Sara Craven - The Marriage Truce

‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.

And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.

She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.

She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.

On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.

In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’

‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.

‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.

Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’

‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.

She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.

And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.

Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.

Jenna’s instinct was to make a dash for the car, but instead she made herself smile weakly and lift her hand in a half-greeting.

He moved then, crossing the street, weaving his way between two vans and a bicycle with the long, lithe stride that was so hauntingly familiar.

What a difference a few hours could make, Jenna thought in astonishment as he reached her. Yesterday on the cliff he had looked tired, almost defeated. Today he was clearly incandescent, and her heart began to thud in alarm.

His hand closed, not gently, on her arm. ‘In the name of God,’ he grated, ‘what have you done to yourself?’

‘I’ve had my hair cut.’ She tried unavailingly to free herself from his grasp. ‘It’s not a crime.’

‘That,’ Ross said crushingly, ‘is a matter of opinion.’

‘And, anyway,’ Jenna went on, her own anger sparking into life, ‘it’s none of your damned business what I do.’

‘So, if I see an act of vandalism being committed—a work of art being defaced—I’m to say or do nothing? Or should I stand back and applaud?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, and you know it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s far worse. It’s a travesty—a sacrilege.’ His eyes held hers. The noise around them—the hum of voices, the stutter of traffic, and the crying of gulls from the harbour—seemed to fade, enclosing them in a strange and potent silence.

Then, over his shoulder, Jenna saw Betty Fox emerge from her shop, ostensibly to rearrange the newspapers in the outside rack, her glance darting avidly towards them, and the spell was sharply broken.

She said tautly, ‘I thought we had a truce. Yet here we are brawling in public, for all the world to see. Now, will you kindly let go of me?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He set off down the street, still holding her arm, taking Jenna with him whether she wanted to go or not, turning the corner on to the harbour.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing.’ She was flushed, breathless with indignation at being whirled along in this undignified manner.

He had always done this, she thought. Starting with that night in London when they’d met again. Recognised each other in a totally new way …

‘Come.’ He’d taken her arm then, hurrying her from the room—from the building and into the street. Striding so fast that she’d had to run to keep up with him.

‘Where are we going?’ She’d been overwhelmed by all she felt for him—scared, joyous and hungry all at the same time.

And he’d stopped suddenly, and turned to her, his hands framing her face with heart-stopping tenderness. ‘Does it matter?’

Now, even though there was nothing remotely lover-like in his touch, she was shocked to find it could still shake her to the core. Or was that the memory it evoked?

‘Making amends, darling,’ he flung back at her. ‘Being amazingly civilised.’

He pushed open the door of the Quayside Café and marched her in. For a startled moment the buzz of conversation at the occupied tables faltered, then resumed at a slightly higher pitch as Ross ushered Jenna to a table beside the window and ordered two coffees from the flustered proprietress.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked Jenna, glancing towards the counter laden with cakes, biscuits and scones.

‘Thank you, no,’ she returned glacially.

His face relaxed into a sudden grin. ‘Because it would choke you?’

It did not help her temper to know she’d actually been tempted, just for a moment, to smile back. ‘This is all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ she said in a furious undertone.