Read Online The Bridesmaid by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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eyes, but her hair, which was very long, nearly waist length, straight and smooth, was silver. Not blond, not grey, but silver, with here and there streaks of tarnish on it.
But perhaps the most remarkable thing about her to him, the most exciting thing, was her resemblance to Flora. Her face was Flora’s, the perfect oval contour, the straight, rather long nose which described an unbroken line from its tip to her forehead, the widely separated calm eyes, the short upper lip, the lovely mouth that was neither full lipped nor narrow. If that silver hair had been piled on to the back of her head and bound with ribbons, she would have been Flora’s image.
She carried herself with patient confidence. While the others fidgeted, patting their hair between camera shots, adjusting bra straps, resettling bouquets, Senta stood as still as a statue. She was as calm and unruffled as the marble girl, thought Philip, whom three days before he had managed to sneak into the house and up the stairs while Christine finished off a trim in the kitchen. Her figure alone was not Flora’s, her body’s bone structure delicate, her waist capable of being clasped in a pair of hands.
Then, as the photographer commanded them all to look at the camera and smile for the last time, she turned fully to face him and gave him an unwelcome shock. Her smile was horribly forced and unnatural, a grimace rather. It was almost as if she were deliberately mocking or sending up this whole rite. But surely she couldn’t be, surely that wasn’t a purposely ugly sneering grin? If it was, no one but he seemed to notice.
The photographer called out, “Lovely! Hold it, girls, this is positively the last one.”
The picture was taken, the record made. It would have its place, no doubt, along with the rest in Fee’s wedding album. Now Fee was left to pose alone for what the photographer called “two exclusive portraits of the lovely bride.” She had scarcely settled herself into position and allowed Stephanie to arrange the folds of her train when the door was pushed open and Hardy came in.
“Oh, I must have one shot with him,” Fee exclaimed. “Look at him, he’s so sweet. It’ll be quite all right to hold him, he’s just been shampooed.”
Two of the bridesmaids had seated themselves on the settee, which was pushed back against the wall, but white-faced Senta, her strange metallic hair now cloaking her shoulders, hesitated only for a moment and then walked slowly across the room to Philip. She walked as if she were a much taller woman, up straight with her head held high, but at the same time very gracefully. Before she spoke to him he looked at her mouth and thought it was the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen in a girl’s face. What could the voice that came from that mouth be like?
The lips parted. She spoke. “What a peculiar dog,” she said. “He has orange spots. He looks like a mini-Dalmatian.”
Philip said slowly, smiling at her, noticing something for the first time, “He matches your dress.”
“Did you do it on purpose?”
That made him laugh, her seriousness. “What happened was my mother splashed him a bit while she was tinting someone’s hair. It wouldn’t come out when she washed him.”
“I thought he must be some rare breed.”
He had expected a low voice, but hers was rather high-pitched, the vowels rounded and pure, the tone cool. She sounded as if she had been taught to speak instead of picking speech up. He noticed that the hands which held her absurd Victorian posy of orange tulip heads and pink carnations were very small and blunt nailed, like a child’s. She had turned upon him almost colourless eyes, clear as water in which a single drop of dye is spreading in streaks and whorls its dark greenness.
“Are you Philip? Are you Fee’s brother?”
“That’s right.” He hesitated. “I’m got up in all this gear because I’m giving her away.”
She said, speaking very precisely as if someone were
But perhaps the most remarkable thing about her to him, the most exciting thing, was her resemblance to Flora. Her face was Flora’s, the perfect oval contour, the straight, rather long nose which described an unbroken line from its tip to her forehead, the widely separated calm eyes, the short upper lip, the lovely mouth that was neither full lipped nor narrow. If that silver hair had been piled on to the back of her head and bound with ribbons, she would have been Flora’s image.
She carried herself with patient confidence. While the others fidgeted, patting their hair between camera shots, adjusting bra straps, resettling bouquets, Senta stood as still as a statue. She was as calm and unruffled as the marble girl, thought Philip, whom three days before he had managed to sneak into the house and up the stairs while Christine finished off a trim in the kitchen. Her figure alone was not Flora’s, her body’s bone structure delicate, her waist capable of being clasped in a pair of hands.
Then, as the photographer commanded them all to look at the camera and smile for the last time, she turned fully to face him and gave him an unwelcome shock. Her smile was horribly forced and unnatural, a grimace rather. It was almost as if she were deliberately mocking or sending up this whole rite. But surely she couldn’t be, surely that wasn’t a purposely ugly sneering grin? If it was, no one but he seemed to notice.
The photographer called out, “Lovely! Hold it, girls, this is positively the last one.”
The picture was taken, the record made. It would have its place, no doubt, along with the rest in Fee’s wedding album. Now Fee was left to pose alone for what the photographer called “two exclusive portraits of the lovely bride.” She had scarcely settled herself into position and allowed Stephanie to arrange the folds of her train when the door was pushed open and Hardy came in.
“Oh, I must have one shot with him,” Fee exclaimed. “Look at him, he’s so sweet. It’ll be quite all right to hold him, he’s just been shampooed.”
Two of the bridesmaids had seated themselves on the settee, which was pushed back against the wall, but white-faced Senta, her strange metallic hair now cloaking her shoulders, hesitated only for a moment and then walked slowly across the room to Philip. She walked as if she were a much taller woman, up straight with her head held high, but at the same time very gracefully. Before she spoke to him he looked at her mouth and thought it was the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen in a girl’s face. What could the voice that came from that mouth be like?
The lips parted. She spoke. “What a peculiar dog,” she said. “He has orange spots. He looks like a mini-Dalmatian.”
Philip said slowly, smiling at her, noticing something for the first time, “He matches your dress.”
“Did you do it on purpose?”
That made him laugh, her seriousness. “What happened was my mother splashed him a bit while she was tinting someone’s hair. It wouldn’t come out when she washed him.”
“I thought he must be some rare breed.”
He had expected a low voice, but hers was rather high-pitched, the vowels rounded and pure, the tone cool. She sounded as if she had been taught to speak instead of picking speech up. He noticed that the hands which held her absurd Victorian posy of orange tulip heads and pink carnations were very small and blunt nailed, like a child’s. She had turned upon him almost colourless eyes, clear as water in which a single drop of dye is spreading in streaks and whorls its dark greenness.
“Are you Philip? Are you Fee’s brother?”
“That’s right.” He hesitated. “I’m got up in all this gear because I’m giving her away.”
She said, speaking very precisely as if someone were
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