‘I’m afraid so. And corn is not cheap,’ she added, earning herself another of those long looks. She really needed to resist the snappy remarks. Especially as the gifts for the bridesmaids came next.
Candy had chosen bracelets for each of them from London’s premier jeweller. No expense spared.
The nib of his pen hovered beside the item for a moment, then he said, ‘Send them back.’
‘What? No, wait.’ He looked up. ‘I can’t do that!’
‘You can’t? Why not?’
Was he serious? Hadn’t he taken the slightest interest in his own wedding?
‘Because they’re engraved with your names and the date.’ This was cruel, she thought. One of his staff should be dealing with this. Pride was a killer… ‘They were supposed to be a keepsake,’ she added.
‘Is that a fact?’ Then, ‘So? Where are they? These keepsakes.’
Could it get any worse? Oh, yes.
‘Candy has them,’ she admitted. ‘She was having them gift-wrapped so that you could give them to the bridesmaids at the pre-wedding dinner.’ He frowned. ‘You did know about the pre-wedding dinner?’
‘It was in my diary. As was the wedding,’ he added. Caught by something in his voice, she looked up. For a moment she was trapped, held prisoner by his eyes, and it was all she could do to stop herself from reaching out to squeeze his hand. Tell him that it would get better.
As if he saw it coming, he gathered himself, putting himself mentally beyond reach.
She tried to speak and discovered that she had to clear her throat before she could continue.
‘There are cufflinks for the ushers too,’ she said, deciding it would be as well to get the whole jewellery thing over at once. ‘And for you.’
‘Were they engraved with our names too?’
‘Just the date,’ she replied.
‘Useful in case I ever manage to forget it,’ he said and, without warning, something happened to his mouth. She thought it might be a smile. Not much of one. Little more than a distortion of the lower lip, but Sylvie reached for the glass and took another sip of water.
It sizzled a little on her tongue, turning from ice-cold to lukewarm as it trickled down her throat. If he could do that with something so minimal, what on earth could he achieve when he was actually trying?
No. She didn’t want to know. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’m sure she’ll return them,’ she said in an effort to reassure him. Once she came back from wherever she was hiding out. She’d be eager to negotiate the sale of her story to whichever gossip magazine offered her the most to spill the beans on the break-up and the new man in her life before the story went cold.
Billionaireless, she would need the money.
‘How sure?’ he asked, holding the look for a full thirty seconds. ‘And, even if she did, what would I do with them? Sell them on eBay?’ She opened her mouth but, before she could speak, he said, ‘Forget it.’
And, placing a tick against the item, he moved swiftly on.
It was only when they reached the cake that the cracks began to show in his icy self-control.
Candy, to her surprise, hadn’t gone for some modern confection in white chocolate, or the witty little individual cakes that were suddenly all the fashion, but an honest-to-goodness traditional three-tier solid fruit cake, exquisitely iced by a master confectioner with the Harcourt coat of arms and Tom McFarlane’s company logo in full colour on each layer.
The kind of cake where the top tier was traditionally put aside to be used as the christening cake for the first-born.
Until that point she’d almost felt as if Candy had been playing at weddings, more like a little girl let loose with the dressing-up box and her mother’s make-up—or in this case a billionaire’s bank account—than a woman embarking on the most important stage of her life. But that cake had suggested she’d been serious.
Maybe she’d just been trying to convince herself.
‘Where is this monstrous confection?’ Tom McFarlane asked.
‘The cake?’
‘Of course the damn cake!’ he said, finally snapping, proving that he was made of more than stone. ‘Did she take that with her too? Or has it already been foisted on some other unsuspecting male?’
‘That’s an outrageous thing to say, Mr McFarlane. The people I deal with are honest, hard-working businessmen and women.’ She should have stopped then. ‘Besides, no one wants a secondhand wedding cake.’ Particularly one with someone else’s coat of arms emblazoned on it.
‘They don’t? What a pity the same can’t be said about brides.’ For a moment she thought he was going to let it go. But not this time. ‘So?’ he demanded, glaring at her. ‘What will happen to it?’
Desperate to get this over with, she was once more tempted to ask him if it mattered.
The words were on the tip of her tongue but then, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the man beneath. A man who’d worked himself up from labouring in the markets to the top floor of a prestigious office building but had never forgotten how hard it had been or where he’d come from and was just plain horrified by such profligate waste and realised that, yes, to him it did matter.
‘That’s for you to decide,’ she said.
‘Then call the baker. He can deliver it to my apartment this evening.’
This was her cue to suggest that he was joking.
Had he any idea how big it was?
She restrained herself, but when she hesitated he sat back in his chair and gestured for her to get on with it.
‘Do it now, Miss Smith.’
About to ask him what he’d do with ten pounds plus of the richest fruit cake—not including the almond paste and icing—she thought better of it. Maybe he liked fruit cake.
And when he got tired of it he could always feed the rest to the ducks.
It was all downhill from there with a mass of personalized stuff—all of it now just so much landfill. Menus, seating cards, table confetti in their entwined initials, candles, crackers with their names and the date on them, filled with little silver gifts for the guests—she’d managed to negotiate the return of the gifts. Every kind of personalized nonsense, each imprinted with their names and the date of the wedding that never was.
There wasn’t a single thing that Candy had overlooked in her quest for the most extravagant, the most talked-about wedding of the season.
The list went on and on but the only other invoice to provoke a reaction was the one for the bon-bonnière.
‘Well, here’s something different,’ he said, stretching for a touch of wry humour. ‘A French tradition for wasting money instead of a British one.’
Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, she was prepared to risk a smile of her own but instead she caught her breath as, his guard momentarily down, she caught a glimpse of the grey hollows beneath his eyes, at his temple.
Maybe he heard because he looked up, a slight frown puckering his brow.
‘What?’ he demanded.
She shook her head, managed some kind of meaningless response that appeared to satisfy him, but after that she kept her head down and finally it was all done but for the last invoice. The one for her own fee, which she’d reduced by twenty per cent,