The Best Man And The Bridesmaid. Liz Fielding

that stupid. But it still melted every resolve she had ever made in the solitude of her room, still reduced to mush every heart-felt promise she’d made to herself that she would break herself of the Robert Furneval habit. ‘You wouldn’t want me to lie and say that you’ll look fabulous in yellow? Would you?’ It might be nice, she thought. Just once. But they had never lied to one another. ‘We’re friends. Friends don’t have to pretend.’

      Yes, they were friends. She clung to that thought. Robert might not woo her with roses, might not take her to expensive little restaurants and ply her with smoked salmon and truffles, but he didn’t dump her after a couple of months either. They were true friends. Best friends. And she knew, she had always known, that if she wanted to be a permanent part of Robert’s life, that was the way it would have to stay.

      And she was part of his life. He told her everything. She knew things about Robert that she suspected even her brother didn’t know. She had cultivated the habit of listening, and she was always there for him between lovers … to meet for lunch, or as a date to take to parties. Just so long as she never fooled herself into hoping that they would be leaving the party together.

      Not that he ever abandoned her. He always made sure that someone reliable was detailed to take her home. Reliable and boring and dull. Then he teased her for weeks afterwards about her new ‘boyfriend’.

      ‘Do they?’ he persisted.

      ‘What?’ She realised he was frowning. ‘Oh, pretend? No,’ she said quickly, with a reassuring smile. ‘I wouldn’t ever want you to do that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But now I have to go and submit to the indignity of having the dress taken in.’

      ‘Taken in?’

      ‘The dresses are empire line.’ She spread her hands wide and tucked them beneath her inadequate bosom. ‘You know, straight out of Pride and Prejudice. All the other girls have the appropriate cleavage to show them to advantage.’

      ‘Wear one of those lift ‘em up and push ‘em together bras,’ he suggested.

      ‘You have to have something to lift and push.’

      He didn’t argue about that, but rubbed his hand absently down the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Don’t worry about it, Daisy. Everything will be fine. And the wedding will be fun, you’ll see.’

      She gave him the benefit of a wry smile. ‘For you maybe. Best man gets the pick of the bridesmaids, doesn’t he?’

      He gazed down at her. ‘I’ve never been able to fool you, have I?’

      ‘Never,’ she agreed.

      ‘Better cut along to this fitting, then, so that you can give me the low-down on Saturday.’

      ‘Saturday?’

      ‘There’s a party at Monty’s. I’ll pick you up at eight and we’ll have dinner first.’

      It never seemed to occur to him that she might have something else planned, and for just a moment it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was busy on Saturday night. There was only one problem with that. In all her life, since she was old enough to toddle after her brother and his best friend, she had never been too busy for Robert. ‘Make it nine-thirty,’ she said, forcing herself to be a little difficult. Just to prove to herself that she could be.

      ‘Nine-thirty?’ His dark brows twitched together in gratifying surprise.

      ‘Actually ten o’clock would be better,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to give dinner a miss, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Oh? Are you sure you can manage the party?’ The edge in his voice gave Daisy rather more satisfaction than was quite kind. After all, she’d chosen the path she was treading. ‘You haven’t gone and got yourself a boyfriend, have you? You’re my girl, you know.’

      ‘No, I’m not,’ she said, putting on her sweetest smile. ‘I’m your friend. Big difference.’ His girls lasted two, three months tops, before they started hearing wedding bells and he, with every appearance of reluctance, let them go. ‘But I was going to Monty’s bash anyway and I’ll be glad of the lift.’ Just occasionally he needed to be reminded that she wasn’t simply there at his beck and call. Just occasionally she needed to remind herself, even if it did mean passing on dinner at some fashionable restaurant and dining alone on a sandwich.

      Then, having made a stand, having started a tiny ripple in his smoothly ordered world, she held up her cheek to be kissed, punishing herself with the brief excitement of his lips brushing her cheek, the scrape of his midday beard against her skin that did things to her insides that would rate an X-certificate.

      It would be so easy to prolong the hug, just as it would have been easy to indulge herself and stretch out lunch over coffee and dessert. But Daisy’s little-sister act had its limitations; too much close contact and she’d be climbing the office walls all afternoon.

      Besides, keeping him at a distance was probably the only reason he didn’t get bored with her.

      ‘Thanks for lunch, Robert. I’ll see you on Saturday,’ she said briskly, making for the restaurant door and not looking back once. It had been harder today. Much harder. Today he was unattached, momentarily vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. Maybe that was why she had made such a fuss about the bridesmaid dress. Not to amuse Robert, but to distract herself.

      It would have been far too easy to forget all about the fitting, to suggest he walk her across the park, linking her arm through his, inviting him up to her flat with the excuse that she wanted to show him her new computer, plying him with coffee and brandy.

      The trouble was she knew Robert too well. All his little weaknesses. Today, dumped by a girl with the wit to see through him, with his self-esteem needing a stroke, he might have been tempted to see what Daisy Galbraith was really made of beneath the trousers, the long skirts, the carefully neutral, sexless clothes she wore whenever she met him.

      The trouble with that inviting scenario was tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or maybe it would be a month or two before someone else, someone elegant and beautiful, someone more his style, caught his roving eye. And after that nothing. No more precious lunches. No more of those early Sunday mornings at home when he dropped by with his rods to suggest they might go fishing, or take the dogs for a run. No more anything but awkwardness when they met by chance.

      Worse, she would have to pretend she didn’t care, because her brother would never forgive his best friend for breaking his little sister’s heart.

      While a treacherous part of her mind sometimes suggested that an affair with Robert might be all it took to cure her of his fatal attraction, Daisy had no difficulty in ignoring it. She might be foolish, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d been in love with him since she had gazed from her high chair at this seven-year-old god who had come home with her brother for tea. The very last thing on earth she wanted was to be cured.

      ‘More coffee, sir?’ Robert shook his head, retrieving his credit card from the plate and, on an impulse, heading quickly for the door, hoping to catch Daisy so that they could walk across the park together. She always walked, but then she always wore good sensible shoes, or, like today, well-fitted laced ankle-boots, even in London. She was so easy to be with. Always had been, even when she was a knobbly kneed kid trailing after him and Michael.

      Then he frowned. Yellow? What was wrong with yellow? What was wrong with ‘cute’? What was wrong with ducklings, come to that?

      From the pavement outside the restaurant he could see her bright froth of hair bobbing along in the distance as she strode across the park, and he realised that he’d left it too late to catch her. Oh, well. He’d see her on Saturday. And as he hailed a cruising cab, he frowned. Ten o’clock? What on earth could she be doing until ten o’clock?

      Being stripped to her underwear, with her reflection coming back at her from a terrifying array of mirrors, was doing nothing for Daisy’s self-confidence, and she was almost grateful for the covering of yellow velvet despite the fact that it emphasised her own lack of curves.