Chloe's Rescue Mission

by Dean, Rosie

  She stepped back and passed me a coffee.

  As I felt the hot and disappointing instant coffee slide down my gullet, I said, ‘Do you remember that time A-May went on stage with the back of her skirt tucked into her knickers? If only we had a picture of that to auction.’

  On Thursday morning, a taxi drew up outside Juniper Cottage to collect me.

  It reminded me of the morning, just over a year ago, when Mum had driven me to Heathrow. This time I was only going for three days but, same as last year, Warren didn’t know I was going so couldn’t follow me. Even though our meeting on Tuesday had been civil and his motivation appeared genuine, I simply didn’t trust him; or maybe I didn’t trust myself. What if there was an infinitesimal part of me that might actually fall for his charms again?

  It really had been a sneaky way to get to see me. Why hadn’t he asked a colleague to make the first contact?

  I had yet to send the surveyor’s reports to him. I’d deliberately held them back on Tuesday – till I had confirmation of the company’s interest. I hadn’t heard another peep out of him since our meeting but that didn’t stop me from flinching every time the phone rang.

  How on earth had I ended up like this? Why had I lurched from one dysfunctional relationship to another?

  Brooding, handsome, bomb-shot drinking Jonathan had preceded Warren. Jonathan was in his second year at drama school when I was in my first. Jonathan, who had seemed so mature, so self-contained and the perfect antidote to his predecessor – Ben.

  Ben, like me, had been in his first year at drama school and was a livewire, a social networker – mad fun to be around. We met in the first week of term and I was drawn to him like a magnet. Lots of actors are confident in a social setting but he had a special type of banter – quick and funny without being hurtful. He’d pull your leg but you wouldn’t mind. And that twinkling smile of his…oh yes, I’d fallen for him on sight. It had taken a few meetings for him to ask me out – and by that I mean three nights on the trot in the Union Bar – but when he did, I thought I’d won the lottery.

  It was all whirlwind quick. Once the flirting revved up, and we realised we meant business, our exit from the bar would have rivalled Road Runner. We sprinted all the way back to his digs, scrambled up the stairs and fell, breathless, into his unmade bed. I’d never done anything so reckless in my life, which made it all the more thrilling. For days we would rush back after studio sessions to tumble around in his bed or mine.

  But nobody can keep up that level of activity.

  Correction. Chloe Steele couldn’t maintain such physical indulgence and follow the full first-term programme. Ben, on the other hand, must have been mainlining caffeine and possibly some other stimulant, because the minute I asked for time-out, I got it – only more time than I’d bargained for. Within an insultingly short space of time, (two days to be precise) he was doing his Billy the Whizz impression, up Market Street, with a cocktail waitress called Suki.

  Is it any wonder I next gravitated to the dark, handsome, second-year student who was, in our microcosmic world, revered for his hypnotic performance of Prospero in The Tempest? I hadn’t seen it, but I could imagine it. When we finally did date – God, that took a lot of effort because Jonathan wasn’t easy to land – I persuaded him to give me Prospero’s final soliloquy.

  That was his home run. He bedded me straight after.

  Months later, when Jonathan hurled verbal abuse at me in the Union Bar, I gave him my final speech. ‘Jonno, enough! We’re finished.’

  I decided then, that if a man looks mean and moody – he probably is.

  I dozed in the car, and woke as we came to a halt on a small airfield. I’d assumed we would leave from one of the international airports. Instead, after a man in a navy suit had checked my passport, I found myself being directed to a private jet. Stopping at the bottom of the short run of steps, I took a few deep breaths to calm my pulse.

  Duncan was already on board and seated in one of the leather chairs. He was dressed casually, and had a laptop on the table in front of him. He smiled. ‘Afternoon, Chloe. Come and sit yourself down.’ I made my way along the narrow aisle to sit opposite him.

  ‘So,’ he fixed his gaze on me. ‘Are you ready to do some major networking?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve put together a bunch of information packs and I’ve got my ‘elevator pitch’ down to about eighteen seconds.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘You do realise, probably your greatest asset is your personality. They say people buy people.’

  I nodded slowly, absorbing that little comment. I was here because he’d ‘bought’ me, which could have an upside or a downside. I shifted in my seat. ‘I was studying the list of conference delegates, yesterday, getting some background on them. Quite impressive.’

  ‘I’ll go through them with you later. There are some who I think will be more amenable than others. But tell me, how did your meeting with that other potential backer go?’

  He must have read the website, because I hadn’t told him about King Lloyd Holdings. ‘Ah, that.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘Old friend, thinks he might be able to swing a deal with his company to help us with the construction.’

  ‘How exactly – do the work, provide the funds?’

  ‘Something like that. It was a bit vague. I’m waiting for him to come back with their proposals.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s an old friend. Maybe his intentions are more generous than those of his company.’ I wasn’t about to bare my soul on this subject.

  There was a heavy ‘thunk’ as the pilot closed the cabin door. I fastened my seatbelt and watched while Duncan folded his laptop away. Within minutes we were airborne, the green countryside retreating slowly beneath us. I shut my eyes. There might have been thirty whole minutes when I’d slept last night but for the rest of the time, I’d been trying to find a comfortable position and quieten my mind. Maybe I could catch a quick snooze now – my head felt woolly enough.

  The next moment, my stomach plunged as the plane suddenly rose in the sky and dropped again very quickly. My eyes flashed open and found Duncan’s steady gaze. He nodded, ‘You okay?’

  My stomach performed another somersault. I swallowed. ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘Nasty bit of turbulence,’ he said. ‘I expect we’ll be through it soon.’

  Swoop and soar!

  I clutched at the armrests of my seat. Now would not be a cool time to confess to motion-sickness. I wasn’t usually affected on proper airlines unless the turbulence was catastrophic.

  Swoop!

  I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes again, humming quietly to myself.

  ‘Chloe, give me your hands.’

  I opened my eyes again. Duncan was forward on his seat, holding his hands out to me. What was his game? We hadn’t even got to the his’n’hers suite, yet.

  Soar and swoop!

  ‘Here!’ he said, more firmly.

  I lifted my arms and placed my hands on the table. He took each one in his own and turned them over. I watched in confusion as he slid his thumbs along the inside of my wrists and pressed them into the soft tissue between the tendons. There was a slight crease between his brows and, up this close, I could make out a birthmark close to his hairline.

  He looked up. ‘This is an acupressure point. It helps stop motion-sickness.’

  I nodded, too stunned to speak.

  He smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the colour drain from someone’s face quite so quickly. But if you think you are going to be sick, we have bags for that.’

  I nodded again. The nausea subsiding – more through shock, I suspected, than alternative therapy. I stared at his hands. They were warm and strong. I sat mesmerized, like a volunteer in a hypnotist’s stage show.

  The plane did another roller-coaster impression and my hands clutched at his forearms. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Feeling sick?’

  ‘I’ll survive, but I’ll be glad
when it calms down.’

  He frowned. ‘You and me both.’

  I’ll just bet he was. The prospect of Chloe going one-two-three-retch all over his classy jet would be enough to piss anyone off.

  The turbulence only lasted a few more minutes and, once the pilot announced we could remove our safety belts, Duncan released my wrists and retrieved his laptop, before immersing himself in some work. I slid my arms across my waist, and hugged them to me; the impression of his fingers still firmly indented on them.

  I focused on the table for several minutes, until I dared to make a brief study of his seriously handsome face, which now peered intently at the contents of his laptop screen. It was the same face I’d seen back at the TV studios, and the same face I’d watched laughing at Mum’s stories. But now, I had a sneaking suspicion, it was the face that would fuel my imagination for the rest of the trip. Much against my better judgement.

  Chapter 7

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ I muttered to myself as I stood on the balcony of my room. I was looking out over the hillside stretching down to the town of Sitges. The sun’s rays were seeping through the sleeves of my blouse and warming my skin. This wasn’t exactly the his-n-hers suite Beth had predicted but the quality was excellent and the view spectacular. What a shame I only had a couple of days here.

  The moment we’d arrived at the hotel, Duncan had excused himself to attend a meeting but suggested I take a tour of the exhibitors in the Sala Picasso, so I could familiarize myself with the different companies before I set about schmoozing them.

  Despite being geared up for my first foray into schmoozing my prospective investors, I was faced with exhibition stand engineers and frazzled technicians – not a mover or a shaker amongst them. Not even the twitch of a corporate dynamo with deep pockets. But I was able to suss out the scale of the venue and where the Big Boys were located. Plus, I garnered a small library of leaflets to help cure my insomnia.

  By the time I was through touring the exhibition stands, I needed a drink. The terrace outside was dotted with tables and umbrellas. I wanted time to soak up a little of the atmosphere so I sat at a table in the evening sun.

  When the waiter appeared, I asked for a tinto de verano – an ice cool glass of red wine and lemonade would slip down nicely.

  Across from me, bougainvillea in clashing colours of magenta, cerise and apricot were scrambling over the terrace walls. It reminded me of the tropical climes of Costa Rica.

  I loved to travel. My first trip abroad was at the age of six. Dad took us camping in Gascony. Not wildly exotic but different all the same. I was fascinated by the fields of giant sunflowers, their faces turned up to the heat of the sun. I used do the same because it brought out my freckles. Being six years old, I liked freckles – as opposed to Mum who slapped sun-block on me with irritating regularity. I hated the stickiness of sun-block, and it tasted bitter.

  Camping was a huge adventure to me. Dad made it even more so, involving us in everything from erecting the tent to barbecuing sausages. On our return journey, we had a stop-over in the Loire valley and visited Chateau de Chambord – the biggest, most spectacular castle in France. I thought I’d been transported to a magical realm, with its symmetry, its towers and the beautiful reflections in the water. I drove my family nuts, swanning about like a princess. In my imagination, the castle was my home. I would return to it in my schoolgirl dreams, again and again. For my birthday, Mum and Dad gave me the most gorgeous princess costume, complete with tiara and cape. I wore it every chance I could. I battled daily to wear at least part of it to school but Mum wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s for special occasions. If you wear it to school, it won’t be special any more.’ But on October 7th, she acquiesced and I wore the whole outfit to my Dad’s ‘special celebration’. I felt so important that day, and everyone told me how pretty I looked.

  It took months for it to sink in that Dad wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.

  Leaning back, I ran my fingers over the pressure points Duncan had massaged earlier. That was some trick. And not just the anti-sickness therapy. Swear to God, there’d been a fleeting moment when something else was brewing. When our eyes connected, my temperature had flared and shivers rippled up my spine. And I reckon there’d been a glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes as he’d spotted my reaction. Then, bam! It was like a shutter slamming down. Like he knew he’d rung my bell and that’s all he needed to do.

  No wonder he had such a reputation.

  And I couldn’t deny his magic was working on me. Mind you, that wasn’t surprising. According to a recent article in Glamour, I was in my prime; hormones were coursing through my body like Atlantic salmon belting home to spawn.

  However, I seriously doubted Duncan had any interest in me on that level – after all, I was no catch. But just in case he had, I absolutely knew the challenge before me was to resist.

  I suspected Beth would have a different view but she’d always been the impulsive one. I had to keep my eye on the theatrical ball. Playboys were dangerous.

  Although…I had to admit, Duncan didn’t seem like that…which probably made him even more dangerous. ‘I will resist,’ I muttered to myself. God knows, I’d made enough bad choices over men in the past, now would be a really dumb time to fall for another unsuitable candidate. I aimed to get the theatre back on track and, after that my own life.

  My drink turned up in a tall, slim glass with condensation already forming. Three lumps of ice threatened to dilute the wine in the evening heat. I was thirsty so I knocked half of it back in one.

  My feet ached and I only had forty minutes to dress for dinner, when I would have to switch into Schmooze Mode. I closed my eyes and listened to the chirrup of birds over the chatter of delegates on the terrace. It was so good to feel the warmth of sun on my face. Oh to be in holiday mode…

  ‘Are you all sorted for tomorrow?’ Duncan’s body blocked the sun. I opened my eyes.

  ‘Yes thanks. How about you – is it all shaping up for a good event?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I raised my glass in a toast, and took a slug. A block of ice smacked me in the teeth, sloshing tinto over my face. I lurched forward.

  Duncan, being a true gent, laughed. ‘Careful,’ he said, handing me a paper napkin.

  I frowned. I wasn’t mad keen on public humiliation, unless scripted and rehearsed for a paying audience.

  He sat down, which was a pity as I was intending to neck the remaining drink and leave. He was still smiling. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, mopping my chest.

  A waiter appeared with a glass of beer for Duncan. Then the waiter relieved me of the wine-soaked napkin and asked if I’d like another drink.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Duncan reached into the pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Your delegate list,’ he said, handing it to me. I opened it out. Bless him, he’d highlighted a bunch of names in pink and several others in green. ‘The pink ones are my hot favourites. I think you’ve a good chance of getting them on side. The green ones are possibles. The others…’ he shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe you can work on them.’

  ‘This is fantastic. Thank you.’

  ‘Speaking as a businessman, you want to keep your pitch simple and make it relevant. Find some way the company you’re talking to could have a stake in what you’re doing. Let them know how you’ll spend their money and tell them it’s urgent. You don’t want them fobbing you off and sitting on the idea for months. If they can’t help now, you need to know.’

  ‘Would it help to say we’ll have their logos mounted on the theatre walls – a sort of permanent advert for them?’

  ‘It might. But is that what you want – some indigestion brand slapped on the theatre wall, or worse?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll win a few of them round,’ he said.

  He glanced at his watch, prompting me to look at mine. Sevent
een minutes to shower and change for dinner. At my audible gasp, he said, ‘Drinks are at eight, dinner’s not till eight-thirty.’

  ‘Great. Better go. See you later.’

  He raised his glass to me and, I suspect, watched me walk away, which I’m glad to report, I managed without tripping over a stray leaf.

  Marlean had suggested a cocktail dress for this evening and one full length for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Because I wanted to make an impact, I’d raided Mum’s vintage wardrobe, choosing one in several shades of coral that she’d worn in a production of The Boyfriend.

  I kept my hair loose since I planned on giving it the works for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Left to mother nature and a slew of expensive ‘product’ not to mention judicious use of a curling iron, my hair ‘tumbled’ as Mum described it, in corkscrew curls. As a child, I’d hated my hair. If only I’d gown up through the eighties, I’d have been the envy of all my friends but the nineties gave us Friends and The Rachel, making hair straighteners de rigueur. Lord knows, I’d worked my way through enough of those. Thankfully, as I grew taller, my body balanced out the weight of the curls but it didn’t stop me wishing for a cute, blonde, pixie crop that I could just run my fingers through after a shower. I wanted to look like Carey Mulligan, which is a shame because she’s at least two sizes smaller, two inches taller and seldom brunette.

  I checked the contents of my evening bag and headed downstairs.

  There was a hum of chatter at the bar and a waiter stood handing out glasses of sherry over ice. I wasn’t mad for sherry but when in Spain…

  Ahead of me was a chap in a navy and white striped shirt, navy chinos and super-shiny leather shoes. Was he approachable? I wondered, just as his head swivelled in my direction. I flicked my smile switch and headed for him.

  ‘Good evening, I’m Chloe Steele from the Joshua Steele Theatre project,’ I began.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said in the sexiest French accent. He held out his hand to shake mine. ‘Philippe Beaumont from BVA, we’re a travel company.’