‘Skye!’ exclaimed Sinclair. ‘When my father was alive we went there once a year. I love it there. How about you?’
‘I don’t remember much about it. I was quite young, and it rained a lot,’ said Rose, deliberately vague. ‘My father went fishing, and Mother and I visited woollen mills.’
‘Did your father do much fishing?’ he asked with interest.
‘Yes. When he could. Trout, like you.’ She went cold for a moment. ‘I saw the books on your shelves,’ she said hurriedly, and went on talking to cover her blunder. ‘Dad made the most beautiful flies. He’d sit with a special little vice at the kitchen table, listening to opera tapes while he created tiny works of art. I still have some of them. The fishing flies, I mean. His rods were sold.’
The grasp tightened. ‘You still miss him.’
‘I miss them both.’ Rose hesitated. ‘But it comforts me to know that they’re together.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Because I need to believe it.’
There was silence between them for a while.
‘My father died when I was twelve,’ said Sinclair abruptly.
Rose sat perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. In her wildest dreams she’d never imagined he’d confide in her in return.
‘He died in his sleep,’ he went on. ‘When my mother woke up one morning he was just—gone. Dad was a workaholic with a heart problem. Fatal combination.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Rose tightened her fingers in sympathy.
‘When I was eighteen my mother married again. He’s a good man, and they’re happy together. But…’ he paused.
‘You feel left out?’
He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve never thought of it in quite those terms, but, yes, I suppose I do. That’s why I applied for a college down here. I could have gone to Edinburgh or St Andrews, but I opted to get right away to leave the newlyweds in peace. I even took off for a year between school and college. Went backpacking round Australia.’
‘Sounds wonderful. I’ve never done anything adventurous like that,’ said Rose enviously. ‘Do you mind? That your mother remarried, I mean?’ Then she held her breath, afraid she’d trespassed.
But Sinclair shook his head. ‘No. I don’t mind at all. She waited until I was ready to leave home, though Donald would have married her long before then from choice. My mother was only fortyish when they finally tied the knot. And even in a son’s eyes a very attractive lady.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Donald’s a successful advocate, and a very self-contained sort of bloke, but it was obvious, even to me, that he was mad about my mother from the moment he met her. Still is. Mother sold our home when she moved in with him. His house is a big, rambling place, and there’s a room in it kept solely for me, but I can’t help feeling like a visitor there—’ He stopped dead, shaking his head.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t believe I’m telling you all this stuff. I don’t usually bore people rigid with my life history.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You must be a very good listener, young Rose.’
Now, she thought reluctantly, would be a good time to leave. She detached her hand gently and got up. ‘I’d better leave you to your books. Thank you for breakfast, and—and for talking to me.’
Sinclair got to his feet and stretched, suddenly so overpoweringly male in the small room Rose felt a sudden urge to run, like an animal scenting danger.
‘The average man doesn’t need much persuading to talk about himself,’ he said wryly.
‘Average’ was the last word Rose would have applied to Sinclair. ‘I must go—or should I help you wash up first?’
He ruffled her hair, smiling. Like petting a puppy, she thought, resigned.
‘I’ve got a better idea. Stay and have some more tea. It’s still hissing down out there.’
Rose glanced at the window. ‘You’re right. OK. Then I really must get back.’
‘Rose, it’s only half-eight, and it’s Sunday. What’s the rush?’
‘I must be keeping you from your work.’
‘I’ve got the rest of the day for that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or is there someone waiting for you?’
He didn’t like the idea!
‘A playmate of my own age, you mean?’ she said, smiling.
‘Hell, Rose, you’re not that much younger than me,’ he said irritably, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there someone?’
Afraid he might wash his hands of her if she even hinted there might be, Rose shook her head. ‘No. Only my flatmates. And I doubt if they’re even awake yet.’
‘Right.’ He picked up the kettle. ‘You sit there for a minute, and I’ll go and fill this again.’
‘Can’t I wash the plates, or something?’
‘I’ll let you off as it’s your first visit. Next time you can do the catering.’
Next time! Rose sat deep in thought after he’d gone. It seemed Con might be right. It actually was possible to deliberately rouse a man’s interest. Though it was impossible to imagine James Sinclair as any woman’s slave. Nor falling madly in love with Rose Dryden, either, however faithfully she followed the plan of campaign. But he was definitely taken with her a little bit. Enough to invite her back here, and coach her on the track. Which was way beyond anything she’d expected.
When Sinclair came back he gave her a searching look as he plugged in the kettle. ‘Where were you last night, Rose?’
‘Working.’
He frowned. ‘A part-time job? Where?’
‘No job. I was writing an essay. I went to the Cameo in the afternoon, then caught up with some work afterwards. Why?’
‘I noticed you weren’t in the pub. I wondered if you were ill.’ He made two more beakers of tea, and handed her one.
She shook her head, full of secret jubilation. ‘Since I’ve taken up running again I’m fighting fit.’
‘I said you would be. So what film did you see?’
‘They were showing a re-run of Manon des Sources. It’s one of my favourites,’ she added, crossing mental fingers.
His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Mine too. I never managed to catch the prequel—what was it called?’
‘Jean de Florette. That’s on this week for three days—then it’s Belle du Jour,’ Rose added hastily, afraid she’d been too obvious. She sighed. ‘Catherine Deneuve is so beautiful.’
Sinclair shrugged. ‘Not my type. I prefer my women dark.’
‘Sounds as though you own a harem,’ said Rose flippantly, and drained her mug to avoid looking at him.
‘Your face is very expressive, Rose,’ he teased. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I just wondered if you had someone—a girl, I mean—back home. Which is absolutely none of my business, of course,’ she added in a rush, wishing she’d held her tongue.
‘I don’t have a woman back home, or anywhere else for that matter. The grapevine is absolutely accurate,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’ve got no time for girls.’
‘Which is a cue for this one to leave, if ever I heard one,’ she said promptly, and jumped to her feet. ‘Rain or no rain, it’s time I was off.’
He ran down the stairs ahead of her to fetch her shoes and slicker. ‘Shall I call a cab?’
‘No. The exercise will do me good.’
‘Hands up.’ He put the slicker over her head, then drew the hood over her hair. ‘See you on the track in the morning, then.’
Rose smiled non-committally as she stamped her feet into her damp track shoes. ‘Thanks again for my breakfast,’ she said, when he opened the front door. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, James,’ he corrected.
‘Everyone else calls you Sinclair,’ she pointed out, careful to pronounce it as he did.
‘Exactly.’
Rose smiled uncertainly. ‘Goodbye, then—James.’
‘See you in the morning. Don’t hang about on the way back, and straight in the shower when you get there.’
She saluted sma
rtly, gave him a cheeky grin, then took her bag from him and went off down the path at speed, turning to wave at him as he stood at the open door.
When she arrived at the flat, sodden, out of breath, and utterly triumphant, she dumped the dripping slicker in the bathroom, then went to join Con and Fabia.
‘Where on earth have you been until now?’ demanded Con.
Fabia eyed Rose’s glowing face with suspicion. ‘You can’t have been racing round that track all this time!’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Rose began stuffing her shoes with kitchen paper to dry them out. ‘There was so much surface water James said it was unsafe to run so he took me back to his digs for breakfast.’ She looked up, laughing at the identical look on both faces.
‘At his digs?’ said Con faintly. ‘Like in his room?’
Rose nodded gleefully. ‘His landlady was away for the weekend, and he’s the only lodger. We had the house to ourselves.’
Fabia blew out her cheeks and sat down abruptly. ‘You’ve cracked it, then!’
‘Hold on. I haven’t achieved that much,’ warned Rose. ‘James isn’t in love with me—’
‘Not yet,’ put in Con, eyes gleaming, ‘but he’s interested enough to ask you back to his place for breakfast.’
‘For which I was truly thankful,’ said Rose piously. ‘I think my efforts on the track entitled me to a couple of bacon sandwiches at the very least.’
‘Did you have to make them?’
‘No. James,’ she said with emphasis, ‘made them with his own fair hands.’
‘Did he ask you to call him that?’ demanded Con, impressed.
‘Yes. Sinclair to everyone else; James to me.’
‘So what happens next?’ said Fabia eagerly. ‘Has he asked you for a proper date?’
Rose’s face fell. ‘No. Though heaven knows I hinted enough—told him about the film we saw, and the one showing this week. He may like foreign films, but he’s not taking me to see one.’
‘Never mind. I think you’ve worked miracles as it is,’ consoled Con. ‘When do you see him again?’
‘He said he’d see me at the track in the morning, but I suppose I’d better give it a miss until Tuesday.’
Con shook her head. ‘If he wants to see you tomorrow, be there.’
‘Won’t that be overkill?’
‘No. This, my pet, is phase three. Time to hot things up.’
‘I just hope it doesn’t end in tears!’
Fabia frowned. ‘Why should it? It’s just a game.’
Rose thought about that a lot later that night, once she was in bed. Since the exchange of confidences with James it no longer felt like a game. Which lay on her conscience so heavily sleep was elusive. But next morning she got up early, just the same, and let herself out into a cold, but thankfully dry morning to join James at the stadium, smiling in welcome.
‘Hi! I’ve done my bit,’ he informed her. ‘Ready to try for an extra lap today?’
Rose nodded eagerly, went through a few warming-up exercises, then set off with him round the track. Under his tuition she found herself running a slightly faster circuit every time, exhilarated by her success, until halfway round for the fourth a sudden, stinging pain in her foot ruined her balance and she fell heavily, her momentum sending her rolling over and over to land flat on her back, completely winded.
‘Rose!’ James fell on his knees beside her. ‘What the hell happened? Are you all right?’
Rose had no breath to spare for talking. While she fought to get air in her lungs he ran his hands over her arms and legs, probed her ankles, found nothing broken and pulled her carefully to her feet.
‘Come on, breathe. Deep, even breaths. That’s the way. Good girl. Lean against me for a bit.’
Rose obeyed gratefully, heaving in gulps of air, but soon grew much too conscious of the heat and scent of his body, the heart beating like a drum against her cheek. She pulled away, smiling shakily. ‘Stupid—thing—to do. Sorry.’
‘There must have been water on the track,’ said James gruffly. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She nodded. ‘Embarrassed, that’s all.’
‘Here, take my arm. I’ll help you back to the flat.’
Rose stared at him, horrified. ‘No, please! You don’t need to. I’ll be fine.’
He scowled down at her. ‘Be sensible, Rose, you’re limping.’
‘There’s something in my shoe.’
James sat her down on the track and removed the shoe, swearing under his breath when he found a small nail sticking up inside it. He removed her bloodstained sock and located a puncture on the sole of her foot. ‘No wonder you fell, Rose. What the hell was something like this doing on the track?’
‘Maybe it got washed down from somewhere in that weather yesterday.’
‘In which case there may be more. I’d better report it. In the meantime you need a dressing. Wait there a minute. I’ll raid the first-aid box in the men’s showers.’
While he was gone one of his rugby team mates appeared for a morning run, and hurried to Rose in surprise.
‘What’s wrong, love? Sprained your ankle?’ said the large, amiable giant.
‘No, I trod on a nail,’ she confessed, feeling horribly self-conscious.
‘Bad luck! I’ll get you something to put on your foot,’ he offered, then stared in astonishment as James appeared.
‘Sinclair? A bit late in the day for you, isn’t it?’
‘Hi, Greg. Be careful on the track. There may be more like this.’ James held up the nail he’d taken from Rose’s shoe.
Greg looked on, riveted, as a sticking plaster was applied to Rose’s foot and her sock and shoe carefully replaced.
‘There,’ said James, pulling her to her feet. ‘Can you stand on it, Rose?’
She tried the foot gingerly. It was sore, but she could walk. ‘It’s fine,’ she said firmly. ‘Sorry for all the fuss.’ She gave a smile that encompassed both men. ‘Thanks a lot. I’d better get back. Bye.’
‘Look, I could easily carry a little thing like you back to campus,’ said Greg, with enthusiasm which evaporated as he met Sinclair’s ferocious glare.
‘It’s very kind of you, but I can manage. Really.’ Rose limped rapidly from the stadium in embarrassment, her morning utterly ruined.
When she got back to the flat the others were still in bed. Rose went off for a shower, choking back a sob as she dried herself. It had ended in tears after all. Because there’d be no more running for a bit. And no hope of seeing James again until she could.
Fabia burst in suddenly, scaring Rose to death. ‘Run—phone call.’
Wrapping herself in a towel as she ran, Rose flew to the sitting room, afraid something had happened to her aunt. ‘Hello?’ she gasped into the phone.
‘Rose? James.’
Her eyebrows shot to her hair. When she nodded silently in answer to the incredulous question in Con’s eyes her friend gave a triumphant thumbs-up sign, and whisked herself from the room.
‘Hi,’ Rose answered, when she had herself in hand.
‘I wanted to make sure you got back in one piece. How’s the foot?’
‘OK. The nail wasn’t big enough to go in very far.’
‘Good. But you’d better not run on it for a while.’
‘No.’
There was a pause.
‘Rose.’
‘Yes?’
‘You took off so suddenly I didn’t have a chance to ask just now.’ This time the pause stretched Rose’s nerves to breaking point. ‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ James asked at last.
Rose clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering. ‘No,’ she said after a pause of her own, hoping he thought she’d been leafing through her diary.
‘The French film you mentioned—’ He paused.
‘Jean de Florette?’
‘Right. I thought we might see it together.’
‘OK,’ she said, hoping she sounded casual.
‘Good. I’
ll pick you up outside the flat at seven.’
‘No need to come out of your way,’ she said quickly. ‘I can meet you at the Cameo.’
‘You can’t walk down here on that foot, Rose. I’ll fetch you in the car.’
Car?
‘See you later, then.’ She put the phone down in a dream.
‘What did he want?’ demanded Con, rushing in.
Rose turned dazed eyes on her friend. ‘He’s taking me to the Cameo tonight. In someone’s car.’
‘Fabia,’ yelled Con in triumph. ‘Get your self in here. Phase three is up and running!’
CHAPTER FOUR
ROSE came back to the present with an effort, annoyed to find she’d been daydreaming so long the bath water was cold and so was she. With no time to iron her original choice for the evening, she pulled on a black jersey dress with a long skirt slit to to the knee, and swiftly brushed the thick, glossy hair which these days stopped short just above her shoulders. She did her face with swift, practised skill Fabia Hargreaves would have been proud of, and as the finishing touch sprayed herself with perfume and slid her feet into low-heeled black suede shoes. Because Anthony Garrett was very conscious of his height, which at best could only be described as medium, Rose left her high heels at home when she went out with him.
On normal Saturdays Anthony usually arrived in Chastlecombe long before she closed the shop, and arrived to collect her punctually at eight. But by the time he rang her private doorbell that night he was almost an hour late.
‘Traffic bad, Anthony?’ said Rose, as they went upstairs. ‘Have a drink.’
‘Thanks. You’re an angel.’ He dumped a suitcase down, then slumped on Rose’s sofa with a sigh, looking tired, and consequently every year of his age for once. ‘Sorry I’m late. My blasted phone had run out of juice, so I couldn’t let you know I was held up by an accident. The Friday traffic was bad enough before then, but I’ve been crawling along for the past hour.’ He accepted the whisky gratefully and tossed it back in one swallow. ‘I needed that.’ He smiled up at her in appreciation. ‘You look wonderful, Rose.’
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