Husband for Real

by Catherine George

  ‘Thank you, kind sir. I rang the restaurant to say we were delayed, by the way, but they’re holding the table. Not,’ she added, ‘without reluctance.’

  Anthony frowned. ‘Why? We eat there often enough.’

  ‘It’s Valentine’s night.’

  He clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned. ‘Hell and damnation—I meant to buy you some flowers, but I forgot. My apologies again, Rose.’

  Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘In that case, Anthony, I take it you didn’t send me that card over there, either.’

  He eyed the card with unmistakable hostility. ‘No, I damn well did not. Who did?’

  ‘No idea.’ Rose went into the kitchen to fetch the rose. ‘This arrived, too.’

  Anthony jumped to his feet, scowling. ‘Your old pal Mark Cummings, I suppose.’

  So he hadn’t sent the rose, either.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Rose assured him. ‘We really ought to get going, Anthony.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He looked down at his rumpled suit with distaste. ‘Look, could I have a swift shower and change? I was too late to get to the King’s Head first.’

  Rose had been wondering about the suitcase. She waved him off to the bathroom, then stared down at the card again. If Anthony hadn’t sent it—not that she thought he had—who was her unknown admirer? If it was the joker with the heavy breathing the idea was so disturbing Rose found it an effort, later, to be bright, animated company over dinner in a restaurant which had pulled out all the stops for Valentine’s night. Anthony, smart in a new suit, did his best to make up for his late arrival, and ordered expensive wine to go with the meal. But when they reached the coffee stage he downed his accompanying cognac with uncharacteristic speed.

  ‘Rose,’ he said, leaning forward to avoid being overheard. ‘There’s something I want to ask.’ His eyes, still bloodshot from driving, locked with hers with an intensity which made her apprehensive.

  ‘In that case,’ she said lightly, ‘let’s go back to the flat. There’s too much noise here.’

  It was only a short walk back to the cobbled arcade where Dryden Books rubbed shoulders with shops which sold antiques and expensive clothes. But because Anthony made no attempt to talk on the way Rose felt on edge by the time she unlocked the private door alongside her double-fronted shop.

  ‘Coffee?’ she said brightly, when they reached the flat.

  ‘Not for the moment. Come and sit down.’ He took her hand and drew her down beside him on the sofa. ‘Look, Rose, we’ve been seeing each other on a regular basis for some time now,’ he began.

  ‘An occasional Saturday evening over the past month or two,’ she amended quickly, not liking the sound of this.

  ‘Almost three months,’ he corrected. ‘More than long enough for me to know my own mind, and, hopefully, yours.’

  Rose eyed him warily. ‘What’s this leading to, Anthony?’

  ‘Surely you can recognise a proposal when you hear one! I’m asking you to marry me,’ he said, and tried to kiss her, but she dodged away and went to sit in a nearby chair.

  ‘Why?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Why?’ Anthony stared at her, affronted. ‘Because I care for you, of course, and I believe we could be happy together. Don’t you enjoy time spent with me?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I had no idea you were thinking about marriage.’ Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me the truth, Anthony. Isn’t this sudden talk of marriage just a deep-seated need to show your ex-wife you can attract a younger woman?’

  ‘That’s unfair!’ Colour flooded into Anthony’s face, then receded again, leaving him pale. ‘In the beginning there was an element of that,’ he admitted at last, gaining her respect. ‘But it soon changed into something very different. When I saw that stupid card earlier I felt so jealous it stampeded me into wanting to make our relationship official.’ He looked at her in appeal. ‘Will you at least consider the idea of marrying me, Rose?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said gently.

  Anthony jumped to his feet, so obviously thunderstruck by her refusal he couldn’t sit still. ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘Is there someone else?’

  Rose sighed. ‘Not in the way you mean.’

  ‘What other way is there?’ he shot at her, pacing up and down. ‘I suppose it’s Mark Cummings. Your old pal with his sob story. Do you really want to tie yourself to a man with a failed marriage and a child—’ He stopped dead.

  ‘Both of those things apply to you, Anthony,’ she pointed out.

  ‘That’s different,’ he said, discomfited. ‘I’m legally divorced, at least, and Marcus is a teenager, not a toddler like the Cummings child.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Nevertheless, any marriage between you and me, Anthony, would present certain problems.’

  ‘If you mean Marcus, I don’t foresee any trouble there. He wouldn’t be living with us. Besides, he likes you, Rose.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ She eyed him questioningly. ‘But if, by any chance, I did consider marrying you, where would you expect me to live?’

  He frowned, taken aback. ‘Why, with me, naturally.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘It’s certainly could be. My life is here in Chastlecombe now, with friends and familiar faces round me, and a livelihood which gives me pleasure. And independence.’ Rose hesitated, then decided to tell him the truth. ‘But the major obstacle between us is a secret from my past.’

  Anthony’s eyes narrowed. ‘A secret?’

  Rose nodded, glancing involuntarily at the rose. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you talking about a lover?’

  She nodded. ‘Or to be more accurate, the consequences of having a lover.’

  He swallowed convulsively. ‘You mean you had a child?’

  ‘No, Anthony.’

  ‘Then, what is this mysterious problem?’

  She turned away wearily. ‘I can’t marry anyone at this moment in time, Anthony, because I’m still married to someone else.’

  ‘What!’ He spun her round, his face dark with anger. ‘And you’ve never seen fit to tell me?’

  Rose lifted her chin with sudden hauteur. ‘I’ve never told anyone. Ever. Not even Minerva. I wouldn’t have told you, believe me, if you hadn’t talked of marriage.’

  ‘What else did you think I had in mind at my age!’ he demanded furiously. ‘I’m too old to be your boyfriend—’

  ‘I think the word’s “partner” these days.’

  ‘Partner implies a hell of a sight more privileges than I enjoy,’ he snapped. ‘And now I discover there’s a whole area of your life I knew nothing about.’

  ‘Why should you? It’s my business entirely, Anthony. But if it’s any consolation, no one else knows, either.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting someone?’ he demanded. ‘This mysterious husband of yours?’

  Rose’s lips tightened. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten him.’

  Anthony threw out his hands. ‘Then what’s the problem? Won’t he agree to a divorce?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Why the hell not?’

  ‘I’ve never asked him.’

  Anthony exerted control with visible effort. ‘Rose,’ he said at last. ‘How old were you when you got married?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  He stared at her incredulously. ‘Ten years ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why in heaven’s name haven’t you got round to a divorce?’

  ‘Because our parting was so hostile I swore he’d be the one to ask first,’ said Rose with passion.

  ‘Why hasn’t he?’

  ‘No idea. It certainly wouldn’t have cost him financially.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I wouldn’t have touched a penny of his.’

  Anthony eyed her thoughtfully. ‘It sounds to me, Rose, as though you need to be free of this man, regardless of your intentions towards me.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  �
�Can you tell me about it?’

  Her face shuttered. ‘I’d rather not discuss it.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Rose.’ He hesitated. ‘Just answer one question, then I’ll go. Did you leave this man, or was it the other way about?’

  ‘I left him.’

  ‘Not that it matters, after all this time.’ Anthony gave her a bleak smile. ‘As you well know, I’m clued up about divorce. Mine, due to Marcus and the house, was more complicated. But are you aware that after ten years apart the court will grant you a divorce whether your husband agrees to it or not?’

  ‘Really?’ Rose frowned. ‘Then it’s strange that he’s never got round to divorcing me. Perhaps he has and forgot to notify me.’ She shrugged. ‘Or maybe he’s just forgotten he was ever married to me.’

  Anthony shook his head, looked depressed. ‘No man could forget he’d been married to you, Rose.’

  When she was alone at last Rose was amazed to find it was still a few minutes short of twelve, the time Anthony always left her. As far as the world knew, or cared, he could have been making mad, passionate love to her in the interval between dining together and his departure every time they met, but Anthony Garrett, deeply conventional at heart, always returned to the King’s Head before midnight. And until tonight had never attempted to put their relationship on a more intimate basis. For which she’d been grateful. She liked his company well enough in small doses, but there was nothing sexual in their relationship. On her side, at least. Nor did she mourn the lack. She’d been through all that before, and it had never turned out well for her.

  It could have been two in the morning by the way she felt when Rose got ready for bed. Desperate for sleep after the emotional drain of the past hour, she was about to switch off her light when her bedside phone rang. Thinking it might be Bel, to say she couldn’t get in next day, Rose picked up the receiver, then almost dropped it again when someone whispered her name and rang off. Hand shaking, she pressed buttons frantically, but the number had again been withheld.

  Trembling, and this time more frightened than she cared to admit, Rose pulled on her dressing gown and went to make herself some tea, then took it back to bed and sat propped up against all her pillows with the lights on, feeling furious as well as frightened. Just minutes ago she’d been struggling to keep awake long enough to get to bed, but the phone call had changed all that. Speculation on the identity of her caller would do no good at all. Probably give her nightmares. Rose sighed, resigned. There was one infallible way to occupy her mind, of course. Talking about her marriage to Anthony had brought it all back in full force. And perhaps this was a good thing. If she recalled the past so that every aspect of it was clear in her mind, it might make things easier when she broached the subject of divorce. As she should have done long since.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ROSE had forced herself to walk downstairs sedately for her first real date with James Sinclair. Refusing all offers of help from Con and Fabia, she’d worn her own clothes, made up her own face, and tied her hair back with a scarf in preference to anything more elaborate. But because none of this took very much time she was ready and waiting far too soon, and felt almost sick with suspense by the time James rang their bell to say he was waiting downstairs.

  Waved off by her friends as though she were going away on honeymoon, Rose found James leaning against an elderly sports car.

  ‘Hi,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Nice wheels.’

  He patted the bonnet possessively. ‘She’s been out of commission for a while, waiting for spare parts. I’ve just got her back from the garage.’ He held the door for her. ‘I put the hood up to make sure you stay dry for once tonight.’

  Knowing that Con and Fabia were glued to the window two floors up, watching them as they left, Rose huddled down in the bucket seat, simmering with the secret excitement that affected her from time to time in present company.

  ‘How’s the foot?’ James asked. ‘No infection?’

  ‘No. It’s fine. A bit sore, but I’ll live.’

  The lights had already gone down at the Cameo before they arrived. Once they were seated in the dark together Rose sat perfectly still, staring at the screen, hardly able to believe this was happening. Gradually her excitement subsided, allowing her to translate the subtitles sufficiently well to follow the plot. If James discussed it afterwards, she reminded herself, the so-called fan of foreign-language movies had better be able to make intelligent responses.

  When the film was over they went outside to find rain coming down in sheets again.

  ‘Can you run for the car on that foot, or shall I carry you?’ James asked as they stood in the foyer.

  ‘I can run,’ she assured him, and he took her hand and raced with her to the car.

  ‘It’s early,’ he said as he drove off. ‘Fancy a drink and a sandwich?’

  Did she!

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Rose with enthusiasm.

  ‘We could go to a pub, or you could come back to my place again, if you like,’ he said casually.

  ‘Your place,’ she said promptly. By some miracle they hadn’t seen anyone from college at the cinema, but it might be a different story if they went to a pub in the town. And Rose couldn’t endure the thought of other people watching them, speculating on their relationship. Which wasn’t a relationship, really. Not yet.

  When they arrived outside the familiar house the door flew open as James hurried Rose towards it, revealing an elderly lady with grey curly hair and a beaming smile of welcome.

  ‘I heard the car,’ she explained. ‘Come in quickly out of that rain. Now then, James, introduce me.’

  ‘Mrs Bradley this is Rose. Rose Dryden. She’s a student up at the college.’

  ‘How nice to meet you, my dear. Let me take that wet coat.’

  Rose murmured something polite, and obediently surrendered her jacket, feeling a little shy as James’s landlady cast an approving eye over her.

  ‘We decided on coffee and a sandwich here instead of a pub, Mrs B,’ said James, smiling.

  ‘I should think so, too, the prices they charge. There’s some ham in the fridge, James, and cheese and salad greens. Take what you want.’ Mrs Bradley gave them a motherly smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it, and get back to my television.’

  James took Rose into the immaculate, modernised kitchen at the end of the hall and handed her a loaf. ‘Can you cut bread?’

  ‘Not unless you want doorsteps. You slice, I’ll butter and fill.’

  ‘Done.’ He ruffled her hair indulgently, then took a selection of sandwich ingredients from the fridge and laid them out on the counter. ‘No bacon tonight.’

  ‘Which of this lot do you fancy?’

  ‘Everything.’

  While they discussed the film Rose assembled thin wafers of ham and cheese, watercress, chives and two varieties of lettuce, used some dressing she found in the fridge, then fastened the creations together with toothpicks James produced from a cupboard.

  When she’d finished Rose wasn’t given long to wonder where they were expected to eat. James put the platter of sandwiches on a tray, added a couple of plates, some linen napkins provided by his landlady for the occasion, then told Rose to go upstairs ahead of him to his room.

  So Mrs Bradley had no objection to female visitors.

  James eyed his guest closely as he switched on lamps. ‘What’s the matter, Rose? Would you prefer to eat down in the kitchen?’

  ‘Is that what you normally do?’

  ‘No. Apart from the Sunday roast I fetch my meals up here on a tray.’ He shook his head in mock reproof. ‘Stop worrying, Rose. You look good enough to eat, it’s true, but I promise I’ll restrict myself to the sandwiches. You could have chosen the pub instead of coming here,’ he pointed out.

  Crimson-faced, but comforted by the thought that at least she wasn’t sweaty with it for once, Rose smiled at him in contrition. ‘Sorry. I was just wondering about your Mrs Bradley’s views on female visitors.’

  �
��Pleased as Punch when I warned her that I might be bringing you back tonight. Apparently she thinks it high time I had a “nice young lady”.’ He put a sandwich on a plate and handed it to her. ‘Surely you’ve been in some other guy’s room on campus?’

  ‘Yes, but not on my own.’

  James waved her to the sofa and sat down beside her to eat. ‘I can’t believe one of those hopefuls buzzing round you hasn’t asked you out.’

  Rose nodded, mouth full.

  ‘Did you go?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Rose glared at him. ‘You ask a lot of questions!’

  James grinned. ‘Sorry, sorry. Just interested.’

  ‘Edgy, you mean, because I said yes to you but refused the others,’ she said bluntly.

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Straight between the eyes!’

  Rose went on with her sandwich, then gave him a sidelong look as he sobered. ‘I suppose it’s my turn to say “stop worrying”, now.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ he assured her. ‘But I can’t help wondering why I got lucky when the others didn’t.’

  Rose bristled. ‘Unlike you, they don’t share my taste in films.’ Then, casting caution to the winds she said, ‘And now you’ve brought the subject up, James Sinclair, your interest in girls is so famously non-existent how come I “got lucky”, as you so charmingly put it.’

  ‘Ouch—the rose has thorns!’ James gave her a very straight look. ‘Because you’re different. No artifice, no tricks. Not like a girl at all, in fact.’

  No tricks! Rose burned with guilt. ‘I’m a very normal sort of female,’ she warned him.

  ‘Don’t think I hadn’t noticed,’ he said dryly, and got up. ‘Which would you like, tea, coffee or beer?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ She pulled a face. ‘I drink lager when I go out, but I don’t really like it.’