The Marriage Truce. Sara Craven

typical. If she’d had the least consideration for us all she’d have stayed away herself.’

      Jenna laid a placatory hand over her aunt’s. ‘Darling, it’s all right—really. I admit I was upset when I first heard Ross was here, but that was—just me being silly.’ She gave a resolute smile. ‘It could be all for the best,’ she added, with a sideways glance at her uncle. ‘After all, we had to meet again some time.’

      ‘Probably,’ said Mrs Penloe. ‘But, for preference, not under the Polcarrow microscope. Oh, Betty Fox will make a meal of this,’ she added, stabbing at a mushroom as if it were the lady in question.

      ‘Betty Fox will have enough to do, criticising what we’re all wearing and finding fault with the decorations in the church hall and the caterers,’ Christy said, pulling a face. ‘Even she can’t make much capital out of a divorced couple being polite to each other.’

      ‘That’s what you think,’ her mother said tartly. ‘Oh, damn Thirza.’ She paused ominously. ‘And, Jenna, what’s this Christy tells me about you making an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow to have your hair cut?’

      Jenna shrugged. ‘New attitude—new image. I’ve had long hair all my life. It’s time for a change.’

      Mrs Penloe gave the smooth chestnut coil at the nape of her niece’s neck an anguished look. ‘Oh, Jenna, don’t do it. At least, not now. Wait until the wedding is over, please.’

      Jenna stared at her. ‘Aunt Grace, I’ll be wearing a spray of freesias in my hair. The style won’t make any difference.’

      ‘I wasn’t thinking of the headdress.’ Mrs Penloe shook her head. ‘Oh, dear.’

      ‘You’d think,’ Jenna said later, as she gave the condemned hair its final nightly brushing, ‘that I was having my head cut off instead.’

      Christy, who was sprawled across the bed, turning over the pages of House and Garden, frowned. ‘Ma did overreact slightly,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t say I’m entranced with the idea myself, but it’s your hair, and your decision.’

      She pulled a face. ‘Perhaps the wedding is starting to get to her at last. She’s been amazingly calm and organised so far, until dear Thirza dropped her bombshell, that is. I’ve told Pops that when it’s all over he should take Ma away for a holiday.’

      A sharp gust rattled the window, and the girls exchanged wry glances.

      ‘Preferably somewhere warm and peaceful,’ Jenna said drily, putting down her brush.

      ‘Thank heavens we decided to have the reception in the church hall, instead of …’ Christy paused awkwardly.

      Jenna sent her a composed smile. ‘Instead of a marquee on the lawn as I did?’ she queried. ‘It’s all right. You can mention it without me having hysterics.’ She pulled a face. ‘I suspect I’ll need to grow another skin over the next few days, anyway.’

      Christy shut the magazine and sat up. ‘Jen—I’m so awfully sorry you should be put through this.’ She paused. ‘The village rumour mill had Ross totally bedridden and being fed intravenously, of course, so you’d hardly expect him to pop up on Trevarne Head, being civilised.’ She gave Jenna an anxious look. ‘Seeing him again—was it as bad as you feared?’

      ‘Heavens, no,’ Jenna said lightly. Worse—much worse.

      ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Christy shook her head. ‘Not that it lets Thirza off the hook. As a contributor to consideration and family unity, she makes a terrific fabric designer.’

      ‘Well, she’s certainly that, all right,’ Jenna agreed. ‘In fact, I’ve often thought I’d like to stage an exhibition of her work at the gallery.’

      ‘You could always suggest it.’

      Jenna shook her head. ‘She’d refuse. I was never her favourite person, even before the divorce.’

      ‘I could never figure that,’ Christy said thoughtfully. ‘After what she went through with her own husband, I’d have said her sympathies would have been with you.’ She paused ruefully. ‘Ouch, my big mouth again. Jen, I’m so sorry …’

      ‘Don’t be,’ Jenna said briskly as she applied her moisturiser. ‘Now, tell me about the best man instead. He’s supposed to be my perk, isn’t he?’

      ‘Oh, Tim’s adorable.’ Christy cheered noticeably. ‘He works in the City, too, and he and Adrian have been friends since university. They’re arriving in time for lunch tomorrow.’ She lowered her voice confidentially. ‘And I happen to know Tim’s not seeing anyone just now.’

      ‘Christy,’ Jenna said gently, ‘be content with your lovely Adrian, and don’t try matchmaking for other people. I was thinking of having a dance with Tim—nothing more.’

      ‘Why not have two or three dances?’ Christy suggested, unperturbed. She gave a sly smile. ‘He’ll make excellent camouflage, if nothing else.’

      ‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenna rose from the dressing table. ‘Now, push off, bride, and get some beauty sleep.’

      ‘There are still three days to go,’ Christy protested as Jenna ushered her inexorably to the door.

      ‘True, but you need all the help you can get,’ she said wickedly, and closed the door, laughing, on her cousin’s outrage.

      Now I’m the one who needs help, she thought drily, as she turned over in bed yet again, trying to relax and failing. This insomnia is probably Christy’s curse on me.

      But in her heart she knew that it was not that simple. That her restlessness and unease were really due to Ross’s reappearance in her life and nothing else.

      Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself forcefully. Because he wouldn’t be losing a moment’s sleep over her, in Thirza’s slate-roofed cottage on the outskirts of the village.

      Once again so near, she thought, yet so far away. Which seemed to sum up the entirety of their brief marriage.

      Once before, on the night before their wedding, when she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too keyed up with joy and excitement, she’d tried to work out exactly what the distance was that separated them from each other, mentally retracing her steps down the drive from Trevarne House to the lane, narrow between its high summer hedges, and down its winding length to the steep sprawl of Polcarrow, counting her paces as she went. Imagining him opening the door of the cottage to smile at her. Holding out his arms to enfold her …

      Suddenly Jenna found herself sitting up, gasping for breath. She was shaking all over and her nightdress was clinging to her sweat-dampened body. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside lamp, then poured herself some water from the carafe on the night table, gulping its coolness past the constriction in her throat.

      ‘Oh, you idiot,’ she whispered to herself. ‘You pathetic fool.’

      The phrase ‘don’t even go there’ had never seemed more appropriate, yet she almost had. She’d created a trap for herself and nearly fallen into it. Because she couldn’t afford these memories. They brought too much pain with them.

      The ending of her marriage had been a war zone, and she still bore the wounds. And this truce that she’d agreed on with Ross was meaningless, because it would never lead to a lasting peace.

      That was impossible, she thought. Too much had happened.

      Most of it she’d managed to block out over the past months by working hard and making sure her leisure hours were full, leaving little time for introspection. But now there was a crack in the dam, and she was terrified of what might follow.

      She switched off the lamp and lay down again, aware that her stomach was churning and a mass of confused thoughts were jostling for precedence in her tired mind. And, with them, memories as sharp as knives.

      Memories