‘You don’t have to say things like that,’ she says focusing on her hair, lifting her chin slightly. It’s a gesture I recognise. Lydia going into battle, preparing her defences.
‘I know I don’t have to but I want to, because it’s true.’
She frowns and I stroke a finger along her elegant collar bone. It’s not like Lydia to be insecure.
In the mirror we make a good-looking couple. ‘I noticed you as soon as I saw you at that insurance dinner. When I realised you were sitting on the same table, I swapped the place cards around.’
She turns round, her mouth dropping open. ‘I didn’t know that. You never said before.’
Because I hadn’t wanted her to know that I’d fallen hard and fast the very first time I saw her and I’ve been fighting it ever since. But now my white flag is at full mast.
I shrug but give her a cocky grin. I can see that I’ve genuinely surprised her. ‘Good move, I’d say.’
She shakes her head. ‘Sure of yourself, weren’t you?’
‘No.’ I reach out and trace a finger over her lower lip. ‘Hopeful. I’ve never done that before.’
‘Neither have I.’
We look at each other and I have another one of those moments where my heart expands with warmth and happiness.
There’s a knock on the door and William shouts through it. ‘Mum wants to know when you’ll be ready. She wants some family time before the party starts.’
‘We’ll be down soon.’ Family time is interrogation time. What are we all doing? Who is doing better? It’s a tried and trusted Dereborn tradition.
Seeing my reluctant expression, Lydia squeezes my hand. ‘I’m nearly done.’
Five minutes later, we’re ready to go. In Rosie’s dress she looks ethereal and elegant, not the Lydia I’m used to at all. I can’t decide if I like her in it or not.
‘Look at me,’ she says with a laugh, flapping her frothy skirt. ‘I look like an extra from Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ I laugh because while she’s delicate in build she’s the least fairy-like person I’ve ever met, which is what I like most about her. She’s solid, real and persistent. She doesn’t give up on things easily. Least of all me, it seems.
I hold out my arm and she hooks hers through it. ‘Let’s do this,’ she says, squeezing my bicep. ‘Just don’t do a Cinderella and forget we have a deadline and a date in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Not a chance.’
We leave the room and I’m conscious of her limp as we descend the stairs into the hall. Fuss or not, as soon as Annette arrives, she’s on doctor duty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven LYDIA
I always wanted a sibling – I dreamed we’d team up together against my parents. It never occurred to me that they might be used against me. As I sip the tea that Tom’s mother has made for us all, I watch warily as the family circle round each other like a pride of lions waiting for the weakest prey to fall behind.
I’m wearing Rosie’s dress, an expensive brand that I wouldn’t normally look at, let alone wear. I’m being very careful not to spill anything down it because it’s dry clean only. I really do feel like Cinderella at the ball.
People are due to start arriving in the next twenty minutes. I wish I could go outside as I’m having some sort of hot flush, every bit of me feels overheated – actually my leg is on fire – and it feels as though there’s a little man with a very big hammer dancing about in my head. Probably just a stress hangover. It’s been a hell of a few days.
Barbara and Nigel Dereborn are standing together, a united front, both immaculate in their smart, co-ordinating clothes. I wonder if this is by accident or design and then decide that Tom’s mother wouldn’t let anything in this house be coloured by accident. Everything is far too tasteful.
‘So Tom, how’s the new job going?’ asks his father.
‘Good. I went to Barcelona the other week.’
‘Ah yes, the Consa-Calida fire. I hear you saved BHCA quite a packet.’ Mr Dereborn senior really does have his finger on the pulse, even though he hasn’t quite got his facts right. Tom and I saved BHCA from making a ridiculously inflated pay-out. ‘Jeff Truman is leaving. I assume you’ll be applying for his job.’
‘I’ve only been there five minutes. I’m sure there are better candidates.’ Tom looks at me and the corner of his mouth turns up. Is it chagrin or sharing the joke that I’m likely to be one of the other candidates, if not the sole candidate?
‘Nonsense. I’ll have a word.’
‘Dad, you don’t need to.’
‘I don’t need to,’ Dereborn senior says with unnecessary sarcasm, ‘but why the hell wouldn’t I? Where’s your ambition, Tom? William’s on the board at Turnball’s. We’ve got a reputation to keep up. You’re my son. You should be aiming high, not resting on your fucking laurels.’
Barbara purses her lips. She clearly doesn’t like the language, but she’s right in there backing dear old Nigel up. ‘He’s right, Tom. You should let your father help. It’s not as if you’re not qualified or anything.’
‘Yeah, Tom,’ says William, that malicious glint back in his eye. I can’t help scowling at him. He’s a complete arse. I’ve warmed slightly to Rosie after she apologised to Tom earlier but seriously, this family is toxic. The whole environment feels worse than the one I grew up in. My parents were too out-of-it to know any different. Their neglect wasn’t deliberate – just a by-product of their chaotic, disorganised, addiction-fuelled lives. These people should know better.
‘And while we’re on the subject –’ Dereborn senior is back at it, like a battering ram, bullish and self-satisfied ‘– where’s your mother’s birthday present? Too busy to get her one, were you? Or was it that you just couldn’t be bothered? It’s a poor show, Tom, turning up empty-handed.’ Tom’s father’s face is disappointment personified.
This is more than I can take.
‘Actually, he’s not.’ Indignation makes my voice loud and a little shrill, which does nothing for the pounding in my head. But how dare they? How do they not see what a decent human being Tom is? I could go on and on about his virtues. My outburst is followed by the sort of silence that they have in films before the identity of the killer is revealed. ‘He’s a really good person,’ I say, which sounds a bit lame, but he has so many good qualities I’m not sure where to start with them. ‘You don’t deserve a son like Tom.’ Okay, possibly a bit strong but I need to make a point.
There’s a gasp from Rosie and an indrawn breath from his mother but I can’t stop now.
‘The reason he wasn’t around last week was because we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no phones or access to money. Although you didn’t stop long enough to let Tom tell you that. As I told you before, I had a bad accident. Tom could have left me but he didn’t.’ My rage has made me mildly inarticulate and repetitive. I wanted to say things in a much more erudite and cutting way, putting Mr Dereborn in his place, but I’m too choked up and emotional.
‘He’s kind, thoughtful, caring, supportive, loyal and kind.’ I’m stumbling over my words and need an example. I’m not sure that Tom’s dad has the sensitivity to appreciate a chipped sheep magnet, but Tom needs to know it counted. ‘He bought me a birthday present, even though we had limited funds, because he’s thoughtful. I know if he was at home and not stranded with a sick colleague, that he would have phoned his mum, bought her a present and been here, but he wasn’t because he couldn’t.’
Dear God, I’m putting up a woefully pathetic defence. I’m probably making things worse.
