There was a man – well, more of a guy – standing there, leaning on her doorframe, smiling at her. Lopsidedly. ‘I’ve come to look at your fireplace,’ he said, smile widening. ‘I understand you want it opening up.’
It was certainly an original chat-up line. Her eyebrows headed for the bridge of her nose in an involuntary frown. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I know who you are.’
He cocked his head in the general direction of up-the-hill. ‘Dan Spikenard. Number fifteen. Builder’s Bottom.’
‘Oh! You’re the builder?’
‘Got it in one.’
She looked at him critically. He didn’t look much like a builder. If he did, he was the Hollywood version. Crisp, clean, checked shirt, possibly Gap – definitely not Mister Byrite. His jeans had just the right amount of stone-washed fade and no rips in the knees. His hair had just the right amount of golden flecks that caught the light as he moved, his eyes the right amount of mischievous twinkle. The designer stubble had grown to perfection. And if there had been a camera present, it would have been catching his best side. He wasn’t like other builders she had met, who all had bald pates – not à la Sinead – one eye, two earrings, four fading tattoos and a beer belly that had been expensive to acquire. There was also a distinct lack of greasy donkey jacket and mud-caked Dr Marten boots.
‘Have we met before?’ Rose asked politely. She would have definitely remembered if she had met him.
‘No. But if you’re wondering why I know all about your fireplace, you haven’t lived in the village long enough.’ He pushed himself away from the doorframe. He was tall, too. Very. ‘Did you mention it to anyone?’
A puzzled look crossed her face. ‘Only in passing, at the post office.’
‘Ah, Mr Patel.’ The smile widened. ‘Our village telegraph. Well, let’s see. He probably told Mrs Devises, who probably told Mrs Took, who probably told Cassia Wales, who probably told the Lavender Hill mob, who probably told Gardenia – who definitely told me.’
Rose returned his smile. ‘Who on earth are the Lavender Hill mob?’
‘The snoop sisters.’ He gesticulated backwards with his head. ‘Anise and Angelica. They live just across the lane. You must have met them.’
She nodded. ‘We’re on nodding terms.’
‘They’re Great Brayford’s answer to Hinge and Bracket. They don’t miss a trick. MI5 have a lot to learn from those two. It’s fair to say that they’ve been a bit slow with you. You’re still known in the village as that nice young lady at number five.’
‘I am a name, not a number!’ She wished he would stop smiling like that, it was stopping her brain from functioning properly.
‘Unless you do something scandalous to outrage the residents, like paint your front door a different colour, you’ll remain the nice young lady at number five for ever.’
‘I think I might resent that!’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ He shrugged and she noticed how wide his shoulders were under his pristine checked shirt. ‘Don’t take it personally. It just takes a long time to be accepted into village life. Look at Mr Patel. They treat him as if he’s just come over on a banana boat from Bombay, despite the fact that he’s had the post office for over five years, is one of the nicest blokes round here and, by all accounts, is third generation Slough.’
Rose laughed. It sounded strange. How long had it been since she had spontaneously burst into giggles? It was probably easier to remember when she had last spontaneously burst into flames. It certainly wasn’t in the last three months. And before that there was the bit where it was all going horribly wrong and there hadn’t been many laughs then either.
‘Anyway, back to your fireplace,’ he continued. ‘Do you want it opening up or not? Sometimes the messages passed along are a bit like Chinese whispers – you know, bring three and fourpence we’re going to a dance.’
‘What?’
‘Bring reinforcements we’re going to advance.’ He grinned. ‘Something usually gets lost in translation.’
She laughed again. This was ridiculous. She was starting to sound like a hyena on laughing gas. It was probably because she had been using her namesake Rose oil this morning, which always made her feel slightly euphoric. Thankfully, given the price of it, it hadn’t been the one she’d spilt. She tried to calm herself down. ‘Well, they were right this time. I do want my fireplace looked at.’
‘Good to see that the jungle drums aren’t failing.’
‘Come on in.’ She held the door open for him and he suddenly made the hall seem very small. ‘Through here.’
‘Phew,’ he said, following her into the room. ‘It smells like a tart’s handbag in here.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’
He picked up one of the small brown bottles and examined it carefully. She took it from him, fearing that in those large hands it would soon be heading towards the floor with an unhealthy crash. ‘What do you do?’ he asked.
‘I’m an aromatherapist.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, one of these new-fangled, New Agers.’
‘Something like that.’
‘We go for that sort of thing round here. This isn’t your typical farming community – we like to play at it, green wellies and Barbours, preferably without the farmyard smells and mud.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ She laughed again. Why couldn’t she think of something intelligent and witty to say?
‘Will you have enough business to keep you going here?’
‘I hope so. I’ve had some good contacts from the clients I left behind in London and I’ve started to advertise in the local paper.’
His face darkened momentarily. ‘You want to be careful. This might not be the big city smoke, but there are still plenty of cranks about. You’re here on your own – you ought to think twice about having strangers trekking through your house.’
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘Sensible woman, is she?’
Rose groaned.
‘Seriously,’ he continued. ‘Gone are the days when you could leave your back door open all night.’
Rose gave an involuntary shiver. ‘I know, but there are pluses to being out in the sticks.’ She walked to the window and looked out. ‘The garden’s wonderful. I lived in a poky flat in London.’ Executive apartment complex with roof terrace and underground parking. And Hugh. ‘I’ve got birds, foxes, badgers and deer. And the view across the vale is stunning.’
‘These are the things that remind us we live in the country.’
She turned back to him. ‘I must admit it’s not quite as rural as I had expected.’
‘Not so much milking maids and cow pats as advertising executives and bullshit.’
‘Well, yes.’ She felt a bubble of laughter again. ‘There certainly seems to be a larger percentage of Mercs than moo-cows. And everyone looks like they’ve just walked off the set of Dynasty. Apart from Melissa, the girl that cleans for the vicar. You can tell she’s a country lass through and through. She’s still got that fresh-faced, tumble-in-the-hay sort of look.’
‘Mel’s probably one of the few true villagers left. Certainly the youngest. If you cut her in half she’d probably have, “Welcome to Great Brayford” stamped right through her middle.’
‘We’ve had coffee together a couple of times. She’s been very friendly,’ Rose said.
‘Oh, and the sisters grim,’ Dan continued. ‘They were born and bred just down the road in the manor – the one that’s the golf course clubhouse now. Their father was a big landowner round here. Owned half the vale, and had his eye on the rest of it.’
‘So there are a few country folk still left.’
‘A few.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Not many though.’ He hooked his fingers through the belt loops of his jeans and his smile broadened again. ‘Well, I’m sorry we don’t live up to your expectations. Would you be happier if I went to get some straw to chew?’
‘No, but I’d be happy if you looked at my
fireplace.’ She smiled sweetly.
He nodded solemnly. ‘I’m a builder, that’s my job.’
She walked over to the fireplace. ‘I’m afraid the Philistine who lived here last obviously got some cowboy firm in to brick it up.’
‘Sure did, ma’am.’ He twirled imaginary guns from his imaginary holster. ‘A and D Spikenard. A is my brother Alan.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ A flush spread over her cheeks and Rose put her face in her hands. ‘that was so thoughtless!’
He winked at her. ‘Well, as long as the Philistines pay the bills, I do what’s required.’ He crouched down and nodded at the offending fireplace. ‘This won’t take long. Can I come back at the weekend and do it for you?’
‘Well, yes. That’ll be fine. What sort of price are we talking about? I’m a bit strapped for cash after the move and everything.’
He pushed up again. ‘Well, just to be neighbourly and prove that we’re not a cowboy outfit, you can have it on me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that!’
‘Well, I can’t bake apple pies or make jam with bits in but I can knock a hole in your wall to say welcome.’
‘That would be very nice of you.’
‘I’m a nice sort of guy.’ He winked at her again. ‘But don’t tell everyone. They’ll all want holes knocked in things.’ He headed for the door. ‘I’d better be going. I’ll see you Saturday. Early. Early-ish.’
She followed him. ‘Thanks. I really appreciate it.’
He turned at the door and leaned on the doorframe again. ‘By the way, are you going to tell me your name or do you want me to call you that nice young lady at number five like the rest of them?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself, did I?’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Rose. Rose Stevens.’
He took her hand. Was it her imagination or did he hold it longer than was absolutely respectable for a first meeting?
‘Dan,’ he said again. He pushed back the stetson that he wasn’t wearing with the butt of the six-shooter he didn’t have either. ‘Me and my horse Trigger will see you on Saturday.’
Chapter Three
SPIKENARD
An amber-coloured oil with a distinctly animal attractive odour. Spikenard is an excellent antidote for insomnia, nervous indigestion, headaches, stress and tension. It is useful in fighting withdrawal from addictive substances, helping to alleviate symptoms such as palpitations, breathing difficulties, distorted vision, confusion and panic attacks. Emotionally, it can soothe aggression and anger, speed the healing process and induce a positive state of mind.
from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage
Once she had completed her index fingernail with the requisite three strokes, Gardenia looked up from painting her nails. ‘What are you smirking at?’
Dan walked past her to the kettle and filled it with water. ‘I’m not smirking.’
Gardenia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, you are. You’re making the Cheshire Cat look like Victor Meldrew.’
‘The Cheshire Cat grinned, he didn’t smirk. And I’m doing neither.’
‘You’re remarkably sunny for some reason,’ she said sullenly.
‘I’m delirious because it’s Monday and in a moment, when I have drunk this delicious cup of coffee I am so skilfully making, I’m going to go and play bricks with the big boys.’ He poured water into the cup.
‘Why aren’t you at work already? And where have you been for the last half hour?’
‘And why am I smiling?’ Dan saluted and did a dubious impersonation of an army officer’s voice. ‘I’m British. I will only give you my name, rank and serial number. Nothing you can do will make me talk, you fiendish swine.’
‘Grow up.’ Gardenia went back to her nails.
He brought the cup of coffee and sat next to her at the table.
‘Have you taken your shoes off?’ she said without looking at him.
‘No, I haven’t taken my shoes off. I am wearing them in deliberate defiance of house rules.’
She glared at him over her polish bottle.
‘And, anyway, they weren’t muddy,’ he said quickly.
She smiled coldly at him. ‘You might be smiling, but you’re still an awkward sod at heart, aren’t you?’
‘If I wanted a fight – another fight – I might say it takes one to know one.’
She ignored that. ‘So. Where have you been?’
The ends of Gardenia’s fingers were developing into hideous chocolate-coloured blobs. It was probably the latest fashion. These things mattered to Gardenia. She took a painstaking amount of care over painting them so that it all stayed on the nails – mainly – and she didn’t get bits round her fingers that she had to pick off later. It looked absolutely frightful, but it would take a braver man than he was to tell her so. He took a sip of his coffee and shuddered, not entirely sure whether it was because of the nails or the taste of the coffee. It was some awful decaffeinated stuff, because real coffee, real tasty coffee, clogged your arteries or took ten years off your life or gave you wrinkles. Something like that. And these things mattered to Gardenia.
‘I have been spending a congenial half hour with our new neighbour further down Lavender Hill.’ He took another sip of the coffee and decided that it definitely was the culprit.
Gardenia looked up and blobbed her nail. She didn’t notice and he wasn’t going to point it out. ‘That woman at number five?’
‘The prefixes nice and young are usually used, but yes, that woman at number five.’ He pushed his coffee away from him. ‘She’s called Rose.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘What sort of a name is that?’
He shrugged. ‘An English country one, I suppose. And you’re hardly in a position to cast the first stone with a name like Gardenia.’
‘I was named after my great-aunt.’
‘What was she called?’
‘Gard—’ She looked at him with disdain. ‘Arsehole.’
‘Perhaps Rose was named after someone who was a complete prick.’
She smiled through narrowed eyes and narrowed lips. It was Gardenia’s ‘look’. ‘Then she’d be called Dan, wouldn’t she?’
He stood up. ‘Well, I can’t sit here all day exchanging social pleasantries when there are bricks to be laid.’
‘What did you go to see her for?’ She affected a sickly smile. ‘Rose.’
‘I’m going to knock her fireplace out for her at the weekend.’
‘Is that some sort of crude joke?’
‘No.’ He tried to look suitably offended. ‘You were the one that told me she wanted it doing.’ He headed towards the door. Fresh air. A blessed relief from cloying perfume competing with acetone. ‘I bricked it in a couple of years ago for the Palmers. It’ll only take five minutes to knock it out again for her.’
‘Up to your usual standard of workmanship then?’
He acknowledged the jibe with a rueful smile. ‘I said I’d do it for nothing.’
‘You always were a charmer.’
Dan sighed. ‘She’s nice, Gardi. You’d like her.’ Though what she’d make of you is a different matter, he added to himself silently. ‘You ought to pop along there and welcome her. She’s an aromatherapist. You like that sort of thing.’
The nailpolish brush was still suspended over the blobbed nail. ‘Anise thinks she’s running a brothel.’
Dan threw his head back and laughed. ‘In Great Brayford? Do me a favour!’
Gardenia’s face darkened. ‘Apparently she’s got men popping in and out of there all day.’
‘They’re clients! Hasn’t that woman got anything better to do with her day than snoop on her neighbours?’
‘Anise said you can’t help but notice. She’s got some very strange types going in there. And they come out looking all flushed and pleased with themselves.’
‘Gardenia, she’s a very good and well-respected therapist, from a huge, swanky practice in London. She’s had all sorts of ce
lebrity clients.’
‘Really?’ Gardenia was grudgingly impressed. ‘Like who?’
‘Like . . . like, er,’ he scratched his stubble distractedly. ‘I think she mentioned Cliff Richard.’
‘Cliff Richard?’
‘You know how young he looks.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. I’m late. Alan will wonder where I’ve got too.’
‘Why’s she moved out here then?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’
Gardenia looked back at her nails. ‘Oh shit! You’ve made me blob!’
‘I’ve got to dash. ‘Bye, Gardi.’ He slammed the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief.
The sound of ‘And don’t call me Gardi!’ came drifting after him on the air. Fresh country air. Chill and crisp. It was depressing when the inside of your house was more polluted than the outside. He jumped into the Land Rover Discovery he had recently bought, enjoying the smell of new leather. What a discovery it had been too. He hadn’t had so much vehicular fun since he grew too big for Tonka toys. He put it into gear and swung out of the drive. They had been building a new Tesco in Milton Keynes and the job was coming to a close. Pretty soon, he thought, there would be a line of Tescos stretching as far as the eye could see from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Not that it worried him. People had to eat. The next job he did would be smaller, but even more contentious. And, unfortunately, closer to home.
He pushed in the cassette that jutted precariously from the tape player. ‘Good loving gone bad,’ screeched Bad Company at full volume. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gardenia hated this song. That was probably why it had been ejected with such violent force. It was indicative of their relationship. No, it was less subtle than that; she just hated his taste in music. End of story. She also hated his taste in clothes, his friends, his job and most of his family. Except for his younger brother Alan who flirted with her and told her she was young and gorgeous – which she was. It was just that Gardenia liked to hear it a lot. An awful lot. And Alan was a tireless splashing fountain of compliments. Unfortunately, his own fount had dried up years ago. Dan wondered for the millionth time how it was all going to end. When it was all going to end. And why hadn’t it all ended already? How long was it till you knew it was the end of the road? Very philosophical for a Monday morning.
A Whiff of Scandal Page 2