“What, a proposal for a magazine feature?”
“Better than that. A proposal for a book. A true crime book, following the whole story through from 1973 right up to the present day. And the great news is – I’ve got a publisher.”
“It’s been commissioned.”
“With, I may say, a very substantial advance.”
Jude leant across to hug her friend. “That’s absolutely brilliant!”
“I know, it’s great. Because, not only is it terrific to have got the commission, it’s also a new direction for my career. For a long time I’ve been wanting to get away from the grind of journalism – I told you – to write something that lasts more than the shelf-life of a magazine. And the book will achieve that. I’m going to write most of it in the next six months,” Gita bubbled on with excitement. “Then I’ll sit in all the way through Robert Coleman’s trial, add the finishing touches and the publishers will have it in the bookshops within a week of the verdict!”
Jude grinned at Carole, who knew she was being judged. Did she still resent Gita having been included in their investigation? She didn’t. Such worries seemed to belong to a very distant time. She smiled graciously back at Jude.
“And the good thing is,” Gita continued, “that Jerome Clancy’s also going to help me on the book. Obviously there are things he can’t talk about for professional reasons, but he’ll give me any assistance he can.”
“Which might mean,” Jude suggested slyly, “that you’ll have to have quite a few meetings with him.”
“I suppose I might.”
“Or has that process of consultation already started?”
Gita Millington looked coy. “Well, we have had the odd dinner…”
They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing. And as she looked at her friend, beautifully dressed, beautifully made-up, glowing with professional and emotional confidence, Jude felt that the rehabilitation of Gita Millington was well under way.
Embarrassed now, the journalist wanted to move the conversation on. “But tell me, Carole, how are preparations going for the wedding of the century?”
“Absolutely brilliant.”
“And how’s the blushing bride?”
“Wonderful.”
“Except, of course,” said Jude with a little smile, “that she’s been coming to see me for a few sessions. She’s got trouble with her back again.”
The wedding was one of the most splendid that Fedborough Church had ever witnessed. The fourteenth of September proved to be a glorious late-summer day, contributing to the general feeling that nothing would be allowed to spoil the happy couple’s good fortune.
The bride looked gorgeous, in a Victorian-style cream dress. Though her bridesmaids were two beautiful and well-known actresses (and, incidentally, clients of her agency), there was no doubt who was the star of the show.
The bride’s mother and the groom’s mother were both transformed from their usual conventional (Carole wouldn’t have like the word ‘dowdy’) style of dress. Both had been taken shopping individually by the bride, who had pushed them to much greater daring than they would have demonstrated on their own. Marie Martin was in a simple suit of Burgundy silk, and Carole Seddon in a light wool dress and jacket in purple (a colour she would never have expected to see herself in this side of the grave). But, then again, she would never have expected to have had such girlish fun as she had had touring the boutiques with Gaby as her guide. Both mothers looked stunning and glowed with pride.
Jude also looked magnificent, a galleon of full-length yellow cotton in full sail. The straw based hat she wore could have provided perching space for a whole aviary of birds.
But an older generation was represented too. Phil Martin had volunteered to drive down to Villeneuve-sur-Lot and collect Grand’mère for the wedding. She was very frail and in a wheelchair, but looked splendid in a suit of pearl-grey silk. Though honour bound to keep saying how much better the service would have been in a Catholic church, and though continually correcting everyone who didn’t call Gaby Pascale, she could not hide the fact that she was enjoying every minute of the day.
Phil had another duty too. He had tidied up his act, had his hair cut and looked very handsome in his morning dress. Part of his transformation was due to a new girlfriend, who was present, resplendent in pale green linen. She was a strong-willed nurse, who was generally agreed to be ‘a good thing for Phil’. Jokes at the reception about her and Phil being ‘the next ones up the aisle’ were not denied with quite the vehemence that they once would have been.
Phil’s other duty was to give his sister away. There had been much discussion about this. After Howard’s death, it had been assumed that the bride’s uncle, Robert, would take on the task. But that was no longer possible – and indeed Uncle Robert’s name was not mentioned once during the wedding day. His trial had not yet taken place, but Jerome Clancy was confident the case against him was so strong that he would spend the rest of his life experiencing the fate to which he had condemned his former friend.
Marie had suggested to Michael Brewer that the job of giving Gaby away was rightly his, but he had demurred. Still shy about social occasions, he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Though hisrelationships with both Marie and Gaby were developing wonderfully, he was as yet unwilling to make them public. Nor did he want Howard Martin’s memory to be sullied; the old man deserved respect and gratitude for the way that he had brought up the girl he believed to be his daughter. So Michael Brewer was happy that Phil should give his sister away. For himself, all Gaby’s father wanted to do was to be one of the signatories of the register, to be a witness at the wedding.
He stood proudly in the church, clean-shaven and immaculate in morning dress.
Everyone said the service was wonderful. The hymns had been carefully selected, and the solos were sung by more of Gaby’s clients (and friends), whose understudies had taken over their matinees in West End musicals. The only slight criticism was that the Vicar of Fedborough, the Rev. Philip Trigwell, had gone on a bit. It was fine that he thought the institution of marriage was a good thing, but had he needed to point out that it didn’t necessarily suit everyone? And while endorsing the Anglican faith, had it been necessary for him to list all the other faiths which were equally viable alternatives?
But such cavils were quickly forgotten in the excitement of the photographs and the magnificent tithe barn reception. The meal was brilliant and the speeches excellent. The chief partner of Gaby’s agency spoke with wit and deep affection, but Stephen was not upstaged. Knowing the limitations of his oratorical talent, he had really worked on his lines, and the sincerity of his adoration for Gaby had the audience eating out of his hand. The best man, one of his work colleagues, was another professional whose anticipated string of jokes brought the house down.
Then there was dancing. Gaby and Stephen led off, as was very right and proper, but then almost everyone joined in. Carole was surprised to find herself whisked away by Michael Brewer, and Phil Martin even took Grand’mère for a spin in her wheelchair. David, who was rather drunk, danced extravagantly with his daughter-in-law. To Carole’s surprise, everyone seemed to find this endearingly amusing rather than embarrassing.
She and her ex-husband did, it must be said, behave impeccably. No one, who did not already know of the divorce, would have guessed there had been any rift between them.
But Carole could not pretend that she found it easy. And as she looked around the tithe barn, witnessing the unqualified love between Stephen and Gaby, the burgeoning rapprochement between Marie Martin and Michael Brewer, the fresh glow of happiness between Phil and his nurse, she felt a little wistful in the knowledge that nothing of that sort lay ahead for herself and David.