The Bejewelled Bride. Lee Wilkinson
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visit to Mrs Deramack failed to spoil her new-found happiness.
Though, as yet, she still knew little about Joel except that he came from London, they were together at last. Lovers. In love for ever. A glowing future ahead of them.
While she waited for him to emerge, she put the kettle on, rinsed two mugs and spooned instant coffee into them, before going back to the fire.
Reaching for her capacious bag, she flipped it open and started to unzip the compartment that held her comb and cosmetics.
But something—it looked like the corner of a facial tissue—was caught and the zip had jammed, though it had seemed all right the previous night when she had replaced her comb.
And her mobile wasn’t in the pocket she usually kept it in, but no doubt she had been too excited to care where she put it.
A little frown of concentration marring her smooth brow, she worked the zip free, then, having combed her hair, took it up into its usual gleaming coil.
As she clipped it into place, it began to impinge on her consciousness that, apart from the crackle of burning logs and the kettle starting to sing, everywhere was silent. There wasn’t another sound. No movement. No running water. And when she’d put the kettle on it had been cold.
Trying to subdue a sudden, completely unreasonable panic, she went and tapped on the bathroom door. ‘Joel…Will you be long?’
There was no answer.
She threw open the door to find the room was empty.
He must have gone across to have a word with the caretaker, she told herself, and, judging by how low the fire had been, he’d been gone for some time, so no doubt he’d be back at any moment.
When another five minutes had passed with no sign of him returning, an icy vice began to tighten around her heart.
But after all they had shared the previous night, he wouldn’t have just gone. Walked away without a single word. He couldn’t.
Of course! All at once the solution struck her. He’d gone to fetch his car. If he had woken her up, she could have driven him there. Though the road had been too narrow at that precise spot for any manoeuvring, there must surely be somewhere on that stretch a car could turn round.
When the kettle boiled she made a single cup of coffee and drank it sitting in front of the fire.
After another half an hour had crawled past she knew with dreadful certainty that he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps, subconsciously, she had known from the very beginning.
Joel had gone for good. Had gone without a word. Without so much as leaving a note.
He had walked in and out of her life like some wraith. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he came from London. He might even be a married man.
Gripped by an icy coldness, a pain so intense she might have been in the grim embrace of an iron maiden, she could neither move nor breathe.
Last night had meant nothing to him. Just a seized chance. A one night stand. All the talk about seeming to know her, to recognize her, had just been part of his seduction technique.
Perhaps he had believed Tony was her lover? Had decided she was easy?
Well, she had been, she thought bitterly. Stupidly, idiotically easy.
In love with a dream, she had behaved like some silly little adolescent who hadn’t yet learnt to curb her impulses and respect herself.
She stood for a long time staring blindly into space before she was able to move, to find her coat and bag and make her way to the car.
The keys were in the ignition where Joel had left them the previous night. Thinking of how excited she had been when they arrived here, how hopeful, she felt as if a knife was being turned in her heart and was forced to lean against the car until the worst of the agony had passed.
Then, her usual graceful movements clumsy, she got into the driving seat and, leaning forward, rested her forehead on the wheel.
After a moment or two, as if so much pain had caused a protective shield to drop into place, she raised her head and, neither thinking nor feeling, her entire being numb, drove back to Dundale like some automaton.
It was almost twelve by the time she reached the Inn to find Tony pacing the lobby, every bit as enraged as she had imagined.
‘So here you are at last! I wondered what the devil had happened to you. Have you any idea how long I’ve been waiting?’ he demanded angrily.
Her voice curiously flat and lifeless, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I overslept.’
‘Overslept!’ He uttered a profanity. ‘So where the hell did you sleep?’
Briefly, she explained about the burst tyre and the mist and having to spend the night at a hotel that was still officially closed for the winter. She didn’t mention Joel.
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ Tony sounded even more exasperated.
‘I couldn’t get a signal,’ she said shortly, and was pleased when he grunted and left it at that.
‘So how did you get on with old Mrs Deramack? Any good stuff?’
She shook her head.
He swore briefly.
Making an effort at normality, she asked, ‘How about Greendales? They seemed to have some extremely nice things.’
‘They did,’ he admitted grudgingly, ‘but their reserve prices were a damn sight too high. Private sales make a lot more sense…’
Bethany was aware that, translated, that meant a lot more money. James Feldon had cared about antiques. All Tony cared about was the bottom line.
‘That’s why I was hoping the old lady had something worth our while. As it is, the trip’s been a waste of time. And now you’ve managed to sleep in,’ he added nastily, ‘it’s been a waste of a morning too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘I hope you weren’t expecting to have lunch before we start?’
‘No, I’m not at all hungry. I’ll just fetch my things.’ She couldn’t wait to get away.
Except for a short stop to refuel and have coffee and, in Tony’s case, a packet of sandwiches, they drove straight back to town. Still in a foul mood, apart from occasionally cursing another motorist, Tony barely uttered a word.
It was a relief in one way, but it allowed too much time for brooding. The numbness had passed and, her thoughts bleak as winter, Bethany found herself going over and over everything that had happened the previous night. Picking at it. Dissecting it. Exposing the pain, so that it was like doing an autopsy on a living body.
By the time Tony dropped her at her flat she was feeling like death and only too pleased that Catherine, who was an airline stewardess, was away until the following week and she had the place to herself.
Quite unable to stomach the thought of food, even though she’d had nothing to eat that day, Bethany made herself a pot of tea and sat down to drink it. She would have an early night. She needed the blessed oblivion of sleep.
Tomorrow, though her beautiful dreams had turned to dust, she would have to get up and face the day as if nothing had happened. If that were possible.
But it had to be. She must make it possible.
She recalled a motto in one of last year’s Christmas crackers: When your dreams turn to dust, Hoover. It seemed appropriate.
Her tea finished, she was heading for the bedroom when the phone rang.
For a moment she considered not answering. But old habits died hard and, before she could make herself walk away, she had picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘So