Liz Fielding: His Runaway Bride

‘Would?’ His calm assumption that she wouldn’t be taking the job without even discussing the possibility, without discussing how they might handle it so that it would be possible, seriously irritated her. ‘You don’t think I should?’

‘Not unless you’re planning to move to London and save married life for the weekends.’ Then he added, ‘Are you?’

‘I could commute.’ She checked his expression. It was totally blank. ‘No?’ Still nothing. Her decision. No help, no encouragement. ‘Oh, well, I’ll ring Toby Townsend this afternoon and tell him.’

‘When did you apply for this job?’

‘Months ago. I had an interview but nothing came of it.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘That is, until Toby’s letter arrived on Monday.’ George brought their lunch, launching into a long complaint against the new parking restrictions that were killing his business, demanding to know why the paper wasn’t doing something about it. Somehow, after that, the subject of the job offer never cropped up again.

Later, back in the office, she told herself that Mike was right. Probably. No, absolutely. It was impossible. Stupid to even imagine… She’d ring and tell them that she was no longer available. It was fine. She loved Mike. She was going to marry him. But a little niggle at the back of her mind kept saying that if she hadn’t pushed it, hadn’t pushed him into proposing, she could have had it all. A career in the week, Mike at the weekends. A girlfriend could do that but being a wife meant compromise. Being a wife was a full-time job.

She punched in the number before she could weaken again. Toby Townsend wasn’t in the office, she was told. She should phone on Monday. Explanations were beyond her. She’d write. Composed the letter in her head while the hairdresser snipped at her hair, teasing at it until her bridal coronet sat perfectly in a nest of curls. Typed it as soon as she got back to the office, putting it into her bag to post later. Then she went in search of Mike, needing to have him hold her, reassure her that she was doing the right thing.

But he’d left the office right after lunch and his secretary didn’t know where he’d gone. Just that he wasn’t expected back.

Willow took out her cellphone. Tapped in the text message, ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’ He used to do that all the time when they’d first started dating. When she was out in the sticks covering some local event. She’d reply with something like, ‘If you can find me, you can buy me dinner.’ All he had to do was check the editorial diary and he was always there, waiting for her. It seemed like a century ago. A different life.

She looked at the message she’d keyed in. She couldn’t begin to guess where he’d be. So she cancelled it.

Mike opened up the big double doors of his workshop, letting in the light. There were plans tacked up on the far wall. Long lengths of beautiful hardwoods filled the racks. A small table, finished but for the final polishing, stood on the workbench, abandoned when he’d got a call to say that his father had been taken ill.

He’d woken up with it on his mind. Unfinished business. Something that had to be completed before he could finally shut the doors on that part of his life. Before he called the letting agent and told them to look for a tenant.

He peeled off his jacket, tugged at his tie, stripped off the formal shirt, shedding the invisible shackles for half a day. There was an old work shirt hanging on a peg and, as he pulled it over his head, it felt like coming home.

He walked around the deceptively simple piece of furniture, remembering the way the design had formed in his head, the satisfaction as his hands had turned the line on the paper into reality.

He’d give it to Willow. He wouldn’t tell her he’d made it, but every time he saw it he would know that he had once been more than a man who pushed numbers around on a balance sheet.

Mike was outside her flat when she got home. ‘More presents?’ he said as she opened up the back of the car.

‘My mother rang, that’s why I’m so late. Where have you been?’ She looked up as he took her bag. ‘You smell as if you’ve been hugging trees.’

‘Close,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you a present, too. A piece of furniture.’ He opened the rear of the four-by-four, took out something wrapped in sheeting and carried it up to her flat. ‘Well, go on. You can look.’

She pulled off the sheet and caught her breath. It was a small table, stunningly modern, timeless in its simplicity. ‘Oh, Mike! This is so beautiful!’ She touched the surface, ran her fingers over it. ‘It’s like silk. What wood is this?’

‘Cherry.’

‘It’s…’ She lifted her shoulders, lost for the right word to adequately convey her appreciation. ‘I can’t explain it.’ She glanced up at him. ‘It looks as if it should be in a museum. Does that sound silly?’

Mike’s fingers slid over the polished surface. Some of his early pieces had become collectors’ items, sold on, displayed, too precious to be used. He hated that. ‘It was made to be used, not looked at.’ He wanted his furniture to take on the patina of everyday wear and tear, to absorb history.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I… It was designed…made by someone I know.’

‘Really? Is he coming to the wedding? Can I meet him? Maybe we could run a feature in Country Chronicle—’

‘No, Willow. This is his last piece. He’s closed his workshop. It’s not a business for a family man.’

‘That’s sad—’

‘That’s life,’ he said abruptly. ‘What have you got there?’ He picked up a box. ‘A juicer? Does this mean I’m going to be getting fresh orange juice every morning for breakfast?’

She swallowed. Was that it? The highlight of her life from now on? Juicing oranges for Mike? ‘It’s from Josie,’ she said, ducking the question. ‘I went to school with her. She’s a bit of a health-food freak, juices everything. Carrots. Celery. You name it, she drinks it.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘That sounds…great.’

Was it great? Or was it just easier to go through with the wedding than walk away, easier than packing up the juicer and saying, sorry, this isn’t for me. Was she, like Crysse, going on because the alternative was just so messy, too painful to contemplate?

She was good at telling other people what was good for them, but what about her? And Mike?

Her ghostly reflection stared back at her from the car window. On the surface, everything was perfect. Her dress, her hair, her make-up.

‘Nearly there, Willow. All set?’

She turned to her father, distinguished in his morning suit, his top hat resting on his lap as the car, ribbons fluttering, drove in slow state towards a church filled with friends and family, all gathered for her big day. What would they do, she wondered, if she didn’t turn up?

‘Did you wonder before you married Mum whether you were making a terrible mistake?’

‘It’s a big step. Nerves are to be expected.’ Then her father frowned. ‘Or is there something more?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Then she said, ‘If I hadn’t been offered that wretched job…’

The letter to Toby Townsend lay on the hall table. She’d kept putting off posting it. She’d meant to do it last night, along with the thank-you letters for wedding presents like the juicer and the clock to count the hours that she’d spend dusting a house she’d loathed on sight.

She’d had to smile and smile to keep her feelings bottled up, so as not to hurt Mike’s father. Not to hurt Mike, who’d been so overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift of the house that he’d been quite lost for words. And somehow the letter hadn’t quite made it into the box.