Just the pure white roses in their pure white box, eloquent enough of the meaning behind them, she decided.
Mr Hodges was lingering, and eager to get on the phone to Roger, Rachel thrust one of the delicate blooms into the old man's hand. ‘A buttonhole,’ she said, smiling, and the caretaker took his dismissal happily, tucking the stem through his lapel.
Her first attempt to reach Roger was not successful. He was not in his office, his secretary told her, and realising it was lunch time, Rachel agreed to call back. Then, collecting a couple of empty milk bottles, she filled them with water and deposited
