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‘Rescuing you, caveman-style.’ Easing his way through the muddy terrain, he was careful not to drop her. ‘This is how us Neanderthal types do it, Tarzan-style.’
‘Put me down!’ She pummelled his back with her fists.
‘What, back in the mud? Trust me, you don’t want that. Hang on, we’re nearly there.’
He knew he was playing with fire, but it wasn’t like he had anything to lose. In two weeks’ time the wedding would be over and they’d never have to see each other again. A thought that didn’t give him as much pleasure as he’d anticipated.
Ignoring her complaining and calling him a range of unflattering names, he reached the top of the mound and lowered her to the ground. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
His reward? A thump on the chest. ‘Bastard!’
‘I think you mean, son of a biscuit eater.’
She opened her mouth to continue yelling… blinked a few times… and then started laughing. Laughing so hard, she had to rest her hands on her knees to stop herself falling over. ‘Idiot,’ she said, straightening and thumping his chest again, this time with no force. ‘I suppose you think you’re funny?’
‘You don’t?’ He nodded to her muddy trainers.
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ she said, when the wind lifted her hair again and flapped it across her face. In her flustered attempts to control it, she sent her glasses flying. ‘Bloody hell!’
Laughing, he reached out and caught her hair in his hands, smoothing it away from her face. Gently and slowly, he collected all the wayward strands and eased them into a ponytail, holding it behind her head. ‘Better?’
Her gaze travelled slowly up to meet his. It was a good few seconds before she nodded, causing her head to tug against his grip. It was such a slight movement, but it sent a bolt of electricity racing through him.
Their faces were so close, their bodies almost touching. And then he became aware of her eyes, no longer hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses, watery from the wind and staring up at him with such questioning intensity that he was knocked sideways.
It wasn’t just her eyes, but her flushed cheeks and her partially open mouth, all combining to draw him closer and undermine his resolve.
Forget chocolate cake. He’d been presented with something a lot more enticing.
The next thing he knew… he was kissing her.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, 30thMay – 10 days till the wedding
It had been a long time since Connie had gone to such lengths to impress a dinner guest. It had been even longer since she’d spent a whole day getting ready for the event and taking such care over her appearance – she’d even forked out for a new dress. The mint-green silk floral wrap-dress felt wonderfully soft against her newly buffed skin, and the low neckline did wonders for her cleavage. At nearly two hundred pounds it hadn’t done wonders for her depleting bank balance, but when a woman was being forced into fighting to save thirty-nine years of marriage, she was entitled to splurge a little.
The timer on the oven beeped, reminding her to the check progress on the lemon meringue pie. The top was still pale, so she reset the timer for another ten minutes and headed into the dining room to check on her staging.
The drop-down pendant lights were dimmed low, casting the room in a romantic glow. A flourish of iridescent white lilies spilled from a vase set in the centre of the table, and cut-glass crystal flutes were positioned deliberately close together. The idea was to create intimacy, encourage romance and evoke cosiness, so they could reconnect and explore whether their marriage could be saved, or whether it was dead in the water.
On the table, a bottle of Château La Fleur-Pétrus had been decanted, Kenneth’s favourite. Another two hundred quid she couldn’t afford, but she hoped it would act as another reminder of the life they’d once shared. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Tiffany being a wine connoisseur, the girl was more likely into the weirdly flavoured gins all the youngsters raved about these days. Something she was certain Kenneth definitely wasn’t a fan of – or not the Kenneth she knew. He might have gone off the rails of late, but she knew who he was deep down. No one could change that much in just a few short months, surely.
Connie knew his habits, his taste in music and food preferences. Could Tiffany say the same? Did she know about his hernia that niggled when he exercised? That he couldn’t sleep without a glass of water on the bedside table? That he hated having his feet touched, but loved a back scratch?
A thump from upstairs reminded her that she wasn’t alone in the house. It wasn’t ideal having her son around when she was attempting to seduce her estranged husband, but Alex had promised to stay in his room for the evening and not disturb them, so she just hoped he’d stick to the agreement. If not, she’d be demanding her fifty quid back. It said something about the state of your life when your children resorted to bribing you.
The sound of her phone ringing prevented her from lighting the scented candles. Checking her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace to ensure that her carefully blow-dried hair hadn’t flattened, she headed for the kitchen, pleased with the way her gait felt sturdier and leaner these days. Thrice-weekly boxing sessions and an increase in her trips to the swimming pool were paying off. Not just physically, but mentally, too. She felt stronger, more stable, with less of a desire to run Kenneth and Tiffany over with the garden mower.
Her rage hadn’t diminished entirely. She still fantasised about publicly humiliating the pair of them, just as they had humiliated her, but the highs and lows didn’t fluctuate as much as they once had. Days could pass now without her feeling the need to disembowel Tiffany with a serrated bread knife, and as far as she was concerned, that was definite progress.
Pressing the speaker button on her phone, she opened the fridge and removed the tray of marinating chicken. Conversations with her mother tended to be less infuriating if she had a distraction. ‘Hi, Mum. Everything okay?’
‘I’ve had a letter from the DVLA. They want my organs.’
Okay, slightly random. Connie poured herself a glass of cheap supermarket wine, a precursor to the expensive stuff later. ‘Why are the DVLA writing to you?’
‘No idea.’
