Rumours and Red Roses

by Patricia Fawcett

  Oh dear God. So much for Marina’s promise of total discretion. Marina did not know the meaning of the word.

  ‘Works with you? Don’t tell me you’ve got a job, Marina?’

  ‘I know. It’s the first in ages, since the chalet girl thing. Do you remember that?’

  ‘I remember it lasted all of two weeks.’

  ‘Daddy insisted I get a job. He’s being an absolute bore these days. I have to earn a crust for a while until I find a rich husband. Any takers?’

  Laughter followed.

  Picking up her bag, a tiny useless clutch one that barely had room for a lipstick, Becky decided it might be best if she left right now before the true embarrassment began. If her toes could move in these shoes, they would be curling already. The way Marina was talking about her, it sounded as if she was desperate. Across the room, she saw the girl who had admired her shoes glancing her way and wondered if she, too, had overheard the exchange in the hall. Probably not, for Marina’s voice would not carry so far and his was not so loud – pleasant, though, medium pitched and nowhere near as posh as Marina’s.

  Enough of this.

  She was not staying around to be humiliated.

  She was on her feet and just about to open the door fully to brazen out her early departure when she heard Marina say something that stopped her in her tracks. Oh why oh why couldn’t she let it go? She seemed determined to give Simon the complete run-down. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut during those long lunch breaks?

  ‘The thing is, Simon, she’s a bit quiet and rather sad but she’s a lovely girl when you get to know her. Background as follows. It’s all a bit downmarket, darling, but I know you won’t give a fig about that. She left school at sixteen although it wasn’t because she was thick. Far from it. She reads all the time. She can give me a run for my money in the intelligence stakes.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult. You’re hardly Einstein material,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘You pig.’ But she said it lightly, clearly not offended by the banter. Their easy camaraderie was the stuff of very old friends, at ease completely in each other’s company and for reasons she could not fathom Becky felt rather miffed at that.

  Very nearly leaning against the door, she froze. This was going from bad to worse. Fortunately, people in the room, drinks in hand, were paying no attention, which was just as well. The music too had upped a notch, making it more difficult for her to eavesdrop in as nonchalant a manner as she could manage.

  ‘Unfortunately she has no money to speak of so she still lives with her mum and you should see her mum.’ Marina giggled. ‘She looks like an ageing porn actress.’

  Trapped in the room, Becky felt herself flush. Now this was going just too far. She knew full well what her mum looked like but having somebody else say it was a different matter entirely. She felt her daughterly hackles rising and fast. Marina had some room to talk. Her mother was no angel either. Hadn’t she shot off with some gigolo? She recalled the day her mum had come into the shop and she had introduced her to Marina. She was wearing her short leather skirt with patterned tights – big mistake – and a minute scarlet cardigan with the top buttons adrift.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ her mum had said, looking uncertainly at Marina as she caught the posh tone.

  ‘And it’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Andrews …’ Marina said, looking at the two of them. ‘My God, you don’t look a bit alike.’

  ‘She’s the spit of her dad,’ her mum had said proudly, blessedly not quite understanding what Marina meant.

  What was Marina muttering about now?

  She had lowered her voice thankfully to a whisper but Becky caught something about a bastard of a fiancé and then, to top everything, she heard her say that she was thirty-eight.

  Thirty-eight! She was still thirty-seven, for goodness’ sake.

  At least she hadn’t told him her dress size for she would probably have got that wrong too.

  ‘So you are Becky,’ he said, smiling at her after Marina had hurriedly introduced them. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Marina.’

  And how.

  She nodded coolly. She had made her mind up that, after Marina’s desperate pleadings, she was having nothing to do with this man, not if he was the last one on earth. Unfortunately, he was every bit as mind-bogglingly attractive as his voice sounded and her heart had indeed leapt treacherously at the sight of him. He had strong features, straight nose, light haired although not so fair as she was. His eyes a grey-blue mix. Anyway, what the hell did that matter?

  She was out of here as soon as was humanly possible. She might be furious with Marina for talking about her like she had with a complete stranger but she could hardly admit to listening in to what had been a private conversation so she couldn’t help it if she might sound a touch terse to him.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ she told him crisply, needing to get this straight, pushing her hair behind her right ear, something she did often, without thinking, something somebody – her number one fiancé – had told her was incredibly sexy. Realizing she had done it, seeing him glance at her as she did so, she was instantly sorry. She had no intention of having him think she was flirting. Heaven forbid.

  ‘Sorry?’ He looked puzzled as well he might. ‘I’m sure you can look after yourself. You look very capable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, not entirely sure if it was meant to be a compliment. ‘Marina seems to think she has to take me under her wing. I can’t think why. And I can’t think why I’m here,’ she added, aware at once that it was a childish thing to say.

  ‘Ah. Then you were dragged here under protest as well,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Marina for years and she was bossy as a child. She’s never changed. She’s as bad as my mother. They’ve both been trying to get me fixed up for ages.’

  Becky nodded, casting a shy glance at him, noting the glance he gave her, a top-to-toe glance of male approval. It wasn’t quite of the Terry full-throttle leer but his approval was there none the less. It was hardly his fault if Marina had been less than discreet, so she would be polite, she decided, and if that meant spending a few minutes together then so be it.

  ‘I like your accent,’ he said after they had chatted a moment about inconsequential things.

  ‘I like yours,’ she said, stopping herself just in time from apologizing for her own. ‘It’s not at all like Marina’s. Not that she doesn’t have a lovely accent,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Whilst we’re on the subject, like Marina I used to have an impossibly posh one at school,’ he said with a grin. ‘We all did. Things have changed. You’ve got to sound more approachable these days. Too posh is a no-no. We’ve all had to work hard to level them out.’

  She liked him for that. She knew she was silly about it but it made her feel less self-conscious and she began to relax at last. He did rather monopolize her until Marina’s brother, an old school friend of his, caught up with him, smiling and asking Becky if he could borrow old Simon for a minute or two.

  Left alone, Becky headed for the buffet, a buffet her mum would have turned her nose up at for it was all shop bought, Marina making no secret of the fact that she had swept the shelves clean at Marks & Spencer earlier in the day. She could cook, she had once told Becky, but life was too short, wasn’t it?

  ‘All right, Becky? What did I tell you?’

  Becky reached for a bite, ignoring the triumphant look Marina was casting her way, refusing to acknowledge that, oh all right, she did find this Simon guy deliciously attractive. Marina would pounce on her tomorrow, wanting to know everything. She would be disappointed for Becky had already decided to keep Marina firmly out of the picture as she could not risk any further indiscretions. When it came to loose talk, Marina could regrettably not be trusted. Having talked to him, having seen him smile at her, she was revising her opinion a little. She thought she had detected a spot of interest there so who knows? There was no need to freeze him out just to get one over on Marina.

&nbs
p; Simon had her telephone number so, if he had a mind to, he could ring her. She had his too so, at a pinch, if she could bring herself to do it, she could ring him.

  Her taxi came for her at midnight. Things were hotting up, the drinks were flowing, the music was now deafening, and, like Cinderella, she slipped out unnoticed, waving a goodbye and mouthing a thank you to a half-sozzled Marina.

  Sitting in the taxi, listening to but not taking part in the woman driver’s lightweight chat, Becky was convinced that she would never hear from him again.

  FOUR

  BUT SHE DID. With the energy and determination of Prince Charming, he rang next day, ridiculously early, before she left for work, expressing surprise that she had sneaked off as she had. He was appalled, too, that she had gone home in a taxi when he would have been delighted to drive her himself.

  And, by the way, would she like to come out to dinner with him?

  Wouldn’t she just?

  ‘Who was that?’ her mum asked, taking a final glance at herself in the hall mirror.

  ‘Oh, just a guy I met last night,’ Becky told her, feeling her face flush. God, what a giveaway!

  ‘I see.’ Her mum tweaked her hair. ‘Come on, let’s get going. I’ve got a busy morning. Going to see him again, are you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m saying nothing else, Mum, so don’t ask.’

  Two dates on and Becky wished her mum wouldn’t stay up waiting for her to arrive home after a night out as if she was sixteen again. She understood why her mum worried, that January accident never far from her mind. Shelley ran through the whole episode often enough, reminded of it whenever she read a report in the paper of another car accident. The grapevine had been very active that night. Messages had flashed around that the kids had had an accident and somebody had died. She and Janet’s mum had been driven to the hospital by a neighbour, not knowing what was what.

  ‘I’ll never forget her face,’ her mum had said. ‘Janet’s mum’s face.’

  Their house was lit up tonight like a lighthouse, global warming and energy saving not one of her mum’s priorities. Every single room had its light on, and, as it was past midnight and Simon had just dropped her off, Becky could not help feeling she was sixteen again and in for a roasting at that. Her mum had never held back at telling her off with a voice to rival any top soprano once she got going. She supposed she could understand it because she was all her mum had and her mum had an honours degree in the devious and deadly ways of the male of the species. Her mum was just concerned about her, especially when it could all have gone either way when she lost her dad. It was only when her mum turned back to her for some comfort that they learned how to cope with it together and that’s how it had been ever since.

  It was just the two of them, give or take the presence of Uncle Alan now and then; the two of them in it together. The two of them against the world.

  However, that was then and this was now. If her mum dared say ‘What time do you call this?’ tonight, Becky would tell her what for. Some girls her age had sons of twenty, for goodness’ sake, and if she had wanted to stay out all night – if Simon had asked her, that is – then she certainly did not need her mother’s permission.

  She put her key in the lock, opened the door, listened a minute.

  ‘Is that you, love? I’m in the kitchen. Cup of hot chocolate?’

  Becky closed the front door quietly behind her, kicking off her shoes with relief. In stockinged feet, she padded into the kitchen where her mother was pouring milk into the mugs, wearing her old towelling dressing gown and fur-trimmed wedge slippers, cigarette in hand. Thank goodness she seemed in a good mood, which was just as well because Becky did not want her own spoilt.

  Becky was feeling pleasantly optimistic about the way it was going with Simon. He was all Marina had said he was. He was all she could have hoped for. Reliable and sexy. He had a nice temperament, not given to fits of temper like Terry, and he seemed easygoing and generally content so hopefully he wouldn’t have the bouts of depression that her number one fiancé had suffered from. Sean had broken off that engagement, breaking her heart at the time. Later, in the cold light of day, she could see that it would not have worked out. She could get down herself on occasion, dwelling on the past, so she needed somebody to buck her up when that happened, not somebody to drag her down. Compatibility was a funny thing. You had to be on the same wavelength, true, but you also had to complement each other by being that bit different.

  With Simon, it had not been love at first sight for her, not this time around, but then she was wary of all that baloney and, twice bitten, could not trust her judgement any more. Lust at first sight, more likely, for she had felt a distinct stirring all over when she saw him, had hardly dared look at him, look at him properly, for fear that she would give herself away. A woman could always tell if a man fancied her without any words being spoken and she supposed the opposite was true.

  So, wary as she was of it all going wrong once more, she wasn’t exactly on cloud nine yet – eight and a half, perhaps – but that delicious dreamy feeling was starting to build up, billowing all around her, and she was starting to think about the first kiss with some anticipation. A proper kiss, a deeply satisfying one when they could melt into each other, not just the peck on the cheek he had given her tonight, on meeting and on leaving her. Once he had got round to kissing her properly, putting some feeling into it, then she suspected it wouldn’t be long before she was doing the walking on air thing. The problem with walking on air was the landing to the ground with a bump.

  ‘Did you have a nice time?’ Her mum thudded the mugs down, picking up her own ‘The best mum in the world’ one and sighing. ‘I wouldn’t have stayed up, love, you’re not a kid any more, but I couldn’t get off to sleep tonight. My mind’s like a tumble drier, first one direction, and then the other. Ivana’s been a right pain in the neck today. She always shunts that miserable Mrs Wearmouth on to me even though she books in with her and I’m sick of it. I mean to say, there’s a limit to what you can do, creatively, with a perm as tight as that, and by the time you’ve listened to the latest tale of woe and tried your best to raise her spirits, you feel like topping yourself. I was so fed up I nearly told Ivana to stuff the job but I mustn’t be hasty, not until I’m fixed up with another one. Anyway, enough of her … how was your night?’

  Becky felt herself blush. For heaven’s sake!

  ‘Nice,’ she said lamely. ‘We went out for a meal.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A little Italian restaurant. I’ve never been there before.’

  Her mum sniffed. ‘Up town is full of Italian restaurants and Indian and Thai and God knows what else. An English one would be a change. Somewhere nice, a few steps up from a transport café or a pub, where you could get properly cooked Lancashire hotpot and sausage and mash and steak and kidney pie. If you ask me, we’re too fond in this country of running our own cuisine down when you can’t beat it if it’s done properly.’

  Becky smiled at the ‘cuisine’. Where had she picked that up from?

  ‘People want a choice. Things change. We’re not just a brash northern town any more. We’re a cosmopolitan city these days, Mum,’ she said. ‘We have to cater for all tastes.’

  ‘Don’t we just?’ Her mother sniffed but wisely said nothing more about that.

  ‘He asked if he could call me Rebecca.’

  ‘Of course he can, the daft beggar. That’s your name.’

  ‘Not Becky. Rebecca. Like Dad used to,’ she added quietly. ‘He says he likes it better than Becky. He’s so polite, Mum, pulls out my chair and everything. It makes you feel really special.’

  ‘Very considerate. Although you have to bear in mind that some men behave a certain way before and after if you follow my drift. I take it you’re still at the before stage?’

  Becky ignored her. ‘I had a Mediterranean fish soup and chicken pasta and ice cream and then afterwards he took me to his apartment for coffee….’

  ‘Did
he now?’ Shelley raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want the details but I can see you’ll be bringing him to meet me before long. And don’t forget, you’re doing the organizing if there’s a wedding in the offing. I’m having sod all to do with it this time. It’s lucky I got a refund on the outfit. It’s not the sort of thing you wear every day.’

  ‘Don’t start on that. Give me a chance. Nothing’s happened yet,’ Becky told her. ‘We’re taking it slowly. He’s not the sort to rush me and I don’t mind that.’

  ‘No, neither do I. There’s something to be said for being courted and fussed after. You miss all that if you jump into bed straight off. If you jump into bed straight off, you’ve lost your trump card.’ Her mother puffed on the cigarette. ‘I like a man who shows some control although if he doesn’t try something on soon you’ll have to start worrying. You don’t want to marry a cold fish. If I ever get married again, and I’m not ruling it out, it will be somebody who has a bit of warmth about him. Like Alan,’ she added wistfully. ‘You remember your Uncle Alan? I wonder sometimes if I should ever have let him slip through my fingers but no way was I buggering off to Australia with him. I mean, it would have upset your schooling and everything. It was all right for him. He was free as air. But if it hadn’t been for that, I might well have married him. He asked me often enough.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, blame me for messing up your life.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, love. I suppose if I had really loved him then I would have gone. I would have gone to the ends of the earth with your dad and that’s a fact but then he was ever so special. He was a man in a million.’

  Becky picked up her mug of hot chocolate, cupped her hands round it and took a sip. Her mum, she noticed, had had a French manicure; probably courtesy of the newly qualified nail technician Ivana had taken on. ‘Stop rushing me, Mum. Just because you got married at twenty, you think I’m getting past it.’