Wedding Girl by Madeleine Wickham Read Free Book Online

went to the minibar and poured herself another vodka. Thirty seconds to go.
    `Hi, Isobel. It's me.' A man's low voice filled the room, and Isobel flinched. `Call me if you have time.
    Bye.'
    Isobel looked at her watch. Fifteen seconds to go.
    Ìsobel, it's Milly. Listen, I really need to speak to you. Please, please can you call me back as soon as you get this? It's really really urgent.'
    Ìsn't it always urgent?' said Isobel aloud.
    She looked at her watch, took a deep breath and strode towards the bathroom. The little blue stripe was visible before she even reached the door. Suddenly she felt sick.
    `No,' she whispered. Ì can't be.' She backed away from the pregnancy test, as though from something contaminated, and shut the bathroom door. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and reached automatically for her glass of vodka. Then, in sudden realization, her hand stopped. A lonely dismay crept over her.
    Ìsobel?' the machine was saying brightly. Ìt's Milly again. I'll be at Simon's tonight, so maybe you could call me there?'
    `No,' shouted Isobel, and she felt a sudden pricking of tears. Ì couldn't, all right?' She picked up the vodka, drained it in one, and crashed the glass defiantly down on the bedside table. But suddenly more tears were filling her eyes, suddenly she was unable to control her breath. Like a wounded animal, she crawled into bed, buried her head in her hotel pillow. And as the telephone rang again, she silently began to cry.

CHAPTER THREE
    AT EIGHT-THIRTY, OLIVIA and Milly arrived at Pinnacle Hall. They were met at the door by Simon and shown into the large baronial drawing room.
    `Well,' said Olivia, wandering over to the crackling fire. Ìsn't this nice!'
    Ì'll get some champagne,' said Simon. `Dad's still on the phone.'
    Àctually,' said Milly faintly, Ì think I'll try Isobel again. I'll use the phone in the games room.'
    `Can't it wait?' said Olivia. `What do you want to speak to her about?'
    `Nothing,' said Milly at once. `Nothing. I just ... need to talk to her.' She swallowed. Ì won't be long.'
    When they'd gone, Olivia settled herself into a chair, admiring the portrait above the fireplace. It was a grandly framed oil painting which looked as though it could have been bought along with the house; in fact it was a picture of Harry's grandmother as a girl. Harry Pinnacle was so famous as a self-made man that it was widely assumed he'd started from nothing. The fact that he'd attended an expensive public school only spoiled the story, as did the hefty parental loans which had got him started so these were generally brushed over by everyone, including Harry himself.
    The door opened, and a pretty blond girl in a smart trouser suit entered, holding a tray of champagne glasses.
    'Simon's just coming,' she said. `He just remembered a fax he had to send.'
    `Thank you,' said Olivia, taking a glass and giving a small, regal smile.
    The girl left the room, and Olivia took a sip of champagne. The fire was warm on her face; her chair was comfortable; classical music was playing pleasantly through concealed speakers. This, she thought, was the life. A pang went through her part delight, part envy at the knowledge that soon her daughter would be entering this kind of existence. Milly was already as much at home at Pinnacle Hall as she was at 1 Bertram Street. She was used to dealing easily with Harry's staff; was used to sitting alongside Simon at grand dinner parties. Of course she and Simon could maintain that they were just like any other young couple, that the money wasn't theirs but who were they kidding? They would be rich one day. Fabulously rich. Milly would be able to have anything she wanted.
    Olivia clenched her hand more tightly around her glass. When the engagement had first been announced, she'd been overcome by an astonished, almost giddy delight. For Milly to have any kind of connection with the son of Harry Pinnacle was good enough. But for them to be marrying and so quickly was unasked-for