A Whiff of Scandal

by Carole Matthews

  ‘You’re very tense,’ she croaked.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Dan’s voice was muffled from lying face downwards. He tried to turn round and speak to her.

  ‘Lie down!’ she instructed.

  ‘I’ve never had a massage before, Rose. And, I must say, that contrary to my expectations, it’s proving to be one of the most pleasant experiences I’ve ever had. I’m just not sure it’s my back that it’s having the most effect on.’

  ‘It will in a minute. I’m getting to that bit now,’ she said slightly breathlessly. The two boiled eggs seemed to be throwing out a challenge to her. TOUCH US AT YOUR PERIL, they said.

  Rose put off the terrible moment and massaged over the back of his hips, as close to the buttocks as she could without actually touching them. She knew she was stalling and they knew she was stalling. IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, they said.

  ‘Your sacroiliac is very tight.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Dan moaned.

  ‘This is the problem area,’ she said in as professional a tone as she could manage, considering her legs had turned to Slinkies and there were things doing cartwheels in her stomach.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Dan said with a sigh. ‘Oh, yes.’

  Rose glared at the back of his head. As if sensing it, he turned and said, ‘Sorry. I mean, that’s where it hurts. You’re on just the right spot.’

  She was afraid of that. This would mean that the buttocks would have to be worked on. There was no avoiding it. She looked accusingly at them. Now they seemed to be winking at her. Suggestively. Everyone else’s bottom just lay there patiently and waited its turn. But not Dan’s bottom. It demanded attention.

  Rose braced herself and then swept her hands over the tight curve of his buttocks. The muscles were both soft and firm at the same time. The skin smooth and yet rough with a down of coarse, barely visible hair. They were the most sensation-laden buttocks she had ever met.

  Dan groaned with what was definitely bordering on pleasure. Right, Rose thought, she would knock the smile off the face of his bottom. She sank her thumbs deep into his flesh, effleuraging and pétrissaging with a ferocity that she didn’t know she possessed until they yielded underneath her, begging for mercy.

  Rose was panting heavily, her hands smoothing the buttocks she had so mercilessly battered. They were tamed, subdued and malleable – and quite probably bruised. It might make Dan’s back feel better, but he probably wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.

  He turned his head to look at her. ‘Are you normally quite so enthusiastic about your work?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rose answered breathlessly. ‘I’m a professional massage therapist. I told you so.’

  ‘Far be it for me to argue with that.’ Dan pushed himself up on his elbows. ‘May I say, without risk of further punishment, that you’ve got very strong thumbs for such a little person.’

  Rose smiled. ‘How does your back feel now?’

  ‘Wonderful.

  ‘Has the pain eased?’

  ‘What pain?’ There was a smirk on his face and there was plenty of colour in his cheeks. The cheeks of his face.

  ‘Well, give it a few days’ rest,’ she advised. ‘If you must go to work, don’t, for goodness sake, do any lifting or heavy work. Just walk round with a pencil behind your ear and look busy. You are the boss, after all. And if you do get any more twinges, I’d go to an osteopath and get it looked at properly. You need to nip any potential back problems in the bud, particularly in your job.’

  ‘Thanks, Rose.’ Dan turned over to lie on his back. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘You can get up now,’ she said. ‘Do it carefully, though.’

  ‘What about your promise?’

  ‘What promise?’ Rose looked puzzled.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten already?’ Dan tutted. ‘My face. The rose oil. You said you’d do it for me.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ she said lightly. Not more torture, she groaned inwardly. ‘Just a few minutes then.’

  Pulling her footstool to the head of the couch, she lowered Dan until his head was nestled comfortably in her hands. Smoothing his unruly hair back from his brow, she poured the rose oil on to her warm hands. Dan’s chest was exposed, the towel pushed down provocatively low on his hips. His stomach was hard, flat and reminded her of driving through Milton Keynes – for the simple reason that the majority of housing estates in the city were plagued with a series of traffic-calming humps. Except, unlike Milton Keynes, Dan’s stomach was row after row of tight-packed humps of muscle. And there was nothing calming about these humps.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said softly.

  Dan obliged and she smoothed the oil over his shoulders and up on to his neck where her hands grazed against the bristle of stubble. She covered his face with her fingertips, trailing them delicately over his mouth, his cheeks, his nose and the frown lines of his forehead. The scent of the oil was heady, rich, erotic, floral sweet with a hint of exotic spice and almost, almost, overpowering. A thousand Valentine’s Day bouquets rolled into one heady concoction.

  ‘No one has ever touched my face like this,’ Dan murmured contentedly. ‘It is the most blissful thing I’ve ever felt. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.’

  Tears sprang to Rose’s eyes. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, admonishing herself for being hormonal. So what if she was the first person in the world to touch Dan’s face? What did that matter? But why hadn’t Gardenia touched his face in all the years they had been together? Did familiarity really breed contempt? If Dan’s face had belonged to her, she wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from touching it. Like his bottom, his face was very, very touchable.

  Her hands followed the contours of his full sensual lips, his long, strong nose. She swept her fingers over his chiselled cheekbones and up around his hairline. Working her thumbs lightly over the acupressure points on his forehead, she could feel him relaxing under her touch, sinking deeper into that peaceful half-trance between wakefulness and sleeping.

  As she circled her fingers gently over the white creases of crow’s feet by his eyes, she could see the years falling away from him. She could see the boy in Dan – soft-skinned, carefree, a fresh open face – and she wished that things could be different between them. Had he really meant the half-spoken words he said after the Viking night or was it simply Reg’s Carlsberg talking? Why was he still with Gardenia when all they seemed to share, apart from Builder’s Bottom, was a deep and abiding loathing for each other? Why did men always seem keen to expound how much they disliked their spouses while, at the same time, being curiously reluctant to do anything either to sever the ties or to work to make things better? Having an affair seemed to be the easy remedy these days. But, in reality, it forced so many people to live in abject misery. Surely not all relationships ended in acrimony. There were still some good ones left. Weren’t there?

  ‘Rose.’ Dan caught her hand as it slid back down his neck towards his shoulders. ‘I think you better stop there.’ His voice was husky.

  Rose glanced down the length of the treatment couch. She had seen the boy in Dan and now she was very definitely seeing the man, albeit still modestly covered with a towel. She could feel a scalding rush of blood flow from her toes up to her face. The sort of rush that would make her neck red and blotchy for hours.

  ‘I’m really embarrassed,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need to be,’ she reassured him.

  He looked unconvinced.

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ Rose continued. ‘Men aren’t used to having their faces stroked by strange women. It can be a very sensual experience. It’s not a big deal.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Honestly.’ She pressed a button on the couch which raised him to a semi-sitting position.

  Dan linked his hands behind his head. ‘How do you normally handle it?’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘I think I’ll rephrase that.’

  Rose laughed. ‘I think you better had.’

  ‘
What do you usually do in this sort of situation?’

  ‘It depends,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Either I ignore it and hope it will go away. Or, if they start to get too frisky, whack them with a cold spoon.’

  ‘A cold spoon?’

  ‘It was a trick my mother taught me for dampening the ardour of unwanted suitors.’

  ‘I see.’ Dan looked suitably impressed. ‘And what are you planning to do with me?’

  ‘I think you’re the “ignore it and hope it will go away” variety.’ Rose smiled kindly. ‘I don’t think you’re some kind of pervert. There’s no need to be embarrassed.’

  ‘I feel like a pervert –’ he said.

  ‘– but where could I find one at this time of day?’ they both joked in unison.

  He sighed. ‘But I do feel embarrassed, Rose. Here you are being all professional and clinical, and my mind – and my body – are behaving like a horny schoolboy and there’s nothing I’d like more than to unbutton that crisp, starched little white uniform and fling it with wild abandon to the other side of the room, pull you down on top of me and then,’ he looked dangerously at the bottle of rose massage oil, ‘smear that wonderful, sexy oil all over your wonderful, sexy body.’

  ‘I see,’ Rose said calmly, feeling anything but calm inside.

  ‘Isn’t that just cause for the cold spoon treatment?’ Dan asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied.

  ‘Can I ask what’s giving rise to your uncertainty?’

  There was a long silence, during which birds twittered wildly in the garden. They were her favourites, chubby redwing thrushes, that swooped in and gorged themselves, eating all the berries on her bright orange pyracantha. But Rose didn’t notice them now. A golden eagle could have been doing handstands on the bird table and it was unlikely that she’d have noticed that either.

  Rose let out a long, shuddering exhalation of breath. Her shoulders sagged with relief – she hadn’t realised how close to her ears they had become. Without speaking, she sat on the edge of the treatment couch, her thigh resting against Dan’s. She looked squarely at him. ‘I haven’t whacked you with a cold spoon,’ her voice wavered unsteadily, ‘for the simple reason that I have been wanting you to do exactly the same thing.’

  ‘I see.’ It was Dan’s turn to sound calm.

  They sat there looking at each other, neither of them moving.

  ‘Now what happens?’ Dan asked eventually.

  ‘You’ve got a bad back,’ she reminded him.

  Reaching out, he took her hand. His grip was firm, warm and confident. He pulled her towards him. ‘Then you’d better be gentle with me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CASSIA

  A brownish-yellow oil with a sweet tenacious aroma. Cassia is used mainly for digestive ailments such as flatulence, diarrhoea and nausea. It is little used in perfumes and cosmetics due to its unattractive dark colour. Cassia should never be used on the skin.

  from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage

  ‘A pint of best, please, Reg.’ Bob Elecampane leaned on the bar in the Black Horse. He didn’t like the pubs in Milton Keynes, which were all disco music and tasteless designer beer at extortionate prices. ‘And a packet of your finest pork scratchings.’

  The trendy pubs in Milton Keynes made him feel old, which, at the end of the day, was the real reason he didn’t like going in them.

  Melissa had made him feel old, too. Old, unloved, abandoned. Consigned for ever to the Tidy Tip of romance. She had seen the sign that said ‘DUMP RUBBISH HERE – NO BLACK BAGS, NO HOT ASHES, NO COMMERCIAL WASTE’ and had done just that. Except that she had been mistaken – he was commercial waste. A business arrangement, she had said. Cold, hard, cruel.

  It was strange, really, because only last week she had made him feel young and loved and cared for. Okay, so there was that slight disagreement about being referred to as ‘the ironing’, but what had he done to deserve this?

  Nothing, as far as he could tell. She was the hooker and he was the client, and yet he had tried every way he knew how to please her. He had cared for her and catered for her every need – as far as the handcuffs and the spatulas had allowed. He had spoken French to her. All to no avail. Despite his best efforts, here he was – as Gilbert O’Sullivan so poignantly observed – alone again (naturally). That was him, Detective Constable Robert Horatio Elecampane, loser in love and life.

  He would never get over Melissa. He had been cut to the quick by her cruelty. No other woman would ever get so close to him again. From now on he would take no prisoners – in the emotional sense; he hoped to take lots of prisoners in the law enforcement sense. That was all there was in his life now. He would have ‘CAUTION – HANDLE WITH CARE’ tattooed across his back.

  Reg placed his pint of best bitter on the sodden beer mat in front of him. Bitter – what an appropriate drink to drown his sorrows with.

  ‘You look like you’ve found a pound and lost a fiver, mate,’ Reg commented.

  Bob shook his head ruefully. ‘Bad day, Reg.’

  ‘Are the criminals behaving themselves?’

  ‘I wish.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish.’

  Reg tossed the pork scratchings on the bar. The packet he pulled off the advertising card exposed the bare breast of a vacant-looking blonde in a white string bikini.

  ‘Have these on me,’ he said generously.

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ Bob was touched. Perhaps the world wasn’t such a bad place after all. The bird at the end of the bar wasn’t too bad either. She was a bit old, more of a mother goose than a spring chicken but reasonably well assembled.

  Assembled was the right word, come to think of it. She was glamorous and sassy-looking, in an overdone way. But the general impression was that she had been put together by numbers from a kit. Everything looked as if it was made of plastic, even more so than the bimbo with the pork scratchings – face, tits, bum. It’d be like having sex with a Barclaycard.

  She put her glass on the bar and regarded him coolly. ‘Do you have a light?’

  Her voice took him by surprise. It was rough and gravelly, as if she was just getting over laryngitis. If anyone could make money out of dirty phone calls, this one could.

  Bob surveyed the bar, but there was no one else in close proximity that she could be addressing. ‘Me?’ he said, not so coolly.

  She nodded.

  Bob patted his pockets pathetically. He held up his hands in embarrassment. ‘I don’t smoke,’ he said with an apologetic laugh.

  The woman didn’t smile back, she just held his gaze. ‘Neither do I.’

  Bob’s heart skipped a beat. If Melissa was the fiver he’d lost, this could be the pound he’d just found. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  She downed the contents of her glass. ‘Gin and tonic,’ she said.

  That’s what he would have guessed. She looked like a gin and tonic sort of woman. No ‘please’, he noted, but then you can’t have everything.

  He ordered the drink from Reg, who winked lecherously at him, which he took as a good sign.

  ‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ she said when he gave her the gin and tonic. No ‘thank you’ either. ‘Are you local?’

  ‘Milton Keynes.’

  ‘What brings you up here?’ she asked. ‘Surely Reg’s beer isn’t that well kept.’

  ‘I’m with the local CID. I’ve been up here on a case.’

  Her eyes widened – nearly at the same time. ‘Anything interesting?’

  He once thought so. Swallowing the lump that had come to his throat, he said, ‘No. Routine inquiries.’ If he could bloody well be ‘the ironing’, that’s what Melissa would be in the future, ‘routine inquiries’. He was beginning to feel better already. Even when he noticed that the pork scratchings were past their sell-by date, it did nothing to dent his rising mood of optimism.

  ‘Married?’

  Blimey, she didn’t beat about the bush. He shook his head.

&nb
sp; ‘A nice boy like you, who still hasn’t found Miss Right?’

  ‘I’ve just been having fun with the wrong ones,’ he replied smoothly. Why on earth hadn’t he chatted up old birds before! They were an absolute doddle. All that time he’d wasted trying to impress young slips of girls when there were oldies like this one who were desperate for it!

  ‘Stiffener,’ she said as she took a swig from her gin.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Stiffener,’ she repeated. ‘Before going home to an empty house. Alone.’

  ‘You single, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Might as well be,’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘My husband’s a plastic surgeon. He’s at a conference in the Bahamas at the moment. He goes to a lot of conferences in the Bahamas. Very fond of dusky maidens, my husband.’

  Bob smiled as the penny dropped. ‘That explains why you’re in such good nick,’ he said, stopping short of adding ‘for your age’. ‘He’s been doing a little private work on you.’

  ‘I have to look nice because I’m a celebrity,’ she told him.

  ‘Are you?’ Bob’s interest quickened. ‘I’ve never scre—met a celebrity before. Are you on television?’

  ‘No. I have my own programme on the radio.’

  ‘Radio One?’

  She shook her head. Not surprising, she was probably a bit old.

  ‘Radio Four?’

  She shook her head again, more vigorously.

  ‘Virgin?’

  The gin stopped halfway to her mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘FM,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed and it was quite a nice sound when it was sincere. ‘No, I’ll put you out of your misery. Bucks County FM.’

  ‘Right.’ Bob elongated the word. Never heard of it, he added to himself.

  ‘Do you know The Cassia Wales Show?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘No, but I do know the way to San Jose,’ he quipped. She looked crestfallen. It was a shame to disappoint her. ‘I’m sure my mum listens to it,’ he said earnestly.

  She smiled shyly. ‘Well, I’m the Cassia Wales of The Cassia Wales Show.’