A Spanish Marriage

Her spirits took a momentary dip and to comfort herself she reached for the topaz ear droppers he had gifted her on her birthday and reminded herself that it was early days.

As Javier settled his mother opposite his already seated father Alice Rothwell inclined her severely sculpted white head. ‘Normally, I would consider a gel of nineteen far too young to marry. But in your case I congratulate you. Javier will make sure you toe the line; you couldn’t be in better hands. Already there is a vast improvement since I last saw you.’

Which made Zoe feel like an infant again, but the reference to the day she’d been handed

over to Javier, the rebellious make-over, the sight she must have presented to her starchy relative made her want to apologise for the headaches she must have inflicted on everyone around.

But Javier slipping into his seat beside her stilled her tongue. The caterers had been busy filling champagne glasses and he lifted his flute to her. His smile was everything that could be expected of a man toasting his new bride but his eyes were remote as the icy, empty tracts of the South Pole.

A shudder fell down the length of her spine. Had she bitten off more than she could hope to chew? Then, annoyed with the unknown wimpishness that had had her nearly backing off at the sight of the first hurdle, she tucked into the first course of caviare and blinis, her smile at its stunning brightest, instigating a light conversation, making sure the guests joined in.

She had never been short on determination. So maybe she had been negative in its use in the past. Now she would bring the power of it to bear on something truly positive, gaining Javier’s respect and, the best prize of all, his love.

Halfway through the chicken in aspic served with hot crusty rolls and a crisp green salad, a small shaggy whirlwind, complete with a white satin ribbon tied onto his collar in honour of the occasion, leapt onto Zoe’s lap, to a dismayed, ‘One of the caterers must have let him out! I told them not to!’ from Ethel.

‘Put the creature down, child. It’s not seemly or hygienic,’ said Grandmother Alice, with a disapproving glance at Ethel who was struggling to her feet. ‘Someone should make sure it’s properly tied up.’

One look at the beam of pleasure on his bride’s face as she held the squirming bundle of hair, receiving its ecstatic attentions, had Javier insisting, ‘Sit down, Ethel. Boysie’s my wife’s devoted slave, he deserves to share her day.’ And to ram home his point he selected a juicy morsel of chicken from his plate and gave it to the rescued stray, received a look of undying doggy devotion and decided that the animal wasn’t as ugly as he’d thought it was.

Wiping his fingers on a linen napkin, he took delivery of Zoe’s dazzlingly wide smile and found himself returning it with interest. He had done the right thing in putting his ring on her finger. Shown some kindness and understanding, she was malleable as putty—he’d always known that and had tried to act on it when she’d been younger. In the two years ahead of them he would help to motivate her, give her all the guidance and encouragement she needed to carve out a worthwhile future for herself. And her position as his wife would keep the leeches away.

The rest of the wedding breakfast passed in a glorious daze as far as Zoe was concerned. Javier had stood up for her and her pet against Grandmother Alice but what was even more fantastic was the way he’d called her my wife! Hearing those words from his lips made her go gooey inside like warm treacle.

Only when one of the caterers appeared holding a bouquet of scarlet roses and orange lilies as big as a dustbin, to announce that the car had arrived to ferry Mrs Rothwell and her companion home, did Zoe’s starry-eyed conviction that having Javier take her side, call her my wife, anoint her with that fantastic, knee-buckling smile of his, meant she was halfway to her secret objective take a swift nosedive.

Accepting the enormous bouquet, Zoe placed it on the end of the table, her brow pleating. She had no idea who could have sent it and in her opinion it was completely OTT, borderline vulgar. With Javier attentively at her shoulder she extracted the small oblong envelope, curiosity driving her to read the enclosure.

Then she wished she hadn’t. The paper fluttered from her fingers and her face went fiery red. Her heart squeezed painfully as Javier retrieved it and read:

Congrats, Zo, on nabbing a rich sucker! I know you only turned me down due to my lack of the folding stuff. No lack in other departments—don’t we both know it! So when the old man bores you, you know where to find me. Ollie.

Crunching the offensive message into a savagely moulded ball, Javier tossed it aside, dealt Zoe a black, unreadable look and smoothly strode off, urbanity itself now to help Grandmother Alice collect her belongings, standing aside as the old lady unbent enough to drop the first kiss she had ever bestowed on Zoe’s cheek, then walking the black-clad pair towards the front of the massive house where their car was waiting.

Watching him go, Zoe felt defeat wash over her in heavy black waves. Back to square one, or even further. Javier’s opinion of her would be rock-bottom. Miserably she regretted having thrown at him that she might marry Ollie, not having meant a word of it because it had sprung from deep hurt and anger.

If she ever saw Oliver Sherman again she would throttle him! Spite had made him send that vile message. As Javier had pointed out, her future fortune was no secret, and she had always known that Sherman’s proposals had stemmed from avarice. He’d seen her as a soft touch, but she wasn’t. Just because she’d been free with her generous allowance, happy to pick up the tabs in exchange for fun nights out in smooth, cynically witty company because it had temporarily taken her mind off her unstoppable longing for Javier, didn’t mean she was a complete fool.

Thwarted in his plans to get himself a wealthy wife, Sherman was spitefully trying to make mischief.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Lionel Masters was beside her, leaning heavily on his cane, Isabella Maria clinging onto his other arm. ‘You are very pale.’

‘A bit of a headache.’ Zoe pulled herself together. ‘Too much champagne, probably.’ Her smile felt strained. How could she convince Javier that that note from Sherman was just a cruel attempt to pay her back for consistently turning him down?

The utterly distasteful implications would put her light years away from earning his respect, never mind his love!

‘Javier should be taking you on an exotic honeymoon,’ Lionel proclaimed. A sentiment echoed by Isabella Maria’s ‘He should pamper his pretty young bride, I told him as much!’ making Zoe feel like something silly and childish marrying a man old enough to be her father. Javier was only twelve years her senior, for goodness’ sake, and she wasn’t just out of the nursery and her smile was making her face ache!

‘We’re both perfectly happy here,’ she said by way of scotching any more parental interference, neglecting to explain that what use was a honeymoon when the bridegroom had no intention of getting up close and intimate? And even if she’d harboured hopes of making him change his mind in that direction he wouldn’t touch her with the proverbial bargepole after what Oliver Sherman had written.

She fell in step beside her in-laws as they progressed slowly towards the house. The caterers were clearing the debris, dismantling the long trestle-table; her wedding day was over. From the corner of her eye she saw Ethel take the gaudy bouquet away—hopefully towards the compost heap!

‘Lionel and I will take a rest until supper and give you and Javier some time on your own,’ Isabella Maria stated. ‘I was surprised and touched when Ethel showed us to the rooms we used when we lived here—I would have thought you and Javier would have chosen them.’

‘I chose the blue suite when I came to live here,’ Zoe offered obliquely, desperate to get off the subject of sleeping arrangements. ‘As far as I know, Javier’s never used the master suite. When he came here—’ never once since the Spanish disaster ‘—he used the room above his office for easy access. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and find him.’

Easier said than done. A rapid search of the ground-floor rooms, the faithful Boysie at her heels, followed by Honey, the inquisitive ginger cat, revealed nothing but his absence.

Had he taken himself off to fume in private at the discovery that he had got legally tied up to the sort of chick who had been around the block a few times? A flighty piece who would naturally seek forbidden excitement with a former lover when her husband began to bore her?