Marjorie Lewty - A Girl Bewitched (1982) Page 4

  Emma stood by the table, rearranging a small bowl of pink hyacinths, which were already perfectly arranged, and keeping an anxious eye on Lisa, standing beside Richard, with Uncle Edward and Mrs Southall lined up beyond, to receive the guests as they came in.

  It was quite ridiculous to feel so horribly jittery, Emma assured herself, Lisa had been warned that Trent Marston would be coming to the wedding; she had had plenty of time to pull herself together before she had to meet him face to face. But as the guests filed in, and the kissing and handshakes and congratulations went on, Emma felt her throat constricting painfully and her fingers digging into her palms. Lisa had been dreadfully upset last night, when she had heard about the Marston man being involved with the family firm, and being invited today. If only she had talked about her feelings, Emma thought now, and not bottled them up! If only she could be sure that there wouldn't be some sort of emotional scene when he put in an appearance!

  She had looked for him outside the church, while the photographs were being taken, but he seemed to have disappeared, and the silver-grey car had gone too. Perhaps he had thought better of it, and decided to give the reception a miss? Emma fervently hoped so, but she wished she knew for sure, then she could relax and enjoy things.

  The first press of guests had thinned to a trickle when she saw him come in. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking around, a dark self-assured figure, inches taller than any other man in the room, and making them look as if their morning suits had come straight off the peg, while his had been immaculately tailored in Savile Row.

  Emma grabbed a pink hyacinth out of the pot and buried her nose in it, hiding her face while the scent of the flower was overpoweringly sweet in her nostrils. Her eyes were fastened on the group near the door— on Lisa's face as the man approached. It was like a close-up in a film. Everything and everyone in the room went out of focus and she only saw the two of them—Lisa's pale face flushing painfully as her eyes went up to meet the dark, sultry ones of the man standing before her. He spoke, and Lisa smiled brilliantly. Then the man bent to kiss Lisa's cheek and turned to shake Richard's hand. A few words and he had passed on to Mrs Southall and Uncle Edward, while Lisa and Richard were greeting the next guests.

  Emma replaced the hyacinth and let out a long breath of relief. It was over and Lisa had been wonderful—calm and dignified. Emma felt a wave of admiration for her young cousin. She had forgotten how good an actress Lisa could be when she chose, and Lisa had risen to a difficult occasion and come through it splendidly. Surely now, she could forget about Trent Marston and be happy with Richard?

  'Emma, where are you?' She heard Uncle Edward's voice. 'Ah, there you are. I want you to meet Trent Marston, our new recruit to Fairley Brothers. Trent, this is my niece Emma Fairley.'

  Trent Marston held out his hand. 'How do you do, Miss Fairley,' he said formally. There wasn't a vestige of a smile on the hard, handsome face as his sombre black eyes ran over her consideringly.

  Involuntarily, Emma moved backwards, away from that insolent, almost hypnotic stare, and collided with one of the waiters, bearing a plate of sandwiches. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.' She smiled at him apologetically, but the smile left her face immediately as she turned back to the man standing before her.

  It had all happened in a moment and he was still holding out his hand. It was absurd, but she felt that if he touched her she would scream. She was a straightforward girl, who liked to make her feelings plain. She wasn't the actress that Lisa was, and at this moment she felt a dislike and resentment for the man almost amounting to hate.

  But she had to take his hand or risk making a stupid scene, which was unthinkable. 'How do you do, Mr Marston,' she said coolly.

  His handclasp was firm and brief. Just for a second her own hand was engulfed in his and she felt the smooth dryness of his skin against her own. She almost snatched her hand away, like a child who has ventured too near the fire.

  Uncle Edward beamed on them. 'I'll leave you two to get acquainted, while I go back and do my duty.' He moved away to join Mrs Southall at the end of the receiving line.

  Emma stood hemmed in by the crowd of guests— talking, laughing, greeting each other—and wondered how she could get away from Trent Marston. She felt her skin prickling at his nearness. Everyone who passed had a word for her. 'Nice to see you, Emma.' 'Doesn't

  Lisa look gorgeous?' 'Hear you've been abroad—was it lovely?' All the time she could see the eyes of the women on the man beside her, hear the unspoken question, Who is he?

  It wasn't obligatory to introduce people at weddings and she didn't intend to draw him into the circle if she could help it. She looked around rather desperately for Jim Bolton, the best man. He was supposed to be looking after the chief bridesmaid, surely? But he was dashing in and out with the late arrivals, probably organising the parking outside the house.

  Trent Marston leaned down towards her. 'You have nothing to drink, Miss Fairley.' He stopped a passing waiter and took two glasses of champagne from the tray. Just as if he were the host, Emma thought wrath- fully, and not a guest—and an unwelcome one from her point of view.

  'Shall we make for the verge?' he said. 'This feels rather like the central reservation of the motorway.' He glanced at the guests milling around them and put a hand at her elbow, guiding her towards the double doors into the dining-room, which was comparatively empty.

  They paused beside the long polished table where the wedding presents were on display. 'I wanted a word with you, Miss Fairley,' Trent Marston said. He stood very still, looking down at her with that considering look. 'Edward tells me you are a trainee in the marketing department of the firm.' His tone suggested that he intended to end that when he sat in the seat of power.

  'I've been travelling in the U.S. with Joe Kent, our marketing manager,' Emma said distantly. She thought it was particularly tactless of him to begin to talk business in the middle of a wedding reception; on the other hand she hadn't the slightest wish to enter into a more personal relationship with this arrogant individual. She disliked every single thing about him.

  'I hope you had a successful trip,' he said suavely.

  She met his eyes straight. 'It was disastrous,' she said. Perhaps if he really knew the state of the firm he would pull out and go away—out of all their lives.

  'I rather gathered that.' The slight smile didn't reach his eyes. 'We'll have to work together to change things, won't we?' He raised his glass. 'To our better business acquaintance, Miss Fairley.'

  She gripped the stem of her champagne glass. I must get away, she told herself, before I throw the contents of this glass in his face. Of all the overbearing, insolent pigs't She fumed inwardly at the way he subtly underlined the word 'business'.

  She couldn't hide her anger now. Her tawny eyes flashed fire as she said, 'This is a wedding, Mr Marston. Sure we should be toasting the bride and groom and not be engaging in a board meeting.' She glanced through into the hall. 'Everyone has arrived now, I think they'll be cutting the cake any moment. Please excuse me.'

  She put her untasted glass of champagne down and swept out of the room, her dark gold head held high, the filmy green dress swishing round her pretty legs, the heels of her silver shoes clicking smartly on the polished wood floor.

  It was as well that he should recognise her hostility from the beginning, she told herself, then they would know exactly where they stood with each other.

  She just wished she could have made her point without ending up by shaking as if she had a high fever, and feeling slightly sick. And she wished even more that, although she had her back to him, she did not feel those dark, sleepy eyes following her as she went.

  As she crossed the hall she saw Jim Bolton, the best man, weaving his way towards her.

  'Emma, sweet, forgive me, I should have been looking after you. The best man's the dogsbody around here—the jobs they find me to do!' He ogled her shamelessly. 'You look superb, lovey. Like a naiad or a dryad or something.' He had obviously been drinking
to soothe his nerves even before the wedding began. 'I'll look after you now, though. Claim best man's privilege for a start.' Before she knew what he intended to do he had put both arms round her and kissed her— a kiss that was a little too enthusiastic and went on a little too long for the occasion.

  Emma drew back. 'Hey, that's enough! And I thought the best man's privilege was to kiss the bride.'

  He kept one arm tightly round her. 'Rather kiss you, Emma sweet, You're one hundred per cent more sexy.'

  'You've been drinking too much,' she said severely, wriggling out of his grasp. But she smiled up into his fair, good-looking face. They had been friends for years and he proposed to her regularly, without much hope.

  'Aw, what 'r weddings for?' he chuckled. 'Free drinks and free kisses.'

  With a small shock Emma realised that a tall figure was standing quite close, watching the performance with interest. Trent Marston must have followed her, damn him!

  She turned her back on him and encountered Mrs Southall, elegant in a silver-grey suit, and made up immaculately. 'My dear Emma, how charming you look!'

  Mrs Southall was a tall, commanding woman who had managed the large store in the nearby holiday town since the death of her husband. She was in her element now, playing hostess at the wedding of her son.

  'I wanted a word with you, my dear.' The grey hat dipped towards Emma confidentially. 'I do so hope you don't think I've been interfering, in making all the wedding arrangements. Of course, we realised that it should have been your job, but as it was all decided so quickly and as you weren't here——'

  'Oh, please, Mrs Southall, don't think of it like that. You've done it all superbly—much better than I could have done, and Lisa's very grateful.'

  Mrs Southall beamed. 'Thank you, my dear.' She looked towards Lisa and Richard. 'Don't they make a lovely couple? Lisa is so beautiful and such a sweet girl. I'm sure they'll be wonderfully happy.' She sighed gustily. 'She will be a great asset to Richard at the store. She pays for dressing, as my mother used to say. Ah, they're going to cut the cake, I see, we must gather round. I shall see you this evening at my little party?'

  'Thank you, Mrs Southall.' Emma did not feel in a party-going mood, but it would have been unkind to refuse.

  'Just for the young people, you know. An informal supper and some dancing.' She looked round as if she were searching for someone. 'Ah, there you are, Mr Marston, I've been looking for you.' She placed a retaining hand on his sleeve and smiled up glowingly into his eyes. 'I'm giving a small party this evening at my house—I shall be so delighted if you will come along. You could perhaps bring Emma, as you're staying with Mr Fairley.'

  'Oh, but——' Emma began. She hadn't realised that

  Uncle Edward had invited the Marston individual to stay overnight. Jessie must have prepared a room for him and forgotten to mention it. Her heart sank. She had been banking on his leaving after the reception, and the prospect of having him around filled her with something very like panic.

  'Thank you, Mrs Southall, I shall be delighted, and I'll have great pleasure in giving Emma a lift.' Trent Marston was saying courteously.

  'Splendid, we'll look forward to seeing you.' Mrs Southall was known as a hardheaded business woman, but now she was in quite a flutter, Emma thought disgustedly. This man just had to look at a woman with those dark, mocking eyes of his to have her purring like a bemused kitten. He was pure dynamite, no doubt about that. Her own heart had given a quick lurch as he had spoken her name just now, and it wouldn't do at all.

  As Mrs Southall turned towards the group round the buffet table she said in a low voice, 'Thank you, but I expect Jim will be calling for me.'

  The dark eyebrows went up a fraction. 'Jim? Is that the best man? The one who was wallowing in free kisses just recently?' He glanced across the hall. 'He'll need to .sober up before he gives anyone a lift anywhere.'

  She turned on him angrily, but he had moved away and there was nothing she could do but fume impotently. She moved across to stand beside Jim while the cake-cutting ceremony and the speeches went on. In a kind of daze she heard the clapping, saw the cameras flash. Uncle Edward's speech was short, Richard's even shorter, and they both looked very glad when the ordeal was over. When Jim came to propose the bridesmaids he was inclined to ramble on in a slightly maudlin voice, an arm round each girl. He was rather drunk, Emma had to admit—that odious Trent Marston was right. She disliked him even more.

  The reception pursued the course of all receptions. The talk and laughter increased as the buffet table and champagne bottles emptied. Emma was drawn into one chattering group after another. Jim Bolton was no support at all. He had found himself a chair in the dining room and slumped into it, looking happy and stupid and willing to chat to anyone who passed, but unwilling to get up and circulate. Emma was annoyed with him; she had depended on him to stay beside her and insulate her from any further contact with Trent Marston. As it was she had to keep an eye on him and move out of the way if he seemed to be getting near.

  She kept an eye on Lisa too. This was Lisa's day and she was carrying it off magnificently, always the centre of an admiring group, lavish with their compliments and praise. Richard never moved from her side. He looked the picture of happiness and his hand reached constantly for hers, his arm went round her shoulder as if he couldn't bear to be separated from his new wife. They were the perfect, blissfully happy newlyweds, Emma assured herself. So what had she been worrying about?

  She glanced at her watch. In ten minutes or so she must contact Lisa and take her upstairs to change into her going-away outfit. She and Richard were to drive into Poole and catch the London train, staying there overnight, ready to fly to the Seychelles tomorrow morning.

  For a moment Emma found herself alone. The swell of talk had died down a little. One or two of the women were looking pink and slightly exhausted. Lorna was giggling away with two young men—friends of her brothers—and having a high old time. Uncle Edward was nowhere to be seen. Emma grinned to herself as she thought that he had probably sloped off to his study, which was conveniently along the passage that led to the kitchens and the back stairs. He had coped splendidly, but social occasions were definitely not his cup of tea. She would go and have a quick word with him and then look in upon Jessie, who was queening it over the hired waiters in the kitchen. Jessie had attended the ceremony, in her best lilac-coloured dress and coat, but nothing would persuade her to mix with the guests at the reception.

  'Malcolm and me will be happiest in the kitchen, Miss Emma,' she had decreed, and could not be shifted from that decision.

  Emma took a quick look round to check that she wouldn't encounter Trent Marston, but couldn't see him, so she stepped purposefully across the hall, under the archway and down the long passage.

  It was as she reached the corner by the window alcove that she heard the study door open and some inner warning made her stop dead as a deep, hatefully familiar voice said, 'Good, that's splendid. Then we'll discuss it later, shall we, Edward? Tonight, perhaps, when I get back from this party?'

  The door closed. Footsteps approached.

  It was a stupid thing to do, a blind impulse, but Emma wasn't in a mood to stop and consider. All she wanted at that moment was to avoid meeting the man and having to speak to him. She stepped into the alcove, behind the long red velvet curtain. The footsteps approached and she held her breath. Then there was a rush and a rustle passing the alcove from the opposite direction and she caught a glimpse of white satin.

  Lisa's voice, trembling and breathless, came clearly. 'Trent, I had to find you—to speak to you. Why did you come? Why couldn't you have stayed away from my wedding?' The words were spilling out, agonised, pleading.

  'My dear girl, why shouldn't I ome?' He barely troubled to hide his impatience. 'I was invited.'

  'Not by me. I just prayed and prayed that I'd never see you again in my life. After the way you treated me——— '

  'Oh, for God's sake don't start all that again!' He
sounded harsh, utterly without feeling. 'I've had quite enough of that sort of talk. You're married now, to a decent man. Why don't you grow up, Lisa?'

  'Grow up—is that all you can say? Grow up?' Her voice rose hysterically. 'After all we were to each other? I loved you—loved you as I've never loved any other man and never will——— ' She was almost screaming now.

  Trent Marston's reply came low and vicious. 'Shut up, you stupid little fool, and pull yourself together! Just take it that I don't love you, never did. Anything that happened was your idea, your choice, not mine. I don't give a damn for you, Lisa, just remember that. Now go back to your husband and stop behaving like a spoilt child!'

  There was a gasp, a strangled sob, and then Lisa's footsteps stumbled away along the passage towards the back stairs. After that there was silence.

  Emma's hand clutched the curtain. She was cold with shock, her knees were shaking. At that moment she had no power over her body at all and even if she had tried, she lacked the control to stay squeezed behind the curtain. She stood there waiting for Trent Marston to reach the window and see her.

  He got to the spot where she stood, and stopped dead, his dark eyes sweeping over her in a long, raking look, taking in the situation immediately. She squirmed inside, hanging on to the red velvet curtain like some guilty woman in a French farce.

  His sensual mouth twisted. 'Well, well, doing a little snooping, were you, Miss Fairley? I trust you were rewarded, but I assure you that I didn't seek that spot of melodrama.'