The Independent Bride Page 17

  ‘Yes!’ he said triumphantly.

  He had been right after all. She was everything he had first thought. Shy and flustered and clever and natural and—adorable. And absolutely daft about her body. But he could deal with that.

  ‘Nobody better,’ Steven said with a wicked grin.

  Too heavy, forsooth! The woman needed some serious reeducation. And Steven Konig had been a chemist specialising in food substitutes when he’d set up Kplant. If anyone knew just where to look for the evidence it was Steven. Pepper Calhoun would not know what had hit her.

  Having established her new life strategy, Pepper embarked on it the very next day. She called a counsellor and signed up to a programme that combined group therapy with a practical approach to food issues. She also signed the lease on some office space and bought some walking shoes.

  ‘From now on I walk to work,’ she announced to the cousins. ‘Whatever goes wrong in my life from now on, it’s not going to be because I feel disgusting.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Izzy.

  Jemima got up and walked out of the sitting room. Pepper raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Competitive dieter,’ said Izzy dismissively. ‘Forget it. What’s your target?’

  ‘No target,’ said Pepper, who had taken careful notes during her conversation with her counsellor. ‘I just want to feel better.’

  She did not say, and Izzy did not seem to guess, that getting over Steven Konig would be a good first step.

  Fortunately, she did not have the chance to think much about him in the next couple of days. Building work started on the first shop, and she wanted to be on site at least once a day. Added to that, the proofs of the first catalogue were coming through and there was a steady trickle of enquiries from the media. Pepper was working an eighteen-hour day and grateful for it.

  She thought that Steven had wiped her out of his memory. She tried to be grateful for that, too. She certainly convinced herself that it was for the best. Well, in the long term, anyway.

  And then she saw a message from him when she opened up her e-mail one morning. She made a sound between a bat squeak and a strangled gurgle and froze. Like a robot, she opened the message.

  It was brief. And clear. And impersonal.

  And crazy.

  It was headed ‘Real American Woman’, and it said:

  The ideal American woman is five feet seven inches, weighs 110 pounds and wears a size four; the REAL American woman is five feet four inches, weighs 144 pounds and wears a size twelve. (Fraser, 1997, Food Angst: The Diet Trap. Family Therapy Networker, pp. 44+.)

  He had rounded it off with a little message of his own:

  Clear? S.

  Pepper choked.

  ‘What is it?’ said Izzy, installed on the other side of the desk.

  ‘I think Steven Konig has just told me not to make a fuss about nothing,’ said Pepper in a stunned voice.

  Izzy got up and strolled round to take a look at the e-mail. She read it and grinned. ‘You could be right. Good for the hunk.’

  The messages continued.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Pepper, flustered. ‘He’s gone on a Make Pepper Feel Good About Herself campaign. Every morning I open my e-mail and there’s another piece from some scientific journal or other.’

  ‘He certainly knows how to get your attention,’ said Izzy. She approved of Steven Konig more and more. ‘No declarations. He knows you wouldn’t believe them. So he sticks to well-researched findings until you can’t argue and then—whoosh!’ And she did that exploding firework thing with her hands again.

  Pepper swallowed. ‘Declarations?’ she said uncertainly.

  Izzy was maddeningly smug. ‘Smooth. Very smooth.’ And she refused to be drawn further.

  Steven himself stayed an unseen, unheard, unforgettable presence.

  ‘Why doesn’t he call me and get it over with?’ said Pepper aloud, frustrated.

  But she herself had told him not to. So of course he wouldn’t. This was a man of old-fashioned chivalry.

  His chivalry sent her round the park on a daily power walk, stamping out her bewildered irritation on the grass.

  Then one night at Soup Group she heard herself pour it all out. Her fellow group members were interested, entertained, and not entirely on her side.

  ‘Give the guy a break,’ said one of them, summing up the feeling of the meeting. ‘Call him. You know you want to.’

  She did. Pepper was honest enough to admit that. And that daily bombardment of learned papers on weight and nutrition was making her suspect that Steven wanted it, too. Really wanted it, rather than just being kind.

  The day came when she agreed to the final proof of the catalogue. The builders more or less threw her off the shop site bodily. Izzy had taken charge of arranging warehousing for the first shipments of clothes which were beginning to come in. There was not a thing she could find to do.

  You’ve run out of displacement activity, Pepper told herself. So why put it off any longer?

  She called Queen Margaret’s College and got the disapproving secretary.

  No, the Master was not available. The Master was at a meeting of the Funding Committee and would not be free for the rest of the day. His diary was full until the end of the week. She could—without enthusiasm—take a message.

  Deflated, Pepper left her name and number and rang off. She was prowling restlessly round the office when the doorbell rang. She looked at the street camera and froze in amazement. It was Mary Ellen Calhoun.

  She buzzed her in, then went onto the landing to meet her. What on earth did her grandmother want? She had not tried to make contact since that day she’d thrown Pepper out of the Calhoun building.

  Mary Ellen’s first words were typical. ‘That elevator is too old. Makes investors think you’re cutting corners.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Pepper composedly. ‘This is Britain, Grandma. The investors take one look at all that Edwardian metalwork and decide we’ve got class.’ She did not offer to kiss Mary Ellen but held open the door to the office. ‘Welcome. Come in.’

  Mary Ellen stripped off her gloves, looking round her critically. ‘You gave up Calhoun Carter for this?’

  ‘Looks like it. Can I get you a coffee?’

  Mary Ellen went over to the big rooftop window and looked out across the Victorian chimneys. ‘Haven’t you even got a PA?’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘She’s out at the warehouse.’

  Pepper poured coffee as she knew her grandmother liked it—black with four spoons of sugar—and took it across to her. Even Mary Ellen wouldn’t be able to fault their stylish china, she thought with relief.

  ‘Sit?’

  ‘I’m not staying. This won’t take long.’

  Mary Ellen did not look very forgiving. Pepper braced herself.

  ‘I saw the report of your company launch. Clever.’

  ‘I didn’t use the Calhoun name,’ Pepper said quickly, before her grandmother could accuse her.

  Mary Ellen gave a wintry smile. ‘So I saw. I admit this Attic thing of yours looks like a good idea. I’ve come to offer a trade.’

  Pepper frowned. Her grandmother was always at her most dangerous when she sounded reasonable.

  ‘What sort of trade?’

  ‘You come back to Calhoun Carter and you can bring this little project of yours with you. We’ll capitalise it properly. You retain an advisory role, of course.’

  Pepper laughed aloud. ‘You don’t change, do you, Grandma? No thanks. I don’t want an advisory role. I want to work on my own idea and see where it takes me. But thank you for the offer. Now, how have you been?’

  Mary Ellen put down her coffee. ‘Are you serious about him?’

  Pepper blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘This Oxford guy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are such a child,’ said Mary Ellen with concentrated venom. ‘You think you only have to get a crush on someone and he falls into your arms. That’s soap opera. The rea
l world doesn’t work like that.’

  Pepper blinked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘He e-mailed the company looking for you, you know. Weeks ago. Why would he have done that if he didn’t know you were my heir?’

  Suddenly Pepper felt sorry for her. She said gently, ‘If you’re talking about Steven Konig, I don’t think my relationship with him is any of your business.’

  Mary Ellen snorted. ‘It’s my business if I’m going to have to pay the bill. How much is he going to cost me?’

  Pepper laughed aloud. Mary Ellen was so affronted she forgot to keep her jaw rigid and a thousand age lines appeared under her elaborate make-up. She said furiously, ‘Don’t you laugh. Don’t you dare laugh. I’ve always given you what you wanted.’

  ‘No, Grandma.’ Pepper brought her laughter under control but she spoke gently. ‘You’ve given me what you wanted. And, believe me, I don’t want you to buy me a man. And even if I did, Steven Konig isn’t for sale.’

  ‘Everyone is for sale. It’s just a question of the price.’

  Pepper shook her head. ‘You know, I’m sorry for you if that’s really the way you feel.’

  Something exploded in her grandmother. ‘You think you can get him on your own? Really? How? You’re not a proper woman. You’re a schoolgirl who thinks she has learned to play with the grown-ups. You have no charm. You’re overweight. You don’t know how to talk to a man. And this Konig is a very successful man, by what I hear. Attractive, too. You haven’t a hope.’

  Pepper thought of all his daily educational e-mails and bit back a smile.

  ‘You could just be wrong there, Grandma,’ she said. And found she believed it.

  Mary Ellen had a lot more to say but Pepper wasn’t listening. She believed it. Steven wanted her for herself. She was sure of it. And it was up to her to make the next move. Wimpy telephone calls wouldn’t do the business. She had to be pro-active.

  ‘Sorry to hurry you along, Grandma. But I’ve got a lot to do.’ She gave her grandmother her gloves and virtually hustled her out of the office, just remembering to ask which hotel she was staying at before she closed the elevator grille on her. ‘Goodbye.’

  She made her arrangements fast, starting with a hired limousine to take her to Oxford. Pepper had learned to economise in the last three months. But this was no time to be penny-pinching. This was her life on the line.

  ‘This is so cool,’ said Geoff, meeting her at the porter’s lodge.

  Pepper quelled a flutter of alarm. It had been her idea after all. ‘I hope so,’ she said calmly.

  ‘It’ll be, like, total gasp time.’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone?’

  He grinned. ‘No one. Not even the guy I told to bring his camera in to hall. He thinks there’s going to be a bread roll throwing match before dinner or something.’ He hugged himself. ‘This is going to get so many column inches.’

  ‘Er—yes.’ Pepper knew it was true. It was partly why she had thought of doing this in the first place, after all. But she still didn’t like to think about it too closely.

  ‘You need to change your gear?’

  Her chin went up. Part of her preparations had been to buy a dress that made her eyes water just to look at. She gave thanks for Soup Group. Not so much that she had lost a huge amount of weight. But she had found the confidence to wear something like that.

  She swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can use my room. There’s half an hour before formal hall. I’ve done a deal with a guy who had signed in his girlfriend, so there’s room for you but you’re not actually on the guest list by name.’ His grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘King Kong is going to be utterly blown away when he sees you.’

  Pepper permitted herself a small sedate smile. ‘I certainly hope so. That’s the object of the exercise, after all.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE dress was an adventure all on its own. For a woman who normally dressed in severe business suits and neat collared blouses, ankle-length silk would have been adventure enough. But, in addition, this dress was all the colours red: from nearly purple wine through heart-of-the-fire scarlet to a brilliant and blinding cerise.

  ‘It’s not a dress for a redhead,’ Pepper had said, taken aback when Izzy had first seized it out of the young designer’s first delivery.

  ‘It’s a dress for anyone who is woman enough to wear it,’ Izzy said firmly.

  And when Pepper tried it on she saw what she meant. It was not particularly close fitting, but the silk flowed like water, setting the reds into a ripple like spilled wine, like sunset. Or sunrise, thought Pepper, remembering piratically strong arms and a sunrise zipping up from the horizon towards them at delirious speed. She had lost her balance then—had she ever really recovered it? She shivered—and knew in that moment that she and the dress were made for each other.

  ‘I’ll take it. Tell Eva we’ll need a replacement,’ she said.

  Izzy swept her credit card through their previously untouched machine. Then they stood up and solemnly toasted Out of the Attic’s first sale.

  And now here she was, on a summer evening, walking round a quad that had not changed in four centuries, with her shoulders bare to the evening breeze, her hands in crimson gloves to the elbow, her hair loosely piled on top of her head and every single eye on her flame dress.

  Pepper lifted her chin. ‘I can do this.’

  ‘Sure you can,’ said Geoff, brimming with excitement.

  He was so overcome by the momentousness of the encounter he was about to engineer that he had changed into a tuxedo, to Pepper’s amazement. So had all his friends. She went into her first dinner at Queen Margaret’s College surrounded by a phalanx of formally dressed young men.

  They had clearly planned it carefully, seating her on one of the polished wooden benches at the far end of one of the gleaming refectory tables. Steven would be sitting at High Table, with the college dignitaries and their guests, they told her. Often he missed, but tonight he had to be present. The external members of the Fund-Raising Committee always expected a full college dinner for their trouble and he was their host.

  Pepper moistened her lips nervously as the college servants lit branches of candles in the middle of the tables. To her, the whole scene looked like something out of a fairy story: the formally dressed men, the glint of candlelight on wood and silver and wine, the evening sun through tall stained glass windows. But her companions were happily discussing computer games as if this was a perfectly ordinary way to take your evening meal.

  ‘All it needs is minstrels,’ muttered Pepper.

  Geoff broke off his conversation, mock reproachful. ‘Well, if you give me more than four hours’ notice next time, I’ll do my best.’

  She looked round, hoping that her assumed mockery disguised the fact that she was shaking to her strappy shoes. ‘It’s archaic.’

  ‘It’s tradition.’

  And then a gong sounded, and there was a scraping of benches as everyone stood up and the High Table party came in. They were all wearing academic gowns. It made them look like a convention of wizards, thought Pepper, getting jumpier by the minute.

  Steven looked particularly wizardly, remote and unapproachable in his black robe. No sign of the pirate now. He looked as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

  There was a brief Latin grace, then everyone sat down and the buzz started again.

  ‘Looks like the fund-raisers gave Kong a bad time,’ someone said across the table to Geoff.

  ‘Then he’s in luck,’ said Geoff cheerfully. ‘We’re going to help him out. Right, Pepper?’

  She swallowed. ‘Here comes the cavalry,’ she agreed.

  The meal was no doubt delicious. Pepper did not eat a mouthful—and it had nothing to do with her health programme. By the time the port was introduced her throat was as dry as brick dust and she was beginning to twitch with untapped adrenaline.

  ‘How much longer?’ she muttered to Geoff.
>
  He pursed his lips, looking round the room. The candles were more than half burned down. Already a couple of people had approached the dais, bowed to the Master and left the dining hall. Soon the occasion would be drawing to a close; even Pepper could see that.

  Geoff shrugged. ‘Any time you like.’

  Her stomach slid away from her. She moistened her lips, drew a deep breath and got to her feet.

  At first the looks were curious, no more than that. Pepper was nothing special. Every woman in the room had dressed elegantly. But, as she walked slowly towards the dais, the diners realised three things: they had never seen her in college before; she did not look like a student; and Steven Konig was staring at her mesmerised. The buzz in the hall fell almost to silence.

  Pepper felt her colour rise. And she still had half that damned slippery floor to cover. Don’t let me skid in these crazy shoes, she prayed.

  It did not show. She walked on as steadily as a young judge until she got to the dais. There, instead of standing in the body of the hall and bowing modestly to be excused, she went up the four steps and stood in front of the Master’s chair, with the gleaming table between them.

  Slowly, he got to his feet. In perfect silence he stood there, staring at her. The buzz quietened to perfect silence.

  Pepper stripped off her right glove and laid it carefully down on the table.

  ‘A challenge, Master,’ she said formally. ‘A debate in this hall. Men are always wrong.’

  Steven’s eyes bored into hers as if they were alone. Pepper felt the colour rise in her cheeks and was furious with herself. And him. He was not supposed to stand there glaring at her. He was supposed to accept the challenge. Then everyone could go off to call the gossip columns. But he did not. He just looked and looked as if he was never going to speak again.

  Pepper set her jaw. ‘Wh-what do you say?’

  ‘What?’ He sounded distracted. And he was looking at her as if he wanted to slip those damned straps off and…