The Marriage Miracle. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
took a sip, rewarded him with a smile for not losing his head and bolting and, hampered by the child she was holding, gave him back the glass. ‘Can you put that on the table for me?’ Then, ‘Have you met Toby?’
‘No, I haven’t had that pleasure…’ He put down the glasses and folded himself up so that he was on the boy’s level. ‘Although I’ve heard all about you.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Sebastian. How d’you do?’
The child took his hand and shook it formally. ‘I’m Toby Dymoke,’ he said. ‘Twice.’
‘Twice?’
‘It was my daddy’s name, and it’s my new daddy’s name, too.’
‘Well, that’s handy. Not having to remember a new one.’
‘They were brothers. I’m a brother, too. I’ve got a baby sister.’
‘Really? Me too. At least, I’ve got three of them, although they’re not babies any more. Great, isn’t it?’
‘Great,’ Toby said, and with an expert wriggle slid down. ‘I’m going to find her now.’ And he ran off.
There was a momentary silence. Then Matty said, ‘You have three sisters?’
‘Three older sisters, actually. Bossy, Pushy and Lippy.’
‘Not that great, then?’
‘Hardly the hero-worshipping kind who trailed after me, the way they do in the storybooks,’ he admitted.
‘They gave you a hard time?’
‘Gave? You should have been at George’s funeral. Just because I’m his executor they blame me for the “entire tasteless performance”. I’m quoting, you understand.’
‘I understand.’
She had a way of not smiling, but making you feel as if she was. Inside.
‘And for the fact that there was no dry sherry.’
She pulled her lips back in an attempt to stop herself from laughing out loud, then apologised. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not at all funny.’
‘It should have been.’ He thought, actually, that if she’d been there to share the joke it would have been bearable.
‘What about your parents?’ she asked, distracting him.
‘What? Oh, my mother looked tragic and drank the champagne; my father harrumphed and said that it was a bit of a rum do.’
‘And your sisters were a complete embarrassment?’
‘Nothing new there.’
‘While you, of course, were always the perfect brother. No frogspawn in their face cream, no spiders in their slippers, no itching powder in their beds.’
‘Frogspawn in their face cream?’
‘Forget I said that. That one is reserved for wicked stepmothers.’
‘You did that to your stepmother?’
‘Oh, I did all of them. But then I’m not nice.’
‘That rather depends on what prompted it.’
‘My father married her, poor woman. That was enough.’ Then, when he didn’t respond, ‘I told you. I’m not nice.’
He shook his head and, taking his cue from her about being direct, unemotional, he said, ‘It wasn’t your character I was thinking about. It just occurred to me that if you managed to fish for frogspawn you can’t always have been in a wheelchair.’
‘You think a wheelchair would have stopped me? If I couldn’t have managed it myself, I would have persuaded someone else to get it for me.’
‘Fran?’ he asked, glancing in the direction of the bride, who smiled at him before leaning close to Guy to whisper something in his ear.
‘I wouldn’t have told her why I wanted it,’ she assured him. ‘She is much nicer than me. But it wasn’t necessary. The wheelchair has only been part of my life since a combination of speed, black ice and an absence of due care and attention led to a close encounter with a brick wall.’
There was no self-pity in her words. It was a throwaway line with a matching smile—a practised defence against unwanted sympathy, he guessed—and she did it so well that he knew most people would grab at the opportunity to smile with her and move on.
Having seen what she could really do with a smile when she meant it, he wanted to know what had really happened—what she really felt.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘Three years.’ And for a moment he glimpsed something the smile was supposed to hide. Not the three years that had passed, but the lifetime to come. Then, filling the silence while he thought about that, she said, ‘Don’t look so tragic. It could have been a lot worse.’
Forcing himself to match her matter-of-factness, he replied, ‘Of course it could. You could be dead.’ And then, remembering that momentary glimpse of something darker between the smiles, he wondered.
But Matty laughed, provoked out from behind the lurking shadows. ‘Cheery soul, aren’t you? Actually, I was being rather more down-to-earth about my condition.’ Seeing his confusion, she grinned. ‘It’s an incomplete lower spine injury, which means I can at least use the bathroom just like anyone else.’
‘Oh, well, I can see how that’s a bonus. Although you’d have been in trouble if you’d been a man.’
She laughed out loud. ‘I like you, big-shot banker. Most of the people here would have taken to their heels by now.’
‘Is that why you do it?’
‘Do what?’ she enquired innocently.
‘Test people?’
‘I only test the patronising ones who talk over my head. The ones who ask Fran if it’s okay for me to have a drink—as if, because I can’t stand up, I’m incapable of carrying on a normal conversation. The ones who speak to me as if I’m hard of hearing.’
He glanced around at the empty terrace and then back at her. ‘You seem to have got it down to a fine art.’
‘Lots of practice. But once we get this far I do like to get the bathroom thing out of the way, since sooner or later people start to worry about it. I find being open and direct makes for a more relaxing conversation.’
‘Liar. You just want to make them squirm.’
‘Are you squirming?’
‘What do you think?’ Then, ‘How about sex?’
‘Now?’ she asked, as if he’d just propositioned her. ‘I thought you were a man who liked to get to know a woman first.’
‘I’m open to persuasion. So, is it a problem?’
‘Nothing is a problem if you want it badly enough, Sebastian. For instance, I’m assured that, if I was prepared to strap myself into braces and put myself through several circles of hell, I could get up off my backside and stand on my own two feet. Even walk, after a fashion, although no one is promising it would be much fun, or even a remotely practical way to get about. Nothing as simple, or graceful, as my chair.’ Again there was that wry little smile. ‘And if you can’t tango, what’s the point?’
He didn’t buy that, not for a minute, but she’d changed the subject and he didn’t press it. Instead, picking up the lead she’d trailed to draw him away from the dark side of her life and back into the light, he asked, ‘What would you have done if I’d been up for the foxtrot?’
‘Oh, please! Most men’s eyes glaze over at the first mention of a simple waltz.’
‘You didn’t give me a chance to glaze,’ he objected.