Chapter 24
HENRY
Henry surveyed the downpour as he exited the tube station.
He’d been in such a hurry to leave his flat that he’d forgotten his umbrella.
Still, even the dull, wet bank-holiday Monday wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits.
He had a spring in his step for the first time in weeks.
He was finally going to see Marielle again.
He’d missed her so much: her smell, her touch, her voice, her face.
He’d ached for her in the time they had been apart.
All sixteen days, thirteen hours and fifteen minutes to be exact.
It had felt like a lifetime, and it had made all his anxieties and abandonment issues rise to the surface.
He knew he’d lost weight in the time they’d been apart.
He’d hardly eaten, barely slept. He was surprised he’d still managed to go to work in the morning, but that would be because of what his mother used to call his big brain, which meant that even when it was functioning at a quarter of its capacity it was more than most people’s.
Marielle was standing at the entrance to Hyde Park, clutching a black umbrella and wearing sombre clothing, as if she’d just come from a funeral, not the South of France.
Her burnished hair stood out against the monochrome backdrop and when she saw him her eyes lit up.
Relief spread through his entire body. She didn’t look as if she was about to finish with him.
‘Henry,’ she cried, planting a kiss on his lips and throwing her arms around his waist, the umbrella dragging on the ground as she buried her face in his damp wool blazer.
He rested his chin on top of her head, not caring that the rain pummelled his hair and dripped down his chin.
Everyone else melted away and it was just the two of them, standing in the rain in a wet embrace.
Before she had left for Nice more than two weeks ago he’d asked her to marry him and she’d thrust a dagger into his heart when she’d told him that she had to spend some time with her father, away from her stepmother.
Her plan was to drip-feed him positive things about Henry, all the reasons why she loved him, before she was ready to accept his proposal.
Their love affair had been so intense, so all-consuming that he assured her he understood.
He’d heard enough from the snippets Marielle had given him after she returned from supper with her father, which she presented like leftovers in a doggy bag.
She’d told him what her stepmother thought of him.
Apparently he was only after Marielle because of her family name, or her – or, rather, her father’s – money.
This hurt Henry. He might be many things, ambitious being one, but he wasn’t a gold-digger and he certainly wasn’t with Marielle because of her wealth.
He loved her unconditionally. ‘I know Daddy would love you if his mind wasn’t being poisoned by her,’ Marielle had said, on more than one occasion, but just before the Nice trip was announced he’d noticed that she seemed more withdrawn when they were together and he’d sensed that she was somehow disappointed in him.
She’d still said she loved him, but it had sounded unconvincing, as though if she uttered it often enough she’d start to believe it.
He couldn’t blame her, he supposed. He was used to disappointing people – they expected him to be confident, charming and gregarious, yet he knew he was gauche in social situations.
It was only at work where he could shine.
He thought Marielle had seen through all that.
Yet here she was now, seemingly happy to see him and squeezing him so tightly she took his breath away.
‘I was worried you were going off me,’ he said, when she pulled away. He took the umbrella from her so he could hold it over them both.
‘I’m so sorry I gave you that impression. You know I had to go on this trip. I had to spend some quality time with Daddy. Away from her. And it worked! He’s happy for us, darling. He gives us his blessing.’
This surprised him. ‘But what about your stepmother? You’ve always said your father is wrapped around her little finger.’
‘Oh, well, that’s the thing,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘My stepmother has been ill for weeks. All the time we were in France. And then, well, it’s terribly sad in lots of ways, although’ – she lowered her voice – ‘not for us, but, Henry, she … well, she died yesterday.’
‘She died?’ The shock reverberated through him.
‘Yes. The day after we got back. They think she was taking too many sleeping tablets. She’d been self-medicating for years, apparently. She was in the bath, and they think she must have passed out and drowned. I was the one who found her. She was only forty-six.’
He didn’t know what to say.
She reached up and wiped away a drop of rain from his cheek.
‘This means we can be together. Properly. Without her judging and turning Daddy against us.’ She pressed her mouth against his ear, her breath soft against his skin.
‘Now we can get married. It’s me and you against the world, Henry Morgan. ’
‘Me and you against the world.’
She pulled away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear demurely, and he wondered if he’d imagined the smile in her voice when she whispered in his ear.
‘I’ve booked us a table at the Ritz for afternoon tea,’ she said, linking her arm through his. ‘We can celebrate our engagement.’
He should have told her then that it was in bad taste to celebrate so soon after her stepmother’s death, despite how much Marielle had disliked her.
Maybe if he had it would have stopped things escalating.
He could have managed her expectations. But her excitement was infectious, and all he cared about, in that moment, was how pleased he was that he hadn’t lost her.