I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,127

Manor was old and crumbly and gorgeous with ivy growing up its stone walls in an attempt to peep in the very many small mullioned windows. It stood at the end of a tree-lined drive, lush green fields at either side with horses feasting on the grass, enjoying the weather windfall of January midsummer sun on their backs.

The car park was full. Bridge drove around slowly looking for a space, while Mary sat in the passenger side, eyes peeled both for somewhere to park and for an emerald green Maserati. Then she saw Luke waving madly at the side of a vacant spot, as if trying to direct a plane to a runway.

Inside the manor was just as quaint as the outside. A beautiful wide, wooden staircase dominated the foyer, leading to rooms no doubt every bit as pretty as everything else, Mary thought. She would love to be so rich as to stay in hotels like this at weekends and she was going to do her best to work hard, to make sure that one day she could. She and Bridge talked long into the night sometimes about all sorts of things. Mary had been inspired by Bridge’s road to success, about her early dysfunctional years, about being so poor that a shared tin of tomatoes constituted a feast. The cheap can of tomatoes that she’d found in her stocking on Christmas morning sat on a chrome display unit in her office, looking not unlike a piece of priceless Andy Warhol art.

Mary had the energy to do so much more than type up someone’s notes and arrange custard creams on a plate. She’d shown some good business sense at Butterly’s, had sound instincts for what might work, even if she hadn’t been given the credit for them. She might set up a rival scone firm, she’d thought while soaking in Bridge’s enormous pool of a bath; that would teach Jack Butterly. Jack Jack Jack. All roads still led to him and she hated that they did.

Mary, Bridge and Luke followed the others from the funeral party into an enormous function room, with floor-to-ceiling French doors, café tables and chairs placed around the edges, a long table at one end, covered with great oval platters of buffet food. Liveried staff circulated with flutes of champagne and canapés so decorative it was a shame to eat them, thought Mary, trying not to scan the room, trying not to be that teenage girl again at the school disco waiting with a hopeful heart for Jock Briggs. She might as well have told herself not to breathe.

‘That’s Reuben, Charlie’s nephew.’ Luke gave Bridge a nudge as into view walked a man who could have just leapt off a Viking longboat. Shoulder-length, strawberry-fair hair, clipped beard, eyes ice-blue as a Nordic sea. Bridge felt a primal noise of desire scrape the inside of her throat. Luke heard it and chuckled. ‘Told you,’ he said.

‘I think I’ll just nip to the loo,’ said Mary.

‘That way,’ directed Luke, pointing.

‘Thanks.’

When they were alone, Bridge realised that she didn’t feel the slightest bit awkward standing here with Luke, this man who had once been her everything. For the first time in her life, she felt emotionally grown up.

‘Is that Charlie’s?’ asked Luke, pointing to the Chanel scarf at her throat. ‘I seem to recognise it.’

‘Robin sent it to me,’ she replied, touching it affectionately. ‘He also sent Mary a gorgeous Chanel handbag; she’s brought it with her today.’

‘How thoughtful of him. He sent me a wallet with Medusa’s head on it,’ said Luke, smiling, pulling it out of his jacket pocket.

‘Looks like me,’ said Bridge.

‘Ha! She’s far less scary than you.’

Bridge’s turn to smile. ‘Versace? Very nice.’

Luke’s smile widened to his customary grin. ‘Who’d have thought one day we’d be sporting Chanel and Versace.’

‘If it doesn’t sound too patronising, I’m really proud of you, Luke.’

‘So you should be, I’m your best work.’

Bridge grinned now.

‘And I’m proud of you,’ said Luke. His dear familiar eyes held her hazel ones and Bridge thought, ‘I’m okay. I don’t feel the loss of him any more.’ It was a wonderful, blessed relief.

‘So, how’s having Mary in the company working out?’ he asked.

‘She’s brilliant,’ said Bridge, without any hesitation. ‘In fact, she’s too good. She’s wasted running my diary.’

Luke was puzzled because her regretful tone didn’t match her complimentary words. But Bridge was about to explain that.

‘Luke, I would have made a vacancy for someone like Mary in the company, but I never