The Runaway Bridesmaid. Daisy James
whilst she could wipe Giles from her life due to lack of merit, she was unable to do the same with her only sister. She couldn’t allow this nightmare to sow the seeds of bitterness in the hearts of those she loved.
‘No, Freya, I won’t tell Jacob. But I have to tell you how shocked I was at your behaviour. I thought, hoped, that all your crazy, wild exploits were behind you when you accepted Jacob’s proposal. He’s a decent guy, you know, and he adores you. He deserves your loyalty.’
‘I promise you I will work hard at being the best wife I can be for Jacob.’ Freya paused, and for the first time in a long time Rosie heard a serious tone creep into her sister’s voice. ‘Romantic love is not all it’s cracked up to be, Rosie. You should find someone who will provide for you, too. Don’t tell me that’s not better than slogging your life away in that sweatshop of an office.’
Sorrow tinged Rosie’s heart at the possibility Freya had settled for less than a burning-hot passion for her handsome husband. She wished with all her heart that today she could have fully rejoiced in the vicarious happiness of her sister’s wedding day. Her head considered Freya’s proposition as a possible alternative to her loneliness, but her heart screamed traitor.
‘Are you telling me that you don’t love Jacob with all your heart and soul?’
Freya was listening but the words clearly didn’t penetrate into her brain. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony, Rosie, it’s such a shame you missed it. I know you said ivory roses and peonies are classy and sophisticated, but I still wish you had gone for something a little more show-stopping like I wanted.’
‘Goodbye, Freya. Send my love to Dad.’
Rosie stood on her balcony hugging her mug of camomile tea – the balm of choice for all scenarios in apartment 4B. The tea tasted like cat’s pee to Rosie, but its warmth and sweetness achieved the intended goal. She mused about where her excessive caring gene had originated. Her sister, her father, her college friends and work colleagues all held a spot on her long list, but where had such compassionate interest led her? Was she responsible for spoiling Freya; had she had a hand in moulding her self-focused behaviour?
Rosie felt a failure on all levels. Self-interest, single-minded ambition and determination led to arrogance and pride. She only had to look at Giles to know this was true. Those characteristics might be bad, but they provided the impetus and tenacity to strive for the fulfilment of your dreams – the accomplishment of which delivered a happy life.
Should she strive to achieve her own dreams now? Seek a relationship with a random passing stranger as Freya had advised, just so she wouldn’t die alone like her aunt? She caught her breath and shook these thoughts from her mind. God, no! That depressing scenario would not be her future.
As evening swept its cloak over New York City, Rosie’s pain passed into exhaustion. In her pristine bedroom, a necessary sanctuary from the chaos and clutter preferred by Freya as they had been growing up, she leaned against her silk cushions and scrolled through her cell phone messages. Five missed calls from Lauren now. Not one from Giles. She jabbed the ‘off’ button and wished she could repeat the action with her life – evaporate from this agonising world she had tumbled into. When would she be granted leave from the trauma constantly inflicted on her weary soul?
As her internal dialogue chattered with irrelevant, circular arguments, and fear cast a shadow over her aching heart, fatigue delivered her into the welcome oblivion of sleep.
Rosie woke in the early hours, fully clothed. A burnt orange mohair throw prickled at her chin. Her body was still exhausted from her unconscious exploits; of seeking to find a way out of the labyrinth of sadness and self-recrimination for what life had thrown at her. The bejewelled clock on the lamp table, a birthday gift from Lauren, ticked each painful second by, delivering with each one a slash of pain as she came to realise Giles and Freya’s betrayal had not been a dream after all. The question was: would she allow the resulting shock and bitterness to poison her soul?
As a shaft of moonlight glanced through the drifting clouds, she dragged her aching bones to the tiny galley kitchen. She brewed up a pot of her favoured Lady Grey using fresh tea leaves, her actions measured and mechanical. She welcomed the scalding of the fragrant liquid on her tongue as evidence she was still able to feel physical pain and therefore still alive. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the French windows – a gaunt, transparent doll engulfed by the velvet darkness. Her eyes fell down the sheer drop to the sidewalk below, high enough to ensure certain death if she were that way inclined. Would the descent be a smooth journey to oblivion or too swift to register?
She clasped the spreading warmth from the china mug, saddened that the birth of a new day had not brought the solace she so desired. The cool light of dawn began to spread its insistent fingers through the south-facing window and the black, wrought-iron frame of the balcony glistened with morning dew. She allowed her weary mind to meander the streets of Manhattan, those she and Giles had sauntered together over the last three months: the snaking paths of Central Park as the stark, spindly branches awakened with spring buds; the urban grids of Lower Manhattan explored in the slicing rain in search of a stolen moment from the frenetic activity of the office for which she now endured the inevitable punishment.
She forced her thoughts to linger on her relationship with Giles. Her chest tingled with an unidentifiable emotion. Their liaison had perhaps been inevitable. As she spent most of her waking hours either at the office or networking at client dinners, conferences or launches, no other potential date had crossed her radar.
She smiled as she recalled their first night together after a conference in Boston, both too drunk and too exhausted to do anything beyond kiss and pass out. She knew Giles was unpopular in the office; his defensiveness of his higher status scratched the egos of those striving to catch him or replace him, but she had glimpsed his softer side. And no one could fail to be drawn to his charismatic charm, the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, your conversation the most sparkling he had ever heard. Not to mention his dark, brooding, sexy good looks and come-to-bed eyes.
Rosie realised their relationship had been born of convenience; a snatched hour after work here, a grabbed weekend there. She loathed herself and her emotional weakness for craving the brief episodes of solace he offered in her solitary life. But mostly her conscience was gnawed by the acid of guilt because he was her boss and office romances featured as a forbidden transgression in the Office Manual. She’d been unsuccessful in keeping their relationship a secret from eagle-eyed Lauren, who had cautioned her against its continuance. She was grateful for a confidante with whom to share her woes, but Lauren had refused to let her ignore the inadvisability of such a slip in her usually level-headed judgement.
Giles was not only resented as the current possessor of the power to have the final say on his team’s promotion prospects, but for his tendency to grab every ounce of credit where credit most certainly was not due. His mediocrity of talent required the skilful manipulation of that possessed by others. Accuracy and honesty were superfluous in this regard. It was this renowned corporate trait possessed by Giles which alarmed her the most. She had been adamant she would not hand over her Baker-Colt Family Trust file for him to complete a share purchase the following week. She knew Giles would grasp the opportunity to milk all the credit for her hard work.
Annoyingly, now she intended to fly to the UK for her aunt’s funeral, Giles would get his way after all – but there was no alternative. Monday was the deadline for their purchase. She had been excited and grateful to at last be sufficiently trusted to handle a transaction based solely on her own thorough research and advice. This portfolio investment was for a wealthy family’s trust fund set up in the name of their deceased daughter, Charlotte Baker, and Rosie had been meticulous in her preparation and planning.
She shook her head to clear her scattered thoughts and forced herself into the shower before calling a taxi to take her to the airport and the long flight to Heathrow. Her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite. She yearned