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She begins to tug me in the direction of the door, but I pull back. Lucian and his father can’t know that I’ve been crying. I need time to pull myself back together.
“The dress,” I blurt out. “It’s too tight.”
Mrs Collins smiles warmly. “Come with me. I’ll have you changed and sat back at that table in no time.”
Lucian
My father remains seated beside me and eats his starter as though we are discussing something as trivial as the weather. I want to get up and walk to the other side of the room to put distance between us. But running away is not how we Calloways deal with our problems. We face them head-on, like men.
Father passes me a sideward glance. “End your engagement with Chelsea and marry Samantha. Marry Samantha and the housebuilding company is yours. Not only will your union see the merger of two affluent local families, but Samantha herself informed me that she wants children one day, thus continuing the Calloway name.”
My eyebrows shoot up. It would seem my father and Simon are very well acquainted, and I have been the hot topic of conversation. “My, my. My ears are positively burning. Has it slipped your mind that the last time Samantha and I were together we hit the tabloids due to her philandering ways?”
Father waves me off. “That’s all water under the bridge,” he says and proceeds to dip what is left of his bread roll into his soup.
“Samantha was under the same impression when our paths crossed on Saturday.” I pause and something occurs to me. “It was you. You invited Samantha to the Pink Ribbon Breast Cancer Charity Gala.”
Father dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin before addressing me. “I will not deny my involvement. I thought that perhaps if you were to see her again that—”
“That what? I’d fall madly in love with her? That I’d forget all about Chelsea, and Samantha and I would just pick up from where we left off? I’m engaged, Father. Now I know that didn’t deter Samantha, but I’m in love with Chelsea and our engagement means something.” I speak with such earnestness that I almost believe my own lie. The engagement may be fake, but my feelings for her are not.
“You weren’t engaged when I approached Samantha.” He spends long seconds working his spoon around the inside of his bowl, collecting the dregs of soup.
“Perhaps, but still you deemed it your place to interfere in my love life.” With a shaky hand, I grab my wine glass and gulp the rosé down in one. I reach across the table to where the ice bucket and bottle of red is stored.
Father takes hold of my wrist. “Slow down, son.”
I glower at my old man. “I respect you, Father, and your wishes. But I am more than capable of choosing my bride.”
I break eye contact and finish my soup in silence. I place my spoon in the empty bowl when it dawns on me that Chelsea is yet to return. I glance across the table and notice her starter, which lies virtually untouched. I push back the chair, about to excuse myself, when the door to the dining room opens and Chelsea walks in.
She is wearing a teal gown; the skirt falls to the floor. If I’m not mistaken, this is a gown from my mother’s collection, and it fills me with pride seeing something she designed on the woman I love.
“What took you so long?” I ask, hurrying around the table to pull out her chair.
Chelsea shrugs. “I couldn’t find the right outfit to wear.”
“You chose well,” I say, and when I retake my seat notice Mrs Collins lingering in the doorway.
“Are you ready for the main course?” Mrs Collins asks.
“Chelsea’s soup will need reheating.”
“It’s fine.” Chelsea pushes her bowl forward. “I’m ready for my main.” She sits quietly and fidgets with the tablecloth. She looks so awkward and so on edge.
“Please, reset my place beside Chelsea,” I say, and get up from my seat and walk around the table. I sit in the chair to her right as Mrs Collins switches my place over and clears away our starters. She returns moments later with our main course, my mother’s famous cottage pie. Mrs Collins has presented the dish in the same way Mother used to. The cottage pie has been cut into small rectangular helpings with a sprig of rosemary placed diagonally over the top.
I stiffen as she lays a plate down in front of my father. I’m unsure if he’ll be angry or hurt that I have resurrected Mum’s signature dish. I await his reaction, but he doesn’t utter a single word.
Chelsea clears her throat. “I remember reading that the Calloway legacy started many generations ago.”
My father nods. “That is correct. My grandfather fancied himself as a bit of a chancer. It started when he bought his first property. He sold it at the right time and made a significant profit. My grandfather made it his life’s work buying and selling houses. One day he stopped investing in property and started buying land. Over the years he gained several partners and investors. Bored of working in just the property market, he decided to branch out and invest in hotels, and, well, you could say the rest is history.”
“That’s amazing. Your legacy began with the sale of one house,” Chelsea purrs. “It gives me hope that my business will grow over time. Who knows? One salon today, a chain of shops tomorrow.” She smiles sweetly. “Once I am settled in business, maybe one day I’ll be settled enough to want children.”
I can’t help wondering if her words are genuine, or if she’s saying the words she thinks my father wants to hear. My father smiles, but it doesn’t crease the corners of his eyes, because it isn’t sincere. Duncan Calloway is a first impressions kind of guy. Whatever Chelsea does and whatever she says from here on out is irrelevant. He has made up his mind, and it will remain unchanged.
His gaze lands on me. “Samantha and her uncle plan to attend the Hope for Children Charity Gala. It would be nice if the two of you could catch up.”
