‘I’ll just have to step down from being a bridesmaid,’ she said logically, putting Plan A into action even as her mother hurried across to retrieve the expensive dress to examine the extent of the damage. It wouldn’t be nearly so hard to stand in the background while she tried to hide her emotions from everyone else; to hide the fact that she desperately longed to be the one standing beside Dan—the man she loved—exchanging their vows. Zara was the twin accustomed to standing in the limelight and putting on the face that the rest of the world expected to see. ‘It won’t take me long to put my smart suit on,’ she continued, refusing to think about anything beyond the immediate situation. ‘I’ll catch up with the rest of you downstairs before the ceremony starts.’
‘You can’t!’ her mother wailed, wringing her hands. ‘You’ve got to be Zara’s bridesmaid. You’re her only sister … her twin! What would everybody think?’
‘Does it really matter what they think? ‘Sara asked with her head in the wardrobe, already reaching for the black silk suit she’d chosen as an elegant alternative to the burnt-orange meringue her sister would have had her wear.
The thing that had amazed her was that her mother had apparently been oblivious to what had been going on right under her nose while the attendant’s clothes had been chosen for the wedding party. She’d commented approvingly about the clever idea of a colour theme graduating from the creamy ivory of the bride’s dress through various shades of gold and topaz for the dresses her wraith-thin modelling friends would wear, but how could she not have seen that both the colour and the style Zara had decreed for Sara’s dress were an abomination that did absolutely nothing for her second daughter’s colouring or more rounded shape?
And as for the hairstyle … Sara’s eyes flicked towards the mirror, her glance taking in the simple severity of the swept-back style that would have complemented the fine lines of her face if it hadn’t also revealed the imperfection of the scar her sister had inflicted on her so long ago.
The fact that her mother was oblivious to everything but that things should be exactly as her beautiful daughter wanted was an old hurt that was unlikely to go away any time soon.
There’s none so blind as them that will not see, she could hear her grandmother say darkly, and Sara smiled, remembering that the indomitable old woman she’d adored had been one of the few who had seen straight through Zara. Granny Walker had been the person who had always known when her younger granddaughter had been practising her wiles and had taken no nonsense, especially when Sara had been the butt of Zara’s machinations.
‘You’re not wearing black to your sister’s wedding,’ her mother pronounced as she whipped the hanger out of Sara’s hand and angrily flung the contents onto the bed. ‘There must be something we can do with your dress. It’s a designer original. The man did it specially … as a favour to Zara because she’s his favourite model.’
Sara knew without question that there was no way she was ever going to be able to wear that dreadful dress again. She’d made certain of that when she’d decided exactly what damage she was going to do to it. As far as she was concerned, everything about the dress was proof that the designer must have detested her sister … maybe even the whole female half of the world’s population.
‘How about this?’ she suggested as she switched to Plan B and took out the dress that had been hanging in the wardrobe just waiting for the right moment. ‘I was going to change into this after the photos. Do you remember it?
It was an evening dress of your mother’s, from before Nana married Granddad. I thought that if I wore it for part of the day, it would be almost as if she were here, too.’
The dress was simplicity itself and while the fluid silk looked nothing special draped over a hanger, once she was wearing it, the rich honey-coloured fabric was so supple that it looked as if it had been poured over her curves with a delicate hand.
‘Oh, darling …’ As she’d hoped, her mother caught her breath at the sentimental idea and when she reached out a tentative hand to stroke the fabric, Sara knew that she had won the first skirmish.
‘Shall we see if it fits me well enough?’ she suggested, already knowing what the answer was going to be—the dress fitted her as if it had been made for her. This battle plan had been worked out in every detail, knowing that it was the only way she was going to outwit her spiteful sister. ‘I remember you told me once that my hair is exactly the same colour as Nana’s was.’ Unlike Zara’s, which had been lightened season by season until it was now at least half a dozen shades paler than Sara’s dark blonde.
Her mother was quite misty-eyed as she helped Sara into the substitute dress, trying not to disturb either her hair or her make-up, and when she stood beside her in front of the mirror and had to resort to biting her lip so that she wouldn’t cry and ruin her own mascara, Sara knew that the battle was won. There was just the matter of teasing out a few ‘accidental’ tendrils of hair to camouflage the twisted line of scarring that pulled her eyebrow up at an angle …
‘Whatever you do, don’t catch this one on the doorhandle,’ her mother warned with a sniff into her lacy handkerchief as she bustled towards the door. ‘I’ll just go and make sure that everyone else is ready. Zara’s hairdresser was just putting the finishing touches once her veil went on when you had your accident. We don’t want to keep dear Danny waiting any longer.’
With those few words, the taste of victory over what she would wear was ashes in Sara’s mouth. What did it matter how much better she looked in her grandmother’s dress, or that her ugly scar was hidden? Dan probably wouldn’t even notice she was there; he wouldn’t have eyes for anyone other than his beautiful bride.
Zara looked like a flawless life-sized porcelain doll, Dan thought as he pushed open the bedroom door and found her lying on their bed.
It was hardly surprising that she’d fallen asleep. He was hours later than usual tonight, but he just hadn’t been able to make himself leave any sooner. The thought that Sara might be stubborn enough to insist on going home, even after such a potentially fatal encounter, had found him hanging around until he’d made certain that she had agreed to spend the night in hospital and was settled into a side ward.
He smiled wryly when he saw how perfectly Zara was posed. It was as if she was expecting her favourite photographer to start clicking away, her hair spread artistically over the pillow and one hand draped elegantly over the edge of the bed. It would almost have been a relief to find her curled up in an untidy ball with creases on her face from the pillow. As it was, sometimes it felt as if he was married to a mannequin, with her face always perfectly made up and never a hair out of place, even on the increasingly rare occasions that they made love.
The heavy sigh took him by surprise and the weight of regret that accompanied it made him feel very guilty.
He’d realised almost as soon as he’d placed the ring on Zara’s finger that he’d made a dreadful mistake, but by then there had been no way out.
Even if he had divorced his new wife, he’d known that there was no way that Sara would have stepped straight into her sister’s shoes … what woman would, especially after the way he’d treated her?
He might only have met Sara a few months earlier, but they’d already admitted to a mutual attraction and had been exploring the possibility of a long-term relationship. For the first time in his life, he’d even found himself wondering about the possibility of marriage in the not-too-distant future.
Then he’d met Zara and discovered the meaning of the words ‘whirlwind courtship', his feet hardly seeming to touch the ground before he’d found himself engaged and caught up in the planning of an uncomfortably high-profile wedding.
Up to that point, their relationship had been conducted largely in secret—at Zara’s insistence that she didn’t want