A Whiff of Scandal

by Carole Matthews

  ‘You really are a silly little cow, aren’t you?’ He pushed his face close to hers. ‘I don’t want to be your friend any more,’ he said menacingly. ‘I want to be your worst nightmare.’

  This was it. The ‘if I can’t have you, no one else will’ syndrome. It was a good job there wasn’t a handy rail track around, she thought.

  ‘Now don’t go all nasty on me, Bob, and spoil everything.’ She was aware that she sounded like her primary school teacher, Mrs Bates, who had been a stickler in her day. ‘We’ve had a lot of fun and now you should find yourself a nice girl to settle down with. Someone young and pretty, and not married, who’ll love you for yourself.’

  Bob’s shoulders sagged and his face softened. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I should remember this fondly for what it was.’ The angry glitter went out of his eyes to be replaced by a welling tear.

  Melissa patted his knee. ‘There’s a good boy,’ she said kindly. ‘You know it makes sense.’

  Bob smiled weakly. ‘Do you think we could have one last cuddle before I go?’ He looked up shyly. ‘For old time’s sake?’

  Melissa tutted. ‘You are an old softy at heart, aren’t you?’

  He nodded silently. She opened her arms and he squeezed her to him tightly.

  It was when she heard the familiar click of the handcuffs that Melissa realised that all was not well. When Bob let go of her she was cuffed firmly to the ornately carved bedpost and he was looking at her with a self-satisfied and altogether unpleasant smile on his face.

  Her forehead creased to a frown. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ she said sternly, trying to keep a tremor from her voice and bring back a full-blown Mrs Bates.

  ‘No,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘But then you haven’t been very nice to me either, have you?’

  He seized her other wrist and wrestled her to the post on the far side of the bed. Melissa struggled and kicked against him. Click.

  ‘You’ll regret this,’ she said vehemently.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m an asthmatic,’ Melissa informed him. ‘I could have an attack.’

  He opened the top drawer of her bedside cabinet and pulled out her inhaler. ‘Good guess,’ he said, brandishing the blue plastic tube. ‘Open wide.’

  ‘I will not!’

  He stuffed the inhaler in her mouth while it was open. Holding it there with one hand, he reached for one of her stockings – Marks and Spencer’s ‘Barely There’ – and wound it once round the inhaler and then took the two ends over her ears and tied them in a knot at the back of her head.

  He sat back on the bed and admired his handiwork. Melissa glowered at him as darkly as she could manage and shouted muffled obscenities through the inhaler.

  ‘Don’t go away,’ he said brightly. ‘Oh sorry, you can’t, can you?’

  He dressed slowly and leisurely, whistling while he buttoned his shirt, smoothing his over-washed jeans over his hips and putting his feet up on the bed – on her Garden of Romance duvet! – to tie his shoelaces.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I must be going. It’s nearly time for Frank to come home from his shift.’

  Melissa twisted her head and looked with panic at the clock.

  ‘You said Frank wouldn’t believe it unless he saw it with his own eyes.’ His voice was cheerful and light. ‘You’re going to have fun explaining this.’

  ‘Ith muth thith thwat shuff nuff mith bothath,’ Melissa said, kicking her heels into the bed.

  ‘Didn’t quite catch that.’ Bob shook his head. ‘Though I’m pretty sure one of the words was bastard. Am I right?’

  Melissa nodded violently.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own set of handcuffs. ‘Here’s one for good luck.’

  Clasping her flailing ankle, he secured it with a resounding thunk to the heart-shaped cut-out at the foot of the bed. ‘One other piece of advice, Melissa. Never so much as park on a double yellow line in Milton Keynes. I’ll be right behind you and I’ll do everything within my power to make damn sure the judge puts his black cap on before he sentences you.’ Bob winked at her. ‘Hasta la vista, baby!’

  ‘FITH UFF!’ Melissa replied with as much force as she could manage with an inhaler in her mouth.

  She listened as he stomped down the stairs whistling. There was a smash, which didn’t interrupt his whistle and which she judged to be the wall-mounted box containing the twenty-four selections of popular doorbell tunes. As the door slammed, ‘You Are My Sunshine’ started to play. Understandably, every other note was missing. So DC Elecampane had noticed and it seemed he had taken it rather badly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  MASSAGE RUB FOR STIFF MUSCLES

  Black Pepper, Marjoram, Rosemary, Chamomile German.

  When we are over-stretched, our bodies can react by rendering us unable to let go of the rigid tension that builds up in our muscles. Gentle massage with this restorative blend of nature’s essential oils can really help by stimulating the blood circulation that gives relief to aching spasm.

  from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage

  Rose opened the door with a mixture of surprise and pleasure on her face. A sympathetic smile twisted her lips.

  ‘Richard the Third, I presume?’ she said.

  Dan was bent double, clutching his lower back. He raised his head to look at her miserably. ‘A massage, a massage, my kingdom for a massage.’ His gritted teeth wouldn’t allow him to smile.

  ‘I don’t want your kingdom. Forty quid will do.’

  ‘A king’s ransom then.’

  Her smile widened and she held the door open. ‘Come on in and let me see what I can do. You’re lucky, I’ve got a gap.’

  He hobbled past her gingerly. ‘I have to say I hold you partly responsible for this.’

  ‘Oh?’ She gave him an inquiring look.

  ‘My back hasn’t been the same since I spent the night on your sofa.’

  ‘And that’s my fault?’

  ‘You were definitely a contributory factor.’

  ‘I would have thought the seventeen pints of Carlsberg and half a bottle of brandy contributed most.’

  ‘You could have a point,’ he muttered.

  Rose led him, hobbling, into her treatment room.

  ‘It’s nice and warm in here,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes, despite the obvious lack of open fire.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dan felt himself colour.

  ‘Yes,’ Rose said. ‘Ah.’

  ‘I can explain . . .’

  That fateful morning he had eventually returned home after the Viking evening, he had rashly promised Gardenia that he wouldn’t come near Rose again. This was mainly to ensure that he wasn’t de-testiculated as he feared he might otherwise have been. Gardenia had threatened that all manner of unspeakable acts would befall his person if he so much as ventured in this direction of Lavender Hill for the remainder of his lifetime.

  Dan, who had the mother of all hangovers, was in no fit state to form a cohesive argument and simply longed to smother himself in Rose’s foul-smelling Hellish Hangover Remedy. The words ‘quiet life’ were at the forefront of his brain, so instead of remonstrating with Gardenia, or even voicing his innocence, he had tucked his tail between his legs and it had stayed there firmly ever since, out of harm’s way.

  It was all going quite well. Gardenia had restored verbal communication and he only thought of Rose once every hour or whenever he caught a whiff of the hangover remedy, which was quite often since he had taken to smearing it on his twingeing back, once the hangover had gone. Then he tried to pick up a paving slab this morning.

  The pain had been unbearable – red-hot needles shooting down his back and his legs. He’d dropped the paving slab, narrowly missing his big toe. His brother, Alan, brought him back to Builder’s Bottom in the van. And, although Alan tried to drive carefully through the rutted country lanes to Great Brayford, ten years of vehicular abuse weighed heavily on
his motoring style and every twist and turn and bump sent Dan almost through the roof with pain.

  Gardenia laughed when she saw him shuffling up to the house, leaning on Alan like a six-foot-two hulk of walking stick. She laughed again when Alan had gone and Dan was alone in the house with her, so he knew she hadn’t put on the laugh for his brother’s benefit. And she called him Quasimodo. It was probably because she’d never heard of Richard the Third. When he complained of the pain, she told him to go and find something in the bathroom cabinet to rub on it. It took ten minutes for him to hobble upstairs one step at a time and all he could find in the first-aid box in the bathroom was a tattered packet of dog-eared plasters, honey-flavoured Strepsils, Night Nurse and an out-of-date bottle of Benylin Expectorant. Rose’s Hellish Hangover Remedy was there too and that was what made him think of her – not that he needed much prompting. It was TLC that he needed, not TCP. And there wasn’t even any of that.

  The decision made, he had hobbled out of Builder’s Bottom – without telling Gardenia where he was going – and down the hill to Rose’s house, using for support as many obliging garden walls as he could along the way.

  He looked at Rose, who was waiting expectantly. ‘Forget I said that. I can’t explain,’ he said. ‘It’s a very long story.’

  Rose shrugged. ‘Tell me another time then.’ She pointed at a hook bearing two smart coat hangers on the back of the treatment room door. ‘I’ll leave you to take your clothes off.’

  Dan looked startled.

  ‘Do you think you can manage by yourself?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said too quickly. He hadn’t thought about removing his clothes. If he’d thought, he would have taken a shower.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her forehead creased with concern.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he repeated. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you want me to take all my clothes off?’

  ‘If you feel comfortable,’ she said. ‘I want to massage all round your lower back and your buttocks, just to make sure you haven’t trapped your sciatic nerve or anything.’

  ‘And that’s where my sciatic nerve is?’ Dan queried.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want me to take off everything? Even my, er, my shorts?’

  Rose nodded in response. ‘Even your, er, shorts,’ she mimicked.

  ‘Oh.’

  She folded her arms before she spoke again. ‘Mr Spikenard, I am a professional therapist trained in Swedish remedial massage as well as the ancient art of aromatherapy. You are in very safe hands.’

  A look of terror crossed Dan’s face. ‘Swedish massage?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with being beaten by birch twigs so there’s no need to look so panic-stricken, I’m not asking you to get your kit off simply to have a glimpse of your bum.’

  ‘I didn’t for one moment suggest that, Ms Stevens,’ he protested.

  Rose smiled. ‘No, but your face did.’

  ‘Am I so transparent?’

  ‘As a pane of glass. Now,’ she pointed sternly at him, ‘get undressed! I won’t bite you.’

  ‘That was the bit I was looking forward to.’

  ‘Here, put this round you.’ She laid a towel on the treatment couch. ‘I’m going to wash my hands. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Rose let the cold water from the sink in the downstairs loo trickle over her wrists. Her palms were hot and sweaty. She did want to look at Dan’s bum, despite what she said. It was a terrible thing to have to admit. In all her years of practice and all the bottoms that had passed under her therapeutic hands – big ones, small ones, hairy ones, spotty ones and even a few nice ones – she had never felt hot and bothered about looking at one of them before. Not even Hugh’s, as far as she could remember.

  She smoothed her uniform over her hips and counted slowly to ten, before going back into the treatment room. Dan was perched on the edge of her work bench where she had been mixing oils earlier in the day. He was sniffing at the tiny brown bottles, his nose wrinkled in concentration – or disgust, she wasn’t sure which.

  ‘I’ll mix you some oils for muscular spasm. That’ll help,’ she said as she crossed the room towards him. It was disconcerting having him sitting in her treatment room clad in nothing but a towel. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his body tanned to a rugged nutbrown. His chest was covered with a fine curling of dark blond hair and he looked as if he worked out, but he probably didn’t need to.

  ‘Will it smell any better than the hangover stuff?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Rose laughed. ‘I’ll use some marjoram and black pepper and some blue chamomile which is good for reducing inflammation. And perhaps some rosemary.’

  Dan pulled a face. ‘Are you sure you’re not making a curry?’

  ‘If you want to leave here smelling nice, you’ll have to come for one of my relaxing treatments,’ she said brightly.

  ‘I might do that.’ Dan held her eyes and there was a catch in his voice.

  ‘Well, yes. One day,’ she said, flustered. ‘But now, first things first.’

  He leaned across her and picked up another bottle from the bench. ‘What does rose oil smell like?’ he asked, slowly unscrewing the lid.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she answered, her voice higher than she would have liked. He was close to her and the heady smell of the rose oil drifted between them, filling the room with its delicious perfume.

  He held the bottle to his nose and inhaled deeply. ‘You’re right,’ he said softly.

  ‘That’s damask rose or otto of rose, one of the most precious oils in the world. You can pay hundreds of pounds for a teaspoon of high-quality oil. Which works out at about a pound a drop.’

  ‘And worth every penny – or every pound – I should think.’ Dan closed his eyes and inhaled again. ‘Do you know that the rose is a symbol of Venus, the goddess of love?’

  Her mouth was dry, her heart beating high in her chest. ‘You suddenly know an awful lot about aromatherapy oils.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ve been reading the back of Gardenia’s underarm deodorant.’

  Rose frowned. ‘Dan Spikenard, you’re taking the mickey!’

  ‘No. I’m not.’ He was smiling, but his eyes were serious, sombre.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you on to my couch. For a man who was in abject pain not ten minutes ago you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.’

  ‘Can’t I have some of this?’ He held up the bottle of rose oil.

  ‘It’s not really suitable for your back,’ she said.

  Dan made a petulant face.

  ‘It’s for nervous tension,’ Rose explained.

  ‘I’ve got loads of that,’ he insisted.

  ‘And impotence.’

  Dan looked affronted. ‘I haven’t got that!’

  Rose smiled kindly. ‘Will it persuade you finally to get on my couch if I promise to do a little bit of facial massage for you? You can have some rose oil in that.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Just get on my couch, Dan.’

  He put the rose oil down and hobbled across the room.

  ‘I’ll lower this so you don’t do yourself another injury,’ she said. She reduced the height of her hydraulic treatment couch – a wise but pricey piece of equipment that she had invested in when she moved to Great Brayford to protect her own back for the future. She wished it was as easy to invest in something to protect her against Dan.

  He sat down and swung his legs on to the couch, grimacing slightly as he did so.

  ‘Now I need you on your front.’ He turned over obediently, a groan joining the grimace. ‘Take it easy,’ she advised him.

  ‘I don’t think I can take it any other way.’

  ‘I’ll just raise this back to the right height,’ she said, operating the control with her foot. Dan heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘Unhook your towel,’ she instructed. ‘I want to lay it on top of you.’

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Dan!’ H
er voice held a threat.

  He reached round to his stomach and undid the towel. Rose spread it over his legs, exposing the top of his buttocks, and tucked it tightly under his hips. She was starting to feel very warm. He had a body shaped like a Dairylea cheese triangle. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and tight slim hips. He had the nicest buttocks she had ever seen. They looked like two hard-boiled eggs peeping out of a handkerchief.

  ‘I’ll make your oil,’ she said nervously, glad of the chance to escape temporarily to the sanctuary of the other side of the room. With shaking hands, she poured the drops of oil into a clean glass bottle and then rolled it between her palms, warming the blend with the heat of her hands – which was not inconsiderable. As promised, she also blended a few drops of otto of rose with some peach oil for a facial massage.

  She returned to Dan and, pouring the oils into her hand, took a deep, steadying breath before gently laying her hands on his lower back. He flinched slightly. ‘Just let me know if anything is uncomfortable,’ Rose said. Apart from me, she added as a silent afterthought.

  Sliding her hands up his back, she tried very hard to concentrate on what she was doing and not on the fact that the body beneath her was strong and lithe and supple and fit.

  The movement was called effleurage. A fine stroking motion, to help relax the body – the client’s body. Clearly, it wasn’t the therapist’s in this particular case. All the massage movements had French names – effleurage, pétrissage, tapotement – which was strange considering it was supposed to be Swedish remedial massage. Perhaps rubbing, kneading and hitting didn’t sound quite as aesthetically appealing in Swedish.

  Her hands moved over Dan’s shoulders and she swallowed hard. In her panic, she had used too much oil and it squeezed from under her palms through her fingers, warm and sensual. Dan let out a contented groan beneath her. This was sheer torture and at the moment she wasn’t sure who was suffering most. She worked her slippery hands over his body, moulding them to him, feeling the hard tendons and sinews easing and releasing beneath her firm touch. Her thumbs circled alongside the deep hollow of his spine.