‘It’s perfect, and you didn’t have to go to all this trouble …’ I lean in to plant a kiss on her bony cheek.
‘Oh, it’s no bother, I’m just pleased to see you two lovebirds so happy. And here,’ she hands me an old-fashioned cassette player. ‘I’ve put a lovely romantic Frank Sinatra tape inside. Play it so Tom can follow the music to find you.’
‘Thanks so much.’ I busy myself by scattering the cushions – I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth, which is that I have a lot of making up to do, if Tom and I are to be ‘lovebirds’ again.
‘Did you bring the champagne and the picnic food?’ she says, her eyes lighting up.
‘I sure did,’ I point to the two carrier bags on the floor beside the blanket, thanking my lucky stars for the new bakery. After the fangirls dispersed, eager to see their crush on stage, I raced over to the food marquee and managed to get the last of the ready-made sandwiches, some cakes from Sam and a box of strawberries, bags of crisps and a chilled bottle of champagne from the One Stop Shop opposite the pier.
‘Here, we can put it all in this.’ Mrs Grace lifts out an original Fifties picnic hamper from under one of the benches. ‘Far nicer than carrier bags. I “borrowed” it from the summer display instore – nipped up there just after you rang me – and got these too …’ She flings open the hamper to show me a selection of those gorgeous melamine Orla Kiely plates and bowls. ‘And there are two champagne glasses – I swiped them from Homeware; we’ll just put them back in the morning and nobody will be any the wiser,’ she chuckles as we start unwrapping the food and loading it onto the plates. I tip the Twiglets into a bowl – Tom’s favourite – and glance at my watch. It’s almost time!
‘Right, I’d better be off. Have fun.’ Mrs Grace gives me a hug before disappearing off into the dark of the tunnels.
I sit on a bench to wait for Tom. Ahh, I can hear footsteps, it must be him. I smile and plump up the cushion next to me, but he doesn’t appear. Maybe it was Mrs Grace making her way outside instead …
I pop a big strawberry into my mouth, unable to resist, and immediately regret it when Tom arrives. My tummy flips and my heart soars. He looks incredible as always, in jeans and a white polo shirt that shows off his glorious tan – like warm caramel – and he smells amazing, of chocolate and spice.
‘Oh, um … I wasn’t expecting you to come from that direction,’ I squelch through a mouthful of strawberry, jumping up and flinging my hand over my face to cover the truly unromantic mess I’m making. I duck down to grab a napkin from the blanket and quickly wipe my lips.
‘Sorry, did I startle you? I know these tunnels like the back of my hand. I came via the Mulberry Grand Hotel, the tunnel we ran along at Christmas time when we went up to the ice rink on the roof. Do you remember?’ he says, pushing his hands into his pockets. And how could I forget, it was the most romantic night of my life? But that’s a whole other story.
‘Yes, I do. It was amazing …’ There’s a short silence. ‘And no, you didn’t startle me, I was, err, just expecting you to arrive from …’ My voice trails off as I wave a hand nervously before stepping closer to him. But he takes a small step back and away from me. So he’s definitely still annoyed with me, then.
‘I followed the music. Shall we sit down?’ He gestures to the blanket.
‘Um, sure, would you like a sandwich?’ I ask, sitting down too and offering him the plate. He shakes his head.
‘No, thanks. How’s your dad?’ He lies on his side, propped up on one elbow.
‘Oh, yes, he’s much better thank you.’ God, I hate this. It’s like we’re strangers. Not lovebirds, as Mrs Grace called us, at all.
‘Good.’ He pushes his dark curls back from his face. ‘So when did you get back?’ he asks.
‘Oh, not until yesterday morning, can you believe it?’ I start speaking, too fast, and he frowns. ‘But it wasn’t my fault, it really wasn’t, there was a strike at the airport in Toulouse and I had to get a train and …’ I stop talking.
‘So is that why you didn’t call me on Friday? I was expecting to hear from you … when we last spoke, you said you’d call when you got home. I was …’ He pauses as if deliberating on what words to use, ‘… surprised not to hear from you.’ He looks me straight in the eye.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘Tom, I truly am. And not just for not calling on Friday – it was chaos at the airport and then my battery died somewhere near Bordeaux and then by the time I had charged it up, I had to get to the regatta. Then I called you as soon as I could, but you …’ Silence follows.
‘Georgie, I was devastated when you didn’t turn up in Vegas.’ He gets straight to the point.
‘I know, and I was too,’ I say. ‘Tom, I really am so sorry for ruining your surprise. I did try to make it right, but you didn’t see me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I came to Vegas, I made it to the airport as you were leaving.’
‘Oh God, did you?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Well, it’s a shame I missed you, but it’s not just that …’ He picks at a loose thread on the blanket.
‘Oh. What is it then?’ I fiddle with the hem of my dress, rolling it up tightly over my knee before letting it go and starting all over again.
‘Look, Georgie,’ he clears his throat. ‘There’s no easy way to say this …’ Oh my God! No. Seriously, noooooo, surely not … Him being angry that I ruined his surprise proposal is one thing, but surely he isn’t about to dump me over it? I will myself to keep quiet, having made the mistake in the past of jumping in and making it all a million times worse. I inhale sharply and hold my breath. ‘But I’m just not sure how committed you are to this relationship. I guess what I’m saying is that, if you want out, then, well … then I’ll understand.’ He looks away and a shiver trickles down my spine. He’ll understand? But I don’t want him to understand. I want him to want me. And then I remember what Isabella told me – he’s been hurt too. I can’t blame him for wanting to put on a brave face, not after I’ve let him down too.
‘But Tom, that isn’t what I want at all. It isn’t, please, please believe me.’ I move closer to him and place my hand on his arm. ‘Tom, I love you. I really do. You’re my one. Why would you think I want out?’ I look up into his eyes.
‘Because …’ He pauses, ‘Can I have some of that champagne?’
‘Um, sure. Here.’ I lift the bottle and flip open the cork in one swift movement; it bounces off the wall and lands on my head before plopping into my lap, but neither of us says a word, whereas usually we’d laugh. Tom picks up a glass and I pour. He takes a mouthful.
‘Why don’t you want us to live together?’
‘But I do,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even as I place the bottle on the bench.
‘Do you? Because it seems to me it’s the last thing you want. You were too preoccupied to remember my surprise for your birthday, which kind of tells me I was far from your mind while you were in New York, not to mention whenever I’ve mentioned you moving in with me, you’ve laughed it off or—’
‘Oh Tom, that’s not it at all. I want us to live together, I really do, I just thought we should talk about it first, you know, sensibly like adults, because it’s not just a case of me packing a bag and coming to your place. But there never seemed like a right time or indeed
enough
time. It’s what I want more than anything, and being away from you has just made me want us to live together even more. And I truly, truly am sorry for messing up Vegas.’
Tom takes my hand in his and his shoulders soften. He finishes the champagne and places the glass on the blanket before moving in closer to me. I tilt my face to his. ‘And I know you made loads of effort to make the weekend special, the prop—’
There’s a noise. There’s someone here.
What’s going on?
‘Meredith?’ She’s standing behind Tom.
‘Shut up,’ she hisses. And, oh my God, she’s got a knife in her right hand. And now she’s crouched over Tom with her arm around his neck. Instinctively, I lunge forward, but Tom somehow manages to struggle to his knees.
‘Georgie, stay there!’ he shouts in a deadly serious voice, before lifting his palms up into a ‘surrender’ position. He tries to turn his head to face Meredith, but she tightens her grip.
‘Meredith, what the hell are you doing?’ I say, my voice trembling. Her eyes are massive, manic almost.
‘Doing what I should have done years ago.’
‘OK. Let’s just calm everything down,’ Tom says slowly. ‘I’m sure we can sort this out. Tell me, tell us … what happened years ago?’ Tom’s voice is shaky and it scares me.
‘Oh, you think you’re smart,’ Meredith spits, the knife glinting in the light from the lamp. ‘Well, you won’t fob me off that easily. I won’t be fooled for a second time by you Carringtons. You think you can do whatever you like. And
you
!’ She quickly flicks the knife in my direction before catapulting it back into place at Tom’s neck. ‘You think you have it all. With your Mr Carrington. Walter, he was my Mr Carrington.’ Oh God! A trickle of sweat snakes a path down my spine. Betty was right. Meredith still bears a grudge. But it happened years ago … ‘But you won’t take him again. You won’t steal him away from me.’ Oh, sweet Jesus, she thinks Tom is Walter, aka the Heff. ‘Oh no you won’t.’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Because I won’t let you. I won’t. I won’t. I tell you I won’t. If I can’t have him, then nobody will.’ She babbles, almost incoherently now, and I’m
really
scared. And a part of me feels sorry for her. She’s obviously not well – having some kind of mental breakdown. In my peripheral vision I spy the champagne bottle on the bench. I could do it, I’m sure. If I’m quick. I could grab the bottle and hit her. Throw her off balance so Tom can sit on her or whatever. My heart clambers inside my chest. I have to do something. What if she plunges the knife into Tom’s neck? He’s scared too – I can see it in his eyes. And he’s spotted the bottle as well. He flicks his eyes to it, and then straight back to me. But it’s no use, as Meredith cottons on to what we’re up to and drags Tom towards the bench, just close enough so she can swipe the bottle onto the ground and out of my reach. All the while keeping the blade of the knife dangerously close to Tom’s windpipe. Champagne fizzes and swirls across the blanket, drenching my legs, but I can’t move, I’m frozen to the spot.
‘Meredith, I’m not going anywhere,’ Tom says. ‘I’m here, right here with you.’ Ah, Tom has worked it out too and is going along to appease her. Meredith looks confused for a moment and her face softens, only to crumple into a hideous grimace before she tightens her grip once more. And then a sudden movement catches my eye, followed by an almighty screech.
‘Agggggghhhhhhhhhh.’
It’s Mrs Grace! Back in the tunnel and right behind Tom, with her granny bag held up high in the air with both hands. And in one swift movement she crashes the bag against the side of Meredith’s head, propelling her prostrate on the blanket. Tom seizes the moment, leaps up and snatches the knife still clutched in her hand, and stabs it into the solid wood bench. Mrs Grace pounces, ninja-style, straddling her spindly legs across Meredith’s back, whacking her again with her granny bag. Meredith lets out a whimper before her body sags in defeat.
*
It turned out that Meredith actually had a full-on breakdown all those years ago, when Walter, aka the Heff, had told her he was going to leave his wife Camille and marry her. Meredith had seen through her part of their pact and left her husband, told him everything about the affair, only to have it thrown back in her face the following day when Walter backtracked, leaving her high and dry, destitute and alone. The saddest part of it all is that Meredith was pregnant with Walter’s babies, twin girls that she later had to give up for adoption because she couldn’t cope on her own – it was the Sixties and she was a young single mother without a job or a place to live after her husband refused to take her back.
Mrs Grace, being an old softy at heart, had sneaked back down to the tunnels to make sure my plan went without a hitch, which is how she came to be there when Meredith pounced. Mrs Grace recognised her right away, remembering what had happened and how unstable Meredith had been at the time – but had been under the impression that Meredith had rebuilt her life, working in local government. Anyway, it turns out that when Meredith had to come back to Mulberry to work on the regatta for Mr Dunwoody’s office, being in such close proximity to the Carrington family set her back and, well, she relapsed, but is now getting treatment. After hearing all about Meredith’s sad tale, Tom was happy to leave it at that, and not involve the police.
One week later …
T
he glorious smell of creamy-sweet loveliness fills the hazy afternoon air as Tom and I leap out of the taxi and practically run, hand-in-hand, to meet Marco. He’s waiting at the main door to the factory. Once inside, and gowned up in white coats and not-so-fetching hairnets, my heart does an actual leap. It’s just how I imagined. It’s just like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory but, instead of chocolate, there are huge vats of sugary, milky mixtures churning away. Tom squeezes my hand.
‘It’s exactly how I remember. Come on, let’s get involved,’ he shouts over the hum of ice cream being made, his face beaming, and it makes him look instantly younger. And I’m so pleased. I wanted to bring him here, to see him have some fun, just like he did as a child, on those rare occasions away from his private tutors.
‘Have fun, you guys. And Georgie …’ Marco moves closer to me. ‘It’s all here for you.’ He winks and I give him a covert grin before grabbing Tom’s hand and leading the way.
We see waffle cones being made and one of the factory workers hands me a giant scoop.
‘Give it ten big ones,’ he instructs, and points to a sack of brown sugar on a workbench beside a giant chrome blender. Laughing, Tom and I take it in turns to add the divine-smelling granules – all warm and cosy and reminiscent of my baking days as a child with Mum. Wonderful. We’re then handed jugs of caramel flavouring to tip in too. Next, dollops of waffle mixture plop from chrome pipes to be cooked on hot plates and then scooped up and swivelled into cone shapes before being conveyor-belted over a cooling mechanism and into boxes all ready for distribution. It’s amazing how a sequence of metal machines can make something so delicious.