The Marriage Truce

‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’

‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’

‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’

‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.

‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.

Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.

But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.

Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.

Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …

Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.

‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

Memories that she needed to deal with and forget. As Ross himself, no doubt, had done long ago.

And that, she realised unhappily, was no comfort at all.

‘Are you sure about this?’ said Stella, picking up a length of Jenna’s hair and brandishing it.

She was short, wiry and feisty, with hair that—this week—was the colour of pewter. She was an ‘incomer’ too—someone who’d come to Cornwall on holiday and fallen in love with it, then decided to throw up her job in a top London hairdressing salon and make a new life for herself in Polcarrow.

She’d lost no time in opening her own premises in the village’s steep main street, and her skills had attracted clients from all over the Duchy.

On Saturday she would be bringing two assistants and a friend who was a beautician and manicurist to Trevarne House to attend to the needs of the bride and her family.

In the meantime she’d agreed to squeeze in an appointment for Jenna. But she clearly wasn’t happy about it.

‘What happens if I start and you change your mind?’ she demanded pugnaciously, hands on hips. ‘I can’t stick it back on, you know.’ Her tone changed, became wheedling. ‘Why don’t I just give it a good trim instead?’

‘I’m quite serious.’ Jenna said flatly. ‘I want it short.’ She opened the style book and pointed. ‘Like that.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stella, blinking. ‘All right, then, love. But it’s your funeral.’

Three quarters of an hour later, Jenna found herself regarding a stranger in the mirror. Her chestnut mane had been reduced to little more than a sleek cap, skilfully layered, which emphasised the shape of her head and lay in feathered fronds across her forehead and over her ears.

‘Actually, it works,’ Stella conceded unwillingly. ‘It shows off your cheekbones and that. And on Saturday I can fix your flowers—like this.’ She demonstrated.

Jenna smiled at her. ‘Stella—you’re a genius.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stella, who did not count mock-modesty as a virtue. ‘But I still say it’s a shame. All that lovely hair.’ She paused. ‘Want a bit to keep? Reminder of past glories, eh?’

‘No,’ Jenna said quietly. ‘I don’t think so, thanks.’

Her head felt incredibly light as she emerged into the street, and the sun had come out too—doubtless in honour of her new image.

She had parked her car down by the harbour, and progress back to it was slow. Every few yards, it seemed, people were stopping her to welcome her back, to tell her she looked wonderful, and say that it looked as if the weather might clear up after all for the wedding.

And she smiled back, and thanked them and agreed, saying she would see them on Saturday.

Amid the general euphoria of welcome it took a moment to register that she was being watched with less than warmth from across the street. She glanced up and saw that Ross was standing on the narrow pavement, outside Betty Fox’s general stores. He was still to the point of tension, staring at her, his brows drawn together in thunderous incredulity.

Jenna’s instinct was to make a dash for the car, but instead she made herself smile weakly and lift her hand in a half-greeting.

He moved then, crossing the street, weaving his way between two vans and a bicycle with the long, lithe stride that was so hauntingly familiar.

What a difference a few hours could make, Jenna thought in astonishment as he reached her. Yesterday on the cliff he had looked tired, almost defeated. Today he was clearly incandescent, and her heart began to thud in alarm.

His hand closed, not gently, on her arm. ‘In the name of God,’ he grated, ‘what have you done to yourself?’

‘I’ve had my hair cut.’ She tried unavailingly to free herself from his grasp. ‘It’s not a crime.’

‘That,’ Ross said crushingly, ‘is a matter of opinion.’

‘And, anyway,’ Jenna went on, her own anger sparking into life, ‘it’s none of your damned business what I do.’

‘So, if I see an act of vandalism being committed—a work of art being defaced—I’m to say or do nothing? Or should I stand back and applaud?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not the same thing at all, and you know it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s far worse. It’s a travesty—a sacrilege.’ His eyes held hers. The noise around them—the hum of voices, the stutter of traffic, and the crying of gulls from the harbour—seemed to fade, enclosing them in a strange and potent silence.

Then, over his shoulder, Jenna saw Betty Fox emerge from her shop, ostensibly to rearrange the newspapers in the outside rack, her glance darting avidly towards them, and the spell was sharply broken.

She said tautly, ‘I thought we had a truce. Yet here we are brawling in public, for all the world to see. Now, will you kindly let go of me?’