by Rosie Dean
‘Oh, no.’
‘Oh, yes. I wanted to tell him first. I thought he’d be decent about it. I tracked him down at a party. Needless to say, his first question was, “Are you sure it’s mine?”’ Her eyes widened in emphasis. ‘I was so wound up, I started crying and yelling at him. Anyway, he decided he should take me home – probably to avoid an even bigger scene. So, we got in the car and ten minutes later, we were flying through the air. Lex had drunk too much and completely lost control.’
That sounded familiar. No wonder he’d reacted the way he had after our accident.
‘When I woke up in hospital, Mum told me I’d lost my baby.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘A baby she didn’t even know I was having.’
‘That’s terrible. And Lex?’
‘Just cuts and bruises.’
‘I meant, how did he react over you?’
‘Apparently he popped in to see me while I was sedated but that was it. He didn’t bother visiting me again.’
‘What a bastard.’
She laughed. ‘God, yes! Except I couldn’t see it at the time. I went into a sort of hormone-fuelled melt-down. I absolutely convinced myself he was staying away because he was hurting and felt guilty. And then they banned him from driving, so that gave me another excuse to explain why he didn’t visit. I drove my family nuts. To my mind, he was my first proper boyfriend, the father of my unborn baby – surely I meant something to him? Duh!’ She smacked the palm of her hand on her forehead.
‘How did your parents react?’
‘My father was completely detached – as ever – and my mother thought it was all terribly sad but I should pull myself together and move on. She even owned up to having had an abortion when she was nineteen. Like that made my problem no different from hers. She said, ‘I got over it and so will you.’ And that was that.’
‘So when did you see him again?’
‘To speak to? Dominic’s party.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘That’s why I wanted Josh with me. He’s always looked out for me.’
I could imagine, and I felt a lovely warm rush of admiration for him, followed almost immediately by a chill of anxiety. ‘Did Lex hang around with Josh, back then?’
She shook her head. ‘They were completely different. I think Josh did try to get Lex to come and see me, but he underestimated how shallow Lex could be.’
Our salads arrived, arranged like works of art on huge, square plates. It seemed a pity to eat them but the smell of olive oil and oregano reminded me how hungry I was.
‘So, how did you get over it?’
‘Mum whisked me off to Florida after I failed two out of three A-levels; Dad paid for me to go into therapy,’ she said it with an American drawl, ‘and I got a job in The Cheesecake Factory, waiting on tables and fascinating the natives with my English accent – thus boosting my tips. And, I hate to say it but Mum was right – sort of. I did get over Lex and I began to see him for the egocentric charmer that he was – still is, I guess.’
‘Hmmm. So, if Lex doesn’t have the inclination to frame Josh, who on earth would?’
‘The million dollar question. I’ve no idea. It could be someone he wasn’t able to help at the shelter. Maybe even someone he did help. Who knows? Josh isn’t exactly the kind of guy to make enemies, is he?’
I shook my head and set about eating my salad. I was so happy to hear someone say nice things about Josh but it was a surprise when she said, ‘Josh asked me to see you.’
Mozzarella stuck to my soft palate and I coughed to dislodge it. ‘He did?’
‘He’s so glad to hear you don’t believe he’s guilty.’
‘I don’t. It’s not like him. Not that I know him very well,’ I added, investigating my salad and struggling to stab an olive.
‘That’s important to him.’ I looked up. ‘And he wants you to know he’s really sorry about the Summer Ball. He was looking forward to taking you.’
‘Me too.’
She studied me for a moment then reached into her bag. Could he have written me a letter – even though he was forbidden to communicate with me? But she pulled out a box and handed it over. ‘He wants you to have this.’
I took the box and peered round the restaurant. ‘Should I open it, here?’ I asked, convinced if THEY weren’t watching me, the vice squad might be.
‘Why not?’
I lifted the lid. Inside was an orchid wrist corsage but no note. I took it out and put it on – just to show any eagle-eyed PI there were no hidden wraps of cocaine. ‘It’s a corsage,’ I announced, loudly.
She half-smiled. ‘He ordered it for the ball; he said after your performance in Grease, you might like the prom queen connection.’
‘Really?’ I felt a rush of blood scorching my cheeks.
She gave me one of those flat, apologetic smiles. ‘Let’s hope it’s not too long before you can speak to him yourself.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Fortunately, the homeless programme should keep going – with or without Josh.’
I swallowed. ‘Without meaning – if he gets sent down?’
She shrugged. ‘So far, all the evidence is weighted against him. There’s an airline ticket in his name, bought from a bank account in his name.’
‘But anyone can set up a bank account…’
‘It’s been active for months, large sums of money going in and out. Rupert says it doesn’t look good.’
I had so naively assumed justice would prevail. I caressed a waxy petal on the orchid. ‘How long?’ I whispered.
She frowned. ‘If the jury believes he supplied class A drugs, it could mean life.’
I swear the blood stilled in my veins before surging round my head. ‘But he didn’t. Your brother can prove that, can’t he? There must be character witnesses – the Bishop, the charity workers?’
She shrugged. ‘Whoever’s framing him isn’t messing around. They could pay people to testify against him.
‘What about DNA evidence?’ I touched my healed cheek. ‘Why did nobody photograph the scar on my face? The guy’s ring must have left an impression. Jeez! If we were on CSI they’d have done it.’
‘I think that only happens if you’re murdered.’
I gulped. Whoever was out to get Josh might be after me. Could it be Marcus or Charles Crowe? Had Marcus really gone away for a family thing? A chill shot up my spine into the roots of my hair and the taste of olives soured in my mouth.
Chapter 34
I’d always considered myself to be scrupulously honest but I was discovering a latent talent for subterfuge. Aside from my ingenious game plan, I had another scheme on the brew. The Welkom Charity Jazz Festival. Serena had told me that Josh still intended to play but she couldn’t go because she was flying to Milan. I really wanted to see him perform. No, scratch that, I just wanted to see him, and knowing exactly where he would be and at what time was too tempting for me to resist. But could I get in without being recognised? According to the website, his band was on around nine-thirty. Maybe, if I just popped in for an hour…
Under normal circumstances, I would have dragged Sacha along but I was terrified word might reach Marcus. No, as far as Sacha was concerned, I merely thought Josh was a nice guy who had been set-up; I would give my evidence and then I’d move on. What’s more, I would resurrect my hunt for Mr Right in the rugby season, make a fresh start.
So, on Saturday night, I told her I was going to Mum’s. I played down my appearance, opting for jeans, t-shirt, shapeless navy sweater and hair flattened beneath a blue beanie. I found the biggest, cheapest pair of sunglasses on the market and rammed those on my face, too, so I looked like Posh Spice going undercover... her or Millie Carmichael.
The festival was held in a school field in Surrey, which made wearing my highest boots (for a good view of the stage) a big mistake, as their pointy heels sank repeatedly into the recently soaked turf. There were no seats, just people wandering around, swigging beer from plastic beakers. The stage was a covered p
latform that looked professional enough, with lights, sound system and a mixing desk in the middle of the audience, but the musicians came straight off stage into the field with the rest of us. Which meant Josh could be close, very close. I shrank into the collar of my jersey, and sidled round the edge of the crowd – scanning it for his familiar form.
Once the trio on stage had completed their set, they announced Josh’s band would be up next. Head down, I bought a pint of shandy and hovered by the make-shift bar. My heart was beating so hard, I could feel it rocking my body.
One by one, the band filled the stage…first the drummer, adjusting and fixing his high-hat position; the bass player, beating and twanging his strings; trumpeter, trombonist, guitarist and finally, Josh. Josh in black jeans and t-shirt, showing off the muscles in his arms and a teasing glimpse of tattoo. I noticed my perspective on body art was changing, as I contemplated how far up his arm it went and whether there might be any more.
They started with a vibrant version of Fascinating Rhythm. I swigged my shandy and wandered slowly forward. It was nearly dark so there was no way he’d see me in the crowd – although he mostly had his eyes shut anyway. I inched closer, guiltily ducking behind people each time he raised his head. The music was good. I relaxed a little and let my fingers tap the side of my beaker. There were a couple of more upbeat numbers and then a soulful version of Summertime, where Josh took the lead. It was mesmerising. He was mesmerising. When it finished I had to wipe tears off my face, I was so proud of him. He acknowledged the applause with a raised hand and a flat smile, before stepping back into the line up.
As the crowd applauded their final number, I moved towards the exit…or would have done if my boots hadn’t taken root. My body moved, my boots didn’t. I was a vision of flailing arms and flying shandy. Somebody’s hands steadied me until I managed to lift my feet from the mud. I shot a look at the stage. Josh was staring straight at me – curiosity and surprise on his face.
Just how had I managed to work my way to the front?
I’m not here. I mouthed, shaking my head at him, wide eyed with terror at the possible consequences. You didn’t see me. Finally, he smiled. Properly smiled. I should have gone, right then, but after lifting my feet from the mud, I could only move towards him. He came forward, to the edge of the stage and knelt down.
‘You mustn’t talk to me,’ I said.
He pushed the saxophone aside and held out his hand, beckoning me to take it, which of course, I did. Then he drew me towards him, never taking his eyes from mine until I was inches from his face. Two thoughts hit me: one – he’s going to threaten me with dismembered body parts and I’ll be on the witness protection scheme for the rest of my life and two – he’s going to kiss me.
His eyes softened, his hand cradled the back of my head and like two magnets, we connected. One brief, warm, sweet, melting kiss. Then, he drew back and smiled….and I finally acknowledged, Josh was special. To me. I clutched at his hand just as he stood up and my fingers lost their grasp. With one last smile, he turned and strode across the stage, to follow the rest of the band down the far steps. It had taken seconds. The crowd were still applauding. As my eyes followed his departure, I caught sight of a familiar figure watching me. PC Nick Ryan, in civvies. A cold chill stiffened my spine. He withdrew one hand from his pocket.
I swallowed. This is it, I thought. The end of life as I know it.
He shook his head, smiled and zipped a finger across his lips then flapped his hand to shoo me away.
I grinned like the Cheshire Cat and fled, giggling as I barged past people. ‘Yess!’ I cheered to myself – and bursting to tell someone. But there was no-one to tell. Instead, I wandered about the car-park, beaming like an idiot and shaking my head in disbelief. Occasionally, I let out a snort of laughter. This was beyond anything I’d felt before. This must be how it felt to win the lottery. This was profound; startling and wonderful. I wasn’t just attracted to Josh, I admired him. I trusted him. He made me feel...
Actually, what did he make me feel?
I stopped to let a car pull out. I’d covered so much distance in the car-park I was several lanes from my own car so I changed direction.
I knew I felt very different from when I’d arrived, two hours before. A grin pulled again at my cheeks and then, taking me completely by surprise, it mutated into a grimace; my eyebrows gathered together and a massive ache gripped my throat.
The threat of Josh’s potential incarceration hadn’t changed. At least, not for him. For me, it was now like bullet-proof glass between me and my future happiness. Without a shadow of doubt, despite all my plans, wish lists and preconceptions, I was in love with Reverend Josh Warwick.
Truly. Me. Millie Carmichael wanted to be a vicar’s wife; to have the vicar’s babies and, God help me, serve village teas and sit on hard, cold pews watching the love of my life deliver sermons. How had that happened?
I paced some more, working my way back to the car and circling it, while people teemed past on their way home. Hell! I might bump into Josh again and I wasn’t convinced my composure would remain intact. I dived into the car, slammed the door and fired the engine.
Who could I tell? Not Sacha; much too risky bearing in mind her connection with Marcus. Maybe I could call one of my old mates from Uni…but which one? I’d been so engrossed in making my mark at work, I’d let all my old associations slip. That left work colleagues…er, no thanks, Hamlets…no chance…and family. Whilst it would doubtless bring a self-satisfied glow to my mother, if she knew about it, she’d take on all my anxiety. It would become the talking point of every phone call, the subject of her prayer meetings and a cause for her to champion. No. Mum would have to wait for this little pearl.
Chapter 35
My experience of the legal system and crime busting was limited to CSI and Boston Legal. I was used to crimes being solved in at least sixty minutes (less, if you fast-forward through the commercials) and totally unprepared for the long days, which ran into even longer weeks, of waiting for the slightest scrap of progress to be made.
After a scorching June, summer had turned soggy and stayed like it through July. My spirits couldn’t have been damper. Serena gave me updates on Josh’s welfare but Rupert remained tight-lipped over the state of the defence case. I had nightmares about my day in court, terrified in case some hot-shot barrister tied me up in knots and skewed my story. What if he manipulated my argument and made me say something to put the final nail in Josh’s coffin? And then, of course, THEY might be lying in wait to knobble me before I even made it to court. After so many weeks, my nerves were in shreds. On the up side, our flat had never been tidier.
Sacha had given Marcus the boot as soon as he came back from Cyprus, which was a massive relief for me. Of course, I still didn’t dare say anything to her over my suspicions about Charles Crowe and – by association – Marcus. Although I loved her, and despite the fact she was my closest buddy, I was terrified that one drunken disclosure might put the whole case in jeopardy. I’d even put myself on the wagon – who knew what I might let slip after a couple of drinks? It wasn’t easy though. I was tense and snappy, working even later at the office than necessary. Sacha was utterly convinced I needed a night out on the lash. I told her I was detoxing. I can’t tell you how fast her head jerked at that announcement.
Lulu was back at rehearsals for the summer show, by August. It appeared her broken leg had prevented her from going out to buy booze, and her mother told me the house was drier than Saudi Arabia. Of course, that didn’t mean she was cured but she was, for the time being, sober. She’d heard from Nadine and Laura all about Josh’s arrest. ‘I thought he was a top bloke, Mill. Bummer for you if he gets sent down, eh?’
I didn’t need her opinion or the cracks and innuendo from the rest of my little Hamlets, so I fielded every direct question with the mantra, ‘I believe a person is innocent until proven guilty.’ After a while they got tired of hearing it and moved on to the latest juicy gossip, which wa
s Daley’s tattoo of the family’s recently deceased parrot, Gertie, which had turned his arm septic.
Despite all the energy and hours I was spending at work, it wasn’t enough to hammer Ostler into the ground. He beat me to the luxury holiday by three grand. Three measly thousand pounds; the cost of a four-page brochure for a brewery museum, which just happened to be owned by a mate of Ostler’s. I could stomach the loss. It was the way he wore his self-satisfaction like a fur coat made from kittens – utterly sickening.
Once it had been announced, I went round to see Mum to apologise. ‘But I’ll still take you somewhere nice,’ I said.
‘You don’t need to be sorry, Millie. I think you’ve done extremely well. After all, you’ve been under a lot of strain, recently.’
‘I’m fine, Mum, honestly. The only reason it happened is because my biggest client moved their financial year by a whole quarter, which meant their sales conference should’ve happened in September instead of November, and we’d have billed them at least fifty grand by now. So you and I would be the ones packing our buckets and spades.’
She dropped her head and looked at me in that don’t-try-and-pull-the-wool-over-my-eyes kind of way. ‘Millie, there are such dark circles under your eyes, and even though you’re eating, you’re burning it all up in nervous energy. And I can’t remember the last time you laughed or made fun of me.’
‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. This top sales award, by rights, should have been mine.’
‘I know, cariña. But I think you’re also very worried about Josh.’ She was giving me that look again. I wasn’t in the habit of having heart-to-hearts with Mum. Dad had always been my pal and confidant. She and I seldom saw eye-to-eye and I’d never been as biddable as Trina.