Resisting Mr Rochester

by Sharon Booth

  "Not at all," he said. "You're my guest, too." He glanced over at Briony, who immediately switched on a Cheshire cat smile, and he sighed. "I suppose you're right. I must go and put this to bed once and for all."

  Put what to bed? Briony? Not in my flipping bed, I hoped!

  I tried to look unconcerned, as he patted me on the arm and said, "Let's hope Cupid works his magic. I'll see you later."

  As he abandoned me for his glamorous lady friend, my fingers curled tightly around the piece of metal in my hand. I may have had the key to his room, but it seemed Briony really did have the key to his heart, after all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mrs F's face was a picture. I knew I shouldn't have found it funny, but she was so obviously jealous that I couldn't help it.

  Over on the dance floor, Michael jigged around, looking ever-so-slightly self-conscious, while opposite him, a young brunette wiggled and writhed to the music, seeming quite oblivious to her dance partner.

  "Just look at that," Mrs F said, when I made the mistake of orbiting too close to her. "She asked him to dance! Can you believe that? And he said yes. Can you believe that?"

  "If it's any consolation," I said, "I really don't think he looks as if he's enjoying himself. Anyway, why didn't you ask him to dance?"

  She flushed. "I can't. I don't know how to dance to all this modern stuff. It's not like the sort of thing I used to dance to, back in the day."

  "And what day was that?" I teased, picturing a sedate tea dance in Scarborough, or something.

  "The Newarth Town Hall disco." She sighed. "Those were the days. You should have seen it, love. That's where I met my husband. I was his Coo-Ca-Choo."

  "I beg your pardon?" I said, baffled.

  "Alvin Stardust," she explained. "All the other girls were besotted with the Osmonds, or David Cassidy, or David Essex, but I fancied Alvin Stardust from the minute I saw him in all that black leather. And then, one night, Gerry turned up dressed just like him. My heart melted. You should have seen us rocking down to Slade and Sweet that night. What an experience."

  "Crikey. I thought you'd be waltzing in the Spa, in between cups of Earl Grey and garibaldi biscuits."

  "How blooming old do you think I am?" she said indignantly. Then her eyes went all dreamy again. "I was seventeen. It was nineteen seventy-three and I fell in love for the first time. We were married within a year."

  "Oh, Mrs F, I'm so sorry. When—when did your husband die?"

  Her eyes flashed. "Die? He never died! He cleared off with Belinda Wright, not eighteen months later. She was the spitting image of Suzi Quatro." She scowled. "All that black leather they both wore. I bet they stunk to high heaven. Terribly unhygienic, you know. My mother said to me, when they kissed it would be like rubbing two balloons together. Ugh."

  "And you never married again?"

  "After that experience, would you?" She shook her head. "Went to catering college and put it all behind me. I swore I'd never be fooled by any man again, and I never have." Her eyes strayed over toward where Michael looked increasingly flustered and uncomfortable on the dance floor. "Silly sod," she said. "Look at the state of him."

  "Hmm. Michael doesn't strike me as the sort of man who'd run off with any woman in black leather. He's nothing like Alvin Stardust," I assured her, although I had no idea who Alvin Stardust was, and I wasn't much clearer about Suzi Quatro, come to that.

  She shrugged and gulped down her vodka as if it was lemonade. Really, I thought, jealousy was a most unattractive quality.

  My gaze fell on Mr Rochester, standing in a corner talking to Briony. Her eyes were like saucers as he leaned close, murmuring something to her. His hand tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she thrust her chest towards him, practically pinning him to the wall.

  Ugh! I noticed Joel scowling into his glass as he watched them, and thought he really should have more dignity. Draining my glass, I turned back to Mrs F, but she was still glaring at Michael. Honestly!

  I hesitated a moment, then threaded my way through the crowd to the DJ. He listened as I practically bellowed in his ear, then he shook his head. "You must be joking, love. No one listens to that stuff anymore."

  "Well, anything from that year would do," I said desperately. "You must have something?"

  He considered for a moment, then nodded. "I think I do, as it happens. Leave it with me."

  I returned to where Mrs F was sitting all alone, looking quite gloomy.

  "He looks really embarrassed," I said, nodding towards Michael.

  "He has every reason to," she said. "Silly fool."

  "I'll bet he just got fed up with waiting for you to dance with him," I said. "You should have cut in. Don't let another woman push you around again."

  She gaped at me. "Another woman? What, her?" She nodded towards the young brunette and smirked. "You must be joking. She probably asked him for a bet. Either that, or she wanted a laugh."

  "Or perhaps she felt sorry for him," I said. "Seeing as he's just been sitting here, waiting for an opportunity to actually get up and dance." I knew how he felt.

  She looked as if she wanted to strangle me, but before she could speak, the music faded out and Michael turned towards us, looking highly relieved and a bit dazed.

  At that moment, the next song began to play, and I couldn't stop smiling. Even I recognised that tune.

  Mrs F's eyes widened. "David Bowie! Now you're talking!"

  She slammed her glass down just as Michael staggered over to us. "Come on, Michael. You can't beat a bit of Gene Jeanie," she told him, and dragged him back onto the dance floor.

  To my relief, he looked surprised, but delighted, and within seconds the two of them were dancing away as if it was nineteen seventy-three all over again. I clapped my hands in delight. I knew it!

  "Oh, well played."

  I swallowed and turned to face Mr Rochester, who’d come to stand beside me and was watching the two of them with a huge grin on his face. "Sorry?"

  "Don't play the innocent," he said, winking at me in a rather attractive manner. "I saw the whole thing. You got the DJ to play this tune, didn't you?"

  "I'm surprised you noticed that," I said before I could stop myself. "Thought you were too absorbed with Briony to see anything else."

  His lips twitched. "She's very distracting," he said.

  "Isn't she just," I muttered.

  "Even so, I managed to tear my eyes away from her long enough to see what you did. It was rather sweet of you."

  I reddened. "They just needed a nudge," I said. "Anyone can see they're crazy about each other. They just need someone to push them along a bit."

  "Cara Truelove," he said, eyes widening, "I thought you didn't believe in true love! Could there be a heart beneath that steely exterior, after all?"

  "Steely exterior?" I said faintly. "Is that how you see me?"

  His eyes softened, and he sounded quite sober when he said, "Not at all. As much as you try to convince me otherwise."

  The bones in my legs seemed to dissolve. I wasn’t quite sure how I managed to remain standing. I couldn't move. I couldn't even look away. I had to do something, fast. I needed him to break the connection, since I couldn't manage it. Maybe if I could annoy him ...

  "This party," I managed to croak.

  "What about it?" he said.

  "It's bloody awful." There, that should do it. "The theme, I mean. This decor. It's hideous. What on earth were you thinking?"

  To my astonishment and despair, he burst out laughing. "I know. Isn't it? Poor Paolo."

  "You don't like it? But you said—"

  "Between you and me," he said, leaning forward until his lips were practically nibbling my ear—not the effect I'd wanted, or expected, though I couldn't deny it felt amazingly good, "Paolo is the partner of one of my employees. He's just starting out in this business, and I took him on as a favour to Justin. I had a feeling it would be bad, but I had no idea it would be this bad."

  "Aren't you worried wh
at people are thinking?"

  "People think what they're encouraged to think," he said. "You watch and see. I've been praising this party theme all evening to my so-called friends. Whatever they thought of it at the beginning of the evening, they now all think it's wonderful, and so original. Bet you a pound to a penny that some of them will hire him for their parties."

  "Really?"

  "Guaranteed," he said confidently. "Paolo and Justin are nice guys. If I can give Paolo a shove up the ladder, it's the least I can do."

  I stared up at him, thinking how wonderful he was, then reminded myself that I wasn't impressed by any man, let alone Ethan Rochester, who was a charmer, but a married charmer, which was the most dangerous kind of all.

  "Darling, come and dance." Briony sidled up to him and hooked her arm through his, nearly causing him to spill his drink. "You've been terribly naughty this evening. We haven't danced once."

  "You're quite right, we haven't. We must rectify the situation immediately."

  As she turned and began to lead him away, Ethan winked at me and handed me his glass. I scowled after them, then slammed the glass down on the coffee table, feeling a sudden urge for something violently alcoholic myself.

  As I glugged down another large glass of wine, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Mrs F and Michael heading out of the room and smiled to myself. Looked like my plan had worked, after all.

  "Would you like to dance?" A pleasant-looking young man with sandy coloured hair and blue eyes smiled at me. He was clearly sozzled, but at least he was still capable of standing up, and so what if he was so drunk he probably couldn't focus on me properly? A dance was a dance, and I was so ready to show … everyone that I was having a good time. It didn't look as if anyone else was going to ask me, did it?

  "I'd love to," I said, smiling pleasantly.

  My knight in shining armour took my hand, and together we headed, somewhat haphazardly, onto the dance floor.

  #

  The party went on into the early hours, but I crept away before midnight. Watching Ethan Rochester, flirting openly and dancing closely with that awful woman, had made me sick to my stomach. It wasn't fun seeing him get steadily drunk, either. I'd no idea he was such a big drinker. Another black mark against him. He didn't so much as glance over at me, as I skulked in a corner, knocking back glass after glass of wine, contemplating my employer's disgraceful lack of self-control. It was too much. Besides, I had stuff to do while I could still think reasonably straight.

  I tottered to my bedroom to gather my toothbrush, pyjamas, and a few things for the morning. I also took Mr Rochester's toothbrush to my room for him. I couldn't find any pyjamas lying around, and I didn't want to go rummaging through his drawers, so to speak—besides, for all I knew he slept stark naked.

  Hmm. Ethan Rochester, stark naked in my bed. There was a thought. Not, I thought savagely, that he'd go anywhere near my room that night. Briony had made her desires all too clear, and she seemed the sort of woman who always got what she wanted.

  I had a quick wash in Jennifer's bathroom, brushed my teeth, pulled on my pyjamas, and crept into bed, glancing around me nervously. I'd locked the door, so I was safe, but even so. It felt odd to be in a different room, and knowing that a whole bunch of strangers were wandering the house, and that one of them was probably a knife-wielding maniac, I couldn't say I was expecting to sleep.

  Fortunately, too much wine always made me sleepy, and before I knew it, my eyelids were drooping, and I snuggled down under the duvet, thinking I was far more tired than I'd realised.

  I wasn’t sure what woke me up. A rattle? A clicking noise? Something roused me from my sleep, and I blinked, not clear where I was. As awareness seeped into my brain, I froze with fear.

  Someone was in the room.

  I stared into the darkness, desperately trying to see. My heart was thudding and I felt sick with terror. Gradually, I became aware of shapes in the blackness. I could make out the window, and the dressing table, and the shape of the wardrobe on the far wall, and—dear God!

  I screamed.

  With a muffled, moaning sound, the monstrous form moved away from the bed and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind itself.

  How could anyone have got into the damn room? I'd locked it. I was sure I had. Hadn't I? I reached over, fumbling for the lamp, my hands shaking as I tried desperately to find the switch. Finally, my fingers found it, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked around the room, now flooded with light. Whoever it was had gone. Maybe that should be, whatever it was. It hadn't even looked human.

  Fuelled by adrenaline and alcohol—a dangerous combination—I flew out onto the landing, but there was no sign of anyone, not even a gallant person coming to my aid upon hearing me scream. Huh. All too busy sleeping it off or ....

  On a sudden impulse, I stormed over to my room and threw open the door without even knocking. I expected to find it empty. I was convinced that Mr Rochester would be in Briony's room, so it was quite a shock to see him lying fast asleep in my bed.

  "Mr Rochester," I hissed, "wake up."

  Nothing. So much for my protector. He'd probably worn himself out with all that dancing and flirting. Scowling, I marched over to the bed and shook him, not half as violently as I wanted to. He made a sort of muttering noise, but didn't even open his eyes. I spotted an empty glass on my bedside cabinet, and beside it, a large jug half-filled with water. Dare I? Really?

  "Mr Rochester," I said again, in some desperation.

  There was a bloated monster roaming the landing, and he was too drunk to do anything about it. I picked up the jug and hurled the water all over his face.

  He shot bolt upright, blinking and shuddering. "What the fuck—" His eyes, wide with shock, focused on me, and he shook his head. Water dripped all over my pillow. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm sorry, but there was someone in my room."

  He glared at me. "Did you lock the door?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then you were dreaming. Bloody hell, Cara! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

  "What's going on?" Two of Mr Rochester's guests hovered in the doorway, including the man who'd danced with me several times before rushing outside to throw up—a rather unflattering event, it had to be said.

  "What are you doing up?" I said, rather rudely, but I was suspicious of anyone wandering around.

  "Heard a scream, and then Ethan seemed to be in distress."

  "The scream was me, and that was ages ago," I said. "I could have been murdered by now."

  "Murdered?" They looked at each other.

  Mr Rochester threw back the duvet and climbed out of bed wearing black trunks—similar to the ones David Beckham wore in those adverts—and nothing else. I forgot all about the deranged killer and stared at his broad chest, noting the dark hairs that curled seductively on soft skin, as my heart thumped wildly. "Are you sure you locked the door?" he demanded, pulling on his trousers.

  With a huge effort, I dragged my eyes away from him and busied myself taking off the wet pillowcases. "I may be a bit forgetful," I said, "but when there's a knife-wielding madman on the loose, I tend to remember to lock doors."

  "You're certain? This is important, Cara."

  I heard a zip being pulled up and gulped. "Of course I'm certain."

  "And did you see who this person was?"

  "I told you," said my drunken dance partner to his friend. "I knew I wasn't imagining it!"

  "Imagining what?" demanded Mr Rochester sharply.

  "That man."

  His friend sighed. "He says he saw a man lurking at the end of the landing, earlier on, but take no notice. He's pissed."

  "What did this man look like?" Mr Rochester asked.

  My dance partner screwed up his face in concentration. "Not sure. It was dark. Tall, I think. Sinister. Ghostly."

  "For God's sake," the first one said. "Get a grip, Tristan."

  "Is that what you saw?" Mr Rochester asked me, his voice now s
ounding gentle. "A tall man?"

  I shook my head. "It was too dark to see properly, but I don't think it was tall. It was a monster. All bloated and misshapen, and bald."

  "Bald?"

  "Absolutely." I bit my lip, considering. "I'm sure it was bald. It was totally gross." His mouth twitched, and I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's so funny?"

  "Nothing, nothing. It's just that—"

  Another piercing scream came from farther down the landing.

  "Bloody hell," Mr Rochester said. "What now?"

  His guests looked at him, as if to ask what type of horror show he had going on in his house, then ran out onto the landing, with Mr Rochester close behind. I decided that I was probably safer going with them than sitting there with an unlocked door, so I ran after them.

  Briony stood by the door of her room, waving something in her hand and wailing like a banshee.

  "Briony, darling, what is it?" Joel—who evidently couldn't be bothered to come to my rescue, but had leapt into action upon hearing her cries—rushed to her side and tried valiantly to calm her down.

  She didn't even seem to notice he was there. "Ethan, Ethan look!" She waved the paper in her hand at him, and he took it from the clutches of her bony fingers, while I stood there, trying to decide whether or not it was all some elaborate ruse on her part to throw us off the scent. Had she been responsible for my creepy visitor?

  Mr Rochester stared at the paper, which I realised was a photograph. I peered closer, then glanced up at him. It was a picture of him and his wife. What was Briony doing with it? And why had it scared her so much? If someone as lovely as Antonia frightened her, she ought to try being awakened by a blobby bald monster. That was no fun, believe me.

  Mr Rochester was studying the photo, so I studied it, too. I couldn't deny I was curious.

  Apart from the airport picture from five years ago, I hadn't seen many pictures of Antonia, and I'd not seen one of the two of them together. I admit that seeing them posing in that photo, looking just like any other married couple, made me feel a bit funny.

  My stomach churned suddenly. I'm not jealous, I thought fiercely. What was there to be jealous of? She was his wife, and it wasn't as if he'd ever kept that a secret. I was just the nanny, remember?