The Love Letter Read Online Free PDF Page A

it to the church on time, darling!’ cried a wag builder from some scaffolding.
    Legs pounded on, still wearing just one flip-flop, skirts in her arms and farthingale bobbing. Conrad would never understand if he saw her like this; he was the king of cool, his suits cut perfectly, his shirts professionally laundered, not a hair out of place.
    At last, the abbey loomed into sight with its familiar fairytale face, butterscotch-yellow stone and huge sweep of steps, which Legs started to scale, not noticing the photographer lurking beside one of the decoratively topped columns.
    Just as she reached the top steps, lungs bursting and farthingale drooping, the black doors ahead of her opened and out walked a bride and groom, amidst triumphant organ music. It was too late for Legs to go into retreat. They looked incredibly surprised to find her standing there, red-faced in a too-short wedding dress from which her white bra was now displaying all its wares propped on an embroidered shelf.
    She was now too out of breath to speak, but with a gasp of guilt she suddenly remembered the reason Nico was needed in church, and why her sister had been in such a tizz about the flowers: there was a wedding. And she’d just crashed it.
    ‘Who is this woman?’ The bride turned to her new husband in horror, clearly thinking Legs was a deranged ex-girlfriend determined to steal the show.
    ‘Virgin Queen!’ Legs managed a breathless croak. ‘Traditionally
very
lucky at weddings. Have a great marriage.’
    Smiling with what she hoped was great Elizabethan benevolence, she dived past them and ricocheted through amused guests to the choir pews at the rear of the church. But Nico and the rest of the choir had disbanded into an anteroom.
    A quick frisk through the choristers cassocks confirmed that her nephew had already clocked out, she pictured his long robes gratefully substituted for an Arsenal strip.
    ‘Nico’s mum said something about going to the supermarket?’ one of the remaining choirboys offered helpfully as she looked around in vain. ‘She usually parks her car around the back of St Benedict’s.’
    ‘Thanks!’ Legs darted out through the back to avoid the bridal party.
    ‘Just missed them,’ another choir mum told her when she finallylocated the car park just seconds after Ros and her Golf had pulled out.
    ‘Oh no, no, no!’ She closed her eyes, knowing her sister would be heading to the huge Lidls in Hanwell, where she shopped as a part of her endless economy drive, claiming Will had left her ‘too poor to be organic’. It was too far to follow on foot, and now she’d somehow mislaid her phone, so couldn’t try calling again, or even call Conrad to cancel lunch. It was half past eleven already. She wanted to cry.
    ‘I’d drop you back home,’ the mum offered, ‘but I’m not sure I can fit you in the car.’ She eyed the huge hooped skirts doubtfully.
    ‘We’ll find a way.’ Legs beamed with relief, already climbing in.
    Oh, the shame of travelling through west London’s leafy avenues with a skirt pressed to her face and farthingale poking from the sunroof of a Citroën Picasso while her knickers were on full display to twin choirboys. But at least she got back with five minutes’ grace.
    The garden gate was still wedged open with a stone. Legs dashed through it, fully determined to climb up to Nico’s window if it killed her. Then, to her utter relief, she spotted a full quota of clothes drying on the rotary airer at the far end of the decking.
    There was no time to spare. It didn’t matter that the clothes were all her sister’s; they were better than the hideous farthingale.
    The dress was hell to get off, but once she started pulling more carefully at the strings and laces, she found it divided into two parts so at least she could divest herself of the skirts and drag on a pair of calf-length flowered trousers that had seen better days, but had a pretty lace trim and hid her legs well. The corset was stuck