Party Girl at Heart

by Karen Elaine Campbell

  It was a bit cold in here now, she touched the radiator to see if it was still warm, it was almost March and the weather had been fair for a few days now, but it was still icy cold in the mornings. The metal was smooth and warm against her fingertips, no need to go and check the boiler then. She walked around the end of the bed and decided on a whim to sort out Giles’ underwear drawer. There were four drawers in the old fashioned ‘tall boy’ that he used as a bedside cabinet and the top drawer opened easily, sliding smoothly on well-oiled runners. One glance inside was enough to make Imogen tut again, it was a riot of jumbled garments, chaos. She shook her head in despair; men were such downright messy creatures. He knew that the Ralph Lauren boxer shorts went in the other drawer and the plain silk socks did not go in with the white sports socks and casual socks, but no, here she was on a Monday morning, when she should be doing something useful, tidying up four drawers worth of tatty, odorous male detritus.

  She twitched disdainfully at the yellowing, semi-ripe jock strap, nestling comfortably in amongst crepe bandages, sports tape and gum shields and tentatively prodded at the offending item with the tip of one neatly manicured fore-finger. He’d given up playing ‘rugger’ years ago, he could put that thing in the bin himself; there was no way she was touching it, not without the aid of rubber gloves anyway. She wondered what else he’d brought with him when he’d moved his stuff over from the London flat. He’d been rummaging around for ages this morning and had rumpled everything up, that Mrs what’s-its-name, the lady-what-does, would not be pleased with her when she asked her to iron them all, again. Was she called, Maggie or Maisie? No matter, it was all too common anyway, this local custom of using first-name terms for the domestic help, she was not comfortable with the practice herself. Either way, the woman had ironed them all on Imogen’s express instructions only last week, thankfully she’d managed to make a semi-presentable job of it too.

  Imogen frowned, Giles was always going on about economising, and yet he’d happily messed up newly washed and ironed clothes; that kind of behaviour wasn’t good enough, she would just have to speak to him about it tonight.

  He’d been a bit tetchy of late though, she might have to wait until he’d had his first G&T before she broached the subject, but she’d talk to him before dinner, she resolved. She didn’t want this conversation hanging over them all evening; best get it over with quickly. Imogen gave a small smile, dinner was to be a pre-cursor to seduction tonight, she had it all worked out. Her charts were looking favourable, so all she had to do was get him in the mood, as it were. She’d already ordered in his favourite smoked salmon fillets in a watercress sauce, nothing too heavy as she didn’t want the food getting in the way of such an important occasion.

  It was imperative that they succeed tonight. She smiled, it had been a while, but if there wasn’t an opportunity for her to conceive, then she just wasn’t interested in the intimate side of their relationship these days. Poor Giles would be so surprised, when she made it clear to him that his advances would be welcome tonight. She could imagine his handsome face breaking out in wreaths of smiles, his eyes warm and encouraging. She knew that her husband loved her, but even the slightest intimacy left her cold, unless there was a genuine pure reason behind the union. A narrow smile hovered on her lips, their love-making would have true meaning tonight, fuelled by her own womanly power.

  She hummed softly under her breath as she re-folded the underpants, all neat and crisply starched white cotton, slightly scratchy on the skin. She always chose the best for her husband.

  When she was through rearranging the bedroom cupboards to her satisfaction, she wandered down into her domain, the beautifully refurbished kitchen, pristine in the extreme. She opened the large under-counter cupboard and withdrew the brand new shiny stainless steel kettle and holder. She couldn’t bear clutter on her nice new marble work surfaces, so she’d had plenty of storage built in. Everything in the kitchen has its own specially allocated place. Although she had noticed that the woman, Maisie or Maureen, was causing a bit of a problem with the system, when she thought Imogen was not looking. The ‘daily’ liked to start the day off with a coffee and a cigarette, outside in the garden, of course, and then she would insist on leaving the equipment out on the work surface, ready for another cuppa later, even though she knew that Imogen liked the kettle to be emptied and dried and placed back in the cupboard as soon as it had been used. It was such a problem sometimes, getting through to the local people. One moment Imogen thought that she had it all sussed, and then a couple of days later one or other of them came out with the most ridiculous suggestions. They meant well of course, so she always tried to be gracious, and as Jazz had said, she wasn’t in Hampstead now. She tried hard to remember that the countryside was different.

  They didn’t like her, of course. She knew that they didn’t, it was clear from the way that they rolled their eyes, when they thought that she wasn’t looking. She’d even caught Crystal doing it, on more than one occasion, but then Crystal was a country bumpkin too, at heart. Underneath the false nails, London hair-do and worldly veneer that she’d picked up in the years that she’d travelled the world with Saskia and Phil, she was just like the rest of them, uncouth.

  Now that she knew Crystal better, since she’d moved down here, she was even more surprised at her brother’s choice in girl-friend, especially since she’d talked to Olivia, otherwise known as Lolly, at one of Hetty’s coffee mornings. Cousin Olivia had innocently filled in a few gaps, supplying some juicy details about Crystal’s past, things that both Crystal and Jazz had neglected to tell her, and Imogen could see why. Neither of them had wanted her to know the things that Lolly had told her. The thing was, Crystal and Phil had dated, quite seriously too, before Olivia had stolen him out, right from under Crystal’s nose. They had even lived together, Crystal and Phil, in LA. Phil had a posh bachelor pad in the coveted ‘Bel-Air’ district and Crystal had moved in there with him for a while, well out of Hetty’s sight.

  The way that Olivia told it, there had been a bit of a ruckus, at the Hunt Ball, a few years ago now. Apparently, Crystal had got together with Jazz, Lolly had met Phil and Jeremy had met Saskia, all on the same night. It all sounded a bit odd, parochial even, and Imogen couldn’t imagine her brother involved in that kind of thing at all. She’d always considered Jazz such a refined and cultured man, if a little driven, but how he could spend his life with Crystal was beyond her comprehension. She’d told him that Crystal was a tart the first time she’d met her and she’d not had reason to change her opinion since then. You could always tell a woman’s class by her wristwatch, or her shoes. As far as Imogen was concerned, Crystal failed on both counts, plus she made her feel old. Jazz had merely passed off her suggestion with a ribald comment and told her that she should ‘loosen up’ a bit, teasing her in the way that he’d done ever since they were children, before life had become complicated.

  She reached over and selected a breakfast mug from the plate glass cupboard over the freestanding breakfast bar, she’d have a large mug of her favourite herbal tea, it always calmed her, when she was feeling nervous or fraught, and she was both today. She’d secretly purchased one of those ‘true stories’ kind of women’s magazines from the village shop yesterday and read it furtively from cover to cover. She was trying to work out how to seduce her husband and wasn’t sure which angle to pursue. She knew that ‘Sexy school-girl spanking’ or any other form of dressing up would never appeal to him, but how about taking a shower together, that wasn’t too forward, was it? She wasn’t sure. Giles couldn’t even manage to keep his socks in the correct drawer, she didn’t know if he had a darker, more adventurous side. Of course, he’d been totally spoiled since birth, his mother had catered to his every need, and now that they were married Imogen was expected to take over where ‘mummy’ had left off. It would just be truly cringe-making if she suggested something a little kinky and he gave her that black stare that he sometimes wore, when he was truly shocked. Imogen wasn’
t sure that she could go through with it at all, now that she thought about it.

  Giles was always the perfect gentleman with her, it was what had drawn her to him in the first place, but this magazine hinted at a whole world that she’d not even guessed at. Some of these people must have made the stories up, it couldn’t be real life. Some of the tales had been bordering on pornographic and she’d guiltily hidden the magazine in the bottom of the airing cupboard, behind the picnic basket from Fortnum and Mason’s. ‘My father is my baby’s dad’ had screamed the front page header, and ‘Mauled by a Monster’ had declared the feature story on the inside pages. She’d devoured both, avidly reading every word on every page. She would never have dared purchase such trash in Hampstead, but she wouldn’t have needed to then, her girl-friends were on hand there to offer advice in such matters. Magda and Colleen still e-mailed her these days, but she couldn’t ask ‘those’ type of questions in a long chatty e-mail, it seemed perverse somehow.

  She only knew one person in the whole of Wiltshire who might have the answer to her dilemma and it was an uncomfortable thought, but tarty as she undoubtedly was, Crystal would know what to do. She breezed through life in her ridiculous high heels and gallons of expensive scent and people flocked to talk to her. She’d even managed to tame Jazz, her audacious, very alpha-male brother; he’d not even looked at another woman in the past four years, so she must be doing something right. Imogen guessed that the fake breasts and confident laugh had something to do with it, but she had no idea how to ask her, and even less idea how to broach the subject that was constantly on her mind.

  She took a large gulp of her tea, and burned her tongue. Now, that should be a lesson to her, the puritanical side of her conscience warned, clearly such wayward thoughts always had consequences. On the other hand, if she wanted to carry out her plan tonight, she might just have to step out into unknown territory, it was just a matter of how brazen she might become. Whichever way she looked at it today, if she wanted to hear the patter of tiny feet, she was going to have to take the initiative.

  She reached down for the cleaning solution, which she kept next to the garbage disposal unit in the under-sink cupboard and began polishing the chrome handles on the cupboard doors with rapt attention. Finger prints always seemed to stick in the kitchen.

  On the other side of the village green, Crystal was blissfully unaware of Imogen’s plight and was already at work in the make-shift office that had been steadily taking over the warmest and most comfortable corner of the kitchen. Once she had noticed that Imogen had an almost reverent regard for business papers and wouldn’t touch them under any circumstances, she had liberally covered every available surface with important looking documents. So long as she re-arranged them at regular intervals, to make it look as if someone was using them, then Imogen left well alone, it was the only corner of the house that had so far withstood Imogen’s determined, orderly onslaught. She was wrapped up in her favourite fluffy blanket this morning, tapping away on the lap-top trying to formulate a viable ad-campaign for their newest venture. Under Crystal’s direction they were heading for a dramatic new product launch. They needed this initiative, to stay one step ahead of the competition.

  Jazz had relinquished directorship of the company to her brother Mark eighteen months ago now once he was confident that Mark was ready to take control, but he still retained his seat on the board and kept a close eye on the factory. As she worked, Crystal mulled over the implications of Jeremy getting married to Saskia. The news had certainly been a bolt out of the blue and had caught them all by surprise. She’d had no idea that the tempestuous relationship between her twin and Saskia had matured into something durable and permanent.

  She had worked for Saskia herself, in the early days, when she’d been living with Phil in LA she’d been part of the event organising team, so she had an affinity with the music business and she understood what made Saskia tick. Her future sister-in-law was notoriously fickle and self-serving, even in an industry where artistic temperament was the ‘norm’. This marriage would lead to big changes in the family dynamics. Jez currently divided his time between the West Country and wherever Saskia’s music led them, they’d both been away a lot in the last year as Saskia had spent a great deal of time on tour recently. Try as she might, Crystal really couldn’t envision domestic bliss fitting in well with their current lifestyle.

  She had spent some time on the phone with the bride yesterday, trying to work up a theme for the wedding. Saskia insisted that she wanted simple and uncomplicated, a family wedding in a rural setting, with flowers in her hair and a marquee in a field, the same field as the Hunt Ball, where she and Jeremy had first met. Crystal knew Saskia of old, and wasn’t convinced that the bride-to-be would be happy with a draughty old marquee perched in a bare corner of her uncle’s plough field. The last time that Saskia had seen the farm it had been romantically covered in a blanket of pure white snow with icicles gilding the overhang on the barn and glittering enticingly on the bare branches of the apple trees in the orchard. In late September, the trees would be losing their leaves and making a mess everywhere and the romantic vista would consist of haystacks and burnt stubble alongside an ancient wood framed barn with a rust splattered corrugated tin roof, in need of repair. It might take a bit of staging to make the venue fit Saskia’s dreams of a romantic country idyll.

  She decided to ring her aunt and ask her to invite the prospective bride and groom over for a bit of Sunday lunch, this weekend, preferably. They could take another look at the field before they went ahead with too many plans. The trees were not in leaf yet and a cold spring morning was much like a September morning as far as the view was concerned. With tour dates looming, they were both off back to the States any day now, so it had better be soon.

  She missed America herself, sometimes. She’d only lived there for a short while, but she’d liked the place and the people. She picked up her contacts book, which had been languishing in the back of the drawer in the bureau since she’d moved home to England, it was a bit out of date, but some of the information might come in useful for planning the wedding. She’d been very attached to this book in the early years, when she’d been fresh out of college. You just couldn’t put a price on experience, the smallest particulars had been painstakingly recorded, every detail honed to perfection through trial and error and years of practice. As she traced the outline of a glass of tequila on the lurid lime green cover with the tip of one finger, she realised that the ancient old ring bound diary which served as address book, phone book and aide-memoir truly belonged to another time and place. The tatty old book with some of the pages smudged and torn reminded her forcefully of the night of the ball, where fatefully Jeremy had met Saskia for the first time and she’d fallen in love with Jazz.

  She sat there, with the unopened scrap of family history held firmly in her fist and was surprised to find that the mere feel of it was enough to bring back piercing memories of her return from America and the events which led up to the night of the ball. Life had been a bit fraught; she’d been heartbroken and had run away from Phil, left him in America, and then encountered more problems in London. Saskia had tour dates booked and she’d not understood Crystal’s reasoning at all, as her boss she’d expected her to get over her infatuation with Phil, pronto, and return to work. As events manager, Crystal had courted the press in the UK and America on Saskia’s behalf, so she knew what they were like, but she’d still been unprepared when the full furore had been directed personally at her, she’d not been able to cope. As she’d touched down in London and then run from the office there as quickly as she could, she’d taken the train out of the capital, trying to vanish into the depths of the English countryside. That fateful journey had actually been the first time that she’d set eyes on Jazz. She’d noticed him on the train, noticed him in the physical sense that was; it was always physical with Jazz. Tall, dark haired, intense blue-grey eyes and a razor sharp brain, all wrapped up in just the right amount of f
irm flesh and muscle, he was edgy and dangerous and he’d drawn her like a moth to a flame. Then later that afternoon, she’d discovered that he was the new director of the family firm, and after that things had become more complicated.

  Her mind jumped to the day of the Ball; she’d been Brad’s date. Sexy, rumpled, blue eyed Brad, he was laid-back and warm on the soul, he made a girl feel special. When he laughed, his voice resonated like warm molasses and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, his mood effortlessly drew her in. He had the ability to swing from mischievous to bold as the mood dictated, his gaze intense as he peeled back the layers and revealed the soft innermost core of a girl’s heart. Of course, he was also a bum and a bounder, but she’d known that all along. She’d still invited him to go with her, she’d not wanted to attend the party alone.

  Brad had collected her from her gran’s cottage, it had been snowing on and off all day and she’d been running around in the icy conditions trying to sort out the myriad of small problems that the weather had created. By the time she’d dressed and taken a large nip of brandy from the decanter in the hallway, she’d been ready for the party. Brad had waltzed in, dressed as a pirate and swept her up into his arms. His proximity had hit her senses full-on and she’d ignited, he’d been more than willing. She always wondered what might have happened, if the phone hadn’t interrupted their heated exchange. Either way, by the time the phone call was over the mood had been broken and they’d driven on to the party in an awkward silence.

  She’d not been at the party more than ten minutes, when her aunt had asked her to help extricate her cousin Lolly from the downstairs loo. She’d had a row with her new boy-friend and as Crystal let herself in through the rear of the house, she’d caught sight of the tall, dark vampire with swirling cape and fearsome fangs, trying valiantly to persuade a near-hysterical Lolly to come out of the cloakroom. Crystal picked up on the timbre of the vampire’s voice instantly and felt her stomach drop away, mere moments later Jazz turned the full force of his gaze on her, brooding and still, and it was in that instant, that one second of time, that she knew that she would leave the party with him that night, regardless of her cousin, regardless of Brad and regardless of anyone else’s opinion. She felt that her longing must have been visible there, on her face, for all to see. Jazz recognised her hunger, he radiated power and provocation even though his eyes were momentarily hooded and his face set.