“May I present Mr. Marcus Canning!”
To my abject horror, Marcus takes the microphone. This had all been going so well—what on earth is my boyfriend playing at? He didn’t tell me he was going to do this. In fact, I don’t even know what he’s going to do! I want to hiss at him to get down and stop making a spectacle of us both, but he’s too far away. Then he says, “This one is for Lucy too,” and he starts to sing. I had no idea that Marcus could sing—other than holding a passable tune in the shower.
I’m standing on my own in the middle of the floor while the rest of the Targa employees have formed a circle around me. They sway in time to the music while Marcus launches into an amazingly good rendition of the Commodores’ “Three Times a Lady.” This man has been watching far too much X Factor. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Marcus and daren’t even risk a peek in Crush’s direction. Who knows what he’ll be thinking about this! I’m not even sure what I’m thinking.
When Marcus has finished, which seems like hours later to me, he must have sung the twelve-inch version—everyone around me breaks into wild applause. I join in. He really was very good. But I’m also applauding because I’m glad it’s over. Marcus takes a bow and then signals for quiet. When everyone is hushed again, he says, “Lucy Lombard, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
More applause, while the impact of his words hits me full in the face and I suddenly sober up rather quickly. I’m sure that my mouth has dropped open, but it’s failing to speak. It seems to be a recurring pattern with Marcus. I can’t believe he’s just asked me to marry him. In front of all this crowd! He stands expectantly on the stage and my poor, champagne-addled brain can’t compute this. Marcus, the cheating, lying, commitment phobe, has just proposed!
Around me, the spontaneous applause turns into a rhythmic clap and the crowd starts to chant, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Marcus is still looking at me hopefully. My fellow employees finally run out of steam in their exhortations and the room falls quiet. You could hear a pin drop. I remain catatonic with shock.
My boyfriend licks his lips nervously. “Lucy?”
Then, by some miracle, I find my voice and say, “Yes.”
All the partygoers erupt in a cheer. Marcus jumps off the stage and runs toward me, falling to his knees at my feet. The cheer escalates. Out of his pocket, he pulls a huge, sparkling engagement ring. Honestly, it’s bigger than the disco glitter ball hanging from the ceiling above us. There’s a princess-cut, whopping emerald in the middle and a circle of diamonds surrounding it. Marcus slips it onto my finger. It’s a bit tight, but it goes on with a push. “I hope you like it.”
“It’s fabulous,” I say. And it is. It’s not the solitaire diamond that I’d always envisaged for myself, but it’s truly lovely and it must have cost Marcus a packet. My mouth is dry as I say, “Thank you.”
Marcus grasps me in a bear hug. I can’t help looking over his shoulder at Crush, who raises his hands and gives a couple of desultory claps, but his smile is sad.
“I love you,” Marcus whispers in my ear.
I hardly know what’s happening. But I do know that the good members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club will kill me stone dead for this. I should be elated, but I’m in too much of a state for any kind of response to kick in. This is what I’ve wanted, isn’t it? This is what I’ve always wanted.
The band launches into a raucous, rock ’n’ roll version of “I’m Getting Married in the Morning” and everyone else joins in, leaping around the dance floor like mad things.
Marcus, drunk with joy, twirls me round and round. And, as I spin giddily, my brain whirling, I can see that Crush has gone.
Chapter Sixty-eight
AS SOON AS MARCUS HAS slipped the ring on my finger, we have to do the rounds of showing everyone my new sparkler. Even the harridans from Human Resources are suitably impressed—although they do go as green as my emerald when they coo their congratulations through gritted teeth. There’s still no sign of Crush, and I assume that he must have left immediately after Marcus’s unexpected and rather startling performance. I felt that I wanted to say something to Aiden, but I wasn’t sure what. Maybe it’s just as well that he’s departed.
My new fiancé—how strange does that sound?—then rushes me out of the office party and into the street. It’s one office do that I’ll certainly remember for a long time.
Outside the hall, there’s a rickshaw taxi waiting, all decorated with white balloons, and the driver is resplendent in a smart white suit rather than the usual garb of scruffy jeans and T-shirt. Marcus helps me inside and we set off Now we’re being cycled through the streets of London, glasses of champagne in hand. Cars are tooting at us and not in a “Get a move on!” way. The evening is warm, but there’s a cool breeze rushing over us as we travel. Marcus has given me his jacket, which is now round my shoulders. My hangover seems to be kicking in early as my head is throbbing and I’m feeling vaguely nauseous. He pulls me toward him and I snuggle against my boyfriend— fiancé—even though I still feel strangely detached.
“I didn’t know that you could sing,” I say.
“I had lessons,” he says.
“Just for me?”
He nods.
“I’m impressed.”
“I hoped you would be.” Marcus slips his arm around me. “My repertoire is very limited though. In fact, that’s the only song I can sing.”
I laugh. “Well, it was very nice of you to go to all that trouble.”
He looks into my eyes and strokes a finger down my cheek. “I wanted to make sure that you said yes.”
And I wonder, Is that why he chose such a public arena in which to propose? Or was it simply Marcus being Marcus?
“I thought we’d get married as soon as possible,” he says. “I can’t see any reason to wait, can you?”
And, to be honest, I can’t—even though the very thought of it makes my stomach lurch. I’m going to be married. To Marcus. Perhaps if I say it enough then I’ll eventually start to believe it.
“I like the idea of a winter wedding,” Marcus continues.
Winter isn’t that far away. “Spring weddings are nice,” I counter.
“I thought we’d have a huge celebration,” my fiancé says. (No, still can’t get used to that word.) “No expense spared. I want all our friends and family there to see me declare my love for you.”
Personally, I’d always fancied sneaking away for a quiet wedding on a white, sandy beach somewhere, far from all the usual hassle. “We could just have a small affair, very personal.”
“No way,” Marcus says. “Now that I’ve decided to do this, we’re going to do it in style!”
I suppose I should ring my errant parents and tell them my good news, but I can’t make myself do it just now. Anyway, it’s late. Tomorrow will be soon enough. They’ve only met Marcus a couple of times, but I know that they really liked him. Plus I’ve never told them how often he’s broken my heart over the last few years. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over—right? I don’t like to give them any reason to worry about me. Still, I shouldn’t be thinking such negative thoughts now. This is a time for rejoicing. I should phone the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club too, but I’d rather tell them face-to-face. I know that they have their doubts about Marcus’s sincerity, but I’m sure they’ll be absolutely thrilled for me—once they know that it’s what I want.
“I love you,” Marcus says softly. “I want to tell you that, every single day of my life.”
He lays his body against mine and kisses me deeply. A sigh escapes my lips. I want to relax into this, but for some reason a wave of panic keeps rising within me. I’m going to be married. I’m going to be married. As I close my eyes and try to surrender to Marcus’s tender assault, I can’t help but see a vision of Crush’s sad face.
Chapter Sixty-nine
THE WOODEN BLINDS ARE DOWN and the CLOSED sign is on the door of Chocolate Heaven. It’s the evening after the office party
and I’m still dealing with the aftermath. I’ve spent all day showing off my engagement ring at Targa and doing very little work. Crush didn’t appear in the office today and he hasn’t returned any of my telephone calls—which were all urgent and work-related, of course—but apparently Helen the chief harridan from Human Resources tells me that he’ll be back at work on Monday. All the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club are sitting in a huddle around me, Clive and Tristan included.
“Well?” Nadia says. “Spill the beans. What’s the great announcement you’ve called us here for?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m getting married.”
There’s a stunned silence around the table—which I’d sort of expected. There was also a stunned silence when I phoned both of my parents. People get married all the time, but clearly my closest friends and my relatives didn’t see it in the cards for me.
Finally, Clive breaks the ice by clapping his hands together. We all jump. “I’ll get champagne,” he says.
We all look up at him blankly.
“We are celebrating?” he asks hesitantly.
Nadia looks at me. “Are we celebrating?”
“Of course!” I cry. “I’m getting married.”
“To Marcus,” Chantal observes.
“Doesn’t this prove that he’s changed?” My friends exchange worried looks that say they are unconvinced. “It was wonderful,” I tell them. “He proposed at the office party. He got up on stage and sang a song.”
“Marcus did?” Nadia looks flabbergasted.
“Then he had a rickshaw waiting to take us round London. It was very romantic.”
Autumn grasps my hand. “It sounds absolutely wonderful, Lucy,” she says. “I’m so pleased for you.” She then gives what I can only call a glare to the others. “We all are. Aren’t we?”
“We’re delighted,” Nadia says with a sudden change of tone. I think there might have been some kicking going on under the table. “Let’s have a look at the ring then.”
I hold out my sparkler.
“Wow!” Chantal says. “Someone who flashes that amount of cash must be serious. It’s beautiful.” I admire it again myself. It really is growing on me. Chantal comes over and hugs me. “Congratulations, Lucy. Take no notice of Nadia and me. I guess that being so recently estranged from our husbands has turned us into cynical old bags.”
“She’s right,” Nadia agrees. “You and Marcus have as much chance of making this work as anyone does these days.”
I think that’s a compliment.
“I’ll get that fizz,” Clive says with a sigh of relief.
Tristan stands too. “I wish you’d have let us know, I’d have baked something special. You are going to let us do the wedding cake, aren’t you?”
“That would be great,” I say, even though I hadn’t given a thought to wedding cake. Both Clive and Tristan disappear happily into the back of the shop.
“Have you set a date?” Autumn asks.
“Not yet,” I reply. “Marcus wants to get married as soon as possible, but I don’t want to rush things. I want it to be right.”
My friends exchange another look. This time they’re telling me that I should be whipping Marcus down the aisle without delay. But, frankly, I need some time to adjust to this new state of things. If, after all this to-ing and fro-ing, I’m finally going to be a bride, then I’d like to take it at a slow pace and enjoy it.
Clive appears with a bottle of champagne and some glasses. Tristan follows behind him with a chocolate fudge cake. I don’t know which makes my heart lift more. Actually, yes I do. They set the cake out in front of me. “Practice run,” Tristan says, handing me a large knife. “Come on. Cut the cake.”
Doing as I’m told, I make a dramatic performance out of pushing the knife through the thick, fudgy icing. Everyone claps. I feel as if there’s a tear in my eye. I could certainly get used to all of this attention. Tristan takes the cake from me and, expertly, slices it into large pieces. He has the measure of us well enough by now to know that we are not small-slice women. Then he hands it around.
“This is wonderful,” I say, taking the first bite. “Perhaps I should have a chocolate fudge cake for the wedding.”
“Sounds good to me,” Nadia says.
“Was Crush at the party?” Chantal asks.
“Yes.” Suddenly the cake is cloying in my mouth.
“Is he pleased for you?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “He didn’t say anything.” That tear is definitely in my eye now. I put my cake down. How can I tell them that I can’t bear to think of the sad look that was on his face when I said yes? How can I tell them that Crush’s reaction is bothering me far more than it should in this situation? All I have to do is get through the weekend and then I can find out what he’s thinking when he comes back to work on Monday. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” I lie. “Why shouldn’t he be?”
And I have to ask that question of myself—why shouldn’t he be? Wouldn’t I have been delighted for Crush if he’d announced that he was going to be married to Charlotte the Harlot? And the answer is, No, I would not.
Chapter Seventy
WE’RE IN MARCUS’S CAR, SPEEDING out into the countryside. Maroon 5’s Songs About Jane is blaring out of the stereo. Fancy loving someone so much that you write a whole album of songs about them—even though the relationship went hideously wrong in the end. (Don’t they all?) Perhaps that will be Marcus’s next grand gesture. Instead of just singing soppy tunes, he’ll be penning them too. Having set the bar so high with our last few outings, I wonder what he’s going to do to maintain this state of heightened romance. Is the rest of my life with him going to be one big anticlimax? I push the thought to the back of my mind.
“This is a great place,” Marcus says over the track. “You’ll love it. I know you will.”
We’re going to look at a wedding venue that Marcus has set his heart on. The route looks vaguely familiar, but Marcus won’t tell me where it is— he wants it to be a surprise. I’m praying that this is the only surprise. I’m hoping that when we get there, the place isn’t decked with LUCY AND MARCUS balloons and there aren’t already two hundred guests assembled and waiting for us to exchange our wedding vows. You can never be too sure with Marcus these days. He’s making me very nervous. I wish I’d washed my hair and had lost a couple of stone just in case. To ease my anxiety, I’m comfort-eating a bar of Clive’s extra-special milk chocolate and I pop a square into Marcus’s mouth.
“I love you.” My fiancé’s hand slips along my thigh. “Not far now.”
Before long, we turn into a narrow lane and, even before we sweep through the grand wrought-iron gates and head up toward the lake and the dolphin fountain, I know exactly where we are.
I stare out of the window in horror. “This is it?” I gasp.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marcus says, mistaking the tone of my gasping for one of appreciation.
Trington Manor certainly does look stunning in the daylight, but I can’t get married here, the scene of our infamous jewelry heist. What if someone recognizes me?
“I’ve booked us in for lunch,” my fiancé says. “But I thought we’d have a look round first.”
I don’t want to look round. I already know this place far too well.
“They have their own chapel in the grounds,” Marcus tells me as he parks in front of the splendid house. I must admit that I didn’t suss that out for our raid. “It’s small,” he continues. “We could squeeze in about a hundred people.”
“A hundred!” I think I’m going to be stuck in gasp mode for some time.
“Darling,” he says with a patronizing laugh, “I’ve roughed out a list and we’d want a minimum of a hundred there. As it is, some people might have to come just to the reception.”
I don’t know that I have a hundred friends. Just three would suit me: Chantal, Nadia and Autumn. I could live without my parents being there either. That makes ninety-seven guests for Marcus. He jum
ps out of the car like Tigger on speed. “Come on, Lucy. Let’s look around.”
I haul my weary arse out of the car. Why is nothing ever straightforward in this life? In my life?
Marcus takes my hand, pulling me up the steps and into the reception area of the hotel. I’m thanking God that it’s sunny and I’m wearing sunglasses. The only thing that’s missing is Mr. John Smith’s Mercedes which, in the intervening period since my last visit, has been lifted out of the lake. Unfortunately, though, the receptionist is the same one who was on duty the night of our jewelry heist—I’m sure it is. I hope to goodness that she doesn’t recognize me. So I hang back, keeping my sunglasses firmly in place and trying to let my hair flop over my face while Marcus tells her that we have an appointment with the wedding planner.
Supposing Mr. John Smith is also paying a return visit in whatever his new car is? That would just be my luck. I glance nervously into the bar. Why didn’t we wear wigs when we did our heist? Or comedy moustaches? That was a serious flaw in my planning. But then, I didn’t bank on coming back here in a rush either. And I certainly didn’t foresee having my very own wedding here but a short time later.
The wedding planner arrives. She’s called Michelle and she takes us out onto the grounds to see the chapel. It’s a glorious, bright sunny day and the garden is fragrant with all kinds of native wildflowers that I can’t name. There’s a fabulous view over the best of British countryside and a mellow stone terrace from where it would be perfect for our guests to enjoy it. We cross the lawn to the chapel and Michelle burbles on about a range of packages, the sort of food available and the hotel accommodation for the myriad guests Marcus is intent on inviting.
“We put a beautiful flower bower up to the door of the chapel for weddings,” Michelle says, but I tune out. I am so not going to get married here, even though it is undoubtedly a wonderful venue. The chapel dates back to the fourteenth century and is made of thick, rough stone. Inside, it is so idyllic that it almost takes my breath away. The sun through the stained-glass windows casts a dapple of rainbow patterns on the stone floor. Even with my sunglasses on, it looks great. I risk a peep over the top of them. This would look gorgeous decorated with white flowers. I can just see myself drifting up the aisle in a simple white satin dress. A hundred people in here would definitely be cozy … but I’m not going to have my wedding here, so it really doesn’t matter.