‘It’s all right. I know I’m welcome. I’d just prefer not to, if you don’t mind. And could you explain to Alice?’
‘Of course,’ said Sarah, but she was sad that Dillon felt like that. She prided herself on having a good relationship with her staff. Although she suspected there was more to Dillon’s reticence than social awkwardness. There was no love lost between Dillon and Hugh, she could see that now.
Dillon was there first thing in the morning, to make sure the grounds were in perfect condition, that the logistics of car parking were under control and the ground staff knew exactly what they were doing. The guests were to walk from the chapel to the grand hall, where lunch was laid, and he had made sure that not one pale chipping was out of place on the paths. The adjoining marquee had been laid out with military precision, and the Portaloos were positioned discreetly behind a bank of trees.
He thought that once everybody had made their way to the reception he could make his escape. He didn’t want to hang around and be witness to the sort of drunken revelry he’d seen the night of Alice’s accident. It was going to be inevitable. And he didn’t want to see Hugh’s smug face.
Dillon walked straight to his car. He didn’t look over at the chapel. Inside, he could hear the sound of triumphant processional music. He blocked the vision of Alice in her wedding dress out of his head. He started up the engine and drove to the White Horse, where he ordered a pint of cider and a Scotch egg.
‘You played a blinder.’ Marlowe smiled over at Emilia as she packed away her cello.
‘It wasn’t a football match,’ she told him, but she was smiling. She had played a blinder. For some reason, everything had fallen into place. Her bow had danced over the notes, through every piece they had played. Even the pieces she hadn’t rehearsed at all and had to sight-read, because they’d decided on them after she had left.
‘Musical genius,’ said Marlowe.
‘Gifted amateur,’ contradicted Emilia. She was miles away from being as good as him or, she hated admitting it, as Delphine. But they had done a good job, and now the guests were being seated for lunch they were no longer needed.
There was a slightly awkward silence.
‘I better get back to the shop. It’s all hands on deck at the moment.’
‘Oh,’ said Marlowe, and she thought he looked a bit disappointed. Maybe he wanted to go and drown his sorrows? She couldn’t go with him, though. She felt guilty enough about swanning off. She needed to get back.
‘I’ll give you a lift.’ Marlowe offered.
‘That would be great. Thanks.’
She put her cello in the boot of Marlowe’s car and climbed in the front seat. She grabbed her sneakers and put them back on. She let her head fall back on the headrest as he drove through the lanes.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘About Delphine.’
He shrugged. ‘I will be.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
Marlowe was silent for a moment. ‘Not really, to be honest.’
‘Well,’ said Emilia. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’
Marlowe nodded. ‘Cheers.’
Of course he wouldn’t want to talk to her about it, thought Emilia. He’d probably go home and drink the rest of the whiskey she’d given him. That’s what boys did when their hearts got broken. She wasn’t going to interfere.
She was married, thought Alice, a few hours later. Her face was aching from smiling as much as her leg. She needed to sit down. And she needed the loo. She slipped away from the reception. There was a gaggle of girls smoking outside she didn’t recognise. They must be Hugh’s crowd. They were much more ritzy than her Peasebrook chums: long legs, long hair, expensive clothes and scent, blowing menthol cigarette smoke all over each other.
‘Hello!’ she said to them all, and they gathered around her in a cooing crowd, admiring her dress, telling her how lucky she was.
‘You look just amazing,’ said one, who’d introduced herself as Lulu. ‘Hugh made out it was much worse than it is.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Alice. ‘It is starting to ache a bit. I’ll probably have to sit down.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean your leg,’ said Lulu. ‘I meant your scar.’ She indicated her own face. ‘He said it was really terrible. Whoever’s done your make-up did an amazing job.’
Alice stared at her, not sure if she was hearing right. Or if anyone could be so stupid and tactless. Or that her own husband could have been so horrible behind her back. To these shallow and vacuous girls.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, and made her way to the loos.
She shut herself into a cubicle and tried not to cry. She told herself that Hugh probably hadn’t said her scar was terrible at all, that the girl had been a bit drunk and a bit tactless. She was over-sensitive, that was all. She needed to toughen up.
She could hear the clatter of high heels as the same girls clustered into the loos. She could hear Lulu’s voice above the rest.
‘Hugh said a wedding’s not a wedding without a little goodie bag,’ she said.