Before You Say I Do

Chapter 10 Fertile Specimen

Tom’s mind was working overtime — every muscle in his body was tight and on edge. Nausea had settled in his stomach, causing waves of sick nervousness to wash over him, a sheen of sweat sticking to his skin.

An egg is always an adventure, he thought worriedly, hearing the words over and over and over in his mind, once again recalling the image of a girl with honey-coloured hair and his own brown eyes staring up at him.

It can’t be, he told himself, taking a corner a little too fast and hardly feeling the angry spin to the rental car’s wheels. It just can’t.

He’d known Ari had had a baby. He’d seen the child for himself, held tight in her father’s arms — Ari’s husband’s arms, Tom reminded himself bitterly — a pink rabbit in her hand, her face tucked under her father’s chin. She’d been small and delicate, and Tom had stared at her, wondering how baby-soft skin could cut him so deep. The man who held her had looked at him oddly, and Tom had quickly noted the wedding ring he wore, and the litany of pictures on the wall behind him. He was in every one of them. His presence told him, loud and clear, that Ari had moved on, and quickly too. Clearly Ari hadn’t missed him like he’d ached for her. She probably hadn’t loved him at all — had no doubt relegated him from lover to the beginning of some tawdry story starting with, “Did I ever tell you about this one guy in Europe...”

She promised to wait for him, but she’d broken that promise. It was a fact that still caused torrents of pain to cut through Tom, a bitter pill he’d swallowed over and over, the worst kind of medicine for his tortured soul. Ari had married, had a baby and moved on. Tom, after grieving her loss, decided to do the same. He couldn’t have the woman he wanted, but he could still have a good life, maybe. A shadow of what it could have been, perhaps, but still worthy, still his. It was what his father had wanted, after all. What his father had asked of him on his deathbed. Live your life for you, Tom. Don’t ever live it for anyone else.

Tom was so lost in thought that, as he turned into the gates of his mother’s house, he nearly smashed into a car flying fast in the other direction. He slammed on his brakes, turning to swear and glare at the offending vehicle. But it was already sweeping down the drive and into the trees, and Tom exhaled tightly, shaking his head.

“Learn to drive,” he growled, turning back to the wheel.

He needed to speak to his mother. Uneasily, Tom recalled their conversation from the previous day, when Marnie had asked about Ari, then stormed out when he’d casually mentioned knowing about Ari’s baby. She thought the baby was mine, Tom realised. She thought it was mine, and that I abandoned her.

That thought made Tom’s stomach turn, because if there was one thing he swore he’d never do, it was to abandon his own child. He’d heard Ari’s stories of her own miserable parents. Tom might have done some shitty things in his day, but not that . When he became a father, it would be for keeps.

Once again, Tom’s mind dragged forth the image of the baby in Ari’s husband’s arms. She’d been a sweet little thing, and for a moment Tom’s heart leapt in his chest at the thought of having fathered her, of being a father to her. What must that be like? What would it be like to come home to a house where Ari was his wife and their child snuggled into his shoulder, her baby arms around his neck and her pink rabbit in her hands?

It was a useless dream though. She was another man’s child, and her mother was another man’s wife. Tom had to accept it.

Taking a deep breath, Tom stared at the wheel of the car, still tightly gripped in his hands. He would speak with Marnie and clear the air with her. Tell her the truth — that yes, Ari had had a baby, but no, it wasn’t his. And as for the girl on the side of the road earlier... Tom shook his head at his own stupidity. How many children had brown eyes? Millions upon millions of them. That this little girl had eyes like his own didn’t mean anything, not when seventy percent of the world shared them too. It was still that damned lingering strand of hope within him. Tom scowled. He’d had Ari on his mind, and when he’d met that little girl he’d put two and two together and made six. So what if she’d quoted Wilde? Big deal. Every British child did that, right? And even if they didn’t, there was no way that he’d fathered a child with Ari. It was impossible.

He was just a perpetual fool, Tom realised. A perpetual fool who needed some calm and quiet after the stresses of the last twenty-four hours. Thank God, at least here at his mother’s house he could — well, not quite rest , that wasn’t the word. He could never really rest here. Still, it was quieter than the city, and given that Sasha would be busy with her dress designer and the wedding planners, he would have lots of time to sit and switch off his fevered mind. His mother’s house was so out of the way, so lost in the countryside, so peaceful and—

A loud noise to his left interrupted Tom’s thoughts, and he looked up, blinking in confusion at the sight before him. A large yellow excavator was slowly passing him, beeps sounding, a man in a hard hat carefully edging towards the house.

Tom stared at it, then stared some more. An excavator? he thought, rubbing his eyes. What the fuck is an excavator doing here?

He stepped out of the rental car, looking around and doing another double take. Because his mother’s house, normally so pristine and out of the way and peaceful, was absolutely heaving . There must have been a dozen cars and at least twenty people, most of them men, most of them wearing yellow jackets and carrying ladders, buckets of paint or pouring over design plans. They all looked busy and purposeful, and Tom dazedly approached the nearest person, gesturing around him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, just as a drill sounded in the distance, the noise cutting into the air and drowning out Tom’s words.

“What?” the worker shouted back, and Tom stepped closer, raising his own voice.

“What’s going on? With all this?” he shouted, and the worker nodded.

“Oh, we’re building the playground,” he yelled, and Tom stared at him.

Playground?

Mercifully, the drilling abruptly stopped, and Tom took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he offered a tired smile, “for a minute there I thought you said you were building a playground.”

“That is what I said,” the worker replied cheerfully. “It’s a rush job though. Are you one of the designers?”

“Designers?”

“For the playground.”

Tom’s face must have remained blank, because the helmeted man suddenly smiled. “Oh, sorry, you must be one of the decorators. Well, your lot are all inside, working on the bedroom.”

“Bedroom? What bedroom?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a decorator. I’m building a playground today. Although playground doesn’t feel like the right word, given that the owner wants a small-scale stone castle in the middle.”

A small-scale stone castle? Tom swallowed hard. Why the fuck is Mom building a playground?

Shaking his head, he walked away from the worker, picking his way through equipment scattered over the gravel drive. He headed to the entry of the house, walking in and by habit wiping his feet on the mat by the door.

“Mom!” he shouted. “Mom! Where are you? I need to speak with you! Mom! I’m home, I’m here, and I’m—”

A sudden flash of light snapped in front of Tom’s face, and he blinked at the onslaught, clutching his head in his hands.

“And I’m blind ,” he snarled, rubbing at his eyes, wondering whether his retinas had detached or simply seared themselves to the back of his skull. Peeling his fingers from his forehead, he blinked as his vision slowly returned, the image of a person, tall and intimidating, taking shape before him.

“Hello Jawline,” a razor-sharp voice intoned, and Tom stiffened. He knew that voice. Knew it all too well, having spent six hours in its owner’s presence while being shifted from position to position so she could ‘capture the best light’.

“Hello,” he said formally, his face instantly falling into a scowl. “How nice to see you again. I didn’t think I would, to be honest, after the last shoot we did together.”

“Ah, yes, the Forbes shoot,” the woman replied drily.

“Yes,” Tom said tightly, “the one where you said the light ‘just didn’t favour me’. That was a pleasant day.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” The woman nodded, either not hearing the sarcasm in Tom’s voice or choosing to ignore it. “You would think with a face like yours you’d photograph beautifully. Your mother has cheekbones to die for, after all. But no.” She looked at him without really looking at him, her icy eyes trailing critically over his face. “You’re all angles I can’t make work—a jigsaw with too many jagged edges. There’s no softness in you. Of all the limited disappointments in my career, your face has been the greatest.”

“Thank you,” Tom said again. “So, dare I ask why you’re even here?”

She gave him a sideways glance, her lips unnervingly still as she spoke. “Why, I’m your wedding photographer. Your fiancée specifically requested me.”

Tom felt every muscle in his body grow tense. Stella Snow , he thought miserably, hardly believing her words. She was going to be their wedding photographer? How had this been allowed to happen? Tom couldn’t stand the woman — hated being around her with the fire of a thousand blazing suns. Surely Sasha knew that? But even as he asked himself the question, the answer settled in his mind.

Sasha didn’t know about his issue with Stella, and why would she? Tom had never mentioned it, and yesterday, when Sasha had brought Stella up, he’d been so wrapped up in his own troubles he hadn’t paid her the slightest bit of attention. Under normal circumstances, he would never have agreed to this. But because of his own ridiculousness, because of his own distraction, he’d blindly walked into allowing Stella back into his life. Scowling at his own ineptitude, he drew in a shaky breath.

“How nice,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure my mother will be thrilled.”

“Less so when she gets my bill, I should imagine,” Stella remarked coolly. “Speaking of which, you still owe me a box of chocolate biscuits.”

“Chocolate biscuits?” Tom asked, puzzled, wondering why everyone seemed to be speaking in nothing but fucking riddles this weekend. “You mean a cookie? Why would I owe you a box of cookies?”

Stella stared at him with an even expression. “Whenever I photograph a Queen and Country wedding, I need the biscuits. The small invariably pops up, and she—”

Abruptly, Stella stopped speaking, staring at Tom with an even more intense expression. She stepped closer to him, peering into his eyes closely.

“Do you have a problem?” Tom asked quietly, unnerved by the clear blue eyes Stella had pointed like daggers on his own. “Do you—”

“How interesting,” Stella remarked, though Tom instinctively knew she wasn’t talking to him. “How very interesting.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

Another blinding flash snapped in Tom’s face, and he recoiled, swearing loudly.

“Will you stop doing that?” he seethed. “You’re going to blind me.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Stella shook her head dismissively. “Look, see?”

She held up her camera for him to glance at, and he found himself staring at an image of himself, caught by her lens. His eyes were wide, brown and glassy, his mouth caught in a round shape of surprise, his jaw unclenched and lax. He looked, Tom thought miserably, absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m going to call this one Unknowing ,” Stella said, her voice rich with self-approval. “And then later, after everything, I’m going to take another one and call that one Knowing . It will be a wonderful series, and you, my gormless boy, will be the star. The camera might hate you, but by God, the people will love you.” She peered at him critically once more. “You know, I may just find that softness in you yet.”

Tom stared at her. “You know half the time I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Stella, however, didn’t seem to hear him. “Isn’t that nice,” she replied absently, before shouting “Brandon!” and walking towards the gallery, her heels clicking on the polished marble floor.

Tom watched her go with a feeling of trepidation.

“Mom!” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

* * *

Tom found his mother in the study, the French doors thrown out to the garden, smoking cigarettes in his father’s old armchair. Beside her, lying languidly on the chaise lounge, was a blond-haired man in a pressed suit, also smoking calmly. They were oddly silent and, after the fracas of the drive and hallway, both oddly calm. They stared out into the garden with looks of absolute boredom on their faces, inhaling in tandem and blowing wispy plumes of grey smoke into the air.

“Mom! You’re smoking again! What is going on today?” Tom snapped, and both his mother and the blond-haired man swivelled their heads towards him, looking at him with detached interest.

“Why, hello darling,” his mother replied calmly, taking a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the nearby crystal-cut ashtray. “You’re home from the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Tom muttered. “No thanks to you.”

“You have Sasha, don’t you?” his mother returned instantly. “I assumed she would take care of you.”

Tom frowned, not wanting to drag Sasha into this. “I have Sasha,” he said, “but you’re my parent . Aren’t you supposed to take care of me?”

At that, Marnie sat forward, a knowing look on her face. “Oh, you want to have this conversation?” she asked, her tone caustic, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was going to regret ever having spoken. “Please, Tom, why don’t you tell me exactly how a parent should care for their child? You’re clearly the expert, after all.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tom replied, “and you’re wrong, you have it all wrong, you don’t know—”

“I know enough,” Marnie snapped back. “And I know a damn sight more about being a parent than you do, so I’ll thank you to close your mouth on the subject.”

Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Tom kept his breathing calm, taking deep inhalations and releasing them slowly. He looked from his mother to the man beside her, who was sitting up now, staring at Tom with an air of concentration, holding his cigarette to his mouth between two manicured fingers. Distinctly uncomfortable with the man’s intense gaze, Tom looked back to his mother.

“Mom,” he said calmly, “maybe we can discuss this somewhere else. In private. I just need to tell you... the thing you were thinking yesterday, well, you were thinking wrong and—”

“I know exactly what to think,” Marnie cut in, standing up and coming to stand by Tom’s side. She smelled of cigarettes and her floral perfume, and she placed a hand gently on Tom’s cheek. “And we will work this out. We’re a family, after all. And no matter how lowly I think of you right now—”

“Mom,” Tom pleaded, but she held up a hand to silence him.

“—no matter how lowly I think of you,” she carried on. “I still love you dearly. Now, go and clean up. We’re having a special brunch today. I’ve asked Chef to throw together some smoked salmon and poached eggs, followed up by a tarte Tatin.”

“Brunch?” Tom exploded. “Brunch? Why are you so calm? You want to sit and eat fish and apple pie—”

“ Tarte Tatin ,” the blond-haired man suddenly interrupted, stubbing out his own cigarette and standing. “Not apple pie. Please. Let’s show a little class, hmm?”

Tom stared at him. “I don’t even know who you are .”

The blond-haired man nodded. “And I bet you don’t know who Caroline and Stéphanie Tatin are either, but they just turned over in their graves at you calling their signature pastry an apple pie .”

“Right.” Tom looked at his mother desperately. “Mom, please. Please let’s talk. It’s like this house has hit the twilight zone. You’re building a castle and playground outside—you have decorators upstairs and there are random British people dotted around like this is the Royal Shakespeare company. Please talk to me.”

Marnie sighed, giving Tom a small pat on the shoulder. “Oh, you mustn’t fret, Tom. Everything will work out. Besides, I’ve invited the one person who can make everything right for us.”

Warily, Tom eyed the blond-haired man next to them, who shook his head, a wry smile on his face.

“Not me, chap.”

Tom looked back to his mother, finally taking in the calm, eerily still expression on her face. She looked like she’d spent three days at the local spa, and there was a lightness to her being she hadn’t possessed the day before.

Tom felt a knot of worry begin to build in his stomach. There was only one person in the world who could ever make his mother look like this . Only one person who could calm her and reason with her when she felt like the world was against her.

“Oh no,” he breathed out. “Just no. Please don’t tell me you called...”

“Your brother,” his mother supplied cheerily. “I spoke with him this morning and he’s hopping on the first flight he can.”

“Oh no,” Tom shook his head, “no, no, no, no, no. Mom, how could you? He’s crazy.”

“ Tom ,” his mother admonished, shaking her head, “don’t speak that way about your brother. He’s a man of the cloth, after all.”

“He’s a Druid,” Tom deadpanned. “The only cloth involved is made of hemp.” He rubbed his temples, which were suddenly aching. “I can’t believe you did this.”

Marnie suddenly turned to him, looking at him evenly. “There are lots of things that have recently come to my attention that I can’t believe, Tom. Now, go and clean up. Get that hospital smell off you. Oh, and get Sasha too. She’ll want to join us for brunch, I’m sure.”

Suddenly, the blond-haired man spoke again. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “She’ll be fitted for a dress once Luis gets here. She might not want to bloat out with food beforehand.”

“Whether or not she eats is up to her,” Marnie replied calmly, “but in my house, at meal times, we eat at the table as a family.”

“Good for you,” the blond-haired man replied.

Tom gaped at them. “Do you two know each other?”

Both his mother and the blond-haired man looked up at him.

“Why darling, how rude of me,” Marnie said. “This is Sebastian, one of your wedding planners. Of course, you missed him yesterday because of your little mishap.”

Sebastian. Something that felt a little like unease ran through Tom, the hint of a memory pushing up, and he paused.

“Little mishap,” he repeated slowly. “You mean, when the plane I was flying crashed out of the sky.”

“Don’t dramatize it, Tom,” his mother replied with a sigh. “Gliding a light plane into a field is hardly ‘ crashing out of the sky ’.”

“It’s so lovely to meet you.” Sebastian stood, extending a smooth hand towards him. Tom took it, shaking it liberally.

“My, my,” Sebastian said, “that’s a strong arm you have there, isn’t it? You must be a healthy, fertile type. Are you?”

Tom stared at him. Did this man honestly just ask him if he was healthy and fertile? “I’m, um, sorry?”

Sebastian gave a small laugh. “No, goodness me, how rude I am today.”

“It’s fine,” Tom replied, relaxing slightly. “I just—”

“I’m talking through a mouthful of coffee. Do forgive me. I asked, are you the healthy and fertile type?”

Tom waited for the punchline, because this man could not be serious . “I’m going to go and get Sasha,” he said by way of reply.

“You’ve got about an hour before brunch, darling,” his mother said. “The salmon has been freshly smoked.”

“Salmon, what a lovely choice,” Sebastian said smoothly. “Very good for the prostate, is salmon. Just in case you have any trouble in that area, Tom. Do you? Have trouble in that area?”

“I’m going to take a shower and get Sasha,” Tom said again. He turned to his mother. “And then we’re going to talk.”

* * *

At brunch, Sasha threw her arms around Sebastian like they were the best of friends, before taking her seat next to Tom and helping herself to a large glass of water.

“No food for me today,” she said easily. “I want to be skinny for my first fitting with Luis De León.”

“You’re already a rake, darling,” Sebastian gushed. “But have some wine, if nothing else. It’s your wedding dress, which is worth celebrating.”

“I will, but not too much, I don’t want to get woozy,” Sasha replied, and Tom watched as Sebastian filled her glass.

“A little champagne now and then is good for the body and soul, I always say,” Sebastian replied, before his eyes drifted from Sasha to Tom. “Unless you have some form of erectile dysfunction?”

“No,” Tom answered shortly. “And I will take a glass. A large one.”

“Large, just like you,” Sebastian remarked. “How did a man like you come from a tiny thing like your mother?”

Marnie smiled. “Well, his father was a tall man.”

“Ah, that would explain it.”

Tom sat back, watching Sebastian cut his fish into small pieces on his plate.

“So,” Tom cleared his throat. “You’re the wedding planner?”

“One of them,” Sebastian replied easily. “Ari’s gone to pick up Luis for Sasha’s dress fitting. He had some car trouble on the way here.”

Hearing Ari’s name spoken so casually over salmon and champagne made Tom’s heart freeze in his chest, and he gripped the table edge between tense fingers. Sasha is right there, he told himself. Keep it together. You can’t fall apart every time you hear her name.

“Ari?” he asked through a mouth that had gone paper dry. “That’s, um, an interesting name.”

“Yes,” Sebastian answered slowly, and Tom could feel himself being watched carefully. “You don’t hear it often, do you?”

“No. I guess not.”

“She’ll be here at any moment with Luis. Like I said, he had car trouble. Something about the rear differential. Well, I guess having trouble with your rear would stop you in your tracks.” Sebastian shrugged, putting another mouthful of fish in his mouth. “Do you have trouble with your rear, Tom? Does it stop you in your tracks ?”

“Sebastian.” Sasha laughed, hitting him playfully on the arm. “Don’t tease Tom.”

“I would never.” Sebastian smiled back, playfully tapping Sasha back. “I just like to make sure my brides are getting the full package before their wedding day.”

“You don’t need to worry about my package ,” Tom replied drily, sucking back another mouthful of wine. “My package is just fine.”

“I’m sure it is,” Sebastian replied instantly. “Like I said, you look to be a perfectly healthy and fertile specimen.”

“You’re a strange man.” Tom watched the wedding planner cut up another piece of fish.

“Tom!” Sasha muttered under her breath, but Tom ignored her.

“And you’re planning our wedding?”

“Well, yes,” Sebastian popped salmon in his mouth, “with Ari.”

“Ari,” Tom said, the syllables coming out as more of an exhale than a word. It felt so good to speak her name again, after all these years.

“Ari is charming,” Marnie announced.

“Isn’t she just?” Sebastian nodded enthusiastically. “Well, she’ll be here once she’s fixed Luis’s car. A dab hand with a wrench is our Ari. Of course, I would have preferred a sister who could dress hair, but you take what you’re given, I suppose.”

Sister. Once again, Tom felt his heart pause within his chest. Sebastian. My Ari had a brother named Sebastian. Shaking slightly, Tom forced himself to take a deep breath, forced himself to cut up a piece of fish and put it between his lips, the moist flakes like rubber. It had to be a coincidence, he told himself. It couldn’t be her.

“A mechanic?” he asked, fishing for information. “How did a mechanic end up a wedding planner?”

“No, not a mechanic as such, she’s actually an artist, our Ari. She just happens to be an artist with an interest—”

“In engines,” Tom finished numbly, his stomach dropping. Oh my God, it was her. Ari. It was Ari.

His fork fell back to his plate with a clatter, and when he looked up again he found Sebastian’s eyes resting on him intently.

“I drove past a stopped car on the way here,” he said, his voice strained. “A man. He had a little girl with him.”

“Yes,” Sebastian nodded, and now the silence in the room was thick. “That was probably them. Luis is travelling with Reine.”

“Who’s Reine?” Tom asked, although he knew. He knew.

He’d known since he first saw her.

“Ari’s daughter.”

Tom inhaled sharply. He turned to his mother, who was staring at him with wide, understanding eyes.

“You didn’t know,” she whispered. “You didn’t know, did you?”

Beside him, Tom felt Sasha stiffen. “Know what?” she snapped. “Tom, what didn’t you know?”

* * *

Their car breaks down outside of Rouen, and Ari surprises him by cracking open the bonnet and peering inside.

“Where did you learn about cars?” he asks with interest, and she gives him a grin.

“Paid my way through art school with a side job at a mechanic’s,” she tells him. “Paint brushes and a wrench... I’m good with my hands.”

Tom grins back at her. “Don’t I know it.”

She throws a towel at him. “You can be cute later.” She turns back to the car, peering into the open hood. “Although it might be much later. This doesn’t look good.”

“What is it?” Tom asks, peering over her shoulder to take a look himself. He’s no mechanic, but he’s messed around with enough of his father’s old cars to know his way around an engine. “What do you think?”

“I think we’ll need a new part.” Ari sighs, sitting up and looking around her. The sun has just set and it’s getting dark, an azure sky settling in above them. “What are we going to do?”

“There was a small town about half a mile back,” Tom remarks. “Let’s head there, find somewhere to stay for the night. In the morning we’ll try and get a mechanic out to look at the car.”

“I can fix the car,” Ari says proudly, standing taller. “We just need the part.”

“Okay,” Tom agrees. “We’ll find a mechanic to get the part from then.”

She nods, before putting down her wrench and coming to stand beside him. Tom wraps his arms around her small frame, feeling that pulsing light of happiness run through him at her nearness. She nuzzles into him, and he presses his lips to her hair, inhaling that smell of hers that he loves.

“Just another egg to crack, right?” he says softly. “Another adventure for us.”

“Yes,” she agrees, looking up and catching his eyes. “Another adventure.”

“Come on,” Tom says, “we passed a hotel in that town. Let’s go and check in. There’s nothing we can do here now.”

Ari nods but makes no attempt to extricate herself from his arms. “I like you,” she tells him, a smile on her lips. “I like being with you.”

“I like being with you too,” Tom replies, kissing her gently. Her mouth is soft and sweet, and he sighs against her lips. “Come on, let’s get to the hotel.”

“What was it called?” Ari asks, and Tom thinks back to the sign he’d glanced at as they’d driven through the town, dark letters against a wooden board.

“The Hotel La Reine,” he says. “The Hotel La Reine.”