Lee Wilkinson - The Bejewelled Bride

When the kettle boiled she made a single cup of coffee and drank it sitting in front of the fire.

After another half an hour had crawled past she knew with dreadful certainty that he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps, subconsciously, she had known from the very beginning.

Joel had gone for good. Had gone without a word. Without so much as leaving a note.

He had walked in and out of her life like some wraith. All she knew about him was his name and the fact that he came from London. He might even be a married man.

Gripped by an icy coldness, a pain so intense she might have been in the grim embrace of an iron maiden, she could neither move nor breathe.

Last night had meant nothing to him. Just a seized chance. A one night stand. All the talk about seeming to know her, to recognize her, had just been part of his seduction technique.

Perhaps he had believed Tony was her lover? Had decided she was easy?

Well, she had been, she thought bitterly. Stupidly, idiotically easy.

In love with a dream, she had behaved like some silly little adolescent who hadn’t yet learnt to curb her impulses and respect herself.

She stood for a long time staring blindly into space before she was able to move, to find her coat and bag and make her way to the car.

The keys were in the ignition where Joel had left them the previous night. Thinking of how excited she had been when they arrived here, how hopeful, she felt as if a knife was being turned in her heart and was forced to lean against the car until the worst of the agony had passed.

Then, her usual graceful movements clumsy, she got into the driving seat and, leaning forward, rested her forehead on the wheel.

After a moment or two, as if so much pain had caused a protective shield to drop into place, she raised her head and, neither thinking nor feeling, her entire being numb, drove back to Dundale like some automaton.

It was almost twelve by the time she reached the Inn to find Tony pacing the lobby, every bit as enraged as she had imagined.

‘So here you are at last! I wondered what the devil had happened to you. Have you any idea how long I’ve been waiting?’ he demanded angrily.

Her voice curiously flat and lifeless, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I overslept.’

‘Overslept!’ He uttered a profanity. ‘So where the hell did you sleep?’

Briefly, she explained about the burst tyre and the mist and having to spend the night at a hotel that was still officially closed for the winter. She didn’t mention Joel.

‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ Tony sounded even more exasperated.

‘I couldn’t get a signal,’ she said shortly, and was pleased when he grunted and left it at that.

‘So how did you get on with old Mrs Deramack? Any good stuff?’

She shook her head.

He swore briefly.

Making an effort at normality, she asked, ‘How about Greendales? They seemed to have some extremely nice things.’

‘They did,’ he admitted grudgingly, ‘but their reserve prices were a damn sight too high. Private sales make a lot more sense…’

Bethany was aware that, translated, that meant a lot more money. James Feldon had cared about antiques. All Tony cared about was the bottom line.

‘That’s why I was hoping the old lady had something worth our while. As it is, the trip’s been a waste of time. And now you’ve managed to sleep in,’ he added nastily, ‘it’s been a waste of a morning too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting to have lunch before we start?’

‘No, I’m not at all hungry. I’ll just fetch my things.’ She couldn’t wait to get away.

Except for a short stop to refuel and have coffee and, in Tony’s case, a packet of sandwiches, they drove straight back to town. Still in a foul mood, apart from occasionally cursing another motorist, Tony barely uttered a word.

It was a relief in one way, but it allowed too much time for brooding. The numbness had passed and, her thoughts bleak as winter, Bethany found herself going over and over everything that had happened the previous night. Picking at it. Dissecting it. Exposing the pain, so that it was like doing an autopsy on a living body.

By the time Tony dropped her at her flat she was feeling like death and only too pleased that Catherine, who was an airline stewardess, was away until the following week and she had the place to herself.

Quite unable to stomach the thought of food, even though she’d had nothing to eat that day, Bethany made herself a pot of tea and sat down to drink it. She would have an early night. She needed the blessed oblivion of sleep.

Tomorrow, though her beautiful dreams had turned to dust, she would have to get up and face the day as if nothing had happened. If that were possible.

But it had to be. She must make it possible.

She recalled a motto in one of last year’s Christmas crackers: When your dreams turn to dust, Hoover. It seemed appropriate.

Her tea finished, she was heading for the bedroom when the phone rang.

For a moment she considered not answering. But old habits died hard and, before she could make herself walk away, she had picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘So you’re back…’

It was Michael Sharman. Over the last few months she had got to know and like him and they had been out together on quite a number of occasions but she saw him as nothing more than a friend.

‘Bethany?’

She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody. She sighed, ‘Yes, I’m back.’

‘It doesn’t sound like you.’

‘I’m a bit tired.’

He went on regardless, seemingly oblivious to her overwhelming tiredness. ‘I tried to phone you earlier. Been home long?’

‘No.’

‘Care to go out for a spot of supper?’

‘I don’t think so, Michael.’ She wasn’t in the right kind of mood to go out.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘I was just on my way to bed.’

‘Bed?’ he exclaimed, surprised. ‘But it’s barely eight o’clock. Look, what if I pop round now and pick you up?’

‘No, thank you. I’m tired.’ Then, aware that she’d sounded a bit curt, she added apologetically, ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m even more tired than I thought.’

‘Sure I can’t change your mind? Going out might be just what you need to liven you up.’

‘I doubt it.’

He was a young man who was used to getting his own way with women. But this woman was special, not like the rest, and he didn’t want to spoil his chances.

‘In that case,’ he said reluctantly, ‘let’s make it tomorrow night.’

‘Well, I—’

‘What if I pick you up around seven? We’ll go to the Caribbean Club and have a good time.’

Before she could argue, he was gone.

Sighing, she replaced the receiver.

If she found she couldn’t face it, she would just have to call him and put him off.

But what would she do if she did stay at home? What was she likely to do?

Mope. Which would get her precisely nowhere.

Going out with Michael had to be preferable.

After first thinking him somewhat cocky and immature, she had come to enjoy his company and almost envy his carefree, sybaritic attitude to life.

They had first met when, after inheriting his grandmother’s house and its contents, he had brought a blue and white porcelain bowl into Feldon Antiques, saying he needed to raise some ready cash.

Bethany, who had been in the shop at the time, had thought the bowl was Ming, which would have made it extremely valuable. But an expert on Chinese porcelain that Tony had later taken it to had identified it as Qing, which made its value a great deal less.

However, it was still worth a considerable amount and Michael had been more than happy to part with it.