Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
GRACE
Unknown caller.
I pick up my phone and stare at the screen as it rings out. Eventually, the ring tone stops, only to immediately restart again. Probably spam. Regardless, I don’t answer the phone to anyone not in my contacts.
A minute or so later, a text message arrives:
You have voicemail.
Frowning, I navigate to my voicemail and hit play.
“Hi, Grace, this is Vicky De Vil. Hope you’re okay.
I hear congratulations are in order. I knew Charles would fall in love with you.
Anyway, so Imogen and I were talking, and we think you deserve a hen do.
I mean, I know it’s an arrangement between you and Christian, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a good send off.
We thought this coming Saturday if that works for you.
That leaves you a full week to recover from the obligatory hangover. Call me back.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I listen to the message again. Guilt crushes my chest. Yet more innocent bystanders getting drawn into my web of deceit.
But what else can I do?
These women will be my sisters-in-law, which means their loyalties are to their husbands.
There’s not a cat in hell’s chance of them siding with me if I were to share the real reason I’m marrying Christian.
Keeping them at arm’s length is the best way to get through this marriage for however long it lasts.
That decision will make my life at Oakleigh even lonelier, but what’s a liar supposed to do?
I return Vicky’s call, my heart pounding. It barely rings once before she answers.
“Hey, that was quick. Screening?”
I chuckle. In another life, I’d choose this woman as a friend. She’s warm and outgoing, and reminds me a lot of Juliet. “Something like that.”
“I do the same. Not in the caller list is an instant no, thanks. Anyway, did you get my voicemail?”
“I did, yes, but I’m—”
“Great. Imogen and I thought nothing fancy. Maybe go for a meal at a nice restaurant, a chance for us to get to know you, and you to get to know us.”
I get the impression she interrupted me because she knew I was about to decline.
Which I was. Am.
“Vicky, look—”
“Don’t say look. Please don’t. Imogen and I really want to get to know you. You’re going to be our sister-in-law, which makes you one of us. Please say yes. We won’t make it awkward, I promise.” She giggles. “Okay, maybe a bit awkward, but a few wines will take the edge off that.”
I hate saying no at the best of times, even with people I’m close to. At my core, I’m a people pleaser, and she sounds so earnest that, against my better judgement, I give in to her pleading.
“Okay, but nothing extravagant. Can I also invite my best friend?”
She squeals. “Amazing. It’s your hen party. You can invite whomever you want to. Apart from Christian. No boys allowed. And I promise, it’ll just be dinner, drinks, and good conversation. I’ll message you with all the details. Add me to your contacts. We’re besties now.”
She hangs up without waiting for me to say anything else. Probably to stop me having second thoughts and backing out.
I pick up the phone to call Juliet, then change my mind and text her instead. She’s at work, and her boss is a bit of a dick who sends death stares her way if she answers personal calls during working hours.
Me: So, apparently, I’m having a hen party this Saturday, and you’re my wing-girl.
Three dots immediately appear. Her boss mustn’t be around or there would’ve been a delay while she ducked into the ladies to reply to me.
Juliet: I got u babe. Where’s that come from?
Me: Vicky De Vil. Apparently, she and Imogen want to ‘get to know me’. Which means I need cover in case I screw up.
Juliet: You’ll be fine. You’ve got this.
Me: Your belief in me is admirable, if misguided.
Juliet: Fuck off.
I send a laughing emoji. I’m not sure what I’d do without Juliet, and I hope I never have to find out.
Standing the ironing board up, I hoist the basket of creased clothes from the top of the washing machine and snag a blue shirt off the top.
Although I never loved my job, I hate not working.
I feel like a spare part hanging around the house all day waiting for Arron to come home from work so I have someone to talk to.
As soon as this thing with Christian is over, I need to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.
First, though, I have to get through the next weeks or months, find out what or who killed Mum and Dad, lie low somewhere Christian can’t find me until the commotion dies down, then start my life over.
Easy as pie.
If only.
Still, it feels good to take control and have something to focus on after Arron and I have the answers we need. I’m stuck without them, unable to move forward without that much-needed closure.
I finish the ironing and put the clothes away.
As I’m hanging my favorite jumper, a thread catches on my engagement ring.
Cursing, I untangle it. I still haven’t got used to the weight of it on my finger, nor the fear that every time I leave the house I’m going to get mugged, but at the same time, I’m too scared to take it off in case I lose it.
I haven’t seen Christian since he put this ring on my finger.
His regular and extended absences leave me in something of a quandary.
On the one hand, if he’s away this often after we’re married, I’ll have a much freer rein to dig through his personal stuff without fear of him walking in and catching me.
On the other hand, and it makes me feel sick to admit this even silently to myself, I miss him.
Love and hate may be two sides of the same coin, but in the middle is me, squished, highly uncomfortable, and terrified that I’ll be the one left in ruins when all this is over.
To save my sanity, I need to find out what he knows, and fast. Let’s face it, the longer I’m married to him, the more of myself I risk losing.
Now, more than ever, I wish he was a complete arsehole.
It’d be so much easier if every time I looked at him, the word “prat” popped into my head like a bad commercial jingle.
Some days I feel as if I’m going to burst from the pressure building up inside me. I can’t tell Arron how I feel. Even Juliet gets the sanitized version. And if I let slip one word of this to Uncle Daniel, I dread to think what he’ll do or say.
I’d make a terrible spy. Best not apply for a job at MI5 anytime soon.
After a few boring days of trying to occupy myself and not go mad, Saturday evening finally comes around.
Allowing plenty of time, I make my way to Juliet’s with an overnight bag and a gutful of anxiety.
I’m anticipating questions subtly disguised as interest, and despite my well-rehearsed backstory, lies are always harder to keep straight than the truth, especially where alcohol is involved.
I’ll have to hope I’m sitting by a pot plant and can pour my drinks away when no one is looking.
Juliet opens the door and, in her inimitable style, blurts out, “Jesus, who peed on your Cornflakes?”
Rolling my eyes, I shove past her and drop my bag in the hallway. “Very funny.”
“Relax. It’s just dinner with a couple of women. They’re not going to strap you to a chair and torture the truth out of you.”
“How do you know?” I peel off my coat and throw it over the back of the couch.
“Grace, this isn’t you. Stop trying to steal my drama queen crown, and get a grip of yourself.”
Sinking into her couch, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re right. It’ll be fine.”
She sits beside me. “It will. Plus, it’s a good idea to make friends with these women. Who knows what inadvertent piece of information they may drop.”
“That’s mercenary.”
She arches a brow. “All of this is mercenary. What do you think is going on here, Grace? You should be looking at every opportunity as a chance to get what you came for and get the hell out of there. You owe these people nothing.”
“Y’know, sometimes I think you should’ve pretended to be me. You’re so much better at this than I am.”
“Bollocks. You know what I’m like, and diplomatic ain’t it.
I’d blow my cover before the end of day one.
” She elbow nudges me in the ribs, then winks.
“Come on, babes. Cheer up. In a few months, this will all be behind you, and your parents can finally rest in peace, and you and Arron can move on with your lives knowing you did right by them.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“I usually am. Now, can we get ready and get this show on the road?”
An hour later, the car Vicky promised would pick us up slows to a stop outside Juliet’s building.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I hitch a shoulder. “Here we go.”
When we emerge into a chilly autumn evening, I’m surprised to see Christian’s bodyguard waiting for us. I arch an eyebrow at Marshall.
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Mr. De Vil insisted, ma’am.” He opens the rear door and waits for us to get situated and belted up before closing it.
“This is pretty rad,” Juliet whispers as Marshall climbs into the front seat beside the driver.
“It’s overreach,” I hit back. Leaning forward, I tap Marshall on the shoulder. “Who’s guarding Christian while you’re here… keeping an eye on me.”
“There’s a large security team, ma’am. Mr. De Vil is perfectly safe.”
“Right,” I mutter, sitting back.
Juliet yammers on, filling the silence, which I’m grateful for. I’m too nervous, too up in my head about tonight to contribute, but being the extrovert she is, my silence doesn’t bother her at all.
The traffic into central London is rammed, as usual, but the driver appears to know a few short cuts, and we arrive at the restaurant Vicky organized five minutes early. We progress inside, with Marshall hot on our heels.
My heart’s doing its best to punch right out of my chest, and no amount of deep breathing makes a difference. Stammering, I manage to give our names to the ma?tre d’.