A Whiff of Scandal

by Carole Matthews

  Rose’s eyes welled with fresh tears.

  The grin subsided. ‘Come here,’ he said softly. ‘Let me kiss all your memories of him away.’ Taking her hand, he pulled her to him and his warm lips brushed hers with a light feathery kiss.

  Heaven only knows she wished it could be so easy! ‘Hugh!’ She pulled away from him, but let her hand rest in his. ‘I’ve spent months trying to get over you. You can’t just march back in to my life and expect everything to be the same as it was. Things have changed.’

  ‘They have changed,’ he agreed. ‘I’m a free agent!’

  ‘I think you should leave.’ She stared at the floor.

  He snuggled down on the bed and gave her a heart-melting pout. ‘It’s bitterly cold. It’s dark. It’s wet. You wouldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this.’

  ‘I would.’

  Hugh shook his head slowly. ‘I know you too well.’ He squeezed her hand and eased her towards him. ‘I want you, Rosie. I love you. And you love me. This time I’m here to stay.’

  It was frightening really, one more day and Hugh could have abandoned his wife and children for nothing. As it was, Rose wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore. Should she have even contemplated a life in Dan’s arms if she felt something for Hugh? Yet as soon as Dan had appeared on the scene, she had truly started to forget Hugh.

  Could she really be so fickle? Didn’t she at least owe it to Hugh to give him another chance? He had sacrificed everything for her. Okay, so it may well have been at the eleventh hour, but he had, eventually, left Ruth. Could she just turn her back on him? Especially when things seemed so hopeless with Dan. There was no doubt that she would have to leave the village now. She could never look Dan in the face again. Her eyes were drawn back to Hugh. What did she have to lose?

  ‘Come here,’ Hugh whispered urgently. His eyes held that come-to-bed look. Soft and dreamy.

  ‘You’ve made yourself very much at home,’ Rose tutted, running her eyes over his lean body. The last time she had entertained a man wearing only a towel in this house, it had got her into trouble too. Her heart squeezed painfully as she thought of Dan. If only he had listened to her when she had tried to explain what was really going on.

  So Gardenia had left him. Rose wondered if he would ever have left Gardenia for her, or would their relationship have dragged on for years like it had with Hugh? Why did she seem to cause heartbreak wherever she went? She only wanted someone to love. Was that such a dreadful thing to ask for?

  ‘Do you think we can pick up again where we left off?’ Hugh murmured. He slid his hand up the sleeve of her dressing gown and his thumb travelled along the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm.

  She shivered and Hugh took that as encouragement. ‘This is like old times,’ he said softly.

  It wasn’t like old times, she thought. Where’s the tingle of excitement? There are goosebumps, but that’s because I’m still cold. Cold right through to my bones. Where’s the rush of heat to my throat? The churning, stirring, aching in my stomach? Instead there was nothing. Just a longing for Dan.

  His hand reached inside the fold of her robe, cupping her firm breast with his warm, soft, architect’s hand. It had no callouses like Dan’s hand, no roughening of the skin on the fingertips that rasped delightfully against vulnerable bare skin. Hugh’s fingers were as soft and as gossamer as silk. They outlined the mound of her breast and she could barely feel his caress at all. She closed her eyes, trying to recapture the fire that Hugh’s touch used to inflame in her. All she could see was Dan’s face. Dan with his dirty blond hair and his stubbly face and his Colgate smile. She squeezed her eyes tight shut until all she could see were blurry red splotches on the insides of her eyelids.

  Hugh nuzzled his face into her neck, tasting, kissing, biting her skin and she remembered how good it once used to feel.

  ‘I don’t want this, Hugh,’ she said huskily, her traitorous body arching towards him. You do want this, her brain said. You want to be held and loved and cared for.

  Hugh pulled her down on the bed, flinging Casanova to the far corner of the room where he landed on his head in the wastepaper basket. Rose lay down next to him compliant, confused, her body fighting the desire to lose herself in love-making and her reluctance to admit she was giving herself to the wrong man. She couldn’t even find it in her to protest about the abuse of her teddy bear. His hands undid her dressing gown, sliding it over her shoulders, exposing her to him and she did nothing to stop him. No protest came from her mouth. Feverish fingers travelled her body, tracing and teasing and tantalizing her numb, numb skin. Rose stared ahead with sad, tear-filled eyes, willing herself to forget Dan, while Hugh moved rhythmically above her, her body failing to respond to his heat deep within her. His Adam’s apple jerked against his flushed, straining throat and then he sighed and flopped against her, nestling his head on her breast. Rose sighed too, but for different reasons. Her desolation marked only by a solitary tear which squeezed through her lashes and rolled silently over her cheek. It was dark. Pitch black. And the rain had ceased its beating against the windows. Hugh lay on his back beside her, his breathing rhythmic, contented.

  Outside, the security light flicked on over the patio. Its harsh, glaring beam lit up the room. Normally, there would be a lurch of terror in her stomach as she imagined the pervert emerging from the leylandii to lurk beneath her window. The presence of another body made it so much less frightening. And for the first time since Hugh had arrived, Rose was truly glad that he was here. She pulled her dressing gown round her and padded to the window to investigate. It was cold and the central heating had long since gone off.

  She peered out of the window, but not before the light had switched off again. The darkness and silence of Great Brayford at night still took some getting used to. It reminded her of one of those plain black postcards people sent from their holidays with ‘Skegness at Night’ written on the front. Great joke. They’d obviously never been to Great Brayford at night. In the distance there was the ever-present glow of tungsten from the streetlights of Milton Keynes, which looked a bit like a downmarket UFO landing in a far-off field.

  The flat in London had been constantly noisy. It was at the junction of two main roads, so the sound of traffic was interminable. Add to that the sporadic succession of slamming doors as people arrived home at various unsocial hours during the night, car alarms, burglar alarms, singing drunks and the odd bout of road rage at the traffic lights, and it was amazing that they ever got any sleep at all. But then, in the early days of their affair, sleep hadn’t been a top priority.

  The strident glare of the security light flared over the patio once more, catching a hedgehog trundling across the patio in search of a juicy snail. It froze momentarily, looked up in her direction and then carried on unperturbed. Rose smiled to herself. The light clicked off. The flat had always been bright too, bombarded by lights from the street below. Tungsten, neon, halogen. They had been forced to buy dark curtains. Here it didn’t matter whether there were curtains or not. The light switched on again. The hedgehog was heading back the other way. Rose frowned.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hugh murmured. ‘Come back to bed.’

  She turned to look at him. He had curled into a contented ball, dark hair flopping over his face and a smile softened Rose’s tight lips. Perhaps it could be like old times again? ‘I was just checking why the patio light kept coming on,’ she said.

  ‘And why is it?’ he asked, not sounding terribly interested.

  ‘There’s a hedgehog doing a cabaret,’ Rose replied as she came back to the bed and slipped under the duvet next to Hugh. His arm curled round her waist, his body hot and comforting, moulding with easy familiarity to her contours.

  Rose stared, wide-eyed at the cracked ceiling. ‘It’s nice to have someone here.’

  ‘Just someone?’ Hugh queried. ‘Not me in particular?’

  ‘It’s nice to have you here then,’ she corrected. ‘I mentioned it to you earlier, I thin
k – I’ve been having trouble with nuisance phone calls.’

  ‘No wonder you always sounded so edgy when I called,’ he mumbled sleepily.

  Rose’s body froze momentarily. When she had regained movement, she pushed herself on to her elbow and turned to face him. ‘Say that again.’

  Hugh’s eyes opened wide now and there was a distinctly cagey look to them. ‘I said, no wonder you always sounded edgy.’

  ‘When you called?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How did you get my number? Come to think of it, you still haven’t told me how you managed to find out where I lived.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hugh said lamely. He sat up in the bed.

  ‘Come on, spit it out,’ Rose said.

  ‘It was Jerry.’

  Rose frowned. ‘Jerry Wright? From the office?’

  Hugh nodded with some reluctance.

  ‘Jerry gave you my phone number?’ Rose set her mouth in a tight line. ‘The bastard. He promised.’

  ‘He didn’t exactly give it to me,’ Hugh said sheepishly. ‘I sort of took it.’

  ‘You took it?’

  ‘Out of his Filofax while he was at lunch,’ he admitted. ‘It’s very slapdash practice leaving your office unattended with personal possessions lying around. You never know who might go through them.’

  ‘Quite!’ Rose snapped.

  ‘Well,’ Hugh drawled defensively, ‘I had to resort to sneak tactics. No one would tell me where you’d gone.’

  ‘That was the whole idea!’ Rose tugged at her hair in exasperation. She sat up next to Hugh and pulled her knees into her chest.

  ‘So when exactly did you call?

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Hugh stared ahead of him. ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Once or twice?’

  ‘A few times.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Quite often.’

  ‘And you didn’t leave a message?’

  ‘I couldn’t!’ Hugh stared fiercely at her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it wasn’t your answerphone that answered.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘It was you.’

  ‘I did?’ Rose said incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ Hugh said tersely. ‘And you always sounded so tense, so aggressive that I lost my nerve!’

  ‘So you sat at the other end of the phone and said nothing?’ Rose’s voice was, to her surprise, level and calm.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Rose shook her head in amazement. ‘You realise what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  Hugh said nothing.

  Her eyes challenged him. ‘It was you all along, wasn’t it? You’re my pervert!’

  ‘You said you knew it was me!’ Hugh protested. ‘You said you’d go to the police if I didn’t stop hassling you.’

  ‘I was bluffing!’

  Hugh twisted his mouth hesitantly. ‘Well, you certainly fooled me.’

  Rose put her head in her hands. ‘I’ve been terrified for months, thinking that I had a heavy breather and possibly an axe-wielding maniac hiding in my hedging. And all along it was you!

  ‘And,’ Rose continued when she had calmed down, ‘it still doesn’t explain how you found out my address. Jerry might have had my phone number, but he didn’t know where I lived. I only gave him my number because he has a brother-in-law in Aylesbury who wanted an aromatherapy treatment. Mind you,’ she paused for thought, ‘his brother-in-law never phoned. So how exactly did you end up here today?’

  ‘Cassia Wales gave me your address,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Cassia Wales? How on earth do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘How did she manage to give you my address then?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t getting anywhere with the phone calls, especially after you’d threatened to call the police, so I decided to forget all about you.’ He smiled disarmingly at her. ‘I was going to become a monk and live a chaste and celibate life making smelly cheese and foul-tasting wine for charity.’

  ‘And Cassia Wales changed that?’

  ‘I was driving up the M1 earlier today on my way back from a site meeting in Northampton – new supermarket.’ Hugh looked at her as if she should have been impressed. She wasn’t. ‘And the radio was tuned to the local station where this vacuous bimbo—’

  ‘Cassia Wales,’ Rose interjected.

  ‘Cassia Wales,’ Hugh confirmed, ‘was wittering on about this brilliant aromatherapist who had moved into her village from some swanky London practice and had brought a string of celebrity clients with her.’

  ‘Not Cliff, Sacha and Mick?’ It was all becoming horribly clear.

  ‘I think she mentioned Rod Stewart too.’

  ‘Good grief.’ Rose let out a long unhappy sigh.

  ‘While she was playing a record, I rang the radio station from the car and asked to speak to her. She was very obliging.’

  ‘She’s known for it.’

  ‘I told her that I thought she was talking about an old friend of mine and that I happened to be in the area. She confirmed that it was you and was quite happy to give me your address.’

  ‘I bet she was!’

  ‘Now, Rose. It was just a happy coincidence on my part.’ He snuggled closer to her. ‘Besides, she’s done us a favour. She’s brought us back together.’ He stared earnestly at her. ‘You do want us to be together?’

  Rose sighed uncertainly. ‘I don’t know, Hugh.’

  ‘Come back with me, Rosie.’ Hugh stroked her arm, wheedling and cajoling her. ‘Back to London. You’re not meant to be stuck out here in the sticks.’

  ‘And what about this?’ She gestured with her hands to encompass the house – every creaking door, every cracked ceiling, every chipped ceramic tile.

  ‘Sell it and keep the money. Start another business with it.’

  Perhaps she should go back to London, Rose thought. Set herself up in one of those swanky practices and get to grips with some of those pop stars she was already supposed to have manhandled.

  ‘You and I used to be good together, Rose. This time, it’ll be better.’ Hugh squeezed her to him. ‘No strings. No double life. No ghosts. What do you say?’

  Rose exhaled wearily. In one way and another it had been a very long day. ‘There’s a lot to think about, Hugh.’ She smiled gently at him. ‘Let me sleep on it.’

  She slid down inside the bed, aware of Hugh next to her, his breathing steady and soothing, slowing down to sleeping speed. It would be wonderful if hers would do the same. Instead her breath snatched erratic little gasps at the top of her lungs. How she wished she could go downstairs and get some essential oils to burn to help her sleep. All the bottles by her bedside were empty – that’s what you get for mainlining insomnia oils. She wondered what Jessamine Lovage would advise for decisiveness. Perhaps clary sage or cedarwood or patchouli. Rose couldn’t decide.

  What was keeping her in Great Brayford anyway? They had hardly clasped her to their bosoms with open arms. Well, Dan had been keen to yesterday. Yesterday. When all her troubles seemed so far away. It wasn’t even a choice between Dan and Hugh anymore. Dan would want nothing to do with her now, whether Gardenia was around or not. He had nailed his colours to the mast using a very substantial nail. Her throat constricted painfully and she dug her nails into her palms so that she wouldn’t cry. What would he think of her now?

  Hugh said there would be no ghosts this time. Presumably he meant Ruth. But what about Dan? Would he haunt her for the rest of her life? Should she try to forget him? Did she really owe it to Hugh to give their relationship another chance? After years of promising, he had finally turned his cosy little duplicitous life upside down for her. He had left Ruth. For her.

  Rose turned off the bedside light and stared into the darkness. She would consult Jessamine Lovage first thing in the morning. Decision time was fast approaching. It was like an express train looming towards her and she was powerless to move behind the comparative safety of the yellow line and let it rush past her. Th
ere was a choice to be made and she would need all the help she could get.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  BASIL (TRUE)

  True sweet basil has a light fresh scent with spicy undertones. It is an excellent essential oil for those with nervous dispositions. Known to clear the head, relieve fatigue, strengthen the weary mind and improve clarity of thought.

  from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage

  ‘My, you look rather dashing, Basil,’ Angelica said. Barely recognisable was more accurate. He had turned up on her doorstep minus his usual startling array of facial hair and sporting a black roll neck, black slacks and dark grey cashmere jacket – as opposed to the usual tweed and Nikes or the lilac shell suit. Rather than his usual faintly unwashed aroma, he was swathed in a cloud of aftershave that smelt suspiciously like Old Spice. He had a distinct look of Donald Sutherland about him. It was a startling transformation.

  ‘No. I haven’t dashed, dear lady,’ Basil replied casually. ‘I’ve sauntered up here slowly, taking in the delights of this fresh spring day.’

  ‘And all because the lady loves Milk Tray.’ Angelica nodded towards the box of chocolates tucked under his arm. It appeared to be Dairy Box, but who was she to argue over detail.

  ‘It’s Dairy Box,’ Basil confirmed, proffering the said chocolates. ‘Mr Patel had run out of Milk Tray – due to the recent Mother’s Day celebration, I presume. Neither did I have to jump from a helicopter or swim through shark-infested waters to get here,’ he added jovially.

  Angelica took the box from him. ‘Unfortunately, Anise is still confined to her bed in Milton Keynes General. They insisted on her staying as they said she was ranting deliriously. The doctor said it was probably brought on by the shock. I tried to explain that she’s always like that, but they wouldn’t listen.’

  Basil looked bashful and blushed. Angelica had never seen him blush before, but then she had never really seen his face before either. It was quite a handsome face without the grey and wiry untamed Brillo pad that normally obscured it.

  ‘They’re not actually for Anise,’ he said hesitantly. ‘They’re for you.’