by Polly Young
Angus choked.
“Steady on,” Tom whacked him on the back.
“Bastard.” But the conversation was becoming dangerous and Angus was afraid of what he might admit.
“I hear things aren’t going so well with what’s-his-face anyway,” Stuart said conversationally.
Angus only ever asked Rosy how David was. And only ever established he was ‘fine.’
“You know Judy — wears her heart on her sleeve.”
Angus had a fluey flush and peeled off his jumper.
“Apparently Rosy’s throwing herself into the play because things aren’t going too well with David,” Stuart continued, looking disapproving. “I say that girl should get over to France and sort things out, rather than wallowing here.”
“She’s not wallowing,” Angus said sharply. “She’s staying busy.”
“With you?”
“I wouldn’t stoop that low,” Angus snapped. “Anyway, I haven’t been around for the last two days.”
“Apparently, David’s sister’s coming down to see her and Judy’s hoping she can spread oil.”
Who needed Twitter when you had Stuart? Tom shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Right place, right time,” Stuart beamed.
“So what’ll you do, Romeo?” Tom asked, shoving peanuts into his mouth.
Good question. The idea that had floated about for days slapped him in the face. A party. As far as he knew she ‘d had no such thing, so he’d arrange one after the last night of the play. It wouldn’t take too much planning and it would do them all good to let their hair down.
“Aw, look, he really is in love!” Tom punched Angus on the arm, spilling wine on the cream chenille sofa. Stuart pounced.
Chapter 11
Take-away curry had been promised after a full run of standing ovations. The crowd were on their feet and the children were so tired they were barely able to stand but peeking through the curtain told Rosy Golden Indiawould do well tonight.
The cast trooped off, waving. Ella and Joey made a re-appearance to thank the crew and wish everyone a Happy New Year. Then it was really over, and Ella launched herself into Rosy’s arms.
“Miss George, that was SO BRILLIANT.”
Rosy smiled and joined in the chattering chaos. “Off you go and get changed and I’ll see you soon.”
Then she was alone in the wings, fluxing between elation and despair. The hole in her heart gaped wide again and reality settled like mulch. The fact remained: she was engaged to a cheat. But it could wait one more night. She shook her head and jogged backstage to deliver the final analysis to her waiting troupe.
* * *
Curry was one thing, but boxes of fireworks, a case of champagne and cake was quite another. “Where did this all come from?” Rosy watched incredulously as official-looking women in hairnets ferried in crates of lemonade.
“I’m not sure, dear.”
“Your lying is hopeless, Winthrop. Tell me what’s going on. I thought this was going to be a quiet celebration supper.”
Hope got busy with a pile of school uniforms. “I really couldn’t say. Goodness, these are filthy,” she said with satisfaction.
Rosy marched towards the entrance where, through the doors, the bulk of Angus’ back rose like K2 and a plume of smoke trailed up into the freezing night air as he puffed away. “Angus Hart, what’s going on?” she demanded. His massive shoulders turned towards her like the gates of Troy.
“As far as I know, the play is over so I’m entitled to a fag break.” His eyes crinkled. Reminding herself that Monica Bates in a tight t-shirt was his idea of fun didn’t help.
“I meant the feeding of the five thousand. I thought you could shed some light?” His eyes flickered over her hips. Tough shit, she thought. She was a naturally sexy woman.
“I thought it would be a nice surprise, and if you knew, you would have stopped me.”
He had a point, so she thanked him while he stole her breath with his eyes. Where have you been for the last four days? She wanted to ask. “I’m glad we’re not arguing for a change.”
“Me too,” he said neutrally, grinding his cigarette underfoot. “Shall we go in and enjoy? It is New Year’s Eve.”
“I have to meet David’s sister. She’s come all the way from London.”
Angus’ face gave nothing away. “Maybe see you afterwards, then.” He turned to leave.
“Of course. I wouldn’t abandon everyone on finale night.”
He took the dig on his cliff-like chin. “I’ve been ill,” he said calmly. “And I didn’t for a minute think you would.” And with a maddening pat on the arm, he walked back indoors.
What time she may have had to dwell was cut short by a stunning girl with a curtain of chocolate hair zooming over. Smelling like Sloane Street, she moved with sylph-like grace. Her small feet were closeted in fleecy boots and she exuded the expense of a Chelsea lunch.
“Rosy!” she screamed, just loud enough for most heads in the bar to roll. “What a show. Those kids were AMAAZING!” Katy Pettigrew swung Rosy around with a surprising amount of strength for someone who weighed less than eight stone.
“Katy, how brilliant to see you!” Rosy meant it. They had a relationship that ran deep. Taking in Katy’s tailored French Connection jacket and leather boots, Rosy felt closer to London than she had in months. She grinned broadly and succumbed to air kisses.
“Shall we not talk about my brother?”
“That’d be nice,” Rosy grinned. “Let’s talk about mine.”
Katie flushed. It had been obvious to everyone that Ollie fancied Katy madly at Rosy and David’s engagement drinks. He’d hung uselessly from her every word like a broken luggage strap. “But Katy, honestly, you didn’t have to come all the way down tonight. It’s so good of you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said firmly. “David sends his love. Oh dear, that didn’t last long.”
They lapsed into silence. Ghosts of News Years’ past haunted Rosy as she recalled driving in the fog between Brighton and London, trying to find friends. With no phone network, she and David had given up and gone to a deserted Little Chef for ‘Good ol’ Fish ‘n’ Chips’. She swallowed a lump of lava.
“I told him it wasn’t appropriate to come,” they said at the same time. Rosy laughed first.
“You didn’t!”
“I did,” Katy said, ruffling indignantly. “I said he wasn’t getting a train down with me.” Arm in arm, they moved to a table far away from the gushing parents.
“I can’t talk to you about this,” Rosy said miserably.
“Why not?”
“You’re David’s sister!”
“And your friend.”
After minor tear spillage, Rosy made an angry speech comparing men’s worth to duplicate Olympic tickets.
“Rosy, you must know how sorry he is.” Katy was grim. “Won’t you answer his calls? You two are so good together. Arguments happen. It’s just practice for when things get really tough.”
Katy’s relationship CV suggested otherwise. Rosy shot her a look.
“It’s got to be better than being in limbo.”
“But I don’tknow what to do,” Rosy confessed. “I’ve been so caught up in the play, now it’s over, I ...” A small explosion interrupted them.
“What on earth ..?” Katy leapt up.
“Oh God,” Rosy said, remembering the fireworks.
Rushing towards the bitter smell of burning rubber, they came across a group of pale children, half hidden in smoke. Rosy swiftly herded them through the fire exit door.
“What happened?”
Toby Mason burst into tears. Katy looked shaken. “Shall I ring the fire brigade?”
“I’ve done it.” Angus stepped through the doorway. “Is everyone ok?”
Rosy was furious. Mr. Health and Safety! She let rip and he had the decency to look ashamed.
“MSG sent them a bit hyper. Toby thought it was a prop.”
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Toby’s sobs escalated and Rosy felt very tired suddenly. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, it would all melt away. She tried it for a second and found it was rather nice: Toby was still bawling and she could smell charred plimsolls but at least she didn’t have to look at Angus’ disapproving frown or think about Katy’s look of confusion when he appeared. She opened them reluctantly.
“Katy, would you mind taking the group back inside?” she said with authority she didn’t feel.
“I want Dad,” Toby said wildly, realising he’d be left to face the music. Angus led him indoors.
Rosy sat down on the edge of a flowerbed, too exhausted to cry. The elation as the curtain came down felt like a long time ago. A cheating fiancé hundreds of miles away, a wedding in six months’ time and a crush on an impossible man who didn’t give two hoots about her. Brilliant. Out of the blue, she thought of Amy Brewer and her farting. Right now, the idea of a travelling circus wasn’t bad at all. In fact it was quite appealing. A trapeze act, perhaps: Rosy George and her Amazing Flying Storm. Her mouth stretched into the semblance of a smile.
Someone moved in silently to sit on the low wall. “Glad you’re a bit happier.”
She opened her eyes. Angus looked as tired as she felt.
“Were you really ill?”
“Death’s door,” he smiled ruefully. “And I kept thinking about you holding things together. I wanted to be here to help.”
His sincerity made her look away.
“Well, tonight you’ve been great,” she said, matter-of-factly, her heart beating so hard he’d have to be deaf not to hear it.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said softly. “It wasn’t entirely altruistic.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted something in return.”
His lips were so close she could feel his breath; smell the tobacco.
“I hate that you smoke,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
“I can’t seem to find anything else that quite hits the spot ...”
Their lips touched. Stars burst. The kiss felt luxurious, safe and utterly out of control.
“ ... although that wasn’t bad,” he said, later.
Luckily, Rosy’s blissed out gaze drifted towards the door as Katy shook off her stupor and ducked around the corner. Had Rosy seen her future sister-in-law’s face, it would have set her off like a rocket.
Chapter 12
Rosy shoved her hands further into her Christmas present; a proper Berghaus: waterproof, triple-lined; ultra-warm. Last year she’d got a Donna Karan handbag. Weird. There’d been none of the usual New Years’ Day anti-climax, at least and in a bid to cleanse her confused palate, she was stomping round the headland to the sailing club. It was high tide and the wind whipped at the waves, teasing little peaks of foam off the tops. A lone gull dipped and dived mawkishly between moorings and buoys bobbed and bounced chaotically. Storm strained at the lead, smelling salt and adventure.
“Go on,” Rosy watched the little dog bound off along the path, tail disappearing through a gap in the brambles and felt a spark of pride. Crufts one day.
As she strode, she considered Angus. She couldn’t make sense of the man or her feelings. That kiss. It had been electrifying. Exhilarating. But it was wrong. You’re engaged, she kept telling herself. Angus is a philanderer! And David? What was he thinking?
Running away was tempting. Maybe if she took a long, solitary holiday in the Bahamas it would do the trick for all of them. Katy had headed back to London the evening of the play and her tight-as-her-jeans message had said it all. “Rosy, I realise you’ve been under a lot of stress but David’s in turmoil too.” And rather than chat away as she normally did, she’d severed the call before Rosy had time to think about it.
But the gloriousness of Angus’ arms around her refused to leave. She relived his smell again; the comfort of skin on skin ... how long had it been since David? A tsunami of guilt engulfed her again: always, this seesaw of guilt vs. pleasure. Vic was right: she should become a nun. The monochrome look was in this spring.
She battled on along the path and felt a buzzing in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Through the howling wind, she just made out her mother’s voice.
“Darling ... home soon ... surprise ... “ the reception cut and Judy’s voice disappeared. Deciding to call back when she reached shelter, Rosy picked up the pace.
Heckled by sleet, she hurried from the boat yard. Emerging on top of the sea wall exposed her to the muddied arteries of the channel over twenty feet below. It was bitterly cold. She pulled up her hood and called Storm closer.
Rabbits darted across the path in front of her like sopping grey rags. The wind grew stronger and Rosy reached inside her pocket for the lead but it was too late: Storm was off, scampering along, hounding rabbits into their holes as if she were playing snooker against the clock. Rosy watched, in slow motion, as Storm chased the smallest rabbit, which veered at the very last second and plunged into a crack between the rocks.
“Storm, come!” Rosy yelled hysterically. The dog scrambled over a boulder, Geiger-countered the rocks and was gone.
“Piiiiiig!!” Rosy roared into the wind, hopelessly. Gusts buffeted her mercilessly and she felt like an underwater swimmer. Cheeks stinging, she reached the edge of the sea wall and being careful not to slip, picked her way across to where the rocks gave way to the sea. She held her breath and looked down onto the wet blackness below. Storm had vanished.
Waves smashed into the rock hollows, smacking her legs as the spray receded. She was soaked and Berghaus was no help. Her teeth chattered and her fingers were stiff claws. Images of Storm’s lifeless body battered her brain as she listened feverishly for any sound that might give her a clue, even though it was almost impossible to hear anything above the sea.
From far below she thought she heard something; a cross between a whimper and a seagull’s cry. Craning her neck, she spotted Storm’s drenched body through the driving rain, huddled in a large crevice. Fur plastered her body and she was rigid with shock but seemed to be in one piece.
Without thinking, Rosy scrambled down as far as she could but as she neared the bottom, she glimpsed a massive wave rolling in from the middle of the channel. Through the stinging rain she spied a small boat on top, but in that instant her foot slipped and she fell. Grabbing helplessly at wet stone, she slid fifteen feet down to land in a heap on a jagged shelf.
Stunned and bruised, she staggered to her feet and saw, in the midst of the surf, Angus, looking like a blonde, healthy Captain Sparrow at the helm. Thank God he seemed to have spotted her. She waved as madly as her stiff limbs would allow and watched as he fought the weather, spray sloshing over the bow and his head as he approached.
“Ahoy!” Angus shouted as he whizzed past the promontory.
“Come back!” she shouted wildly after him. Where was he going?
She could just make out above the sound of the wind, “Can’t land! You’ll have to catch me!”
She gesticulated forcefully towards Storm.
Tense with frustration, he manoeuvred the boat with expert skill but couldn’t pick Storm up on his own. She felt surge of hopelessness as he made neck-slashing gestures to indicate ‘abort’. Ten minutes later, his painter in hand, she pulled him alongside. Hoping he wouldn’t quip about leaving her on the shelf, she clambered into the boat with as much dignity as she could muster, but he had to haul her by her shoulders for the final flop.
“Thank you,” she breathed at last, but he pointed to the opposite side of the boat, indicating she should balance the weight. The closer they got, the further Storm retreated into her stone cave. “If I pull alongside can you grab her?”
Rosy looked at him fearfully. “I don’t know — what if you can’t get close enough?”
“I hear you’re familiar with jumping.”
He steered towards Storm, and at the last minute turned into land and let the mainsheet flap. “Now,” he yelled, and Rosy tried - really she did
- but she was frozen. Angus shoved the tiller at her and leapt out. Scooping Storm up with one arm, feet barely skimming the floor, he was back in the boat. It was over in seconds.
“Thank you,” was all she could blurt.
They reached swiftly back along the channel. Too exhausted and emotional to do much more than curl herself around Storm, Rosy pulled her hands into her sleeves to stay warm. Angus stared silently ahead, jaw set firmly, his back a solid wall of muscle.
Eventually they landed. The least she could do was get the trolley but he met her face to face at the water’s edge.
“Take these,” he said curtly, handing her keys. “Dry yourselves off, leave Storm with water and turn the ignition on. Then go to the club. The small key’s my locker.”
She was too tired to argue.
She found the Triumph, grabbed towels, wrapped Storm and poured water into a plastic camping bowl. Storm lapped achingly slowly, but wagged. When she was sure the dog was sated, Rosy spread a rug across the back seat, turned the heater on low and wound the window down a crack before shutting the back door gently and trekking across rain-lashed grass to the club house.
Inside, she collapsed. The events of the day wrestled too keenly with her emotions for any sort of order. How had Angus Hart turned from such a toe rag to the prime occupant of her thoughts?
She peeled socks from stump-like feet. Pins and needles were starting to make her extremities tingle. A hot bath would be blissful. Locating Angus’ locker, she held her breath, half expecting a mature ‘reader’s wives’ mag but she was relieved to find only a spruce-smelling deodorant, shampoo and two freshly laundered, maroon towels.
She took everything to the Ladies and stripped. Leaving her dripping clothes on the radiator, which was thankfully belting out heat, she scrubbed herself back to life. It was heavenly and gave her time to imagine Angus tying the covers onto the boat in the gale. She felt guiltily, wonderfully protected.
Feeling finally human, she shut off the water, wishing she didn’t have to put her sodden clothes back on. She wrapped a towel tightly around her body and padded on bare feet through the deserted bar to the games room. Gilt-framed photographs of ancient mariners and triumphant sea scouts presided over the room, which was mainly dark blue. A mahogany leather sofa sat like a welcoming Buddha in the corner, whilst battered armchairs covered in soft woollen rugs and cushions waited like patient grandparents for her to join them. She picked the sofa, dragged two rough, woollen rugs over her aching limbs and gave in.