Chapter 3 #2
‘Now, my guess,’ Theo said, tilting his head, ‘is that you were getting married in some clock tower somewhere – the Elizabeth Tower, perhaps? Or the Belfry of Bruges? Or, if you were feeling particularly romantic, under Prague’s Astronomical Clock.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Pippa said with a short laugh. ‘But no. It was a mid-range hotel off the bypass. Beige carpets, chair covers, and a vaguely disillusioned function band called The Moonlighters. Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales.’
Theo looked horrified. ‘Yikes! Then you did the right thing. Every girl deserves the best clock tower to get married under.’
And just like that, there it was again – that flutter; quick, treacherous, and unmistakable. It was that same feeling she’d had the first time she’d set eyes on him at university. Because it was exactly what she’d wanted Rob to say. Only he hadn’t, and he never would have.
Theo continued, ‘But the jilted lover may wish you’d made up your mind sooner, rather than at the last second.’
‘I’d love to say it was planned for maximum dramatic effect, but honestly, even though I’d had my doubts, I’d been swept along with the romance of it all and was content to go through with it.
But then … I saw his face as the music started, and when he rolled his eyes I thought, if I walk down the aisle to a song about time – my life’s work – and the man waiting for me thinks it’s laughable, then maybe I’m marrying the wrong person.
I have to admit that it made for a great exit.
Lots of gasps. I think the vicar still has whiplash. ’
Theo laughed properly again; a warm, genuine sound that prompted another unwelcome flutter low in her stomach before she could stop it. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d heard Rob laugh like that. Or, if she was honest, the last time she herself had.
‘This convention clashed with the honeymoon, but not anymore.’
‘Where was the honeymoon?’
‘I was pencilled in for golf lessons in Portugal.’
Theo screwed up his face. ‘I wouldn’t have said that was quite your thing.’
Pippa gestured towards him. ‘There you go, even you know me better than the man I was going to marry.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You do look like you’re quite enjoying all this.’
‘This is probably the most entertaining evening I’ve had in months. Possibly ever.’
‘Remind me again why we can’t stand each other?’
Theo smirked. ‘Because you restore timepieces with nail varnish and lipgloss, and I write entire essays about eighteenth-century escapement mechanisms with footnotes and objectivity.’
Pippa gave him a look. ‘Are you sure it’s not because you’re a smug academic with elbow patches and a superiority complex?’
‘At least I didn’t cry at the Clockmakers’ Guild dinner over a rusty pocket watch.’
‘It had an engraving,’ she said, mock-defensive. ‘Poetry, Theo.’
He held up a hand in surrender, laughing again.
‘And how is the lovely Clara?’ Pippa glanced towards his left hand where the gold wedding band was wrapped tightly around his finger.
‘Busy with work and other things,’ he said shortly, before changing the subject. ‘You probably need to get out of that damp wedding dress if you want to avoid getting a cold.’
She looked down at herself, then back up at him. ‘Yep. It’ll be listed on Vinted by the morning under “lightly traumatised bridalwear”,’ she said as she stood up.
Theo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Are you okay about this? Us two here?’
Pippa turned to the window. Rain was still hammering relentlessly against the glass.
There was no way either of them could venture out in that, and besides, she was exhausted and clinging to the last scraps of dignity in a dress designed for fairytales.
‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘what I need now is a long soak in a bath and a large glass of wine.’
‘White or red?’
She blinked. ‘You actually have wine?’
‘I’m an academic, not a monk.’
‘White, please, and I should warn you, I didn’t really pack essentials in my heroic dash away from the altar.
In fact, my best friend threw me a suitcase together.
I might not even have pyjamas, just a half-eaten cereal bar, a banana, two spare hairpins, and a raging case of post-matrimonial regret. ’
Theo stood up and Pippa watched him walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, and return with a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass. ‘Emergency wine, for just such occasions,’ he said, handing them over.
Pippa accepted them with a grateful sigh, her fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. ‘Thank you.’
But before she could head off in search of that bath, he disappeared upstairs. Moments later, he returned with a grey university T-shirt and a pair of well-worn lounge pants.
‘Here,’ he said, holding them out. ‘Just in case you have nothing suitable in the suitcase. Try not to take that as a declaration of peace, okay?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She grinned.
‘There’s a shower room downstairs, as you know,’ he said. ‘Upstairs, there’s a bath. Your room’s the first on the left.’ He hesitated, then held her gaze, that half-smirk re-emerging. ‘Don’t go turning right into mine in the middle of the night.’
His eyes stayed on her a fraction too long, an unidentifiable meaning in his gaze.
Was that … an invitation? Of course it wasn’t, he was married! This was Theo Blake, and that definitely wasn’t going to happen, and besides, she’d literally just run from her own wedding!
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she quipped.
He grinned, stepping aside.
She took the clothes and wine, clutching them like some bizarre post-wedding survival kit. ‘Thanks,’ she said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘For the loan.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And just so we’re clear,’ she added, lifting a finger. ‘We may be trapped in this soggy romcom set-up together, but there will be no merging of sides.’
Theo leaned casually against the banister, arms folded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. ‘Noted. No unauthorised incursions. Consider the borders officially respected.’
‘Good,’ she replied.
Then, without another word, she turned and headed up the stairs, her wedding dress rustling behind her.
She probably looked completely ridiculous – her train sweeping the steps, wine glass in one hand, borrowed clothes in the other – like a runaway bride in a romcom who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a horologist’s cottage of dreams … or nightmares. Only time would tell.
Despite the weather, the ruined lasagne, and the fact she was sharing a roof with her old academic rival, she found herself smiling.
Pippa knew they’d argue again tomorrow – about clocks, history, or the best method of pasta preparation – just like they had in those old university days.
But tonight? Tonight, she had wine, hot water, and maybe, just maybe, a story worth telling one day.
Even if it had started with cold feet, a won-on-a-whim competition, and the worst possible person waiting for her at the end of the road.