Liz Fielding: The Bride's Baby

SYLVIEfinally began to understand what was driving Tom’s inability to make an emotional commitment. How hard it must be for him to trust not just himself, but anyone.

To understand his anger, his pain at Candy’s desertion. He might not have loved her, but she’d still underscored all that early imprinting. That early lesson that no one was to be relied on…

And yet he’d trusted her enough, cared enough to stop her from hurting someone who she knew, deep down, loved her. That was a huge step forward.

She’d done her best to reassure him that he was not his father, or his mother. If she’d hoped that he’d instantly come over all paternal, well, that was unrealistic. He’d had a lifetime to live with the horrors of his early life, for the certainty that he did not want children to become ingrained into his psyche. He couldn’t be expected to switch all that off in a moment.

But the longest journey started with a single step. Tonight they’d made that together.

Tom was using his cellphone when she returned to the bedroom, talking to someone about making the sideshow booths. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and carried on, while she opened her bag, took out the small folder of notepaper she kept in there and settled at the small escritoire to write her letter. The second most difficult in her life.

It was a deliberate ploy. She wanted him to see her pen gliding across the same heavy cream paper on which she’d written to him. She uncapped her pen and smoothed a hand over her hair, lingering at the damp patch where his tears had soaked in.

And then, pushing all that from her mind, she began.

‘That didn’t take long,’ Tom said, watching as she carefully folded the sheet into four and tucked it into an envelope. Addressed it.

‘No. Sometimes things you think are impossible are nowhere near as difficult as you imagine,’ she said and looked up as he joined her. ‘I just invited Dad and his partner to join the festivities on Sunday. It was as simple as that.’

‘Will it get there in time?’

‘I’ll take it to the post office first thing in the morning and send it express.’

‘You’ll have enough to do,’ he said, holding out his hand for it. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and placed the envelope in his hands. Would he remember the feel of it? How he’d felt when he’d opened it?

‘I’ve organised a carpenter to build the stalls for the marquee,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here first thing.’

‘Fast work.’ She glanced at her watch. It was barely nine. Still early enough to call some of those people who’d assured her that she could call any time, ask anything.

‘What about the Steam Museum? I imagine you’ll want to sort that out personally?’

‘The sooner the better. I’ll make that call first.’

As she picked up her cellphone Tom headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. You can leave this with me.’

He didn’t wait for her to reply but, lifting the letter to indicate what he was referring to, he left her alone.

It was somewhat abrupt but it had been an emotion-charged evening. Maybe he just needed some air.

And she let it go, calling Laura, who knew everyone, and handing her the job of securing the Steam Museum for the photo shoot.

It didn’t open until two on Sunday so they had plenty of time. The church was booked for early afternoon. They could finish off in the marquee in the early evening.

Tom closed the door to Sylvie’s bedroom, leaned back against it for a moment while he caught his breath. While she called Jeremy to enthuse him with her excitement. Got him to call the trustees and ask them for the loan of some of his grandfather’s toys for their big day.

He looked down at the letter he was holding. At least he’d managed to save one man from heartache.

His own would have to wait. He’d made her a promise and he’d keep it. But he’d leave as soon as he was sure everything was just as she wanted it. He didn’t intend to be an onlooker when Jeremy Hillyer arrived to claim his bride.

‘It’s beautiful, Geena.’

The dress, a simple A-line shift in rich cream silk, had been appliquéd to the knees in swirling blocks of lavender, purple and green. And, instead of a veil, she’d created a stunningly beautiful loose thigh-length jacket on which the appliqué was repeated around the edge and on wide fold-back cuffs. Embroidery trailed over the silk and tiny beads caught the light as she moved-beads that matched the small Russian-style tiara Geena had commissioned to go with the gown.

‘I just wish it was for real. I really hoped you were going to bring Mr Hot-and-Sexy along to try on the matching waistcoat,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ Sylvie replied, for once letting her mask slip, her feelings show. Then, ‘I meant, I wish it was for real.’

‘I know what you meant, Sylvie. It was written all over your face. He is your baby’s father, isn’t he?’

Sylvie tried to deny it. Couldn’t. Lifted her hands in a helpless gesture that said it all.

‘I thought so. Men are such fools.’

‘We’re all fools,’ she said, shrugging off the beautiful jacket.

The week had been such a roller coaster of emotions that she was almost reeling from it. Or maybe she was just exhausted.

Tom had been such a tower of strength. Organising carpenters to make the food stalls. Rounding up every set of coloured lights in the county and making sure they were fixed for maximum impact so that inside the marquee was like being inside a funfair. Finding old fairground ride cars and adapting them for seating.

And, in the evenings, he was always there, ready to talk through any problems she’d encountered and offer suggestions.

He had such a clear vision, a way of seeing to the core of things.

He only had one blind spot. There was only one subject he never mentioned. It was almost as if he was so locked into his past, his determination never to be a father, that he’d blanked it out.

It couldn’t go on.

She wouldn’t allow it to go on.

‘Is that the dress?’

Tom was working at the kitchen table as she walked in carrying the box containing the tissue-wrapped dress and he pushed back the chair, standing up to take it from her.

‘Yes. I insisted on bringing it with me, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case she has a flat tyre. Or her workroom burns to the ground.’ The principle that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. ‘Believe me, when you’ve been in this business for as long as I have-’

‘Actually, Sylvie, I’m a bit concerned about the traction engines. I know you said Laura had it all in hand, but shouldn’t they-’

‘You don’t have to worry about them. We’ve got all morning,’ she said. ‘Plenty of time.’ Then, ‘I’ll just take this upstairs, then I want to talk to you, Tom.’

‘Can you leave it for a moment?’ he asked, taking the box from her, putting it on the table. ‘I want you to come and see the marquee.’

‘I thought it was finished.’

‘It is now,’ he said with the kind of smile that had become such a familiar sight over the last few days as they’d worked together. And he held out his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

She laid her hand over his and he wrapped his fingers over hers. For a moment neither of them moved, then, as if jerking himself back from a dream, he headed for the door. Once they were outside, he paused for her to fall in beside him and they walked together, hand in hand, through the dusk to where the huge marquee had been erected by the hire company to display their wares, decorated at Celebrity ’s expense for her fantasy wedding.