Читать книгу: «Reunited At The Altar»

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE YOU SURE you’re all right about this, Abby?’ Ruby asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Abigail fibbed. ‘I’m so pleased he agreed.’

That bit, at least, wasn’t a lie. Abigail was more than pleased that Bradley Powell had not only agreed to come to his twin sister’s wedding, he’d also promised to walk her down the aisle in their late father’s stead—especially as he hadn’t set foot in Great Crowmell, the Norfolk seaside town where they’d grown up, in the years since their father’s funeral. Ruby had been panicking that Brad would make an excuse not to come to her wedding because he still couldn’t face coming home.

As for actually seeing her ex-husband again for the first time since their divorce: that wasn’t something Abigail relished. But she was five years older now. Infinitely wiser. She could do this. And she would do this with a smile, for Ruby’s sake. No way was she going to rain on her best friend’s parade.

‘You know you can bring a date to the wedding,’ Ruby said. ‘Just give me a name for when it comes to sorting out the place cards. Or you don’t even have to do that—bring whoever you like and I’ll get someone to write his name on the place card that morning.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need a date. I’m going to be way too busy on the day for that,’ Abigail said with a smile. ‘I’ve got chief bridesmaid duties to think about, and I want everything to go perfectly for your wedding.’ The fact she’d barely dated since her divorce was irrelevant.

Or—a nasty thought hit her—was Ruby trying to tell her something? That she should bring a date, because Brad was bringing his new love to meet everyone and it would be awkward if Abigail turned up alone?

‘Is Brad bringing a date?’ Abigail asked, trying her best to sound casual and hoping that her suddenly thumping heart didn’t show in her voice.

‘Of course he’s not. He’s married to his j...’ Ruby winced and clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Um.’

Abigail smiled and finished the phrase. ‘Married to his job.’ Whereas he’d once been married to me. And she knew that was exactly what Ruby was thinking, too.

‘Sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean to—’

Abigail hugged her best friend. ‘It’s fine. That water’s so far under the bridge, it’s already been recycled twice. Brad and I can be civil to each other.’ She hoped. She’d been through all the stages of grief at the end of their marriage. Denial that it was over, anger that he was being so stubborn, bargaining with him to see sense, depression when she realised that she just wasn’t enough for him, and finally acceptance that it was all over. All laced together with guilt, because she’d been the one to instigate the end.

She’d been so sure that if she walked out on him and went home to her parents, it would shock him into his senses: that he’d miss her and realise that shutting her out wasn’t the answer.

And how wrong she’d been. Because, instead of asking her to come back to him, Brad had simply said that her defection was proof that everyone had been right about them. They’d been way too young to get married, they weren’t going to make it, and he’d give her a divorce so she could have the chance to make a real life for herself.

Divorce had been the last thing she’d wanted.

But Brad had built a wall of ice around himself after his father’s death. He’d shut Abigail out, and she just hadn’t been able to reach him. Despite being married for nearly four years, they hadn’t been strong enough to weather the storm. She hadn’t supported him enough in his grief or been able to hold her marriage together.

So maybe everyone had been right about their relationship, after all. They’d been naive and reckless and immature, eloping to Gretna Green the week before their exam results. Everyone else had thought they were simply doing the coast-to-coast walk from St Bees in the Lake District to Robin Hood’s Bay in Yorkshire, raising money for the local lifeboat rescue team—which they had. They’d just happened to go to St Bees via Gretna Green, having quietly sorted out all the marriage paperwork the day after their last exams.

At the time, they’d both thought that eloping would be romantic. That each other was The One. That their love would last for ever.

Yeah. Naive, reckless and immature just about summed it up.

And she wasn’t any of those any more.

‘Is Brad OK with me being your bridesmaid?’ Abigail asked. ‘If he’s not, you know I’ll step down and keep out of the way on the actual day—but obviously I’ll still help you with all the organisation and do anything you need.’

Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake. Who else was I going to ask to be my chief bridesmaid, other than the person who’s been my best friend since the day we met at toddler group?’

And who also happened to be her twin’s ex-wife.

‘Have you actually told him?’ Abigail asked.

‘Yes. And he—well, he said the same that you did. That you could be perfectly civil to each other at the wedding.’

Civil. All that passion and love and hope reduced to cool, dismissive politeness. It made Abigail want to weep. What a waste.

Not that she was going to let Ruby have the slightest idea about that. Abigail wanted her best friend’s wedding day to be the happiest day of her life and she’d do her best to make it happen. ‘There you go, then. All’s fine.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Now, we have lists to make. If you will insist on having a whirlwind wedding...’

Ruby snorted. ‘Says the woman who eloped.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for keeping it simple,’ Abigail said lightly. ‘No worries about seating plans, menus or dresses.’

Ruby looked at her. ‘Do you regret it, Abby?’

‘Marrying your brother? Or eloping?’ Abigail asked.

‘You know what I’m asking.’

Abigail sighed. ‘I don’t regret marrying Brad. I loved him. We just brought the wedding forward to before he went away to study rather than waiting until after he’d finished his degree, that was all.’ It had been Brad’s idea to elope and, although part of Abby had thought it wasn’t really practical to get married when he was about to go away and be a student, she’d been madly in love with him and thought he felt the same about her. So she’d said yes, squashing her misgivings.

‘But you regret eloping?’

‘Yes and no. Yes, it was romantic and fun to elope.’ Just the two of them. And they’d made love so tenderly in their cheap hotel room that night. Eighteen years old, with the whole world ahead of them. ‘But, in hindsight,’ Abigail said, ‘I regret not sharing the day with everyone else. It meant Dad didn’t get to walk me down the aisle, our mums didn’t get the chance to dress up and make a fuss, you weren’t my bridesmaid, and your dad wasn’t the best man. Looking back, I realise we were selfish. We should’ve shared that day.’ And maybe if they’d been mature enough to share their wedding, they would’ve been mature enough to make their marriage last.

‘Anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on it because you can’t change the past.’ Abigail opened up her laptop. ‘Right. Our list of things to do starts here...’

Six weeks later

Great Crowmell.

Even the signpost made Brad’s stomach turn to knots.

The town where he’d grown up.

The town where he’d met the love of his life.

The town where he’d lost her.

He was dreading this. He’d avoided coming here at all since his father’s funeral—not for birthdays, not for Christmases, not for an off-the-cuff visit. The longer he left it, the harder it was to face. He’d seen his family—of course he had—but not here. He’d met them in London, organised posh afternoon teas and trips to the theatre with hard-to-get tickets, to make up for not coming here.

Every nerve in his body told him to turn the car round again and drive back to London. Back to where he could bury himself in work and forget everything.

But he couldn’t be that selfish. His sister was getting married and he had no intention of letting her down. This was the one thing that would make him come back: Ruby had asked him to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day and he’d promised her he’d do it. Even though the last time he’d set foot in that church and walked down that aisle, he’d been one of the pallbearers carrying their father’s coffin, he’d suck up his feelings for her sake.

Though Brad hadn’t quite been able to face going back to stay in their childhood home, filled with his memories of their father—and with a hefty loading of guilt. Instead, he’d rented a holiday cottage for a few days. One of the ancient two-up, two-down fishermen’s cottages in the flint-built terraces just behind the harbour. A place with no memories, so he had a bolthole when the town and everything that went with it got too much for him: all the kindness and concern edged with speculation and gossip. He knew that Ruby understood and he hoped she’d talk their mother round. He wasn’t avoiding Rosie; he was avoiding the house. Just as he’d done for the last five years. He knew it was selfish, and it made the guilt worse.

And then there was Abigail.

How was he going to face her?

More layers of guilt weighed down on him. He’d been the one to sweep her off her feet and ask her to elope with him; and when life threw its first hurdle in their way he’d let her down. He’d let her go.

Even before Ruby had diffidently asked if he’d mind that Abigail would be her chief bridesmaid, Brad had known who she’d choose—the woman who’d been her best friend right from toddler group through to high school and beyond. He’d prepared himself for it so when it came, he was able to tell Ruby without batting an eyelid that everything was absolutely fine, and he and Abigail could be perfectly civil to each other on the day. But stupidly he hadn’t thought to ask Ruby if Abigail was taking anyone to the wedding. The idea of seeing his ex-wife dancing with her new man, laughing and smiling and kissing him in the moonlight, the way she’d once done with him, made him feel sick.

He dragged in a breath. Maybe he should’ve asked one of his colleagues to be his plus one, just in case. There was still time; the wedding wasn’t until Saturday. Though who could he ask, without either giving out the wrong signals—and he really didn’t want the complication of someone at work thinking he was interested in a relationship—or having to explain the situation and becoming an object of pity throughout the lab and the office?

Maybe he should’ve made an excuse not to come to the wedding in the first place. Maybe he should’ve said he was speaking at a conference and, because Ruby had only given him a few weeks’ notice, there simply wasn’t enough time to find someone to take his place.

But then he’d hate himself for letting her down.

He needed to brace himself and deal with it. Be the cool, calm, analytical scientist he’d spent the last five years turning himself into. The one who kept his feelings completely locked away and could deal with almost anything without betraying a flicker of emotion. There was no place in his professional life for guilt, for nervousness and wondering how people were going to react to him, so he shouldn’t let any of that have a place in his personal life, either.

He could do this. The taste of bile in his mouth, the way his hands felt cold and tingling with adrenaline—that was all psychosomatic and he was going to ignore it. And he’d grab some paracetamol to deal with the tension headache that had started more than an hour ago, as soon as he’d crossed the county border to Norfolk.

He pulled into the car park in the middle of the town, fed coins into the meter to get a pay-and-display car park ticket to tide him over to the next morning, and stuck the ticket on the inside of his windscreen.

The letting agent had warned him that parking was tricky outside the rented cottage so he left the car and made his way to the address. He pulled up the four-digit key code for the safe box where the house keys were stored from the last email from the letting agent on his phone, retrieved the keys and dumped his luggage next to the stairs in the living room. When he headed into the kitchen at the back, there was a tray on the small kitchen table containing a plate, a mug, a spoon, a box of tea-bags and a tin of good instant coffee. There was also a white paper bag, and a note propped on top of it.

Welcome to 2 Quay Cottages. There’s milk and butter in the fridge, bread in the cupboard, and a little something in the paper bag to keep you going until dinner. Any problems, please call in at number 1.

Clearly the neighbour was happy to act as a kind of caretaker. That was reassuring, given that the letting agent was in London. OK, Brad thought, and opened the paper bag.

A blueberry muffin.

Home-made? he wondered. From the neighbour? Though surely the neighbour would’ve put his or her name on the note. Or maybe they’d been interrupted while they were writing the note and simply forgot to sign it. Whatever, the gesture was appreciated.

Brad realised then that he was hungry. He’d worked through his lunch break so he could leave early and miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic for his three-hour drive from London to north Norfolk, but then he’d been too keyed up to eat when he’d stopped for a rest break. He hadn’t bothered to stop at the large supermarket on the edge of town—one that hadn’t been there on his last visit—and he hadn’t even thought about dinner. He’d just been focused on driving to Great Crowmell and facing all the memories.

He took a bite of the muffin. And it was fabulous.

For a second, he was transported back to the early days of his marriage. When Abby had made blueberry muffins for breakfast on Sunday mornings, and he’d woken to the smell of good coffee and cake. They’d always eaten the muffins in bed and lazed around until lunchtime...

He shook himself. Long, long gone.

Coffee. That would sort out his head. And it would help the paracetamol to tackle his headache, too.

He took the kettle to the sink and turned on the tap.

Nothing.

The neighbour hadn’t left a note about there being any problems with the water.

Frowning, he went upstairs to the bathroom and tried the taps on the sink and the bath. Nothing there, either. When he flushed the toilet, the cistern didn’t fill up. Clearly someone had turned off the stopcock, for some reason, and forgotten to turn it back on. It would be easy enough to fix.

But he couldn’t actually find the stopcock. The obvious place for it to be located was under the sink in the kitchen, but it wasn’t there—or in any of the other cupboards. It wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

Great.

It looked as if he was going to have to disturb the occupant of number one, after all, to see if he or she knew what the water problem was and where the stopcock was located.

Leaving the little cottage, he walked to the neighbouring house and knocked on the white-painted front door. And he stared in utter shock when it opened, putting him face to face with Abigail Scott for the first time in nearly five years.