The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) (13 page)

Cat got through the day by doing the most tedious, boring work, by sorting out the stationery cupboard and ordering new printer cartridges, by sharpening the pencils, getting all the filing done and throwing out the useless, dried-up pens.

She walked back home determined not to think of Adam Lawley any more, to blank him from her mind.

He’d said he was about to go to Italy, and this was just as well, because she knew for certain they must never meet again.

When he had kissed her, she’d heard angels singing – in fact, whole heavenly choirs had started up. There’d been trumpets, there’d been strings and there’d been flutes and harps. The London Philharmonic Orchestra, right there in Barry’s shed.

As Adam’s strong, blunt-fingered hands had stroked her face and body, as he had kissed her mouth, her ears, her neck, she had felt unreal, unlike herself, as if she were a goddess and she could do anything. As his mouth was on her throat, she’d been in ecstasy. She’d never, ever felt that way before.

If she’d stayed in that shed a few more minutes, she’d have probably ripped his shirt off, and started pulling off her own clothes, too. Yes, it had been that good.

Or rather, bad.

But she wasn’t engaged to Adam Lawley.

She was engaged to Jack.

She pushed her hand into the pocket of her coat, hoping there would be some change to buy a magazine.
Marie Claire
or
Cosmo
would do nicely and would keep her occupied while Jack watched sport on Sky, as he would probably do tonight.

Or maybe she’d get
Glamour
, which was always good for fashion, shoes and wish-list handbags. She wouldn’t find Adam in it anyway, his dark eyes burning, stoking her own desire.

But she didn’t find any change.

She found Adam’s handkerchief instead.

She must wash it, she decided, post it back to him. She could easily find out where he lived. It would be on his paperwork back at the yard.

Or could she deliver it in person?

What? You should drop it in a litter bin, she told herself. Pretend you never had it in the first place!

She held it to her face a moment, breathing in his special Adam smell, a blend of soap and wood-shavings and him.

Then she imagined she was kissing him again.

‘These summer colds, they’re awful,’ said a woman, who had stopped to cluck in sympathy. ‘You want to get an Olbas oil inhaler, darling, that’ll probably shift it. My Henry swears by them.’

‘I don’t want it shifted,’ muttered Cat. She shoved the hankie back into her pocket and walked quickly home.

As she went upstairs to her familiar little flat above the fruit and vegetable shop, the most delicious smell of dinner cooking floated down. Jack was a brilliant cook – that was on the very rare occasions when he could be bothered – and this evening he was clearly pulling out a hundred different stops.

She set her face to smile mode and then she pushed her key into the lock. Come on, she told herself, you’re home. Your man is cooking you a lovely dinner. You’re a very lucky woman.

You’ve been such an idiot today. You’ve given in to an absurd infatuation which won’t lead anywhere.

Adam doesn’t do relationships.

So what
if he kissed you and it felt like you’d been born again? It didn’t mean a thing to him. The man who really loves you is a couple of feet away.

As she took her coat off, she could hear Jack humming to himself. He sounded very pleased with life. When she went in the kitchen, he dropped his wooden spoon into the sink along with all the other pans and plates and cutlery and dishes, and gave her a big hug.

‘Good day, honeybee?’ he asked, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, a lovely, friendly, glad-to-see-you kiss.

‘Yes, it was fine,’ she said, while making sure she kept the happy smile glued on her face. ‘What have you been doing with yourself, apart from cooking something wonderful?’

‘I went to see a guy who organises gigs and got myself some dates in pubs in Essex. Then I went to Billingsgate, bought seafood, and I’m making a paella.’ Jack took her face between his hands. ‘Poor honeybee, you’re looking really tired. Barry Whatsisface works you too hard.’

‘I’m okay,’ said Cat. ‘Do I have time to take a shower?’

‘Yes, if you’re quick.’ Opening the fridge, Jack took out a bottle of expensive white Rioja. ‘Off you go, get showered, and then we’ll have a great romantic evening, just the two of us.’

‘Lovely,’ murmured Cat, doing her best to sound as if she meant it, but hearing she was failing miserably. She hoped Jack wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t ask if anything was wrong, wouldn’t spot those red grazes on her neck.

Or, if he did, he’d think he’d put them there himself.

But luckily he didn’t seem to notice anything.

He sauntered back into the kitchen and carried on creating his paella, crashing pots and pans around and letting things boil over on the hob.

‘By the way,’ he called, as she kicked off her office shoes and stuck her tired feet into her bright pink Hello Kitty slippers – a present from her mother, to whom she would always be thirteen – ‘that Fanny Gregory woman called this morning, while I was still in bed.’

‘Why did she ring here, when she knows I go to work?’

‘She rang you on your mobile.’ Jack picked up Cat’s BlackBerry and grinned. ‘When you went off in such a rush this morning, you left your phone behind.’

‘Oh,’ said Cat, and wondered if he’d looked through all her messages and contacts – was Adam Lawley there? She thought he must be. ‘What did Fanny say?’

‘She’s sorry that she hasn’t been in touch, but she’s been busy, busy, busy. We had a little chat, and she wants to see us at her office.’

‘Where’s her office?’

‘Somewhere off Oxford Street, she said. She gave me the address. I told her fine. It’s all fixed up for Saturday at three. She had a very sexy voice, did Fanny. What’s she like?’

‘She’s terrifying,’ said Cat, and then she shuddered, thinking of how close she’d come to having to top herself. ‘I’d hate to get on the wrong side of Fanny.’

‘Oh, she’s just a woman,’ Jack said airily. ‘I can deal with women.’

‘You couldn’t deal with this one,’ Cat insisted. ‘She’s not a woman, anyway. She’s the wrath of God.’

‘I’ll twist your Fanny round my little finger,’ promised Jack. ‘Go and have your shower and make yourself all fragrant and relaxed, and then it will be time to eat.’

At eight o’clock that morning Adam drove to Gloucestershire where he signed off the work at Redland Manor.

Then he drove on to Cornwall to make sure the project he was managing there could get on without him for a week or two.

All the time he worried about Cat, about what he had done. What had he been thinking, or not thinking?

But he also thought about what she had done. She had not been faking, he was absolutely sure of that.

Those kisses had been real.

When he got back to London, he started reading Gwennie’s magazines, taking them
to bed with him and studying them in detail, especially the features and the problem pages, trying to work women out.

But he only managed to confuse himself some more.

Soon he was wondering if there might be something wrong with him, because he was astonished by the things these magazines insisted most men thought (but didn’t say to women), most men did (when women weren’t around), and most men wanted (from a woman, especially in bed).

Position of the month – he turned one illustration round and round and tried to see how it would work in practice. But it defeated him. Whoever had cooked that one up didn’t know a thing about anatomy, let alone hydraulics and suspension.

Now he could understand why Jules was grumpy and moved as if he’d done himself an injury some mornings, if Gwennie had been making him try weird stuff like this.

But he did get something out of all his in-depth study.

He read an article called
sexy signals – tell him what you really mean
and he concluded if a woman pulled your shirt out of your trousers, if she kissed you like she couldn’t get enough of you, she meant she really wanted to be kissed.

But, all the same, Cat was in love with Jack.

She was engaged to Jack, and she was going to marry Jack, so he must never see that girl again.

‘Adam?’ As he was checking out a beauty feature on waxing as opposed to sugaring – ouch, both sounded hideously painful, he was glad he was a man – Gwennie came knocking on his bedroom door. ‘Adam, are you decent?’

‘Yes, come in,’ he called and pushed the magazine he had been studying underneath the duvet. Then he picked up a paperback about restoring and conserving marble
and tried to look absorbed.

‘Sorry to disturb you. I know you’re getting up at six tomorrow, but I wondered if you’d got my magazine?’ Gwennie frowned at him – suspiciously? ‘I haven’t read it yet. I know I left it on the kitchen table, but it’s not there now. I can’t think where it’s gone, unless we put it out with the recycling by mistake.’

‘I’m sorry, Gwennie.’ Adam had decided he’d give Jules a break tonight. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen it.’

‘I just thought I’d ask.’ Gwennie shrugged inside her fluffy towelling dressing gown. ‘A bloke’s bloke like you – of course it’s not your sort of thing.’

‘What are you going to wear?’ demanded Jack.

‘My plain black office trousers and my purple long-sleeved top.’

‘But I hate that purple top. What about your denim miniskirt and your new green vest with lace on it? The one that shows your boobs off? They’re both good on you. They make you look like one hot sexy lady.’

‘Fanny will hate them, trust me,’ Cat replied. ‘She’ll tell me they look common and I look common, too.’

‘You’re not dressing for some bossy bitch,’ retorted Jack. ‘You’re my girl and you should dress for me.’

‘Jack, I am a modern, independent working woman and I dress to please myself.’

‘You’re dressing to please Fanny Whatserface, or so it seems to me. Why have you put your hair up? You know I like it loose.’

‘It looks less messy up,’ said Cat. ‘It isn’t hanging all over my face and making me look like some sort of hippy. Jack, don’t start a row.’

‘Go and put your denim skirt on, then.’

But Cat wore her plain black office trousers and her purple long-sleeved top. Jack sulked all the way to Fanny’s office, muttering that if anybody saw them they’d think he was dating a headmistress or a psychiatrist.

Rosie met them at the door. She took them up to Fanny Gregory’s huge, palatial office. This was on the second storey of a Georgian house near Marble Arch, the beating heart of London.

But up here the noise of traffic was so muted that they could all hear each other breathe.

‘Hello, Cat – we meet again,’ said Fanny.

She was sitting at a great big desk which had nothing on it except for a new softly-humming laptop and the latest version of a very expensive mobile phone. The beautiful black greyhound was sitting at her side, looking at the visitors with interest and possibly amusement in his amber eyes.

‘Hello, Fanny,’ Cat said. ‘Hello, Caspar, good to see you. Fanny, this is Jack.’

‘Ah, the elusive bridegroom, our paths converge at last.’ Fanny sent Rosie off to make some coffee then she looked Jack up and down. ‘I must let you into a little secret, Mr Benson,’ she continued. She leaned across her desk to shake Jack’s hand and flash a vast amount of cleavage as she gazed into his eyes. ‘When you didn’t come to Dorset, I began to wonder if you actually existed.’

‘As you see, I do,’ said Jack, flashing back the most enormous, thrilled-to-meet-you grin. ‘Please call me Jack,’ he added. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t meet up sooner, but I’ve been away.’

‘You do stand-up, don’t you?’ As Cat stood there bemused, Fanny simpered like a teenage schoolgirl meeting Justin Bieber or his just-as-gorgeous twin. ‘Gosh, I can’t imagine anything more frightening! It must take such nerve, such guts, such raw, determined self-belief, to get up there in front of all those people, tell them jokes and get them laughing. What a talent you must have! But I can see you also have charisma, Mr Benson – Jack – and that’s what really counts. I’ll bet you knock ’em dead!’

‘I do my best,’ said Jack, and smirked. ‘But this stand-up business – it’s full of hopeless hopefuls trying to make it, even though they haven’t got a chance. I have to fight for every gig. I have to prove myself against a hundred wannabes—’

‘All the same, you get out there and win.’ Fanny laughed a merry little laugh, and twisted one stray, clearly very expensive auburn curl around an index finger topped with a sharp, red nail. ‘At Supadoop Promotions, we’ve been thinking of branching out a little – maybe taking clients from the worlds of sport and showbiz. Do you have an agent, Jack?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Jack leaned across the desk and stared deep into Fanny’s cleavage. ‘But I’d really like one, especially one as go-getting and versatile as you. I think we could—’

‘Ahem,’ said Cat.

‘Oh, Cat, my darling – we’re neglecting you!’ Fanny stopped ogling Jack at once. She took a big green folder from a drawer. ‘Okay, my angels, sit down and listen up. We lost a bit of time while Jack was up in Manchester, and so we’re on a tightish schedule now. Rosie, at long last, my love – what have you been doing? Pour the coffee, will you, sweetheart, then you can go home. Do we have any of those vegan-friendly, bran-rich biscuits left? The ones that man from Cheshire wanted us to try to sell to Fortnum’s?’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Rosie. ‘I tried to give them to the cleaning lady, but she said she’d rather have a Jaffa Cake, or something with a bit of taste to it in any case. Caspar doesn’t fancy them at all. If you don’t like them either, there are Garibaldis and some chocolate wafers in the tin.’

‘What do you mean, a tightish schedule?’ Cat asked Fanny, feeling anxious now.

‘Monday, photo opportunity at half past ten, ideally in Hyde Park,’ said Fanny briskly. ‘Let’s hope the sun comes out. Cat, wear something filmy, floaty, flirty – floral, if you’ve got it, prints are very in right now. Or don’t wear that horrid purple top and those ghastly polyester trousers, anyway. You’ll look like a bank clerk or a funeral director, darling heart, and that won’t do at all. I’ll have Rosie sort out a few outfits, keep some things on standby.’

Fanny paused for breath and then she carried on again at ninety miles an hour. ‘The kind of look I’m thinking now is rosy-cheeked and dewy-eyed and kissable. Perhaps with bedhead hair? Well, not too styled and formal, anyway, nothing like you’ve pinned it up today, it’s too severe. You look like an unsuccessful Russian dominatrix, angel, or a stern librarian, not a girl in love – and this promotion’s about love, romance and fun, fun, fun.

‘Jack, you must be hunky, sexy, gorgeous. But don’t worry, darling, you’d look gorgeous in a bin bag. We’ll need to cut your hair, so don’t be late. I’ll have a stylist bring some clothes, just in case yours turn out not to be exactly right. But, from looking at you today, I honestly don’t think there’ll be a problem.

‘Tuesday, we’ll be having lunch with editors from women’s magazines. In the afternoon, we’ll kick around publicity angles, make some calls and see who’ll pay for what. The wedding gown’s included in the package, obviously. But I’m hoping the designer will agree to make the bridesmaids’ dresses, do an all-in deal. So fingers firmly crossed.

‘Wednesday morning, we’ll be seeing a literary agent who’s trying to get a book deal, and in the afternoon a guy from cable. He loved your pictures, darlings, and he’s thinking of a series, maybe following you both around as you prepare for your big day.

‘We’ll maybe get a special wedding chair for you to sit in while you do your one-to-ones to camera, video-diary style. You know the sort of thing – like in
Big Brother
? Yes, of course you do. But in this case no one gets evicted, ha ha ha. The producer said—’

‘This television stuff, it’s definitely going to happen?’ interrupted Jack.

‘Yes, of course, my darling – that’s the plan! So a book will make a perfect tie-in. But don’t worry, Cat. We’ll pay some hack to write it. I know just the one. She freelances for some extremely tedious provincial magazine. She wants to be a novelist and win the Booker Prize. But it will never happen, unless they change the rules and give the prize to someone who can get a hundred clichés on every single page. She’ll be very happy to write your book for cash-in-hand and see your names on it.

‘Do you like these biscuits? I think they’re rather dry. They need more syrup, butter, or more something, anyway.’

‘They’re okay,’ said Cat.

‘But they’re not right for Fortnum’s. Selfridges might take them, or possibly John Lewis – gift department, pretty boxes, pix of dear old biddy busy cooking in some old-style kitchen? Snow-white pinny – cameo brooch – grey hair – big, beaming smile? I’ll tell Rosie to get on to it. Anyway, on Thursday—’

‘But I can’t take all this time off work,’ objected Cat.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Fanny, I have a full-time job. I have responsibilities. I can’t swan off to lunches, photo opportunities and whatnot. I can’t say to Barry—’

‘One moment, sweetheart,’ interrupted Fanny, who had suddenly gone all gimlet-eyed. ‘Somewhere, Cat, I have your entry form. Yes, here it is, and I see you’ve signed to say you’re willing to accept all Supadoop Promotion’s terms and all our conditions?’

‘But I didn’t mean—’

‘So – in the event of winning, you agreed to make yourself available for all publicity, all photo opportunities, all interviews that Supadoop Promotions might arrange?’

‘Did I, Fanny?’

‘Yes, my love, you did.’ Fanny pushed the entry form across the desk to Cat. ‘You also said that if you couldn’t meet these obligations, and if any monies had been disbursed – that means spent, my darling – by Supadoop Promotions, you would reimburse the company – and that means pay me back. You signed there, my angel, do you see, right on the dotted line.’

As Cat stared at her signature, dashed off so carelessly so many months ago, she thought she might be sick. ‘How much have you spent, then?’ she enquired.

‘I’d have to work it out, but I’d say the high four figures easily, or maybe even five.’

‘Anyway, you don’t need that job,’ said Jack.

‘Of course I do!’ cried Cat.

‘You don’t.’ Now Jack’s arms were folded and one foot was tapping crossly. ‘Listen, Cat, this is an opportunity. This whole thing will generate a mass of great publicity for me – I mean, for us. I’ll be on television, for fuck’s sake! But all you can do is mutter about your boring job and your responsibilities. Cat, you’re not the CEO of eBay. You’re not running Microsoft. You work in a scrap yard, selling junk.’

‘My salary pays the rent,’ Cat told him sharply.

‘You mean I’m some sort of parasite?’ Jack was glaring daggers. Fanny Gregory looked at Cat and pursed her lip-glossed lips. ‘Cat, you set this up,’ said Jack. ‘You entered this fantastic competition. So why are you trying to pull out?’

‘I’m not trying to pull out!’

‘That’s how it looks to me.’ Jack scowled. ‘Do you want to marry me?’

‘Jack, you know I do.’

‘Then help me, won’t you?’

‘But I can’t afford—’

‘It’s crunch time, honeybee.’ Jack turned to look at Fanny. ‘Give us a couple of minutes on our own? I’ll talk her round.’

Fanny Gregory stood up. ‘You mind you do, my darling,’ she said crisply. Then she turned to Cat. ‘I’ll be back in five and by then, my nightingale, I’ll hope to hear you sing a different song. Caspar, angel, come with me.’

They heard her clacking down the passage. It sounded like her Manolos themselves were seriously brassed off.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Jack demanded furiously.

‘I might ask you that same question!’ Cat glared back at him. ‘When you asked me to marry you, I assumed it was because you loved me!’

‘I do love you, Cat, and well you know it!’

‘So that was why you said it wasn’t working? Why you disappeared into the night and didn’t call and didn’t text and didn’t e-mail for what was it, two months? Or was it more?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Did you think of me at all? Did you wonder what I might be feeling, if I might be worrying about you, if my heart was breaking, if I could sleep at night?’

‘Stop dragging up the past!’ cried Jack. ‘Stop opening old wounds! They’re history, and now we need—’

‘We need to go straight home and talk this through.’

‘But Fanny Gregory, Cat – she’s gone to all this trouble.’ Now Jack looked like a five-year-old who’d had his sherbet fountain snatched away and chucked into a bin. ‘We can’t just walk out of here. Surely you see that? Fanny really wants to help us. She would be so hurt—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jack!’ exploded Cat. ‘She isn’t doing this because she loves us and wants to make us happy! She’s done a deal with the Melbury Court Hotel! She’s been busy schmoozing with the women’s magazines! She’s sucked up to a literary agent and a cable company! This whole charade – it’s about making loads of dosh for Fanny Gregory! It isn’t about us!’

‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is about my life,’ said Jack. ‘This is about me getting my big break. If you’re so selfish and short-sighted and so mean you can’t see that, perhaps I shouldn’t marry you after all.’

‘But do you want to marry me?’ Cat looked at Jack and met his eyes, the eyes she loved. Or thought she loved. ‘It seems a bit extreme, to go to all the trouble of getting married if it’s just to further your career. Why don’t you go to bed with Fanny Gregory, instead?’

‘I don’t want to go to bed with Fanny! The woman is a hideous old slapper! She’s a greedy bitch with plastic jugs and nasty orange hair!’

‘A greedy slapper, eh? Or somebody who really wants to help us? Why don’t you make your mind up? A minute or two ago, you said—’

‘I know what I said!’ Jack glared. ‘God, I sometimes wonder what I ever saw in you, and I—’

‘The feeling’s mutual, Jack.’ Then Cat thought – sod all this. Sod Fanny Gregory and her tightish sodding schedule, and sod Jack Benson, too. She grabbed her bag, stood up to leave.

But Jack caught her hand and then he pulled her down again. He took her by the shoulders and gently, very gently, he turned her round to face him.

As if one of his switches had been flicked, his gaze became conciliatory, kind. ‘I’m sorry, honeybee,’ he said. ‘My darling, I love you. I want to marry you, of course I do. I want to go to bed with you – and only you.’