by Dean, Rosie
Duncan.
For the umpteenth time since last night, I witnessed an involuntary action-replay of our glorious kiss – followed by our not-so-glorious disagreement. I closed my eyes. His accusation that I might be deliberately trying to ensnare him for publicity was like a blow to the solar plexus. How could my motives have been so horribly misconstrued?
‘He’s arrogant, egotistical, self-important…Oooh!’
Had I given such a bad impression he could even think me capable of it?
I drew a deep breath. Well. This was a first: Chloe Steele – femme fatale. That was usually Beth’s role.
I let out another groan. I’d really enjoyed dancing with him and I’d relished every moment of our few moments in the garden. It had been as delicious as it had been unexpected.
Okay, I might have fantasised about something like it before – but then, I’d also fantasised about winning an Oscar and marrying Prince Harry. I wasn’t used to my fantasies becoming a reality. Correction: I wasn’t used to reality exceeding my fantasies.
Running my tongue over my top lip, I savoured the memory. Everything – the location, the dance, his hands on me, his voice when he said my name, had primed me perfectly for the moment when he’d so expertly done the deed.
I let out a yelp of frustration. He had taken the lead. ‘It’s not as though I slipped Rohypnol in his drink and forced myself on him,’ I told my breakfast.
And, despite anything he might say to the contrary, I was absolutely certain he had been completely engaged in it too, unless he was an even better actor than half my friends. In the cool light of day, the memory of that kiss was seriously tainted by his unpredictability.
I poured myself some tea and gazed out of the window. Whatever the case, he was right about one thing – not mixing business with pleasure made total sense.
I hoped, over time, I would prove I wasn’t the game-playing kind of girl he might imagine me to be. After all, actions speak louder than words. No matter how much I’d discovered that I was drawn to Duncan on a personal level, my prime objective was to put the theatre back on its feet, and then my own life.
Across the room, propped up on the dressing table, was one of the theatre flyers. On it, there was a picture of Grandee looking enigmatic in his role as Hamlet. The picture had been taken before I was born. The face I remembered, had been etched with lines from over forty years of assuming different characters. I’d been just six when my own father had died, and it was Grandee Joshua who had taken us on. He always said it was his most fulfilling role.
I smiled to myself, a familiar tug of affection constricting my throat. ‘Don’t worry, Grandee. I won’t let you down.’ I placed my hand over my heart. ‘And that’s a promise.’
Sniffing, I returned to my breakfast. A courtesy English newspaper was folded on the tray. Having laden my toast with butter and jam, I opened it up and began to read. That toast was good.
I turned a page, gasped and choked.
In the top of the gossip column, it read: ‘Dunc Juan’s New Leading Lady’. Right beneath it, was a picture of me and Duncan leaving the dance-floor, his arm snugly wrapped around me, our heads leaning together – looking for all the world like an item. And below, a more grainy but intimate picture of us in the garden, locked in a kiss with his hands on my backside. According to the report, I was ‘very happy’ and ‘looking forward to spending more time with Duncan’.
‘Bollocks!’
Chapter 12
My heart was flipping around in my chest like a fish in a net. Aside from the shock and humiliation was the knowledge that Duncan would feel totally justified in the accusations he’d made.
There was no way I wanted him believing I’d engineered it. I was just as much a victim as he was.
I needed to speak to him.
Leaping up and rifling through my bag for my phone, I flipped it open. A realisation hit me – I didn’t have Duncan’s number. Yes, I had a number for Thorsen Leisure but nothing for him. Damn! What room was he in? I snatched up the hotel phone and rang reception.
‘Please can you put me through to Mr Thorsen’s room.’
‘I’m sorry. Mr Thorsen has already left.’
My brain stalled. Left? Without me?
‘Is he playing golf?’
‘I don’t believe so. We have a message in reception for you, would you like me to send it up?’
A message. A Dear Chloe…
‘Yes. Thank you.’
I dropped the phone back on its cradle and closed my eyes. My stomach clenched uncomfortably around the fried breakfast. The ache in my brain spread into my neck. Outside, a huge cloud swallowed up the sun.
Two days ago, I’d sat with him on the aeroplane, brim-full with optimism and now, now I felt…well…abandoned. That was it. I felt as if I was no longer on his team. And it hurt.
When the message was delivered, I took it onto the balcony. I needed some fresh air. Ms. Chloe Steele was typed neatly on the envelope. I tore it open and yanked out the note.
It was on hotel paper – also typed.
Dear Chloe,
I have made arrangements for you to return to Bristol on a scheduled flight. There will be a car waiting to take you back home to Barnworth. Details below.
My apologies for having to leave earlier than planned. Marlean will contact you about the theatre project.
Regards,
Duncan.
I wondered if it had always been his intention to ship me home like that. Surely not. He’d been so open in his conversation – he would have said something.
I re-read the note: My apologies for having to leave earlier than planned. He had planned on flying home with me but I guessed last night’s little drama had changed his mind. And even if it hadn’t, one look at the morning’s newspapers would have clinched it.
Folding the note and replacing it in the envelope, I gazed at the view.
When I thought about it, my indignation began to subside. Hadn’t I publicly offered to ‘sell myself’ for the theatre? And since Duncan was clearly accustomed to attracting the fame-hungry variety of female, why wouldn’t he tar me with the same brush?
How quickly things changed.
My car to the airport would be leaving at ten-thirty. I scanned my room, taking in the detritus from the last twelve hours: empty miniature bottles, discarded clothes, scattered make-up, business cards and now, this morning’s breakfast and the crumpled newspaper. Dropping the envelope into the bin, I peeled off my robe and headed for the shower.
Saturday afternoon at Bristol Airport was busy. I dragged my battered old suitcase from the conveyor belt and headed out. As I scanned the taxi drivers waiting with name boards, there was a flurry of flashing lights and cries of, ‘Chloe, over here!’ ‘Chloe, how’s Duncan?’ ‘Give us a smile, Chloe!’
Mike, who drove me to the airport on Thursday, hurried forwards. ‘Sorry about all this, Chloe.’ He picked up my case. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about this pack of hooligans. If I were you, I’d smile.’
But I didn’t want to smile. That would look exactly like I was pleased with the attention – and I wasn’t. I bit my lip and stayed close to Mike, practically diving head-first into the car when we reached it.
Drizzle was falling, from a sky that was an ominous shade of purple in the west. I turned my phone on and immediately saw three missed calls. I rang my messaging service.
The first was from Beth. ‘What did I tell you? Dunc Juan didn’t get that reputation for nothing. You lucky mare! Can’t wait to see you and hear all the juicy gossip. Ciao!’ The second was Gemma. ‘Hi Chloe. Nice to see the publicity train’s already rolling. Good for you! Call me when you’re back in the UK. Loved the dress, by the way – best rear view since Pippa Middleton.’
With my heart hammering in my throat, I waited for the third message – it was bound to be Duncan.
‘Hi Chlo. Nice photos. D’you want me to put them on the website?’
I snapped the phone
shut.
I’d sought publicity. I’d even wanted to dance with Duncan. Hell, I’d wanted more than to dance with him. Now I was scrunched down in the back of a car, contemplating all manner of disguises to avoid a repeat of the scene at the airport. Who had tipped the press off in the first place? The most likely candidate was Gemma – although it seemed a pretty dirty trick to play on someone you were intending to promote legitimately. No, surely not Gemma. Then it had to be that slime-ball, Ross. And did photographers spend their days lurking around airports in the hope of a scoop – or had they been tipped off?
Thoughts were sparking off in my brain. The family phone wasn’t even ex-directory, anyone could call me or, worse still, drop in unannounced. I rang Mum.
‘I’ll be home in an hour or so. Have any reporters been in touch?’ I asked as soon as she picked up the phone.
‘No, darling. Will you be bringing Duncan?’
‘Nooo!’ I moaned. ‘See you later,’ I added, over Mum’s ‘What a pity.’
Thankfully, traffic on the motorway was moving well. I just wanted to be tucked away in the Cotswolds, hidden from public view. I stopped nibbling at the side of my thumbnail and leaned forward.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to Mike. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have Duncan’s phone number, would you?’
He glanced at me in the mirror. ‘If I did, it would be more than my job’s worth to hand it over.’
‘Is that specifically to me – or to anyone?’
He smiled. ‘To anyone.’
Now I chewed my lip and stared out of the window for a moment. I looked back. ‘Okay, I accept you can’t give me his number – but could you phone him for me and let me speak to him.’
He glanced at me again.
I pressed on. ‘Please. There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding and I can’t bear to wait until Monday to clear it up.’ If I waited until Monday it could be even worse. ‘Please, if you can phone him, will you?’
I could tell he was considering it. I sent up a silent plea to Grandee to give him a nudge in the right direction.
It worked. ‘I wouldn’t do this for anyone, you know. But I thought your grandfather was a smashing actor.’
I could have cried with gratitude. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘No worries.’
He touched the Bluetooth headset clinging to his ear and after a moment, said, ‘Call DJT.’
In the back, I was clutching my hands together so hard I could’ve broken my own knuckles.
‘Afternoon, Duncan, Mike here.’
I swallowed. I was one small step closer to clearing things up.
‘Yes, I did. Actually…Miss Steele was wondering if she could speak to you.’
I strained to hear the response, but Mike’s ear-hole was very absorbent.
‘Right. I see. Certainly. One moment.’
Mike glanced in the mirror at me. ‘He says, can he call you later?’
I frowned. ‘Of course.’
Mike gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘She’d be very grateful if you would.’ He closed the connection. ‘He’s quite a busy man, you know.’
I nodded. ‘Thanks, Mike’
The truth was, Duncan probably didn’t really want to speak to me at all. I settled back into the seat and closed my eyes.
*
Duncan stood at the polished granite breakfast bar at his apartment in Bath, slowly beating his pen on the newspaper.
He’d come home early because he had needed to put some distance between himself and Chloe. He didn’t play around with nice girls. Life was much simpler when he kept his socialising on a shallow, superficial level. The type of women he met on his social circuit wanted to be seen with him, and it suited him just fine. Sure, some of them were intelligent and entertaining but every one of them was on the circuit with a similar set of motives and they knew the rules. He had two principles where dating was concerned: only when the occasion called for it and absolutely no strings attached. Last night he’d come bloody close to breaking the rules. And, more alarming, something within him still wanted to. Perhaps he was finally tiring of this self-imposed discipline. He couldn’t believe it was entirely down to Chloe’s particular brand of charm.
Now, he was trying to decide if she was capable of selling out to the press. He supposed so – she’d sold her services on TV, after all. And why had she asked Mike to call him – to offer an explanation or to do a deal? If it were the latter – well, she would just have to do it on his terms and in his time.
He threw his half-drunk coffee down the sink. What he needed was a good workout. He changed into t-shirt and shorts, pulled on his trainers and went into his training room. He stepped onto the running machine and, as his feet pounded the conveyor belt, he nudged the speed up by gradual increments. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow. While he was training he could think – solve problems. Some of his best solutions came to him when he was training. Chloe was today’s problem but no matter how much he sought an answer, her image just seemed to swim back into his thoughts, as if goading him to fail.
Faster. Damn it. He was not going to be beaten.
Forty minutes later, as he rubbed the moisture from his face with a towel, he’d come to a decision.
Chapter 13
I hadn’t even put my key in the lock when the door was flung open by my mother who hauled me inside. ‘Darling, what a momentous week for you!’ She slammed the door and took my bag from me. ‘Come and sit down while I make you some tea. And we’ve got lemon drizzle cake, too.’ She propelled me towards the kitchen.
‘Hang on, Mum.’ I baulked. ‘What’s going on?’
Kandy was out in the back garden, barking her head off to come in.
‘You look like you need a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Then you can tell me all about your trip…and everything.’
I walked through the kitchen to let Kandy in, who bounced up at me as if I’d been gone a month not two nights. Sitting down at the table I watched Mum pulling down china mugs, humming busily as she did so.
‘Mum. If you think there’s a massive romance building, forget it. Whatever you’ve heard about last night, forget it. I’m going to,’ I lied, massaging the dog’s ears.
‘I won’t mention it at all, sweetheart,’ she said, humming some more and slicing lemon for her own tea.
I sat back against the wall. I knew Mum was itching to hear the details. It was a wonder Beth hadn’t taken root, rather than miss a word of the story. I looked into the hall. ‘Why are the curtains closed? Have the press been snooping round?’
‘Are they closed? Oh, I hadn’t noticed.’ She put a wedge of cake onto a plate and placed it on the table in front of me. ‘How’s that?’ She smiled at me and stroked my cheek.
I glanced at the cake. ‘Looks lovely.’
More humming.
‘Mum. Something’s going on, and I’m not touching this cake till you’ve told me what it is.’ I didn’t much feel like eating anyway.
Mum took her hand from the kettle and tugged on the hem of her blouse. She turned and looked me in the eye. ‘I had a visit from Warren, this morning.’
I dropped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. ‘What did he want?’
‘He said he was passing and thought he’d drop his proposal in.’ She pointed to an envelope on the table. ‘I told him you were away on business, and he said, “I know,” rather pointedly. Of course, there was nothing in my paper about your…’ she wind-milled one hand, ‘whatever it was with Duncan…but Beth rang to tell me about it.’
No surprises there.
I shook my head slowly. ‘Did Warren say if he’s planning on dropping by later?’
‘No. I told him you were away till Monday. I thought it would give you time to recover. And by then he’ll be back in Birmingham.’
Kandy flinched as I let out a yell of frustration. ‘I wish we didn’t have to lie to him. But it still feels like he’s trying to control my bloody life and he’s not even part of it any more. Is i
t any wonder I ran away last time?’ I picked up the fruit bowl and plonked it on top of the envelope. ‘I’ll read it later.’
Mum let out a heavy sigh. ‘There’s always the option of a restraining order.’
‘On what grounds? Offering to help the theatre out in a crisis?’ I shook my head, and jumped as my mobile rang. ‘If this is him…’ I pulled the phone from my pocket and passed it to Mum. ‘Can you answer it and tell whoever it is, I’m out of the country?’
‘Good afternoon,’ she said after opening it. She smiled. ‘I’m very well, thank you. Yes, wasn’t it? Of course, just one moment.’ She put a thumb over the microphone. ‘It’s Duncan.’
I groaned and held my hand out.
Mum was busy removing varnish from one of the car-boot dining chairs, as I paced up and down the garden. The buzz of the electric sander was oddly soothing. Normality. That’s what this was. Although, at any minute, I expected a camera lens to poke through the hawthorn hedge on one side and Warren to vault over the other.
Duncan was coming to see me. There was no chat in his phone call, just a token greeting followed by his declaration that we needed to talk. When I’d tried to protest my innocence about the newspaper article, he’d said abruptly, ‘Not over the phone, Chloe.’
Did that mean his phone was bugged? Worse still, was mine?
I paced some more. Kandy was watching me with one eye – just in case a decent walk might be in the offing. The sander became silent. Mum dragged her sleeve across her face to remove the dust. ‘Chloe, darling, why don’t you pop my spiky gardening shoes on and aerate the lawn while you’re at it?’
I stood still. It was no good. There was at least another hour to kill before Duncan would be here. ‘Mum, remember all those old wigs of yours – do you still have them?’
