by Dean, Rosie
Mum tilted her head, as if to say, What do you think? She never threw anything of sentimental value away. ‘Top of my wardrobe, on the right.’
The selection was diverse. I picked out a sleek, black bob. It was less conspicuous than the seventies Afro, the auburn curtain or the ditzy blonde froth. I brushed it. There were a couple of kinks in one side, so I steamed them out under a damp tea-towel on the ironing board.
Pulling on my mother’s baggy gardening fleece and a pair of Wellington boots over my jeans, I wandered back out to the garden and whistled to Kandy.
‘Darling, I’ve seen you look prettier,’ Mum said. ‘You won’t win his heart looking like that.’
I hauled the hood of the top up over the wig. ‘Mum, drop it!’
Mum gave a little shrug and returned to sanding. I marched past her with Kandy on a very short leash.
The sun was low in the sky. I headed down the lane, a jumble of thoughts fighting for attention. Duncan was coming to see me. He was mad at me. He must be. I was pretty mad, myself. Seeking publicity was one thing, pissing off your chief sponsor was another – whether intentionally or not.
As for my misguided and inconvenient crush on him…that really needed putting to bed.
No, not bed. Wrong idea.
I had to get a grip on reality and stop thinking of him as anything other than a sponsor.
I let out a groan of frustration. Kandy looked up.
‘Don’t worry, Kandy. I’m not cross with you.’
The path through to Wilson’s Copse was muddy and flanked with wild flowers. I picked pansies and cornflowers as I went, all the time wondering whether Duncan could be convinced of my innocence. And if not, then I guessed it was back to plan B – King Lloyd Holdings. I sighed heavily and not for the first time.
In the copse, a lush carpet of bluebells spread around us, each pretty head totally oblivious to the worries gnawing at my brain. As Kandy ambled alongside, I picked a few and added them to my ever-growing bouquet.
I hoped, above all, I could say enough to convince Duncan of my innocence and retain his support. Although I knew, one hundred percent, I had to remain distant and professional. ‘Come on, Kandy,’ I looped back around the copse to head for home. ‘Whether I want to or not, I have music to face.’
*
Duncan steered his Range Rover round the sharp bend and swore when he had to brake harshly to avoid hitting a village local who had just scrambled over a stile. He registered some very muddy boots and a saggy, battered grey fleece. In his world where celebrity and haute-couture seemed so important, there was something comforting and unaffected about the rural sense of style. It reminded him of his roots. He halted to give the guy chance to right himself and be on his way.
A dog loomed above the stile and its owner turned towards him. Peering from beneath the hooded top, which barely disguised a thatch of laughably artificial hair, was a familiar face. As Duncan raised his eyebrows in recognition, he saw Chloe’s mouth pop open and her shoulders sag. Kandy stood as tall as her mistress, paws planted on the upper beam of the stile, and barked protectively. She ducked at the sound and turned to silence the dog with a raised finger and the sharp command, ‘Friendly!’
Friendly, Duncan thought. We’ll see. He pressed the window button and studied her as it slid down. ‘Hello.’
She offered him a weak smile – would that be guilt or embarrassment?
‘Hi,’ she managed before turning away to guide Kandy through the stile, then she stepped towards the car, her eyes meeting his. ‘You’re a bit earlier than I expected.’
He took in her preposterous appearance as she blinked up at him. ‘I’ll drive on up to the house, shall I?’
She nodded.
As he drove off, he glanced in the mirror. Chloe was walking up the lane, head down, fingering the fringe of her wig. At any moment he expected her to yank it off and fluff up those lavish curls beneath. He pulled onto the drive of Juniper Cottage, switched off the engine and took a deep breath before opening his door and stepping out onto the gravel. As Chloe came into view, he was surprised to see the wig still in place.
*
I trudged up the drive and Kandy veered towards Duncan to check he still smelled the same as last week, but I pulled her back. ‘Kandy, you’re filthy.’
‘It’s okay,’ Duncan said as he moved to stroke her.
I didn’t give him chance but steered Kandy to the side gate, unclipped the lead and sent her into the garden. It was too great a risk to soil his neat-fitting, designer jeans with all the crud she’d accumulated on our walk. Clicking the gate shut, I moved over to the front door. Dropping my bouquet of eclectic greenery and wild flowers, I toed one boot off and stood on my shabby-socked foot to tug at the other. I knew I ought to ask about his journey or comment on the weather but it seemed too trivial, bearing in mind the much bigger issue on the agenda. And the longer the silence stretched between us, the more tongue-tied I became.
He was now standing about a metre away. He broke the silence. ‘What’s with the wig?’
I placed my boots neatly against the wall and stood up. I noticed a faint crease in the centre of his forehead. He stood with his feet apart, fingers in pockets, thumbs through belt loops, looking set for battle. I shrugged. ‘Contrary to what you may be thinking, it was a huge shock for me to see…’ I couldn’t bring myself to describe it, ‘…that the press had been lurking behind the bushes in Spain. Unlike you, I’m not used to seeing my private life plastered all over the tabloids. This,’ I said, pointing to my head, ‘is my feeble attempt to hold on to some anonymity.’ I turned and gestured inside. ‘You’d better come in. If I’m destined to be papped again, I don’t want to look like Popeye’s girlfriend wearing an old sack.’
Once indoors, I pulled both the wig and the hood from my head. My own hair was twisted into a tight ponytail and anchored into place with clips.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked.
He hesitated. Maybe he just wanted to get this over and done with. He looked taller but maybe that’s because I had no shoes on.
‘I’ll have coffee, black please.’
I nodded and made my way into the kitchen.
Kandy was sniffing at the back door. She barked.
‘I don’t mind if you want to let the dog in,’ he said.
I rammed the kettle under the tap. ‘She’s not allowed in after a walk until she’s been cleaned.’
He glanced at the back door. Hanging beside it was Kandy’s old, striped towel. He reached out and held it up. ‘Is this hers?’
‘Yes. No. I mean, you don’t have to do that. She can wait.’
Completely ignoring me, he pulled the towel from its hook and opened the door. Bloody control freak. Either that or he preferred the company of dogs to mine. He stepped outside and spoke really gently to her, allowing her to familiarise herself with his smell, before straddling her like a sheep-shearer and working along her grubby undercarriage with the towel. How come she took it all so calmly? She usually squirmed like a worm on a hook when I tried cleaning her. And why did he have to be so irritatingly determined to clean her up – must he always be in charge?
Between him and Warren, I might as well get my brain rewired and fitted with a remote control.
All the same, I couldn’t resist tormenting myself by watching how his sweater stretched over the muscular structure of his shoulders. I knew how firm they felt, too. I’d found that out just about twenty hours ago. As he moved to stand up, I darted over to the mug-tree and lifted off two cups.
Upstairs, I could hear water thundering into the bath. I’d given Mum strict instructions to keep out of the way when Duncan came round. The bottle of port was on the table, so no doubt a large glass of it would now be perched on top of the linen basket, along with a plate of cheese and crackers – Mum’s favourite bath-time treat.
I heard Kandy’s claws clicking across the ceramic tiles ahead of Duncan’s more muted Italian loafers. I busied myself with his
coffee and my own peppermint tea. I heard the back door close and listened for where Duncan went next.
His voice was right behind me. ‘I’m afraid the towel’s filthy. What do you want me to do with it?’
The smell of his cologne was the same as last night – it was earthy with patchouli and something else. Get a grip, Chloe. Focus on what’s important.
I turned. He was closer than I wanted him to be.
Last night, he’d virtually accused me of soliciting favours from him like some social-climbing hooker. Now he was messing with my personal space – all because he refused to discuss it on the phone.
I stepped away and gestured to the back door. ‘Thanks. Leave it there, I’ll see to it later.’
I squeezed my teabag over the mug and dropped it into Mum’s mini compost bin by the sink. I somehow doubted there’d be one of those in Duncan’s penthouse by the Thames. There was the sound of a kitchen chair scraping across the floor. I turned with both mugs and saw him settling by the table and pulling the parish magazine towards him. Bizarre – the multi-millionaire mogul reading St Mildred’s Echo.
‘Wouldn’t you rather go into the sitting room?’ I asked, painfully aware my mother would shortly be soaking her bones just a few feet above us. She might be losing a few marbles but her hearing was still as keen as a bat’s.
‘No. I’m fine here. Thanks,’ he said, holding out his hand for the coffee.
I sat opposite him, turfing a disgruntled Fluffy from the seat. The fat tabby gave a yowl of protest but retaliated by leaping onto the table, and parking her backside on St Mildred’s list of Local Events.
Duncan huffed with laughter and immediately began stroking the creature, finding exactly the right spot beneath its ear to elicit the most sonorous of purrings.
Even the wretched cat was on his side.
Chapter 14
I lifted the too-hot-to-drink tea to my mouth, then put it down again. I was sitting on the edge of my chair. I clasped my hands beneath the table and chose not to look directly at Duncan, focusing instead on his hand caressing Fluffy. Hands that last night…
‘I’m sorry about…’ we both spoke at once. I waited and allowed him to continue.
‘I’m sorry you’ve fallen prey to the dreaded tabloid press but, I’m afraid, that’s the price you pay these days for seeking publicity – no matter how altruistic your motives.’ He paused. I looked up. His face showed no emotion. ‘And allying yourself with me is way too tempting for the paparazzi.’
I cleared my throat. ‘I can see that now. If I’d known…’ What? If I’d known he was a notorious bachelor I wouldn’t have gone to meet him?
Ludicrous. I’d been determined to throw myself into the theatre project, whatever it took. I just hadn’t foreseen how unscrupulous the fickle fairy of publicity could be.
‘Look – what’s happened, happened.’ I talked to my mug of tea. ‘We both know it was foolish, especially in the light of…’ There was no easy way to say it, so I changed tack. ‘I’m still very grateful that you took me to Spain, I made some excellent connections. I’ve collected a ton of business cards,’ 128, to be precise, but the bulk of those were from the raffle and didn’t look all that promising. ‘So I’m – we are extremely grateful. I know I speak for all the family.’ Fluffy was purring like a jet engine, so Duncan must still be stroking her but I felt as if his eyes hadn’t left my face. ‘You’ve given us just the springboard we need to move forward. And I’ll make sure your company is listed as a supporter – if you’d be happy with that?’
I glanced up. He had the look of a high court judge – contemplative – eyes narrowed, lips tight. I braced myself for the passing of his sentence. In the silence, I blundered on. ‘Right now, I still need to find myself a backer – perhaps, if I send you a list of the contacts I’ve made, you could advise me of the ones you think would have the most influence and…money?’
Duncan continued studying me, his brows shadowing his eyes.
Oh dear. Maybe I was asking too much. All the same, there was every chance he was going to withdraw his patronage, so I’d do my damnedest to gain as much from him as I possibly could. Something seemed to pull inside my chest as I realised this might my last meeting with him. ‘I thought perhaps Jonah from the record company – at least he’s in the entertainment industry or maybe a bigger corporate, like Zeniaga Medica – what was the guy’s name, Liam?’
*
Duncan was trying to work out if she was deliberately baiting him. Neither of the two she’d mentioned had the kind of backing or coverage Thorsen Leisure enjoyed. He drew a deep breath and sat back, running a hand through his hair before responding. ‘What did they offer?’
She shifted on her chair. ‘Well, nothing specific. We didn’t have time to discuss details. But they were really encouraging and both said they’d be happy for me to contact them, if I needed to.’
He’d just bet they would.
Her charm, creativity and dedication were unquestionable but in the big bad world of commerce, she’d be like a battery chicken in a skulk of foxes. Her face might be composed and her eyes clear but her hands gave her away, as they rapidly turned the ring on her finger. ‘Chloe, what you need is a business plan…’
‘We do have one, it was in the information pack I gave you.’
‘I’ve seen it. It’s a wish list not a plan.’ He watched for the reaction on her face. She scowled into her cup. ‘As far as I can tell, you and your family have absolutely no experience in running a business, and the business manager you employed was a disaster.’ She huffed out a sigh. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s not your strength. But the theatre needs more than enthusiasm and sentimentality. I can have Marlean set up a project team to meet with you next week.’ She raised her head, a puzzled look on her face. Perhaps he’d misread the situation. He continued, ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to work with a different company.’ He raised his hands as if to say, do as you choose.
He waited. Clearly, she was weighing up the advantages of his company’s support against the drawback of working with him and his reputation. Finally, she said, ‘I have absolutely no objection to working with your company. Thank you.’
He continued. ‘Good. Just make sure you bring all your paperwork with you, and a list of any connections you’ve already made.’
*
I couldn’t believe my ears. After everything that had happened, Duncan had decided not to drop us. My insides did a forward and back somersault. ‘Of course. And I promise you,’ I held my hands up in affirmation. ‘I have absolutely no intention of doing anything to create rumours for the gossip columns to peddle.’
Duncan’s eyebrows flickered as if he didn’t believe me. He placed the mug back on the table. ‘It might be too late for that.’
I chewed my lip as I considered this.
He continued, ‘Trouble is, if they think we’re an item, people will just expect me to write a cheque and save the theatre. Who’s going to make donations to a project that’s clearly being bank-rolled by Thorsen Leisure?’
‘Oh.’
‘You’d be much better off if the public thought I’d taken advantage of you and dumped you.’ I raised my eyebrows at the irony of his statement. He saw it and sighed. ‘No, I didn’t, Chloe.’
‘So,’ I had to know, ‘please tell me, what was going on, last night?’
He paused. ‘Last night was…’ he pulled a face I didn’t much like, ‘…an impulse. I wasn’t thinking about the ramifications.’
The word ramifications summoned up images of copulating sheep. I nodded and frowned to erase it.
He continued. ‘And I apologise for it. I should have had more self control.’
He must be so used to kissing girls in his orbit, he’d not been able to resist kissing me too. I was just another pair of lips. I quashed my feeling of disappointment with one of contempt. Well, fine. If that’s the way the land lay, we’d move on.
‘Right,’ I said matter-of-factly. �
��So, is that going to be our story? Because there was a whole posse of journalists at Bristol when I came through, and I had absolutely no idea what to do or say.’
‘Always best to smile and say nothing. They’ll make up what they want to, anyway.’ I nodded. ‘Chloe, you’re a smashing girl, and I promise you, I’d no intention of messing you about, nor will I. So, if you can overlook it, maybe we can continue as we were before. Okay with you?’
I nodded. ‘Of course.’ That was that then.
He glanced at his watch. I looked at the kitchen clock. He’d been here less than half an hour. There was a creaking from above as Mum moved in the bath. I was thankful Duncan would be leaving before she started her bath-time repertoire of musical numbers. I stood up and checked if his mug was empty. It wasn’t but he handed it to me anyway. I opened the dishwasher and heard the scrape of his chair as he stood to leave.
As I watched the remains of his coffee spilling out, it felt as if something was emptying out of me too. Whatever I thought I’d felt on the journey to Spain, at the bar in Sitges and dancing with him on Friday, had been a misguided fantasy, and I was angry with myself for even entertaining such ideas. It was a complete waste of emotional energy.
Kandy stirred from her bed by the Aga, stretched and pushed her snout into Duncan’s hand, who rubbed her ears. Fluffy leapt from the parish magazine onto the warmed cushion he had just vacated.
There was a moment’s awkward silence. There was nothing else for me to tidy away, either. Upstairs, Mum’s mellow contralto delivered the opening bars of Over the Rainbow. Duncan straightened up, his gaze drifting to the ceiling before rolling over to look at me. ‘She’s got a good voice. How come she never went back to the stage?’
‘She probably wouldn’t survive the rigours of live theatre, now. Like a wild animal kept indoors too long, she’s become domesticated.’
Duncan glanced at the two pine shelves, laden with Mum’s jars of preserves. ‘Making jam and baking cakes?’
‘Exactly. Take one, if you like.’
‘No,’ he said half-heartedly, scrutinising the labels.
