and I want every detail to be exactly right! Is it my fault this horrid Scottish weather’s conspired against me from the bloody start? Is it my fault your stupid agent didn’t book us a hire car to get us here, or a hotel room? No, it fucking well isn’t!’
‘I don’t care whose fault it is.’ Dominic found his jeans on the floor and thrust one leg in. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like what my life’s become, and I don’t like who you’ve become, ever since we got engaged. Why can’t you make do with a regular wedding gown? Why does it have to be Prada? You’re demanding and unreasonable, and I’m sick of it. You spend more time with that little blue Tweep bird than you do with me! You’re constantly posting and texting and updating your status, and all of it about the bloody fucking wedding. Well – here’s a status update for you. The wedding is off.’
She stared at him. ‘Social media is very important! Don’t you want our wedding to be the talk of the Internet?’
‘No. I don’t. But you never bothered to find out what I wanted, did you?’ He zipped up his trousers and glared at her. ‘No, you bloody well didn’t, because you don’t care. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to marry you, Gemma. I’m done.’
If Dominic thought she’d crumble, or collapse into a fit of tears, or plead with him to go through with the wedding, he was mistaken.
‘Fine,’ she replied, and put her laptop aside. She got up and swept past him to gather up her collection of bridal magazines. ‘Your loss. Just be advised – the £5,000 deposit on the horse-drawn sleigh is non-refundable. As is the £2,000 rental fee for the matched team of horses to pull the sleigh. Not to mention the £6,000 for my Prada gown.’
‘So?’ he enquired, indifferent. ‘Your dad’s paying for all that crap.’
‘No,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘you are. Milo couldn’t afford to help out financially; he really wanted to, but he’s still getting back on his feet. So I charged everything to your AmEx card instead. Even if we don’t get married,’ she finished, ‘you’ll still have to pay for most of the expenses, because they’re—’
‘‒ non-refundable,’ Dominic groaned. ‘Oh, fucking hell.’
After lunch, Caitlin made her way upstairs to Gemma’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ Gemma called out.
‘Hello,’ Caitlin said hesitantly as she hovered in the doorway. ‘You said you wanted to see me?’
‘Yes! Your bridesmaid’s dress arrived in the post, and I want you to try it on.’
‘But the seamstress fitted me in the store,’ she pointed out. ‘There’s no need to try it on again.’
‘Of course there is,’ Gemma said, her tone brisk as she took the plaid dress from the parcel and shook it out. ‘That was nearly a month ago. You might’ve gained – or lost – a bit of weight since then.’ She held the dress up.
‘Oh,’ Caitlin admitted as she stepped forward, ‘it’s lovely.’ And it was. It was simple, with a long, bias-cut skirt and bodice fashioned out of deep-green plaid. A sash of black velvet tied at the waist, ending in a bow at the back.
‘And it’ll be even lovelier on you,’ Gemma observed. ‘Go on, take it into the dressing room and try it on. You needn’t worry – Dom’s gone.’
‘Is everything all right with you two?’ Caitlin asked as she took the dress and draped it over her arm. ‘I thought I heard shouting this morning.’
‘Oh, no, everything’s fine,’ Gemma assured her. ‘Dominic just needed a bit of...persuading.’
And a Louboutin up his arse to remind him who’s boss, she reflected darkly.
A few minutes later, Caitlin’s muffled voice drifted out. ‘Can you come in here and help me do up the zip? I can’t seem to manage it.’
‘No problem.’ Gemma opened the door. ‘All right,’ she said as she entered the dressing room, ‘let’s just get you zipped in and then we’ll have a look at you.’
But although she tugged, and pulled, and tugged again, the zipper would go no further than it already had – midway up Caitlin’s back.
‘Oh, shit,’ Gemma said in dismay. ‘You’ve gained weight! Quite a bit, too, it seems.’
‘Could it be let out, do you think?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She leant forward and examined the seams with a frown. ‘There’s nothing much left to let out, I’m afraid. Perhaps if we drape a dark-green pashmina round your shoulders...’
‘Perhaps,’ Caitlin said, doubt plain on her face.
Gemma studied the younger girl critically. ‘Crikey! You’ve definitely gained weight. Even your boobs have got bigger.’ She raised a brow. ‘One would almost think you’re pregnant.’
Her half-joking words were met with an ominous silence. ‘Actually,’ Caitlin said after a moment, and lifted a frightened gaze to Gemma, ‘I am. Pregnant, that is. And I don’t know wh-what to do about it.’
And she burst into tears.
Gemma was at a loss as the girl stumbled, weeping, into her arms. ‘You’re...pregnant? Are you sure? Does your mum know?’
Still sobbing, Caitlin shook her head. ‘No. No one knows. Only you.’
‘What about the baby’s father? Does he know?’
Caitlin broke away and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘No,’ she said, and shuddered. ‘He can’t ever know.’
‘Why on earth not? He deserves to know,’ Gemma said, and added tartly, ‘not to mention, he needs to help you figure this out. He’s partly responsible for putting you in this situation, after all.’
‘He can’t know,’ Caitlin cut in, her expression teary but determined, ‘he can’t ever know, because he’s married. And because his son is staying here as a guest at Draemar.’
‘Not...Jeremy?’ Gemma asked, her eyes wide.
‘Yes – Jeremy!’ she cried. ‘He’s Niall’s son. I didn’t know he was, until it was too late...now Niall will never leave his wife, he’ll think I’m trying to trap him... Oh, it’s all such a bloody, bloody mess!’
‘That,’ Gemma muttered as Caitlin sobbed into her shoulder, ‘is the understatement of the year.’
It took the better part of the afternoon, but Gemma finally persuaded Caitlin to go downstairs and tell her mother the truth.
‘Well, Mum?’ Caitlin asked anxiously a short time later. She’d found her mother in the drawing room, flicking through a magazine. After closing the doors and blurting out her story, her rush of words were met with silence. ‘Haven’t
