“I never want to see you again,” she concludes.
She storms past me through the door and runs up the stairs, before we hear her bedroom door slam. Lady Meade sighs, defeated.
“I think you should leave, Emily or Sophie, or whatever your name is,” Lord Meade says gravely. “If you are the leak, I suggest you own up sooner rather than later.”
“Lord Meade, please! You can’t think it was me! If you don’t trust my character, then at least think about the logic. What would I possibly have gained from it?”
“Money,” he replies, his brow furrowed. “It’s always down to money.”
“I would never do that.”
“We don’t know what you would do,” Tom speaks up. “We don’t know you.”
“Tom—”
“Sophie, it’s time for you to leave,” Lady Meade says, pushing herself up from the chair and gesturing to the door. “I’m sure this won’t come as a shock, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go. Your contract to us and to Cordelia is over. We can sortfinal details another time. If you want to go to the press and tell them your story, you can, I suppose, although I hope you will have some compassion and decide against it.”
“I would never go to the press, NDA or no NDA,” I argue, through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone.”
“You can show yourself out,” Lord Meade instructs, putting an end to the conversation.
I’m too numb to find the words to protest. I can’t do anything else. I have no evidence to prove I did not tell. And, in their eyes, I’m the only person capable of this crime. I get my coat, my hands shaking, and wrap my scarf back round my face, before shoving on my cap and sunglasses. I open the door and am immediately blinded by all the camera flashes.
It slams behind me. I’m on my own.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I push my way through the reporters, my brain whirring as I try to make sense of what just happened. They think I leaked the story to the press.Me.How could anyone possibly think that I could do something so cruel?
And Tom’s face. He was so disappointed, so furious with me. What must he think of me now? I’m such an idiot for considering it might somehow work out between us.
I manage to flag down a taxi at the end of the road, shaking off the few reporters who stuck with me that long, and ask the driver to drop me at the tube station.
This is a disaster. A HUGE disaster.
And not just for me. For Cordelia, for Jonathan, for the whole family. The wedding will be overshadowed by these headlines, dredging up the past, splashing about these horrible memories as though no one involved has any feelings at all. I feel sick for them, for what they’ll be coping with over the next few days, wishing I could make it go away.
But there’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop the journalists writing the stories. I have no idea who the source is because, let’s face it, the most viable suspect is me. And I can’t change the past. I can’t protect Cordelia from what’s already happened.
The only thing I could do was be there for her as her friend, and now I can’t even do that.
I’ve never felt so helpless. My whole life revolves aroundfinding solutions. When a bride or groom needs help, I’m there to sort it. That’swhat I do.
But this time I have simply to fade away, leave them to cope alone. In their minds, after all, I’m the one who created the problem.
I pay the taxi and walk into the tube station glumly, trying to find my card to get through the ticket barrier. Rummaging in my bag, I think about Jonathan and how he must be feeling. Betrayed and humiliated, confused as to why Cordelia didn’t tell him something so important. I wish I could remind him of how much he means to her—in times of crisis, sometimes you need to hear that from someone else. I hope he comes out of hiding and goes home to her soon. It must be horrible for him to be alone, trying to make sense of this—and worse for her, desperate to comfort him and not knowing where he is.
Hang on. He’shiding.
“Excuse me!” a man says gruffly behind me, and I realize I’ve stopped right at the barrier.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumble, stepping aside and letting him through, too focused on the idea that just popped into my head to worry about the irritable mutters and glares I receive from the queue now filing past.
It’s a long shot. He’s probably gone to a friend’s house, maybe even decided to go back to Norfolk. But if he wanted to be on his own and have a good think over a proper pint…
I start running, trying to work out the quickest way to get to Chancery Lane as I race onto the platform.
When I emerge from the tube station at the other end, I jostle past Christmas shoppers and tourists in my haste to get to Ye Olde Mitre. By the time I push through the doors, I’m completely out of breath, wheezing as I burst in from the bitter cold to the cozy warmth of the tiny pub.
