Page 1 of Pucking the Team
Chapter One
My veil was vintage with silky blue details around the delicate edging. It had belonged to my mother. Wearing it today was my best friend, Cheryl’s, idea. It was my something old and blue. But now, as I was on my way to church, alone in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine, the gauzy fabric was a web over my face.
It reminded me all over again that my parents weren’t around to witness my marriage to Steven. I’d come to terms with their accident, it had happened many years ago, and Aunt Mary would be waiting for me on the front pew, all soft smiles, gentle hugs, and reassuring words the way she always was.
I took a deep breath and stared out of the window at the English hedgerow rushing past. It glowed green, the leaves glossy and heavy with sparkling raindrops. Wasn’t it supposed to be good luck if it rained on your wedding day? I couldn’t remember. But I was lucky to have found Steven. He was a good man, solid, and he owned a to-die-for London penthouse, a fancy sports car, and was riding a stratospheric career. Our relationship had been a whirlwind, an obsessive need that quickly turned to planning a secretive, lowish-key wedding.
“Five-minute warning,” the driver said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror from under his peaked black cap.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“And it’s Chapel Inn you want me to drop your suitcase at, right?”
“Yes, that would be great, thank you.” Steven and I were heading straight from the wedding reception to an isolated boutique hotel and then catching an early flight to the Maldives. I had everything carefully packed for the next two weeks of sunshine and sand.
Oh, the thought of sunning myself was blissful—clear waters, blue skies, delicious fresh food, and sweet cocktails. I could hardly wait and I would forget about taking any promo pictures. I wouldn’t, not even once. That was a promise to myself, if not to my agent, Trevor McWilliams.
The car meandered through the small sleepy village of Eccelstone, past stone cottages the color of gingerbread, a red telephone box that had been turned into a village book swap and a thatched-roof pub called The White Stag.
When the tall Gothic church steeple came into view, my stomach did a flip. Within the ancient building fifty guests were waiting. Mainly Steven’s family as I was pretty lean on relatives, but a bunch of both of our friends had padded out the numbers.
I was also pleased to see there were no additional photographers. Unwanted snappers. I’d planned carefully and hoped for privacy. Paparazzi would not be a good addition to the day. They weren’t a good addition to any day as far as I was concerned.
When the car pulled up, the tires splashing in a puddle, I strained my neck searching for Cheryl. She was my one and only bridesmaid. She’d wanted to ride with me, but I’d needed to be alone for this bit. I’d wanted to feel my mother’s and father’s spirits at my side, allow them to come through if they could.
I couldn’t see Cheryl. She was no doubt sheltering from the rain.
“I’ll get the umbrella,” the driver said. “You wait there a moment, Miss Pippa, and we’ll get you to the church entrance dry as a bone.”
“Okay, thank you.” I plucked my phone from the small white purse I’d tucked it into. I’d have to let Cheryl know I’d arrived. The organist could start the wedding march very soon.
A message flashed up from an unknown number. It was nestled amongst several others; well-wishes, and a reminder about tomorrow’s early flight from Heathrow.
The driver stepped out, leaving the windscreen wipers on—swish, swish, swish—and slammed the door.
A strange sense of being cocooned came over me. The daylight sneaking into the car was tinged with the gray of the gravestones and the fat-bellied clouds pressing down.
I opened the anonymous message. No doubt it was spam.
Youought to know, Pippa.
“You ought to know, Pippa?” I muttered and scrolled to the first of three images attached.
My heart stuttered, my mouth dried, and a strange sense of surrealness made my head float as though it were no longer attached to my body. “What the hell?”
My hand shook as I studied the first image.
It was taken on a bright sunny day and showed two people in a passionate embrace beside a stonewalled building.
It couldn’t be. No! A ball of nausea tightened my guts.
I recognized the woman’s pretty yellow dress covered in white daisies, and her hair, long and dark, the white Vera Wang stiletto hooked around a pair of shapely denim-clad male legs.
The embrace was fervent, his head ducked to kiss her neck and her face lifted to the sky in apparent ecstasy.
Cheryl.
And her dress was new, very new. As were the fancy shoes; we’d been together when she’d bought them.
