Jill Mansell: Sheer Mischief

It’s a Schiaparelli, can you believe? So we ended up at this chronic company party as a bride-and-sodding groom and everyone was sniggering like mad because the thought of us ever actually tying the knot was evidently too funny for words. And I realized then that they were right – I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending to be a dutiful banker’s wife and having to socialize with a bunch of boring stuffed shirts. So I told Maurice it was over, and then I told the stuffed shirts and their smirking wives exactly what I thought of them too. Poor Maurice; as far as he was concerned, that really was the last straw. It didn’t matter that I’d humiliated him, but insulting all the directors was too much. Janey, I’ve never seen him so mad! He dragged me backwards out of the hotel and told me I wasn’t worth his mother’s old slippers, let alone her precious wedding dress. ‘I screamed back that as he was such an old woman he should be wearing the bloody dress! Then I kicked him because he wouldn’t let go of me, so he called me a spoilt, spiteful, money-grabbing delinquent and chucked my evening bag into the Thames.’ She paused, then concluded mournfully, ‘It had everything in it. My favourite Estée Lauder eyeshadow palette ... everything.’

All the toast had gone. Janey, reminding herself that it didn’t matter, she was supposed to be on a diet anyway, cradled her lukewarm coffee in both hands and remarked, ‘Bit daring, for Maurice. So then what did you do?’

‘Well, luckily we’d taken my car. All my keys were in the river, of course, but I’ve always kept a spare in the glove compartment and the driver’s door is a doddle — you can open it with a hair slide. I just jumped in, drove off and left Maurice standing in the middle of the road with his mouth going like a guppy. But I knew I couldn’t break into the flat — he’s got that place alarmed to the eyeballs — so I headed for the M4 instead. And because the one thing I did have was a full tank of petrol, I thought I’d come and visit my big sister.’

With a grin, Maxine ran her fingers through her tumbling, gold-blond hair and shook it back over her shoulders. ‘I’m seeking sanctuary, darling. Just call me Quasimodo.’

‘Don’t call me darling,’ grumbled Janey, who hated it. ‘And whatever you do, don’t call me big.’

But it was no good. Maxine wasn’t going to go away. Neither — despite having driven all night from London to Cornwall — did she apparently have any intention of falling asleep.

Janey, who loved but frequently despaired of her sister, followed her upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed whilst Maxine carried out a brisk raid on the wardrobe. She wondered what Maxine had ever done to deserve a twenty-two-inch waist.

‘These’ll be fine.’ Forcing another hole through the tan leather belt, she patted the size fourteen khaki shorts with approval and admired her reflection in the mirror. The white shirt, expertly knotted above the waist, showed off her flat brown midriff and her dark eyes sparkled.

‘There, ready to face the world again. Or dear old Trezale, anyway. Where shall we go for lunch?’

‘You don’t have any money,’ Janey reminded her with a sinking heart, but Maxine was already halfway to the bedroom door.

‘I’ll sort something out with the bank tomorrow,’ she replied airily. ‘They’ll understand when ‘I tell them what that pig of an ex-boyfriend of mine did with my cheque book. Now come along, Janey, cheer up and tell me where we can meet all the most gorgeous men these days. Is the Dune Bar still good?’

‘He wasn’t your boyfriend,’ said Janey, wondering at the ease with which Maxine had apparently discarded him from her life. ‘He was your fiancé.’

Maxine looked momentarily surprised. Then, waving her left hand in the air so that the large, square-cut emerald caught the light, she said gleefully, ‘Of course he was! How clever of you to think of it. If the bank gets stuffy I can flog the ring, instead.’

‘You think I’m a heartless bitch, don’t you?’

They were sitting out on the crowded terrace of the Dune Bar. Janey tried not to notice the way practically every male was lusting after Maxine. Maxine, who genuinely appeared not to have noticed – it was a particular speciality of hers – sipped her lager and looked contrite.

‘I know you’re a heartless bitch,’ said Janey with a faint smile. ‘But at least you’re honest about it. That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Don’t try and make me feel guilty.’ Maxine glanced down at her engagement ring. ‘I didn’t love Maurice, you know.’

‘Surprise, surprise.’

‘I liked him, though.’ With a trace of defiance, she added, ‘And I adored the fact that he had money. I think I managed to convince myself that ours would turn out to be like one of those arranged marriages, where love eventually grows. He was generous and kind, and I did so hate being broke ...’

‘But it didn’t work out like that,’ Janey observed, shielding her eyes with her forearm and gazing out over the sea. A pillarbox-red speedboat, skimming over the waves, was towing a water skier. Ridiculously, even after eighteen months, she still had to convince herself that it wasn’t Alan before she could bring herself to look away.

‘It might have worked, if Maurice hadn’t been so boring.’ Maxine shrugged, then grinned.

‘And if I weren’t so easily bored.’

Not for the first time, Janey wondered what it was like to be Maxine. Maybe her cool, calculating attitude to life wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It might not be romantic, but at least it meant she spared herself the agonies of unrequited love and those endless, gut-wrenching months of despair.

I married for love, thought Janey, the cold emptiness invading her stomach as readily as it ever had. And look where it got me.

‘Oh God,’ cried Maxine, intuitively reading her sister’s thoughts and grabbing her hand in consolation. ‘I am a callous bitch! Now I’ve made you think about Alan.’

But Janey, managing a wry smile, shook her head. ‘I think about him anyway. It’s hardly something I’m likely to forget, after all.’

‘I’m still an insensitive, clod-hopping prat,’ insisted Maxine. Her expression contrite, she lowered her voice. ‘And I haven’t even asked how you’re coping. Does it get better, or is it as hideous as ever?’

‘Well, I’m not crying all over you.’ Finishing her drink, Janey met her sister’s concerned gaze and forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘So that has to be an improvement, don’t you think?’

‘But it’s still hard?’

‘It is getting better,’ she admitted. ‘But the not knowing is the worst part of all. The awful limbo of not knowing what I am.’ Pausing for a moment, she added bleakly, ‘A widow or a deserted wife.’

Chapter 2

They were married on the first of May, the happiest day of Janey’s life.

‘I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to be doing today.’ Alan, emerging from beneath the navy blue duvet with his blond hair sticking up at angles, sounded puzzled. ‘What is it, the dentist ...? Ouch!’

But Janey didn’t let go of his big toe. ‘Much worse,’ she mocked. ‘Much, much worse.’

‘Aaargh, I remember now! The Registry Office. And you should be covering your eyes, you shameless female. You aren’t supposed to see the blushing groom on the morning of his wedding.’

‘Too late, I’ve already seen you.’ Whisking back the duvet, she surveyed him solemnly.

‘All of you.’

Alan grinned and reached out for her, pulling her back into bed and unfastening the belt of her flimsy dressing gown. ‘In that case we may as well have a quickie. One last, glorious, pre-marital quickie. How many hours before we’re married, Miss Vaughan?’