Chapter Eighteen #2
She picked it up and ran her fingers along the silken skirt.
If she closed her eyes, she could still remember every detail of that morning: the smell of the warm croissants they ate for breakfast, the tug of the hot brush as Emma skilfully turned her wild curls into a sophisticated hairdo, fixed in place with what felt like half a bottle of hairspray.
And then of course there was the sheer thrill of wearing a dress the likes of which she had never worn before or since.
She remembered laughing as they tried to work out how to elegantly get into and out of the silver Bentley that took her and her mum to the church, and the excitement of walking down the aisle, the organ playing, the guests all turning and smiling at her, and at the altar, James, ready, waiting to greet her.
They promised that day to love and cherish each other until death, but only one of them had actually kept that promise.
Rosie laid the dress down on the table in front of her.
She picked up her large nine-inch dressmaking scissors and slid the long stainless-steel blades around the material and squeezed.
The sharp blades bit into the satin skirt slicing it open and she flinched.
She cut again and again until she had reached the waistband and then the blades continued on through the bodice, crunching through the lace and encrusted beads until finally she reached the neckline.
‘You bastard!’ she yelled as though he were standing in the room next to her. ‘You lying, cheating, bastard!’ She tugged off her wedding ring and hurled it across the room.
Only then, as she looked at her once beautiful dress now lying lifeless and desecrated on the table, did she allow herself to cry.
Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she wept for the husband she thought had loved her, for her marriage, for herself, and for her baby that had never had a chance at life.
She stumbled out of the room and threw herself down on her bed, letting her tears soak into her pillow.
It was a while before she realised her phone was ringing, but she didn’t want to speak to anyone.
They could leave a message. She couldn’t face anyone’s sympathy, or well-intentioned advice.
In less than a minute she heard the ringtone again.
She sat up but it stopped before she could get off the bed.
And then started again. She stormed into her sewing room where she’d left her bag, and without so much as a sideways glance at the table she snatched up her phone.
‘What is so important?’ she shouted into the phone.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Rosie? Is that you?’
She sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘Are you crying?’
She rubbed her face harder. ‘No.’ She looked at her lifeless dress and a wave of pain gripped her, squeezing hot tears from her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Her voice trembled as she spoke.
‘What’s happened? Tell me where you are and I’ll come over right away.’
Less than fifteen minutes later, Connor arrived at her front door clutching a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
She had managed to stop crying, but her eyes probably still looked red and swollen; she kept her head down as Connor came in and sat on the sofa beside her.
He pointed at the bottle he’d placed on the small table in front of them.
‘Shall I open it?’
Rosie nodded.
He found some glasses and a bottle opener in the kitchen, then poured a generous amount into a glass and handed it to her.
‘It’s the middle of the afternoon,’ said Rosie in a subdued voice.
‘Who cares,’ replied Connor. ‘This is medicinal. Drink up.’ He touched his glass gently against hers and then took a sip, swilling it around his mouth before swallowing appreciatively.
Connor put his glass down and clasped his hands together. ‘I’m sorry. If this is because of me, I—’
‘No. It’s something else.’
‘Something else or someone else?’
Rosie pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘The second one.’
‘Ah.’
Connor stood up and walked around the room. ‘Do you miss him? This someone else?’
‘Yes I did!’ she said in a loud, emphatic voice. ‘I really truly did. How stupid was I?’ She trembled as she grabbed the wine glass and took several angry gulps before banging the glass down on the table. ‘Sorry, this is not your problem.’
‘Don’t say sorry, tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.’ Connor came back to the sofa. His voice, normally firm and opinionated, now became soft and cajoling. It was as if Connor’s heartfelt concern and sorry expression finally nudged away the last of Rosie’s self-control.
‘I trusted him!’ she shouted. ‘What an utterly pointless waste of time that was!’ She gave a slightly hysterical laugh and took another gulp of wine.
‘I thought he cared about me but he clearly didn’t give a shit because he threw it all back in my face!
How could he be that cruel? I don’t understand w-why he—’
The words disappeared under choking sobs that she made no effort to control. A deluge of tears washed down her cheeks and she dabbed at her face ineffectually with an already sodden tissue.
Connor waited for a few minutes before asking, ‘So would you like me to punch somebody? After the morning I’ve had arguing with solicitors, I’m in the mood to do it.’
‘Yes, but you can’t.’
Connor raised clenched fists. ‘Bigger than me, is he? Do I look scared?’
‘He’s dead.’
Connor unclenched his fists. ‘Okay. Well, I admit that makes it a bit tricky. But not impossible. I’ll buy one of those life-size cardboard cut-outs – you can get them made of anyone these days – and then I’ll punch the living daylights out of it.
Less damage to the knuckles as well. And then I’ll cut him into little pieces for good measure.
’ He picked up the sofa cushion and gave it a pretend punch.
‘No one has the right to make Florence cry.’
Rosie pressed her hands against her face but it didn’t stop more tears leaking out.
‘Hey! I’m supposed to be cheering you up, not making you feel worse.’
It was a mistake letting him come over. She wanted him to kiss her again. Now, here. Make her forget all the hurt and the pain. Sometimes words were not enough.
Rosie wiped her face with her hands and turned to look at him. How did this mercurial man stir up so many emotions inside her? As his dark eyes filled with concern, she felt her willpower dissolve. ‘If it’s all right with you, can we suspend the no sympathy rule, just for a few minutes?’
By way of response, Connor leaned in and wrapped his arms around her, and she snuggled up to him, laying her head against his shoulder and breathing in the warm masculine scent of his body.
She had Emma and Simon to talk to and confide in, but she had missed having someone just to hold.
Connor’s fingers stroked her hair and he gently kissed the top of her head.
As the last of the afternoon light faded outside, they sat together, her leg pressed against his, their arms around each other.
Simon’s words echoed in her head:
…he’s the sort of person that only thinks about himself. He’ll take advantage of you, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Simon was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.