I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,53

an inspired name for a company. I didn’t lie to the solicitor about the company worth, for the record. I haven’t tried to hide anything.’

‘Yes, well I haven’t lied about Bridge Holdings either.’

‘Never thought you would.’

‘Ha. You’d have been wrong then because I did think about it,’ said Bridge. And she had. Initially she wanted to haunt him for the rest of his life, keep using the Palfreyman name to piss off any future wife, claim a lump of his pension, screw him for every penny she could, even though she didn’t need it. She’d pored over his accounts looking for how much she could claw into her own bank to kick him in his financial bollocks if not his real ones, but then she knew if she did, he’d fight back harder and she didn’t want to hand over the fortune she’d worked so tirelessly for. Sense prevailed in the end. Sense and decency.

‘So, do you still call yourself Mrs Palfreyman?’ he asked.

‘All my documents are now back in my maiden name. I am once again Miss Bridge Beatrice Winterman. I… I didn’t think it was fair on Carmen.’

‘I can imagine Ben’s happier about it too.’

‘Of course,’ she added quickly.

‘What does he do? For a living.’

‘Mind your own business. Bugger.’ She’d ripped one of the strips.

‘Oh, Bridge, put your guns down for goodness sake.’

‘Okay then, he’s in IT,’ said Bridge. ‘People consult him about important things. He’s very clever and he works for himself. That do you?’

‘Does he make you happy?’ Luke’s voice was tender, genuine.

He saw the small swallow in her throat before she gave the single-word answer.

‘Yes.’

‘So what will your new married name be?’

‘I’m not sure I want to take another man’s name. Even Ben’s.’

A picture rose up in Luke’s mind of sitting at the kitchen table with her as she practised her new signature:

Bridge Beatrice Palfreyman

She never used ‘Bridget’ because it reminded her of a life before him that was unhappy and dysfunctional and full of the worst mistakes that would resonate through her whole life. Watching her form the letters carefully, a tongue of concentration sticking out at the edge of her lovely mouth, he’d been totally zapped by the happiness fairy. He was sure they were forever.

‘Why’s that?’ Luke grinned. ‘Has he got a funny name? Would that make you Bridge Bottom, or Bridge Dick, Bridge Overtheriverkwai?’

Despite not wanting to, Bridge smiled.

‘No, none of those,’ she said. ‘I just think that I should keep my own name. It’s stood me in good stead.’

‘It might have stood you in better stead if you’d called the company BBW Holdings.’

‘Oh my goodness, imagine,’ said Bridge and they both laughed, easily and openly. The first time they had laughed together like this in a long time. And they used to laugh so much together.

‘When the divorce is all finalised, we should go out – the four of us. Carmen and me, you and Ben,’ said Luke. ‘For dinner.’

‘Er, no,’ said Bridge. ‘Let’s not.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

Charlie gave a loud snore, woke himself up, settled immediately back to sleep. Bridge and Luke both smiled at him, as if he was an aged uncle they were both fond of.

‘We had some good times, didn’t we Bridge?’ said Luke. ‘I mean, I know we were poor as church mice, but we got a lot of pleasure from the small things, didn’t we?’

‘Did we?’ asked Bridge. She really didn’t want to take a detour down memory lane. There were too many houses on it, where a lot of pain resided behind the shiny doors.

‘That carpet the old lady across the road gave us when she got a new one, do you remember? The brown and orange and yellow one. It was as ugly as a dropped pie but it felt so much better than the bare floor.’

Bridge remembered. It must have been twenty years old, but it looked virtually new. She’d even given them the underlay and when she and Ben had fitted it, in comparison to the cold cement floor, it had felt as bouncy as a trampoline. Then that same day they’d christened the carpet by making love on it and squashing their paper chain.

‘I remember your foster mother giving us her old suite,’ said Bridge. Upholstered in blue corduroy, it didn’t go with the carpet one bit, or the pink armchair that she’d bought from a car boot sale.

‘Did we have anything that matched?’ Luke asked, guffawing.

‘Not sure we did,’ said Bridge. Including themselves. They didn’t match either, but like