Liz Fielding: His Runaway Bride

‘The Globe? But that was months ago. Last year. Before you met Mike. I thought they said they weren’t interested.’

‘Not exactly. They said they’d let me know. Well, now they have. It seems they’ve been making changes. Appointed a new editor, going tabloid. They’re putting a women’s supplement in their Friday edition and they want me to join the team.’

Crysse jabbed the needle into the cream silk. ‘I bet your bread never falls butter-side down, either, does it?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She continued picking up the hem with neat little stitches. ‘Forget I said that. Congratulations.’

‘Crysse?’ She shook her head. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Everything. I’m pea-green jealous if you must know.’

‘Jealous?’

‘I know, I know. It’s horrible of me, but I can’t help it.’ Her cheeks heated up. ‘You’ve got everything. The full set. A man any woman would die for—a man who actually believes in marriage, a wedding that’s going to be featured in the Country Chronicle, a fabulous new house courtesy of your father-in-law and all I’ve heard all evening is you whining on about how irritating it is to be constantly bothered about the colour of ribbons, and flowers and all those other tedious little decisions that the harassed bride has to cope with. Anyone would think you didn’t really want to marry Mike.’

‘No…’ Well, maybe she had been letting off steam, hoping that Crysse would turn it all around, make her laugh, see the funny side of it all, see it straight, the way she usually did. ‘I wasn’t whining. Was I?’

‘Big time. And now, as if the icing on your particular cake wasn’t already thick enough, you’ve landed the job of your dreams.’ Willow watched in horror as twin tears welled up in her cousin’s eyes and ran unchecked to drip onto the elaborate little dress she was stitching. ‘What have I got, hmm? I’ve been with Sean for five years—five years and he’s further from marrying me now than he ever was. I’m nearly thirty and I want a proper home, Willow. A house with a garden. I want babies—’

‘Oh, Crysse!’ Willow dropped her pen and reached out for her, holding her tightly as she let go of her feelings and broke her heart. ‘Have you talked to Sean? You can’t go on like this. You have to tell him how you feel.’

She sounded like the weekly advice column in the Chronicle. Talk to your partner. Explain your concerns about your relationship.

Agony Aunt heal thyself.

‘What’s the point? Why should he make the effort when he’s got everything he wants right now? I should have been like you, Willow. You knew what you wanted and stuck out for it. You always were the clever one. You never would settle for second best.’

She considered admitting that she’d spent the last couple of weeks wishing she’d just moved in with Mike when he’d asked her. But, in her present fragile state, Crysse would probably believe she was being patronised. Better try to be positive. ‘Okay. So if you don’t want what you’ve got, maybe it’s time to ask yourself what you do want. Hmm?’

Crysse rubbed her palms over her cheeks. ‘I thought I wanted this. I settled for this. But it’s not enough.’

‘Then, dump the ungrateful wretch. You’ve wasted enough time washing socks for a man whose idea of commitment is supporting Melchester Rovers when they play at home. Do something you really want with your life, before it’s too late.’

‘It takes a lot of courage to walk away from five years together, Willow. It’s like a divorce. No lawyers, no paperwork, but it’s still dismantling your life, starting over again, five years older and not quite so dewy fresh.’ Crysse sniffed, took the tissue Willow offered and blew her nose. ‘What about you?’ she said, with forced brightness. ‘What does Mike think about this job you’ve been offered?’

Crysse firmly changed the subject, clearly not wanting to discuss changing her life. She didn’t want to change her life, she just wanted Sean to shape up and change his.

‘I haven’t told him yet,’ Willow said, letting it go. ‘I haven’t told anyone but you.’

Crysse’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Don’t you think you should?’

‘I was hoping for some words of wisdom from my favourite cousin.’

‘It sounds to me as if you were hoping I’d say you can have your cake and eat it, too.’

‘Don’t mince your words, darling,’ she said, a touch wryly. ‘Feel free to say exactly what you think.’

‘What I think, darling, is that Mike’s life is here, in Melchester. And that house you’re moving into suggests he’s expecting a full-time wife with her mind on nothing in the immediate future but family planning. You are getting married on Saturday, remember?’ Crysse, the space between her eyes wrinkled in a searching little frown, suddenly reached out and took her hand. ‘That is what you really want, isn’t it?’

Did she? Want that? The home and the babies… She loved Mike, but the prospect of writing ‘housewife and mother’ in the occupation slot of life hadn’t obliterated her other dream. The one where she would have her own byline in a national newspaper before she was thirty.

The letter from the Globe was offering her that. Once she was established she could freelance, but first she needed to make a name for herself.

Surely Mike would understand.

Of course he would.

He looked up as she eased herself into the chair on the visitor side of his desk. She propped her elbows on the desk and said, ‘Can I buy you lunch, boss?’

He leaned back, grinned at her. ‘Do you really want to eat?’

‘You choose. I’ve got half an hour before a session of hell at the hairdresser, so it’s a sandwich in the pub, or we can lock the door, draw the blinds—’

‘It may come to that. I’ve scarcely seen outside the office all week.’

‘You’re opting for the sandwich?’

He rose, came round the desk and took her hand. ‘Call me pathetic, but the idea of making love to you with the entire staff exchanging knowing looks on the other side of the door isn’t my idea of a good time.’

‘You’re no fun now you’re officially the boss, do you know that?’

‘No kidding?’ he said, as they crossed the road to the pub. ‘Well, it’s not official until we get back from St Lucia. Maybe I should resign now.’

‘That’s my line,’ she said, jumping at the opening he’d given her. ‘I’ve been offered another job and unless I start getting some serious perks as your number one reporter, I might just take it.’ The words came out in rush, but they came out. She’d said it. It wasn’t so difficult. But she kept her gaze fixed on the board above the bar. ‘A ploughman’s and a tomato juice, please, George,’ she said to the barman. An ominous silence from Mike forced her to turn and face the music.

‘What job?’

‘Make that for two, George.’ She paid for their lunch and headed for a table near the window.

‘What job?’

This was it. No going back. Too late to wish she’d just written back to say thanks, but no thanks. ‘The Globe have offered me a job.’

‘The Globe?’ He seemed to be searching for a cross-match in his memory bank. She could see the exact moment when he connected. The shock. ‘You don’t mean The Globe in London?’ He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit…’ She lifted her brows, inviting him to finish. ‘Downmarket for someone like you?’

What the heck did that mean? Like her? ‘It’s a national daily with a circulation of millions.’ He said nothing. ‘You’re supposed to be impressed.’

‘Okay. I’m impressed,’ he said, after a pause in which the world turned. ‘Would you have taken it?’