Emma’s eyes on the debacle ahead were full of irritation. She sat on the red-leather seat gripping her bouquet, tight-lipped. This was a girl who got what she wanted all right, I thought as I approached. A girl with a huge sense of entitlement. She wouldn’t see the funny side of this, her wedding car held up by a clapped-out old banger. Wouldn’t throw her head back and roar with laughter at her new husband pushing it up the road, saying it would be one to tell the children. And neither would Phil, it occurred to me abruptly. He’d have been very cross. As she was. How alike they were, I realized; how similar. They’d have got on like a house on fire. My heart suddenly lurched for Simon, laughing with his mates as he pushed Dan up the road in his Morgan. Love surely was blind, and particularly when it became fuelled by the lack of it. Became infatuation. Which wasn’t the same thing at all. I was beside the vintage car now, where Emma sat alone, glaring.

‘Congratulations,’ I said quietly.

Her head turned and her eyes came to rest on me. They took a moment. Then her face blanched. She looked stunned.

I smiled. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not the one back there in the churchyard, is it?’ I jerked my head.

She inhaled, sharply, between barely parted lips.

‘I’ve just been at your wedding,’ I said. ‘Singing for you, in the choir. I live here, remember? It’s my church. My village. Lovely service. Wonder if Phil enjoyed it?’

She glanced around quickly, looking for her groom, for moral support. Her eyes were panicky. And Simon was coming back, but slowly, brushing his hands on his trousers, stopping to share a joke with his ushers. She was on her own.

‘And don’t think you’ll get a penny out of me,’ I said carefully. ‘Because you won’t. Not one penny. You’ve got a flaming nerve, Miss Harding. Or should I say, Mrs Devereux.’

I turned and walked away, towards home, towards my well-earned drink. I felt just a little taller and a little light-headed too. It isn’t often you hope to spoil a bride’s day, I thought as I crossed the road to my cottage, but I sincerely hoped I’d wrecked that one.




18

As I opened my front gate it occurred to me that I could have spoiled it further for her. I could have had a coughing fit in the choir, made myself known, so that those sharp little eyes would have sought me out, irritated, wondering who was making such a racket. I could have done it during her vows. Looked her coldly in the eye, had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch at the altar, rock back beside her new husband. Yes, that would have been sweet. But would it? Might it not have left a nasty taste in my mouth? I gave a wry smile. It seemed I could spoil her day but not entirely ruin it, even though she’d had no qualms about ruining my life.

Had she, though? Ruined my life? Apart from the claim she was making now, which was decidedly unwelcome, surely I’d have welcomed her, had I known of her existence. Surely, if I’d caught them in flagrante in their love nest, or at the office, say, when on a hunch I’d stormed to London, found them locked in a passionate embrace in a stationery cupboard, surely, after the initial shock, I’d have stood back, waved a genial hand and said, ‘How marvellous! Do carry on. Don’t mind me. Have him!’ Slammed the stationery-cupboard door shut.

I went up the cobbled path, absently deadheading a faded old rose on the way. It dawned on me that my life could have been very different if only I’d discovered them earlier, when it first started, when I was pregnant with Clemmie. I’d have been frightened, sure, to be betrayed and pregnant, but calm and still within a twinkling. So. A single mother. Just me and my baby. Yes, I could have done that. I would have gone to Dad’s for a bit, been quite happy. But then I wouldn’t have had Archie. I sighed. If if, maybe maybe, perhaps perhaps. So many imponderables. Maybe I just shouldn’t have married the wretched man in the first place?

Archie and Clemmie were clamouring for my attention when I got inside, and Peggy, who’d held the fort, was full of praise for their achievements.

‘Archie called me Piggy and then Clemmie drew me with a snout – do look.’ She flourished a wax-crayon picture. ‘Quite adorable. Don’t you love the pixie boots she’s put on my trotters? And the beads around my fat neck?’

Normally this would have had me purring with pride, but today I was distracted. I gave it the briefest of glances, flashed a weak smile and crossed to the sitting-room window.

‘What’s up?’ Peggy narrowed her eyes and sat down, lighting a cigarette, watching my back. The children had run back to their crayons in the kitchen.

I turned from staring out at the road over my little hedge. ‘You know that woman Phil was having an affair with? Emma Harding?’ Funny, I’d thought I was calm but my breathing was erratic. ‘She’s just married Simon Devereux.’

Peggy frowned. ‘Simon? Are you sure? I heard he was marrying someone terribly good-looking.’

‘Well, she is quite good-looking.’

‘But Phil was …’ She stopped.

‘Quite.’ I bit my lip. ‘God knows why women fell for him, Peggy,’ I said softly. ‘Anyway, she’s nabbed Simon now. A much better prospect.’

‘Fast work,’ she murmured. ‘In your church too. Takes some doing. How did she know she wouldn’t see you?’

‘Well, she knew I wasn’t on the guest list, so I imagine she thought there was only a slim chance I’d be bustling round the village, and even then it’s only yet another bride sweeping out of our oh-so-popular church, so why would I bother to stand and stare? And it’s all over bar the shouting by then, isn’t it? When she’s out, showered in confetti? And who cares, frankly, if a scruffy mother of two with egg down her front comes out of the village shop and does a double take?’ My words were coming rapidly, like quick fire. Peggy was watching me closely.

‘I see. She didn’t waste much time.’

‘I’ll say she didn’t; she moved like flaming greased lightning. And the thing is, Peggy, since it is all so speedy, and now that she’s married and everything, surely it negates her claim to Phil’s will? I mean, if she’s relying on another man’s wealth, why should she have some of mine?’

‘Yes, I imagine it might make a difference.’ She looked beyond me and blew a line of smoke. Then back at me, curiously. ‘I should think she got the shock of her life, didn’t she? Not just seeing you, but knowing the financial cat was out of the bag?’

‘Well, I would have found out eventually of course, but yes. I definitely found out sooner than she’d hoped. Ha!’ I barked out a strange-sounding laugh. ‘She can put that in her pipe and smoke it.’

‘Sit down, Poppy,’ she said gently.

I crossed to the sofa and perched, still in my coat. Archie appeared again and toddled across to clamber on my lap.

‘Why don’t you ring your solicitor, find out where you stand?’

‘Really?’

‘Why not? Tell him what’s happened.’

It was the green light I’d been hoping for. ‘You mean now? On a Saturday? You don’t think it could wait till Monday?’ I was already on my feet, setting Archie down, looking for my mobile. Not in my pocket. In my bag? No. Down the side of the sofa, perhaps. I searched frantically, already rehearsing in my head: hello, Sam, it’s Poppy. No. Too familiar. Good morning, Sam, it’s Poppy Shilling here.

‘Well, I suppose I did mean Monday,’ Peggy said slowly.

I turned, one hand between the sofa cushions. I must have looked disappointed. My face might even have collapsed.

‘But why not today?’ she said quickly. ‘Everyone keeps odd hours these days and a lot of people work at the weekend.’

‘They do, don’t they?’ I agreed eagerly, retrieving my phone. ‘And he did give me his mobile number.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Her eyes were steady. ‘Have you got some lunch, Poppy?’

‘Oh yes, there’s some cheese in the fridge.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Well, there are some eggs.’

‘They’re quite old. A couple of weeks. Why don’t you come across to me and bring the children? I’ll make some pasta.’

‘No, no, Peggy, we’re fine. I’ll pop to the shop.’

I glanced up at her from my mobile, finger poised. Go, Peggy, go. I need to do this alone.

‘And thank you so much for looking after the children,’ I said breathlessly, knowing better than to pay her. She got to her feet unwillingly. Slowly picked up her Marlboro Lights. I walked her to the door so she had little choice but to exit. ‘I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow,’ I promised. ‘Soon, anyway. Thanks so much for coming.’

‘Look after yourself, Poppy.’

The moment the front door had shut behind her, I hustled Archie down to the kitchen and settled him with his sister at the table, with juice and biscuits, making a long arm to flick on the television in the corner. Oh yes, it still came into its own in extremis. Then I slipped back into the sitting room. Adrenalin was rushing around my body like nobody’s business. I liked a plan. Liked it very much. It helped enormously to see a way forward. My heart was racing as I punched out his number. It rang for a bit, then he answered.

‘Hello!’ Deep, but cheerful. Not low and suspicious like Phil would have been if he didn’t recognize the number. No question mark stuck on the end.

‘Hello, Sam, I’m so sorry to bother you on a Saturday, it’s Poppy Shilling here.’

‘Oh, hi, Poppy.’ A hint of surprise there, I thought.

I hurried on, explaining the situation, tumbling over my words, getting a bit muddled occasionally – I should have sat down and thought this through, had a bit of paper in front of me with bullet points – but eventually I got my point across: that my husband’s lover had, moments ago, tied the knot with a man of surely some standing. That she’d seamlessly cruised on in her scheming little way, whilst I groped around in mine. But surely I’d got her this time?

‘And she was so shocked to see me, Sam,’ I rushed on. ‘I’m in the choir, you see, didn’t stalk her or anything, wasn’t lying in wait; she had no idea I’d be there. She must have thought she’d got away with it!’

There was a long silence on the other end. ‘Well, I’m afraid she may have done just that, Poppy,’ he said eventually. ‘You see, it makes no difference whether she marries or not. If she’s entitled to anything, her claim still stands.’

I stared out of my sitting-room window to the road. Felt my tummy shrivel. ‘But – but Simon Devereux is well off! He’s a flipping Sotheby’s expert or something, works in Bond Street –’

‘Christie’s. Yes, I know Simon.’

‘Do you? Oh, well then, you know! His mother practically lives in a mansion – I’ve seen it – and he’ll inherit it, apparently. She can’t take my money and live in the lap of luxury with him, surely!’

‘I’m afraid she can. I’ll look into it, Poppy, but his wealth has nothing whatsoever to do with hers. And marriage, however swift, is not an impediment to claiming on an ex’s estate.’

It was said kindly, but the wind was completely buffeted out of my sails.

‘He wasn’t her ex. He was mine.’

‘I know,’ he said gently. And perhaps with a hint of pity.

I wondered, suddenly, what sort of figure I cut: this wronged, cheated wife, whose husband’s lover was even now greeting her guests at her wedding reception, whilst I was left panicking breathlessly. Rather a pathetic one, that’s what. Someone Frankie might call a loser. All at once my life swam before me. I saw my younger self, charging confidently around London in the Renault Five Dad had bought me and which I’d painted pink, managing three parties a night sometimes, the object of some attention, usually with gorgeous Ben. A winner, surely. How, then, had it come to this? This breathless little widow, still in her coat, hands tightly clasping her mobile, voice getting shriller as she complained to a man she held in some esteem, a man she might even have been looking for an excuse to ring … complained that it simply wasn’t fair? How had I lost so much of myself over the years? Where had it all gone? I felt detached, like a spectator, watching myself seep through holes, like sand disappearing through a clenched fist. Only a tiny bit remaining in the palm.