Before I Do(56)

    Darling,

I cannot stop thinking about you, about last weekend. Please don’t think I am ignoring you, but I dare not call or e-mail you after last time. I cannot do anything until after the wedding, I can’t risk ruining the day for Audrey with dramas of my own. Meet me at the club on Monday at twelve and we can work out what to do. I miss you . . .

All my love,

V



What?

This was not a letter from her father, this was . . .

Audrey reread the piece of paper in her hand. Her mother’s writing. Had Vivien handed her the wrong envelope from her bag? Rage boiled inside her. It was never-ending, her mother’s addiction to having something shiny and new. Who was this letter even for? Which unsuspecting man had become Vivien’s latest obsession? Audrey tore up the letter and stuffed the pieces back into her clutch. She couldn’t get involved in one of her mother’s toxic affairs right now.

She stood up, picked up her clutch, and thundered down the stairs to find Granny Parker. Whatever the woman wanted to say, it had better not be about more harbingers of doom.





31


Six Years Before I Do



Audrey arrived at Benedict’s gallery walking on air. After the life-changing afternoon spent with Fred the day before and the promise of seeing him again this afternoon, nothing could dampen her mood, not even a morning with Benedict. She only had three hours to wait until she would see Fred again, at their photo booth. She had taken care with her appearance. She was wearing black jeans, a plain blue blouse, and a little makeup, and her hair was styled in loose curls. She felt attractive, rapturous about life. Today was the beginning of everything.

Benedict had made an effort to be nice to her since the night of the engagement. He bought her favorite caramel macchiatos from the coffee place on the corner, asked her questions about her upcoming exam, and had taken to smiling at her in a strange, avuncular way. She tried her best to avoid him. She’d even started looking for somewhere else to live, but it wasn’t easy. Now that she’d dropped out of her course, she wasn’t eligible for student accommodation. She needed to pass her math A level and apply for astronomy; then she could request to live in the university halls. What would happen if she didn’t pass the exam? That wasn’t something she liked to think about.

On Thursday, Benedict had cornered her in the hall, holding out yet another white flag of caramel-flavored coffee.

“Look, Audrey,” he’d said, “I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I know how much it would mean to Vivien if you and I rubbed along together a little better.” He paused, still holding out the cup. Grudgingly, she took it. “Would you let me take you out, to an exhibition or something, just the two of us? I think if you got to know me, you might not think me such a bad egg.”

Her instinct was to shoot back a hard no. But then she took a breath and thought of her mother, and the wounded look on her face that night in the kitchen. Whether she lived here or not, Benedict was now a necessary irritation in her life, like mosquitos on a Mediterranean holiday. So she agreed. She could endure an hour of walking around a gallery with him, in the name of diplomacy.

Now, as she peered through the locked doors of the gallery, she regretted agreeing to meet at his exhibition; it wasn’t neutral ground. Besides, the place seemed closed; there was no one else there. She turned to look down the street and recognized Benedict’s bearlike gait before his face came into view.

“It’s closed,” she called with a theatrical shrug.

Benedict just grinned and waved a bunch of keys. “It isn’t open to the public on Sundays, but I have the keys.”

Audrey’s stomach tensed. She would never have agreed to a private viewing, just the two of them; it was far too . . . too what? What was she worried about? She couldn’t name it, but the idea made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was the memory of him standing in the doorway of her bathroom, his eyes on her body that moment too long.

“I thought we were going to an open gallery, with other people.” She frowned.

“Better to see the art this way. No distractions,” he said, holding open the door for her.

He was so confident and smiley in that moment, it would have been hard to say no without causing offense, and she was here to make peace.

Inside, once he’d turned the lights on and Audrey took in the sculptures dotted around the gallery floor, her anxiety slowly began to ebb away. There were giant abstracts of the female form, finished in gold, bronze, and pewter. Magnificent pieces, emanating femininity and strength, all soft, fluid lines in hard metal. Each piece was huge, twice the size of a real person, yet there was a lightness to each of them, as though the figures were about to burst forth into motion. She had seen images of Benedict’s work in brochures he left around the house, but seeing them in real life was an entirely different experience. She walked up close to one, marveling.

“They’re so much bigger than I imagined they would be. These are all yours?”

“My life’s work,” he said proudly. “In the next room are some pieces from my protégés, but these are all mine.”

He walked her around, telling her about each one. Hearing him talk about his work, the impression she had of Benedict began to change. When he discussed art, his passion was infectious. He was clearly incredibly talented, and she felt oddly privileged that he was taking the time to tell her about each sculpture in so much detail.