Love You Better
ALSO BY NATALIE K MARTIN
Together Apart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Natalie K Martin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 978-1503946439
ISBN-10: 1503946436
Cover design by Najla Qamber
CONTENTS
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
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10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
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33.
34.
35.
SIX MONTHS LATER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1.
Welcome to the family.’
Effie followed Oliver as he led her to the dance floor with applause echoing around them and her new father-in-law’s words in her ears. She placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, and the new platinum band on her finger sparkled.
She looked up at him. ‘Are we mad?’
‘Maybe.’ Oliver grinned. ‘But it’s too late for you now – you’re stuck with us.’
There was no ‘maybe’ about it. Just shy of four months after meeting, they’d exchanged vows, sealed them with a kiss and laughed, clutching hands under a shower of rice.
‘You make it sound like a prison sentence.’
‘It is.’ He pulled her closer and dropped a kiss on her lips. ‘A life term in the weird world of the Barton-Coles.’
Effie peeked over at the faces smiling back at them as the lights that had shone down on them during the wedding toasts softened, and the music started. Despite its size, The Lancing Hotel felt cosy and intimate with its stylish, understated furnishings, and the fragrance of the Calla lilies around the room filled the air with sweetness.
‘They’re not so bad.’
‘Ah, the innocence. You haven’t met Aunt Grace yet.’ He nodded over to a woman with a perfectly coiffured grey bob and a string of pearls around her neck, stroking the arm of a man no more than half her age. ‘When she corners you and starts raving about the time she smoked a joint with Andy Warhol in ’68 and actually inhaled, you’ll think differently.’
Effie laughed as Oliver buried his nose in her hair. By the sound of things, his aunt Grace would fit right in with her family. She cast her eyes around the room again, looking at the sea of intricate fascinators, pastel dresses and dark three-piece suits.
She looked back up at him and frowned. ‘Do you think they like me?’
‘Of course they do. What’s not to like?’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Izzy adores you. She always used to say she wished I’d been a girl so she’d have had a little sister, and now she has you. As for Mum, she’s just glad someone’s finally pinned me down.’
His mum had congratulated her for doing what no other woman had been able to, and Effie had laughed, saying it was nothing to do with her. She’d thought it would sound like a compliment, telling her how charming her son was, how when he’d swept her off her feet, she’d been unable to resist. Instead, Celeste had scowled, telling her it was a skill he must have got from his cheating swine of a father. Effie had almost died from shame. The ink was barely dry on their marriage certificate, and already she’d made a faux pas. She looked over at Giles, her father-in-law.
‘And your dad?’
Oliver sighed. ‘Dad’s just Dad.’
Although Giles had never been anything other than perfectly polite, his speech was less than enthusiastic. She could see he wasn’t the type to get overexcited and sing from the rooftops, but saying that they’d have as good a chance as any?
Oliver tucked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up towards him. ‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘The way he parades Anna around, it would have been downright hypocritical of him to say any more than he did.’ Oliver scowled. ‘Frankly, the sooner they bugger off back to Berkshire, the better, and they can take the twatty twins with them.’
Effie frowned and kissed his lips. ‘Shh. Not today. Today’s about us.’
Oliver had barely spoken to Rosie or Henry all day. They were his half-brother and half-sister, but Effie knew that if he’d had it his way, he wouldn’t have invited them at all. Maybe this was what normal family life was really like. Fights, feuds and seething silences. For a fleeting second, she was grateful to be a second-generation only child.
He nodded back to the guests. ‘No regrets? You’re part of it all now.’
‘Not even one iota.’
‘It’s a shame about your mum, though. I was rather looking forward to meeting her.’
Effie burrowed her head into his shoulder to hide her grimace. She couldn’t think of anything worse. She tried to picture her mum mingling with the other guests. No doubt she’d have turned up in some hideous hemp excuse for a dress, and her low, husky voice would have carried all kinds of inappropriate stories. If Oliver’s aunt Grace thought smoking a bit of weed was risqué, Penny Abbott’s stories of dancing with top DJs at Glastonbury, under the influence of LSD, would have made her eyeballs pop out on stalks. Effie cringed, thinking about what Oliver’s family would’ve thought of her if they knew the way she’d been brought up. For once, her mum’s lack of interest in her life seemed to be a good thing.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘She’s missed out on an amazing day. It’s her loss.’
‘And my gain. You’ve made me the happiest man alive.’ He leaned down and softly pressed his lips against hers.
With the scent of his aftershave under her nose, one hand on her cheek and the other in her hair, Effie’s stomach flipped. When he pulled away, he held in front of her face a grain of rice between his index finger and thumb, with an amused grin.
‘Bloody stuff gets everywhere.’ She laughed, shaking her hair to get rid of any stray grains.
‘Everywhere?’
She grinned. More than a few grains had found their way inside the bodice of her dress. ‘Everywhere.’
‘I say we duck out and de-rice ourselves then. I want to get you all to myself.’
His fingers trailed their way down her back, and someone, probably one of her friends, let out a long wolf whistle. With a hundred and twelve pairs of eyes on them, heat flushed her cheeks. She nodded at the MC, who declared the dance floor open, and the space around them slowly filled. Finally, she could relax. She wrapped her hands around Oliver’s back as Al Green asked them to stay together. She had every intention of doing so.
‘How’s it go
ing, Euphemia?’ Mickey laughed, and Effie whacked his arm with her cream clutch bag.
She slid into a chair next to him at the table, closely followed by Oliver. After going to each table, accepting congratulations and more glasses of champagne from Oliver’s distant relatives and acquaintances, it was a relief to finally sit with her own friends.
‘Don’t,’ Effie warned. ‘I’ve never been called Euphemia in my life.’
‘One must use one’s full name now one’s part of the jet set.’ Mickey winked.
Effie looked at her best friend, Lou, as she shook her head and jabbed Mickey in the ribs. Lou looked beautiful. Effie had refused to opt for a sickly pastel number for her chief bridesmaid, and as a result, Lou’s strapless black dress provided a classy contrast to Effie’s ivory gown. She’d been a rock all day, from pouring Effie a nerve-busting shot of rum before the ceremony to circling the room and making friends with everyone, including Rosie and Henry.
‘What jet set?’ Oliver said. ‘I’m not a millionaire – not even close. All this is the old man’s doing. I’d have been happy nipping down to Wandsworth Town Hall.’
Effie looked at him and grinned. With his public schoolboy demeanour, it was easy to imagine him being a spoiled brat, but he’d been considerate of the fact that, unlike his side, her guests weren’t bankers, magazine editors or captains of industry. His dad had insisted that they choose a hotel befitting what was expected of a Barton-Cole wedding, and Oliver had obliged only after Effie had turned down his suggestion of eloping to Gretna Green. There was no way she could pass up the chance of having the fairy-tale wedding of her dreams.
‘You have to admit, though, it was a laugh at the ceremony. Oliver William Barton-Cole. Definitely need a plum in the mouth for that one,’ Lou said, grinning at Oliver.
Effie laughed. Lou could make fun of Oliver’s name all she wanted, but the award for most embarrassing name of the day was unquestionably hers. Euphemia Willow Abbott. Willow. How many other people were named after a bloody tree?
‘Oh, I plan on sticking a plum tree in the garden for the wifey to start practising on.’
Mickey sniggered as the word wifey dropped from Oliver’s mouth. With his polished accent, it didn’t have quite the right ring to it.
Lou shook her head and waggled her finger at him. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, mister, but I got there first. She might have your name now, but I hold the wifey rights. I’ve got ten years of her on you.’
Oliver held his hands up in mock horror. ‘I’d never dream of coming between you two.’
‘Good.’ Lou winked back. ‘It’s been such a lovely day. Bet you can’t wait for the honeymoon.’
Effie grinned. ‘It’s going to be so good. I’ve always wanted to go to Thailand.’
‘Bit too far for me,’ Mickey said. ‘I hate flying.’
‘He’s such a wuss.’ Lou laughed. ‘He practically cried the whole four hours to Crete this summer. It was like travelling with an infant.’
Mickey silenced her with a kiss, and Effie grinned. They were so perfect together. They always seemed to laugh with each other, constantly winding each other up. Their kiss was interrupted by beeping from Mickey’s phone, and he frowned, reading the screen. Lou leaned over to look at it and quickly shook her head at him.
‘What’s up?’ Effie asked before taking a sip of her champagne.
‘Oh, nothing. Especially not anything to worry about today.’ Lou took a box of cigarettes from her bag. ‘Fancy one?’
Effie looked at Oliver. It was clear that he was struggling to keep the disapproving frown from his face. He hated smoking, and she didn’t intend on spending their honeymoon surrounded by a puff of smoke, but their flight wasn’t until tomorrow morning. And as amazing as the day had been, the idea of five minutes to bask in it all without an audience was way too alluring to pass up.
‘I thought you were going to quit?’ he asked, taking her hand and rubbing it with his thumb.
‘It’s only one. And today’s the last day.’
‘Promise?’ asked Oliver.
She smiled and crossed her heart with her fingers. ‘Hope to die. Don’t get eaten alive by Mickey.’
She pecked him on the cheek and looked across at Mickey, flashing him a warning look. Lou was bad enough, but she had nothing on him.
Ten minutes later, having made it to the other end of the hall, she stepped outside. It was like an obstacle course, being stopped at every turn to receive a hug or boozy cry of congratulations. It had been a perfect day, and she tilted her head up to the obsidian sky, taking in a gulp of the cool, bonfire-scented air. Guy Fawkes’s night was one of her favourite holidays – second only to Christmas. Choosing the fifth of November as their wedding day couldn’t have been any more romantic. The moon shimmered over the River Thames at the far end of the gardens and over on the south side of London, the red sparkles of a firework sprang out in the sky.
She walked down the steps and onto the perfectly manicured grass, her heels sinking into the soft ground. She wriggled her toes in her ridiculously high Saint Laurent shoes. She practically lived in trainers, and her feet were aching from being in heels all day. How did Lou do it? And where was she anyway? Effie scanned the gardens, but there was no sign of her. It had taken so long for her to get outside that Lou had probably already been and gone. Grateful for a few minutes alone, she lifted the hem of her dress and slipped her feet out of her shoes, almost purring as she closed her eyes, letting the cold grass send relief to her feet.
‘Looks like congratulations are in order.’
The deep voice cut right through to Effie’s core, and she impulsively shivered at the sound of it. She’d recognise it anywhere, but she kept her eyes firmly shut. There was no way it was him – it simply wasn’t possible. Maybe she was hallucinating. Or maybe she was drunk.
You’ve had six glasses of champagne over the course of the whole day, and you’re as sober as a judge.
It was true. Despite her glass never being empty, the alcohol had taken no effect on her whatsoever, which meant that it really was him standing so close she could practically hear him breathing. She swallowed and opened her eyes. Slowly, she tracked her gaze up from the black Converse on his feet, over his trouser-covered legs and his close-fitted, sky-blue shirt. Her heart skipped as she looked at the tattoos etched into his arms, exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the cold air apparently having no effect on him at all. The breath was knocked out of her when she looked past his coat of stubble and up into the pair of grey eyes staring back at her.
Smith.
‘Lace always did suit you.’
He looked her up and down, his eyes trailing a blaze over the intricate dress hugging her body, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. The only lace he’d ever seen her in before had always been hidden under her clothes. It was all she could do not to run away. Or reach out and touch him – she wasn’t sure which. She gripped her tiny clutch bag, just in case.
‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on the other side of the world.’
He looked out at the river and shrugged. ‘Money ran out.’
She’d forgotten what a great profile he had, with his beautifully straight nose and strong jaw. His top shirt button was undone, and she looked at the strand of brown leather around his neck, tapering off to hold a horn-shaped pendant. She looked back at the doors she’d just come through and prayed nobody would come outside. She didn’t want anyone to see him standing there. In fact, she wanted him to disappear altogether, like he had five months ago, because now that he was standing in front of her, her stomach was fluttering and her pulse was racing, the way it always had with him – the way it hadn’t for a long time. Before, it would have been a pleasurable feeling, but now all she felt was sick. His leaving had made her life a whole lot easier and happier, and she didn’t need him to come back and wreck it all over again.
Why did the sound of his voice make her skin bloom with goosebumps? She rubbed her arms, demanding they go away, and squared her shoulders as she jutted out her chin.
‘Why does it matter?’
He smirked, and she had to restrain herself from wiping it off his face. ‘The old crowd in there?’
‘Some.’
‘Mixing with Hoorah Henries . . . I guess things really have changed.’
Effie sighed with irritation and shook her head. Oliver wasn’t a Hoorah Henry, and Smith had no right to call him that.
‘You don’t look pleased to see me.’
‘That’s because I’m not. You attract trouble like shit attracts flies.’
‘Ouch. What, are you worried I’ll screw up your happy day?’
‘Why else would you be here? You always screw things up.’
He shrugged. ‘I was curious. I wanted to see what was so great about whoever he is that had you skipping up the aisle so quickly.’
She scowled. ‘It wasn’t that quick.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Less than a month after I leave, I hear you’ve got with someone else, and now you’re married. Hardly taking your time, is it?’
‘So? Why do you care? What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?’
‘Only if you mean it.’
She studied the trees behind him, lit up with fairy lights, fighting to keep her breath steady as anger pulsed through her. She’d been euphoric all day, but just a few moments with Smith were enough to bring it all crashing down. Causing problems was one of the few things Smith could be counted on for, and she didn’t need it. She’d had enough to last her a lifetime. It was her wedding day, and they were surrounded by influential, respectable people. Thanks to Oliver, she was one of them now. She wasn’t sorry for the turn her life had taken. She finally had everything she had ever wanted, and she wasn’t about to let Smith ruin it all.
‘You mean like you apologised for all the stuff you did? It’s funny, because I don’t remember you ever saying sorry for shagging around behind my back.’