Her husband-to-be had a title. He was a laird or lord, a Scottish representative peer, who came from a long line of Scottish landowners in the Highlands. He had been a guest at the hotel where Pamela worked, wealthy, a man beyond Pamela’s wildest dreams. He had whisked her away from her job, and on this very day he would be marrying her. Rich, slightly boring Hamish, who Alex was still getting to know, had chosen her little sister when, with a bank balance like his, he could have had his pick of any well-heeled socialite.
It was Pamela who had it all, while Alex was still paying off student loans, struggling with a hefty mortgage and had a life that was falling apart. Yet she persisted in allowing herself to feel like the underachiever, the poor little me that was overshadowed by her older, more academic sister.
‘What the hell is wrong with it, Alex?’ Pamela shoved her aside to reach inside the wardrobe and pull out the dress. ‘It’s your colour! If you’d taken the time to come over and see it you could have said then if you didn’t like it.’
Alex closed her eyes, determined to pull herself together. ‘It’s fine, Pamela.’
‘Fine! Well, thanks a bunch, Alex. I got you a dress that I thought you’d love. But no, all you can say is, it’s fine. You’ve got yourself a nice tan, found time to have a holiday, and now, on my wedding day, decide you don’t like the dress.’
Alex forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I do like it. It’s not the dress. I do like it.’
‘I saw your face.’
Alex wondered if now was the time to tell her sister what had happened. ‘I promise you it’s not the dress. I—’
Pamela’s eyes shone with resentment. ‘My day, Alex! Not yours! We’ve done your days. Mum constantly tells us how St Alex has saved yet another life.’
‘Pamela, please, it has nothing to do with the dress. I need to tell you something.’
Pamela shook her head, a false smile pinned on her face. ‘Not today, Alex. Today is about me, for once.’
The slam of the bedroom door left Alex alone in the room. With trembling hands, she reached into her handbag and pulled out the paper bag she had been carrying with her these last few days. Gathering the neck of the bag, she closed it over her mouth and nose and started to re-breathe in and out of it until her panic attack was over, and her heaving chest and beating heart had both slowed down.
A hysterical laugh burst from her throat as she wondered if there was any point in ever telling Pamela what happened. She didn’t think there was. Her sister would think she had made it up. Thirteen months ago, she had seen the scepticism in her sister’s eyes when she told her of the other situation, and that had been believable, was something many women had experienced. This recent experience, as Laura Best suggested, could have come right out of the movies.
Downstairs the relatives congregated, and her parents were in their room still getting ready. Patrick was in the garden keeping the younger guests amused with stories of ‘Animal Hospital’, no doubt, and here she was in her childhood bedroom with a paper bag to her mouth, falling apart.
Under crystal chandeliers, dimmed for the evening, the two hundred or so wedding guests gathered in the Assembly Rooms danced to music provided by a six-piece jazz band. A different band had played during the meal – a string quartet, setting the mood. No expense had been spared. At Bath Abbey the choir was outstanding, and when a soloist sang ‘Ave Maria’, Alex had felt at peace for the first time in ages. The flowers on the altar cascaded in mounds of cream, the air rich with their scent, and as Pamela glided up to the altar she looked every inch a fairytale princess. Here at the reception, matching flowers rose up like fountains before trailing over pale stone columns.
The canapés of scallops, tiger prawns, miniature fish cakes and parcelled salmon were served on banana leaves by an endless parade of immaculately dressed waiters and waitresses. The champagne flutes were refilled time and time again with the best vintage champagne, long before any speeches were made, and the hand-rolled cigars were delivered to every man to try.
It was a wedding to remember, to tell other friends about, and would no doubt make its way into the society column in the Telegraph on Monday morning.
Alex watched her sister without envy and truly hoped she would be happy with Hamish, that theirs was a match made in heaven. Judging by the gleam in her sister’s eyes, and the flush of happiness on her face, she was having a taste of it now.
They had made their peace as Pamela stepped out of the Rolls-Royce – seeing Alex in the pink bridesmaid’s dress, tears had momentarily filled her brown eyes.
‘I’m sorry for being such a cow. I’m really glad you’re here.’
Alex had kissed her carefully through the veil, and felt better than she had all week.
Across the table, Patrick sat with an audience of small children hanging on his every word. He’d carried on minding the younger guests and was still finding exciting animal stories to amuse them. She stared at him fondly, her recent disappointment in him temporarily forgotten. He was a good man, a kind one; was it really so awful of him to not want to talk about it, be reminded of it all the time? If she’d heard the same story from Fiona, or perhaps Pamela, she imagined she would have a hard time believing it ever happened. He at least was willing to believe her. There was no evidence. There was no logic to it. She had survived a horrific ordeal virtually unscathed, but the police couldn’t take it seriously. And neither, she suspected, did Fiona. Not that she had said anything, it’s just she seemed to be avoiding her. They talked at work, but it was always about the patient. If last year hadn’t happened, Fiona probably would have believed her story, or at least accepted that she’d suffered something more serious than a knock to her head. But last year did happen, and Alex would always wonder if Fiona believed her even then, or thought Alex was in some way to blame?
Maybe there really was no point in dwelling on it. She was alive. Maybe the man who attacked her wasn’t a risk to anyone else. Perhaps he was an escaped patient from a psychiatric wing who had got out for one night and in his hours of freedom had targeted her. If this was the case, no one else was in any danger. It was a comforting thought and one that, as the champagne worked at dulling her normally analytical senses, she was willing to accept.
When Patrick raised his glass to her, she saw his eyes caress her, and for the first time since that awful night she looked forward to going to bed with him.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ she whispered.
He raised an eyebrow, appearing to give careful consideration. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Wedding cake, confetti, the “I do” bit – pretty heady stuff when you consider it.’ He wiggled an eyebrow. ‘Not so sure about the meringue-style wedding dress.’
‘Shush,’ Alex laughed. ‘She looks lovely.’
‘I just can’t help wonder,’ he said, inching closer, his lips grazing her ear, his breath caressing her neck, ‘if she has a toilet roll underneath it.’
She laughed out loud and held his gaze until she saw a slight flush rise in his cheekbones. The day had been wonderful. A turning point. A pause on all that had gone before. She would not forget, but she could at least carry on.
Chapter thirteen