Lucy Gordon - His Diamond Bride

‘Why, what a coincidence!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘Dee’s been saying how much she wants to see it. You can all go together.’

‘Mum, I can go another time,’ Dee muttered, appalled by this blatant manipulation.

‘Nonsense, you go now. You’ve been working hard. Clear off, the three of you. Have a good time.’

Sylvia seethed at having a chaperone forced on her. Dee was ready to sink into the ground at the suspicion of what Mark must be thinking. But when she dared to meet his eyes, she found them alive with fun.

Of course, she thought. He must have been in this situation a thousand times. The world was full of mothers trying to shield their daughters from his looks and charm.

She felt better. And the thought of an evening in his company was blissful. It was Sylvia who sulked.

IF MARK was annoyed at Dee playing gooseberry, he didn’t show it. At the cinema he paid for her seat, placed her so that he was sitting between them and bought her an ice cream. When the lights went down, she sensed that he slipped his arm round the back of Sylvia’s seat and turned his head in her direction.

After a while a woman in the row behind tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Do you mind not leaning so close to your girlfriend?’ she hissed indignantly. ‘You’re blocking my view.’

He apologised, and after that he behaved like a perfect gentleman.

When they left the cinema the lovers were in dreamily happy moods, but Dee was disgruntled.

‘It was awful,’ she complained. ‘Not a bit like the book.’

‘It’s a film,’ he objected mildly.

‘But the book is by Charles Dickens,’ she said, as though that settled the matter. ‘And they changed things. The Ghost of Christmas Past was played by a girl, they cut out Scrooge’s fiancée and-oh, lots of things.’

‘Did they?’ he asked blankly. ‘I didn’t notice. Does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters,’ she said urgently. ‘Things should be done right.’

‘Never mind her,’ Sylvia said, peevish at having the romantic atmosphere dispelled. ‘She’s always finding fault.’

Mark grinned, his good temper unruffled. ‘Hey, you’re a real stickler, aren’t you?’ he challenged Dee.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ he said with comic haste. ‘Just remind me not to get on your wrong side.’

Still clowning, he edged away from her, but added, ‘I’m only joking.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t be,’ Sylvia put in. ‘People do get scared of Dee because she’s always so grim and practical.’

‘I’m not grim,’ Dee said, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice, but failing.

Perhaps Mark heard it because he said quickly, ‘Of course you’re not. You just like to be precise and correct. Good for you. A nurse needs to be like that. Who’d want to be nursed by someone who was all waffly and emotional? I’ll bet when you were at school, your best subjects were maths and science.’

‘They were,’ she said, warmed by his understanding.

‘There you are, then. You’ve got what my father used to call a masculine mind.’

The warmth faded. He considered her precise, correct and unemotional, practically a man. And she was supposed to be flattered. But then, she thought sadly, he had no idea that his words hurt her. Nor did he care. He’d merely been spreading his charm around to avoid an argument. She pulled herself together and answered him lightly.

‘You don’t have to be a man to appreciate scientific advances. That film we saw tonight was in black and white, but one day they’ll all be in colour.’

‘Oh, come on!’ Sylvia exclaimed cynically.

‘No, she’s right,’ Mark said. ‘They’re making a film of Gone with the Wind right now, and I’ve heard that’s in colour.’

‘Yes, important films, with big stars,’ Sylvia agreed. ‘But they’ll never make ordinary films like that. It’s too difficult and expensive. There are limits.’

‘No, there aren’t!’ Dee said at once. ‘There are no limits. Not just in films but in anything. In life. No limits.’

‘You’re just a little girl,’ Sylvia said dismissively. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, she does,’ Mark said. ‘She’s right about that. You can’t live life to the full if you set limits on everything.’

From Sylvia’s expression, it was clear that she didn’t know what he was talking about and was simply exasperated with the pair of them. Mark slipped his arm comfortingly about her, but at the same time he gave Dee a wink that was…that was…she struggled for the right word.

Conspiratorial, that was it; a look that said they shared a secret knowledge that Sylvia couldn’t understand.

Her heart soared again and she began to make plans for when they got home. She would lure him into a discussion about great matters-knowledge, life, no limits, and the mental bond they shared would grow firmer.

But, once inside, he yawned and said he was tired, which Dee didn’t believe for a moment. There was no high-flown discussion, only a time of lying in the darkness knowing that Mark and Sylvia were downstairs, sharing a passionate goodnight. Mental bonds were all very well, but they couldn’t compete with Sylvia’s curves or the come-hither look in her eye. It was a painful lesson in reality.

Christmas was getting closer. Mark started work in the garage, Sylvia was deluged with customers in the dress shop, but the one with the longest hours was Dee. Coming home late from the hospital one night, she fell asleep on the bus and woke to find Mark shaking her.

‘When the bus came I could see you inside, fast asleep. You’d have been carried on, so we had to jump on and rouse you.’

‘We?’ she asked sleepily, looking around.

Then she realised that Billy was there, too.

‘We went for a walk,’ Mark explained. ‘I saw the bus in the distance and I knew you were due home soon, so we waited at the stop.’

‘What’s that creature doing ’ere?’ the conductor growled. ‘He’s dangerous.’

‘He’s not dangerous and we’re just getting off,’ Mark said, rising and pulling the cord.

‘Not until you’ve paid your fare.’

Then things became comical because Mark had come out without money, and Dee had to pay for him. They descended onto the pavement, hysterical with mirth.

‘I guess I’m not cut out to be a knight in shining armour, rescuing a damsel in distress,’ he said. ‘I’d leave the sword behind and have to borrow hers.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she protested. ‘You didn’t know you were going to need money when you came out. I expect even Sir Lancelot was short of four pence sometimes.’

‘Which one was he?’

‘The most famous one who sat at the Round Table. He flirted with King Arthur’s wife Guinevere, and was banished in disgrace.’

‘That sounds like me. Did he ever borrow money from Guinevere?’

‘The legend doesn’t say.’

‘I expect he did. He probably took her to a café one evening and she had to pay for it.’ He indicated a little café just up ahead. ‘That would really annoy her, even if he promised to pay her back afterwards.’

‘Very bad.’ She nodded solemnly. ‘She probably slammed his helmet down on his head. But she bought him a cup of tea afterwards.’

‘But how could he drink it if his helmet was slammed down?’ Mark wanted to know. ‘She slipped up there.’

‘I suppose he could raise it,’ she mused. ‘Unless, of course, it jammed.’

‘Bound to, I should think.’

Exchanging ridiculous gobbledegook, they wandered on to the café. At the entrance he said, ‘Maybe they won’t let Billy in. I should have thought of that.’