Lucy Gordon - The Stand-In Bride

‘Margarita, don’t pretend just because you feel you have to. I’m your husband. If this is hard for you, I want to share it.’

‘You and me? Share this?’ She gave a small choking laugh.

‘Don’t,’ he begged. ‘Don’t shut me out.’

‘I’m not,’ she said, too quickly. ‘There’s nothing to shut you out from. I’m all right about it, really I am. It won’t make any difference to us.’

His heart sank. He heard the sensible words, and saw her smile, as bright as a shield. And they were like a door slammed in his face.

A week later, Sebastian came into the room as Maggie was setting down the telephone. ‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing her face.

‘I was talking to my landlord, in England. He wants to know what’s going to happen. When I left I paid two months rent in advance, but I have to decide what I’m going to do now.’

‘What is there to decide?’ he asked quietly. ‘You’re my wife. This is your home now.’

‘Yes, of course, I just meant- there are things to be sorted out. When I left, I only meant to be away for a few weeks. You have to spend some time in Seville, so it’s a good time for me to return to England to arrange matters.’ She gave a shaky laugh. ‘I think I may have some overdue library books. The fines must have mounted by now.’

His silence had a bleak quality, as though a dark cloud had settled over him. Looking at his face she saw in it everything that was passing through his mind.

‘Call your landlord,’ he said at last. ‘He can return your books. I’ll send someone to collect your things-’

‘No-I don’t want anyone else going through my belongings. And I have people I must see-old friends-I need to say goodbye-’

‘Is it goodbye you’ll be saying?’

‘Of course,’ she said, too quickly.

A tremor shook him. ‘Don’t go, Margarita. It can all be done by others.’

‘I don’t-I want to do it myself.’

‘Very well,’ he said after a moment. ‘When will you leave?’

‘The sooner the better.’

He drove her to Malaga Airport himself, that very day. Inside the terminal he took her bags and waited while she checked in. Their manner to each other was calmly correct. There was nothing in Sebastian’s appearance to suggest that he was consumed by hideous fear.

He came with her as far as he could. ‘How long will you be gone?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she said with difficulty. ‘How long do these things take?’

‘Not very long, if somebody wants to hurry home. I wonder how much you want to hurry.’

‘Sebastian-’

‘Are you coming back to me?’ He was holding her hand tightly.

‘If I said I wasn’t-what would you do?’

His clasp tightened. ‘Margarita-’

A crowd was trying to press through. ‘Hurry along there, miss. It’s the last call.’

The crowd surged. Her hand was free. She didn’t know how or why it had happened. Her last view was of Sebastian, reaching out to her across the barrier, touching only air, his face full of a terrible question. She thought he called her name, but she couldn’t be sure, and then she could no longer see him.

As the plane landed in London, Maggie realised how badly she was looking forward to being back in her own little flat. It was small and shabby but it was the place where she was herself. It would welcome her.

But just at first, it didn’t. She shivered at the cold as soon as she stepped inside. But of course, the heating had been off throughout the winter. She could soon have it warm again. Quickly she put on all the lights and switched on the central heating. As she felt the air grow warmer she looked around, trying to take pleasure in surroundings as familiar as old friends. Her books, her CDs, everything spoke of her taste, her personality.

But her personality seemed to have undergone a change. She wasn’t the same woman she’d been when she left here. That woman lived in the past, the more intensely because she was trying to flee it. She had met Sebastian, disliked him, challenged him, been drawn to him against her will.

Now she was standing on a bridge. A future beckoned but it was still misty, and the past hadn’t released her. With Sebastian she’d known the heat of desire, the unexpected thrill of anger. She ought to have left him behind, but he was here with her, filling the silence. He’d never been in this place, but somehow she had brought him with her. Once she had been pursued by Roderigo’s ghost. Now, mysteriously, it was Sebastian who haunted her.

Whatever she did, his face was there. Sometimes it was hard and judgmental, as she’d seen it on their wedding night, blaming her. But that expression faded soon-as it had done at the time, she realised-and there was a new Sebastian, shocked by her wretchedness, concerned, puzzled, gentle. This was the man who’d stayed with her on the Wall of Death, refusing to leave her side while she was in danger. No coldness or insult had driven him away, she recalled with a faint smile. Not like Roderigo, who would have flounced off in a sulk with far less provocation.

That same Sebastian was there with her as she curled up on the sofa, listening to music with the lights out. In the darkness she might have been sitting on the sofa in the hotel at Sol y Nieve, where he had carried her in the bathrobe and dried her feet.

This was the other Sebastian, the one she’d longed to know, to set beside the autocrat. And now she saw that when she’d met him, she hadn’t even recognised him.

‘I had to leave you to know how much I love you,’ she murmured. ‘And if I return to you-will I love you still? Which man will you be then?’

But then she felt someone else there, a bitter unwelcome presence, reproaching her for her desertion, forbidding her to love again.

‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘I can’t help you now.’

Hurriedly she put the light on and looked around, shivering. But she was alone.

Sebastian stayed in Seville on parliamentary business until the last moment, then returned home just as February slipped into March. There was a pleasurable expectancy in the household, for this month would see Sebastian’s birthday, the first since his marriage, and naturally Donna Margarita would wish to make a big celebration. If only she would return soon and start giving instructions.

Working late in his study, Sebastian studied the calendar, noting uneasily how close the day was becoming. If his wife failed to be there, it would announce to the world that something was badly wrong, and his fierce pride rebelled at the thought.

But perhaps she didn’t know the date? What could be more natural than that he should call, ask how she was, and slip it into the conversation? It needn’t sound like pleading, not if he phrased it carefully.

He got as far as dialling, but at the first ring he slammed the receiver down, driven by sheer masculine stubbornness more than anything. To hell with it! To hell with her, if she could treat him like this!

He put his head in his hands.

He could hear Alfonso moving about outside, and called him. ‘Do you know where Catalina is?’

‘I, Señor?’ The young man responded a fraction too quickly, and when he appeared the flush of embarrassment on his face told its own story.

‘Yes, you. You’re the one who follows her movements the most accurately.’ He added wryly, ‘Are you having any success?’

‘No, Señor,’ Alfonso replied despondently.

‘No.’ Sebastian added under his breath, ‘That seems to be the common ailment around here.’

‘Señor?’

‘Nothing. See if you can find her.’

Alfonso was gone a long time and when he returned he reported awkwardly that Catalina had vanished.

‘You mean she’s gone out?’