Bad Brides (35 page)

Still, with the bride-to-be as frozen and stone-faced as the statues in the gazebo, the process became much more work, and the last thing an editor wanted was extra work. Tamra was in pieces
when they finally wrapped, though no one would have known that by her beaming smile, the way she congratulated the
Style
team and announced that there was chilled champagne along with a
delicious light lunch waiting for everyone back at the Hall.

‘What
happened
?’ she hissed to her daughter as they all trooped back. But Brianna Jade could only shake her head, her features still set tightly.

‘Is it about the pig thing? We grew up in pig country – everyone knows that! We haven’t made a secret of it!’ Tamra whispered, at her wits’ end.

But this just turned a knife in the wound, reminded Brianna Jade not just that she had been seen, drunk on cider, being carried back to Stanclere Hall by Abel in what could clearly have appeared
to be a very compromising situation, but that she was also being blackmailed by Barb Norkus, and all she could manage by way of response was a terrible gulping gasp. She felt as if she were being
squeezed in a vice. What if both stories came out? Not just the tacky photos of her as the Pork Queen, but a scandal about her and the Stanclere Hall pig farmer? How would she and Tamra ever
survive the humiliation?

Her mother, realizing that her daughter was on the verge of tears, very sensibly backed off and focused her energies into charming the living daylights out of Jodie Raeburn as best she could,
though she had a horrible sinking feeling that only half of Jodie’s attention was on her; the other half was on the delightful vision of Milly up ahead. Adorable in her tweed shorts and
dancing ringlets, hanging on the arm of her equally adorable fiancé, prattling away to him charmingly, Milly was doing everything she could to present herself as the obvious choice for
Style
Bride of the Year, a model who not only wouldn’t freeze under pressure but whose fiancé was, miraculously, just as eye-wateringly photogenic as she was herself.

‘That Pre-Raphaelite shoot’s going to be
very
exciting, Jodie,’ one of the stylists said deferentially to her editor.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Start researching that right now,’ Jodie said, shifting her attention to the young man. ‘Pull a ton of photos and have them on my desk by Monday
afternoon. I want a whole lookbook to choose from. This’ll be a lot of work to set up so the clothes look right – we need to get started on this straight away.’

She grinned. ‘Victoria’s going to scream her head off at me when I tell her I’m doing a shoot where Milly and Tarquin are lying down, draped over things! That’s what all
the people in those paintings are like – languid and stoned-looking. You know how Victoria is – everything has to be bodies in motion.’

The young man shivered. ‘
Oh
yes,’ he murmured. ‘I worked on the trampoline shoot she did over here for the Olympics issue. That’s the only time I’ve felt
sorry for models in my entire life.’

‘Well, don’t make a habit of it!’ Jodie said, almost as crisply as her mentor, Victoria, would have done.

‘Oh
no
, Jodie, of
course
not.’

Tamra’s steps slowed down, the heels of her shiny polished leather boots tapping a slower pace on the path as the exquisitely painfully realization dawned on her, that not only had this
shoot been a complete failure in sealing the deal with Jodie to make Brianna Jade
Style
Bride of the Year, but that it had possibly even handed that accolade to her daughter’s rival.
Already, Milly had been such a hit with Jodie that she was planning a shoot with Milly and Tarquin at the centre! That should have been Brianna Jade and Edmund! Jodie should have come away from
this pivotal day impressed beyond measure with how beautiful and photogenic Brianna Jade was, how well connected; she should have been inspired to put her on a
Style
cover, not just as the
Bride of the Year but
Style
magazine proper.

It wasn’t even that the sheer effort to organize this day, this weekend, had all been for nothing, with Brianna Jade standing there looking even more frozen than the damn statues in the
gazebo. It was Tamra’s realization that her hard work had actually given a huge advantage to Milly.
That
was what burnt, deep down in her gut, as if she’d drunk a big slug of
drain cleaner.
That
was what was making her swear revenge on that scheming little bitch with her golden curls, her big blue eyes, her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth
expression.

Tamra didn’t know exactly what Milly had said to Brianna Jade to trigger her daughter’s meltdown, but she was bent and determined on finding out. And whatever it had been, Milly
would pay for it.
That
Tamra swore on her life. Milly had no idea who she was messing with, but she was about to find out. Big time.

‘So you know how awful Daddy is?’ Sophie asked the gathered house party after dinner. ‘Really, he has the worst temper. He’s famous for it. And
he’s not getting better with age. He threw a shoe at his private equerry the other day, can you imagine? So the chap’s got all these little things he does to take revenge –
secretly, of course, so that Daddy never realizes, but it sort of gets him back. Want to hear? They’re awfully cunning!’

A chorus of ‘yeses’ immediately followed, of course; Sophie’s audience was naturally very keen to hear a juicy piece of gossip about Prince Oliver, heir to the British throne,
her notoriously short-tempered father. Even despite her profound disappointment at her daughter’s meltdown at the photo shoot, Tamra couldn’t help but be delighted at the success of her
redecorating of Stanclere Hall: the cluster of guests was gathered in the Great Hall, curled up on the velvet sofas around the fireplace, sipping after-dinner drinks. The pianist was now playing
versions of Barry White and Lionel Richie that had people hearing snatches of the chorus and swaying in their seats, humming ‘Do It To Me One More Time’ and ‘Can’t Get
Enough Of Your Love’.

The lighting was soft and shadowy, a few huge silver-shaded lamps placed with care around the gigantic room, creating welcoming pools of light and equally enticing shadowy areas. Candles
flickered in artfully tarnished mirrored sconces and candelabras, and the fire positively roared behind the high wrought-iron grate which bore the crest of the Respers family. Chocolates and
petits-fours were piled on silver plates on the various tables. Waiters slipped up to the tables every now and then, refreshing drinks, taking new orders, perfectly trained not to interrupt the
conversational flow: as Sophie reached the punchline of her anecdote, they hovered back at the far end of the hall.

‘So, Daddy’s a terrible, terrible spoilt fusspot, but of course he’s much too lazy to lift a finger for himself; he makes his equerry do absolutely everything,’ Sophie
continued. She was fairly tipsy by now, her blonde hair partially falling down from her updo, her cheeks pink with both drink and proximity to the fire: she looked very pretty. Lady Margaret,
sitting in an armchair in a wall embrasure a little removed from the group by the fire, smiled almost maternally to see her god-daughter not only so happy, but also able to party with her friends
without reverting to the wild-child days full of scandal, bitchery and self-destructive behaviour.

‘He won’t put his own toothpaste on his toothbrush – you know that, right? He has to have the paste already squeezed onto the brush, ready and waiting for him, morning and
evening,’ Sophie told her eager listeners. ‘And he’s very particular about the kind – he has to have Colgate Total Plus or something. One of the whitening ones with the
special stripe. So sometimes, if he’s been really arsey that day, the equerry mixes in some Crest that he keeps specially – he puts it under the Colgate, so it tastes different but
looks the same. He says Daddy goes mental, because he can’t see the difference but he hates the taste, and the equerry gets all concerned and says does Daddy think it’s a health thing
– you know, tasting things differently – and Daddy gets all wound up because he’s a huge hypochondriac. The equerry says he can’t do it that often but it’s absolutely
hilarious when he does.’

‘That’s fiendish,’ Dominic said, even drunker and more flushed than Sophie.

Tipsiness suited him just as it did her: his eyes glittered, his lips were moist and parted, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead, one leg casually hooked across the other knee. He was
sprawling like a Georgette Heyer rake. If he’d been wearing a cravat, it would have been loosened; as it was, his shirt collar was open, his black bow tie dangling in debonair fashion. His
arms were spread wide along the back of the velvet sofa, not just to demonstrate alpha-male credentials and to dominate his territory, but so that he could secretly reach far enough to stroke one
thumb in slow, lazy circles at the back of Tamra’s neck. She was next to him on the sofa, part of the main group, resolved to seem as bright and relaxed and happy as if her daughter
hadn’t been emotionally absent for the entire evening.

Because Brianna Jade had been like a gorgeous, glossy mannequin during drinks and dinner, almost completely silent. A casual observer would have thought that Edmund was planning to marry a very
expensive blow-up doll. She had excused herself straight after dinner, saying that she had a headache, and gone to her room: Tamra had tried to ask her some questions after the shoot, but Brianna
Jade had started vibrating like a tuning fork and very sensibly, Tamra had backed off fast, fearing that her daughter might actually break down if she pushed things any further. All Tamra wanted
for the rest of the weekend was to achieve some damage control, and then she would sit down with her beloved daughter when all the guests were gone, find out what was worrying her so badly, and
move heaven and earth to make it right for her.

Well, perhaps that isn’t everything I want,
Tamra thought, steeling her body not to react visibly to the pleasure of Dominic’s thumb tracing those circles on her bare skin.
It was utterly divine, heat and damp rising between her legs in delicious bubbles like a pot coming to the boil, and she shifted a little, catching his smug smile as he registered her reaction to
his caress.
Thank God for Dominic. This is just what I need tonight, some cheap slutty boy to fuck so I can take the edge off, calm my nerves. Nothing remotely serious, no one who’s going
to fall for me and complicate my life. If there’s anyone who knows the rules of a one-night stand, it’s Dominic.

To avenge herself for the smug smile, Tamra hitched the already short skirt of her blue velvet, off-the-shoulder 3.1 Philip Lim dress an inch up her thigh, ostensibly so that she could re-cross
her legs, but actually to give Dominic, on her left, a swift flash of the elaborately patterned navy lace top of her hold-up stocking. One perfect leg scissored over the other, she adjusted her
skirt demurely and settled back against the cushion behind her. Dominic’s thumb was as frozen on her back as his eyes were glued to her upper thigh, and a quick sideways glance confirmed that
his jaw was dropped. He looked as if he were about to drool.

All I can manage tonight is to get laid. I can’t control what upsets my daughter,
Tamra thought grimly.
I can’t fix the past and make the photo shoot miraculously come
out okay. Jodie Raeburn and her team have gone, dammit, and I was so bummed she couldn’t stay over tonight, but honestly, with BJ gone emotionally AWOL, it’s ended up being for the
best.

Shit, I could strangle that poisonous little Milly with my bare hands! But I mustn’t think about that now, or I really will kill the bitch. I need to take all this angry energy and
turn it into sex and fuck Dominic so hard tonight he won’t be able to walk straight for three days . . .

Some of this must have been conveyed in that swift look at Dominic, because his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his arm retracted along the back of the sofa, his legs
shifting as he sat up straighter, resettling himself so that the prominent bulge in his trousers was at least partially disguised from view. Luckily, everyone was listening to Sophie’s story
much too attentively to notice the short interplay between him and Tamra.

‘But the best story’s about Daddy’s socks,’ Sophie was saying. ‘Did you know they’re not just handmade, they’re actually fitted individually? No,
seriously, it’s true!’ she insisted to Edmund, who was sitting next to her and had murmured doubt at this information.

‘They’re made for the right and left royal trotter, honestly!’ she giggled. ‘So when Daddy’s been a total petulant irritating bastard, this chap lays the socks out
the wrong way round in the dressing room. You know, it’s not super obvious, and Daddy wouldn’t dream of doing anything so common as looking closely at his own socks, of course. But then
he goes on to have a simply horrid day, feeling something’s wrong but he can’t work out quite what, and getting all fretful till he takes his socks off again . . .’

Lady Margaret put down her whisky glass and shoved her cigarette into the corner of her mouth to free both her hands so that she could applaud this story loudly.

‘Bloody perfect!’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I love this story! Top man!’

‘Well, no one’s going to beat that anecdote,’ Edmund said, grinning and rising to his feet. ‘Have we all digested the very excellent meal that Mrs Hurley regaled us with?
I’m sorry to say that Tamra hasn’t yet put in a heated pool or hot tub for us all to splash around in—’ He winked at his future mother-in-law as play-groans of
disappointment rose from the group of guests.

‘Oh, that hot tub’s coming!’ Tamra said, laughing up at him. ‘I just need to figure out the right place to put one in the grounds of a stately home.’

‘God, you, me and a hot tub,’ Dominic muttered in her ear, leaning towards her. ‘The things we could get up to . . .’

‘I’ll test you out on a mattress first,’ Tamra whispered back. ‘See how you run in basic conditions before you get ambitious.’