The Impetuous Bride. Caroline Anderson
They’d driven about two tense and emotionally charged miles before he sighed and turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said tightly. ‘I didn’t mean to snipe at you. I just find this very difficult.’
He wasn’t alone! She’d been wondering for ages just why she’d let herself be talked into this calculated disaster of an evening. ‘It’s OK,’ she conceded, desperate to end this war that had sprung up between them. ‘I never expected you to kill the fatted calf.’ She tried a tentative smile, and his mouth flickered just briefly.
It wasn’t a smile, but it was a concession, and the tension eased noticeably, to her huge relief. She relaxed back against the seat, still shaking with reaction, but at least they were nearly home.
They pulled up on the drive a few minutes later, and Tom cut the engine. ‘Coffee?’ Mel suggested, and gave them both a considering look over the back of the seat. ‘Think you two can cope with that?’
‘I should think we’ll manage,’ Jake said drily, and, opening the door, he got out and helped Mel from the car, leaving Tom to open Lydia’s door.
He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and smiled at her worriedly. ‘You OK?’ he asked softly, and she nodded.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Come on in, it’s chilly.’
She rubbed her bare arms briskly to warm them, and led the way into the kitchen. The Aga was warm, as ever, and she put the kettle on automatically and leant against the front rail, her back to the stove and her hands wrapped round the rail for warmth.
Her mother came into the kitchen and commandeered Mel and Tom immediately, leaving her alone with Jake, and she was suddenly conscious of the way she was standing and the way Jake was looking at her. Dear God, did he think she was being deliberately provocative?
She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers gripping her upper arms defensively, and gave him a cautious smile. ‘I’m sorry about Mel,’ she began, but he cut her off with a short, humourless laugh.
‘No. She was right. I apologise. It was unforgivable. I shouldn’t have poked fun at you; you have every right to do what you like with your life.’
‘Not if it hurts other people,’ she murmured softly.
He was silent, his eyes expressionless, and then he turned away, reaching for the mugs with a familiarity that tore at her heart. How many times had she watched him do that? Struggling to fill the silence, she groped for a topic. ‘How did you get on with the house this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Were the people OK?’
He gave her a strange look. ‘We discussed this over dinner,’ he reminded her, and she coloured.
‘I meant, did you like them? Would you like them to have your house? It’s a very personal thing selling something you’ve worked hard on and care about—you want to make sure it goes into the right hands.’
‘It’s a house, Lydia,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘Just a house.’
She shrugged and pulled the kettle off the hob, lowering the cover down over the hotplate with exaggerated care. ‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee—thank you.’ He set the mugs down beside her, and his arm brushed hers, bringing lingering warmth to the cold skin. He was so close she could smell the faint citrus scent of his aftershave, so familiar it made her ache to hold him, to slip into his arms and rest her weary head on his chest and cry her eyes out for all the stupid things she’d done in the last year.
Instead she moved away, out of range of the scent of his body, and made the coffee with brisk and economical movements. ‘I’ll take theirs into the study—I can tell this is going to be one of those long confabs that will drag on for ages.’
She put four mugs on a tray and carried them through, earning distracted smiles of thanks, and went back to the kitchen.
Jake was sitting at the table, his long fingers curled around his mug, staring down into its murky contents as if it held the secret of eternal life. There was a box of mint crisp chocolates on the side and she offered him one. He shook his head, but she had two, dipping them in her coffee and sucking them. It was a disgusting habit, but they tasted better like that and she was hardly trying to impress him.
Just as well, judging by the strange way he was looking at her.
‘They liked it,’ he said abruptly, and she paused in her sucking and looked at him in utter confusion.
‘They? They liked what?’
‘The viewers,’ he explained. ‘They liked your kitchen. She waxed lyrical on every single feature. I thought she was going to rip out the dog bed and take it with her.’
Lydia smiled wryly. ‘Oh, dear. Still, I suppose it’s a good sign.’
‘Oh, absolutely. The agent seems to think they’ll all come to blows over it. It certainly won’t hang about on the market, apparently.’
Lydia felt a great pang of regret. It would have been her house, hers and Jake’s, and they would have brought their children up in it.
If their marriage had stood the test of time. Instead it had fallen even before the first hurdle.
‘You ought to come and see the house before it goes,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve done a lot more since you left. It was in a pretty basic state when I bought it—I don’t know if you can remember.’
Remember? How could she forget walking round the echoing emptiness with him, excitement gripping her at the thought of transforming the basic and antiquated scullery into a wonderful family kitchen that would be the heart of his beautiful home. Not for her, of course, not at that stage, but for him and some nameless woman who would become his wife.
‘I want children,’ he’d said, ‘so nothing too precious.’
And she’d imagined the children, little blue-eyed, dark-haired clones of their father, with mischievous smiles and infectious laughter.
It was in that kitchen that he’d first kissed her…
She jerked herself back to the present and his invitation. ‘I’d love to see it—and of course I remember it. It will be interesting to see what you’ve done.’
Heartbreaking, too, but she couldn’t seem to walk away from him no matter how sensible it might be. And it could be her last chance to see it.
‘When?’ she asked, and he shrugged.
‘Tomorrow? Come for breakfast. Your body clock will be all up the creek, so tired as you are I don’t suppose you’ll be able to lie in. Ring me. I’ll cook for you.’
She met his eyes, and for a moment there was a glimmer of the old Jake, then it was gone again.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘That would be lovely. Don’t wait in, though. I might sleep—who knows?’
‘I’ll be in,’ he assured her, and it sounded almost like a promise.
He must be crazy. He couldn’t sit in the same room with her without being reminded of her defection, and yet he was inviting her over—and for breakfast, for heaven’s sake! Not coffee, not a cup of tea, but breakfast, the most intimate meal of all—a meal they’d never shared.
He was mad. He had to be. Bringing her back into the house and filling every nook and cranny of it with her image was absolutely the last thing he needed, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if those images would haunt him for years, because the house would be sold and she’d never even been to his new flat in London.
No, it was just a short-lived torture, a bit of flagellation that if he wasn’t such a masochist he would have avoided like the plague, but he was too weak and too stupid to steer clear of her.
He drained his coffee and stood up. She was drooping over the table, struggling to keep her eyes open after her long flight, and he was keeping her up.
Not