Rosy George's Convention Conundrum

by Polly Young

  * * *

  “Rosy?” She looked confusedly into Angus’ soft brown eyes for a second or two before realising it wasn’t Storm. “You’ve got out of your wet things,” he said. “Good.”

  “Thank you.” But the remark seemed woefully inadequate.

  She moved her head and legs painfully. Her neck hurt like hell and she could tell without looking her hair had dried kinkily.

  “Stop saying that,” he said gently. “I’m going to drive you home, and when you get back I want you to get into a hot bath, then go straight to bed.”

  She agreed, with no small twinge of distress.

  “But before all that, I’m afraid I want you to do something else.”

  The next thing Rosy knew, her head was back in its original position, this time cradled not by stiff leather upholstery but by Angus’ firm, soft hand. Then his mouth was on hers and she was powerless to resist.

  His fingers sought out the corner of the towel she’d tucked so tightly into her cleavage. With a swift tug he freed her, sliding his hand beneath the folds. She breathed in his salty, damp scent and smoothed her own hands along and up his back as he cupped her breasts and thumbed her blossoming nipples.

  She sighed and buried her face deeply in his neck as he explored her body, skimming her hips with smooth, dry palms; covering her shoulder with passionate, decisive kisses. He stroked her pubis and, sensing her excitement, provided temporary relief with his fingers.

  Groaning, she pulled at his belt. The sofa creaked under his expert hand and she felt the cool leather meet her buttocks. Then he was inside her and she melted under his grip so completed they seemed to fuse. Flashes of light danced as he drove her to the edge of a precipice she recognised briefly before falling, flying, soaring.

  He gasped, pulled out and released himself in a long, hot, sweet triumphant rush, then held her as she came down to earth. It was over as quickly and confusingly as it had started.

  They lay there until Rosy could bear the disapproving stares of the ancient mariners no more. “I think we’d better get dressed,” she muttered, feeling she should be feeling she’d been used but not. He started to collect himself and she waited for the awkwardness to set in. But he looked so beautiful and kissed her so satisfyingly she used her towel to cover the seamen and they did it again.

  Chapter 13

  In a bid for freedom from family strife, Tom had found a regular babysitter and taken it upon himself to rejuvenate Sexy Football, recruiting two players to form a respectable five-a-side. A 3-0 win against archrivals Crookhurst was a good enough reason to celebrate inThe Moon.

  “I’m not as young as I used to be,” Stuart rubbed his shoulder and winced. “Did you see that tackle? So vicious!”

  “I do physio,” Bernie raised her eyebrows invitingly as her breasts brushed the beer taps. Her rotund dog, Hudson, lay prostate across the empty carpet. Fed too many pork scratchings, he had heard all this before.

  “Only if you’re out of a day job,” Angus said. “Stick to what you know best.”

  “That’s rich from you!” Tom spluttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Behaving like a lovesick teenager over Rosy George when she’s engaged! Why break the habit of a lifetime?” Andy peered over his pint. “Stick with the mature woman. Everyone knows you can handle them.”

  Angus’ pulse raced at the mention of Rosy. This village. Word had spread like Hope used butter.

  Tom wasn’t giving up. “Dog in danger or damsel in distress?”

  “Both,” Angus said curtly. “Right time, right place.” And sometimes wrong time, wrong place, he thought, recalling Rosy’s expression outside Monica Bates’.

  Stuart was unconvinced.

  But Angus had more important things to think about. A summons by the President of Crabham Sailing Club during his lunch break had seemed innocent enough and Angus had made his way leisurely towards Mr. Sidcup’s office. He expected it was to do with the course timetable: there were often complaints from parents about clashes for siblings who wanted to do Stage 2 and Stage 3 courses, for example. Sticking his thumbs into his belt loops, Angus had knocked lightly on the door. If he remembered rightly, he’d also been whistling.

  Which had stopped when he’d seen the President.

  Nicholas Sidcup was a heavy man in his early fifties who ruled the sailing club with a monocled eye and an iron fist. Fifth generation of the founder and President of Crabham Sailing Club was a job he’d never taken lightly and as a result, the sailing school was a roaring success. Thanks to his dedication, sweat and tears (“no guts, no glory” was his favourite way to end course welcomes), he’d heaved it up the RYA league table. Denied the opportunity to join the Territorial Army by his eyesight, Mr. Sidcup turned his attention to learning the basics of harbour mastering early on but treated the sailing school pursuit of excellence with military precision. Crabham was perfect: with the flexibility of a large pool of instructors as well as the structure of a large organisation to bend to his will, it felt almost like he imagined the army would.

  But not all his staff was willing to bend. Angus and he had never come to blows, but there had been tense moments and, whilst Angus respected Nick’s ability to get the best in terms of discipline, facility provision and exam results, he suspected that, when it came to it, he secretly saw sailing like a fish course: pleasant enough but not vital to the life blood of everyone, let alone children.

  “Enter,” Nick’s voice held the same resonance for instructors and students. “Angus. Sit.”

  Nick smoothed his sandy widow’s peak and flexed fingers itchy for a rifle. “How do you find the — ah — pastoral side of instructing?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well ... yes. I mean it’s part of the job, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Nick twiddled a pencil in his left hand. “How many child protection courses have you been on?” His bushy eyebrows lifted his hairline further north.

  You know that, Angus thought. It was standard sailing school policy to send members of staff on annual child protection training courses and he quite looked forward to them: not only were they a break from the norm, they were in London which allowed a day or two to legitimately bunk. “I’ve been here three years. Three. And I assume I’ll be attending the one next month,” he said, making a statement rather than a question.

  Nick was quiet, studying Angus hard. “As you know, keeping up to date on child protection policy is an incredibly important part of what we pride ourselves on at Crabham. So then, getting to the point ... ” he stopped and doodled for so long, Angus felt like shoving the pencil somewhere to illustrate the word’s meaning decisively.

  “I’m aware,” he said, nodding.

  “I do hope so. Angus, I have the utmost faith in your understanding the importance, which is why I have decided to make you head of child protection policy, responsible for ensuring that all instructor understand the club’s procedure for child welfare and, ah, formal complaints.”

  * * *

  “Your round.” Stuart waggled an empty glass in Angus’ face and he came back to earth with a bump.

  “Sorry. Miles away.” Bernie licked her lips suggestively as he waved.

  “Ms George?”

  Sailing school actually. A few things going on ... responsibility and stuff,” Angus was vague.

  Stuart raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that? Don’t they think you’re working hard enough?”

  “Clearly not.” This from Tom.

  Angus had had enough. “Piss off, you lot.” Recent events had unsettled him enough without the Lytton exposition.

  “Ooh, hit a raw nerve?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Sorry, mate,” Tom looked like he meant it. “Didn’t realise things were tough.”

  “I’d just rather not talk about it.” Angus picked up his coat and stood up.

  “How about that goal, then? I think we could be on to
something there if we can set that up again.”

  Angus gave Stuart a grateful wink, picked up his coat and walked out into the night.

  Chapter 14

  ‘Regularly travelling first class’ was high on David’s list of Vital Things To Do Before Thirty Fiveand he’d done it with a year to spare. Surrounded by carefully ordered selections of newspapers and expensive tea bags, sitting on a leather seat with ample foot room, with a very pretty stewardess (if that’s what you called them) on the Eurostar to St. Pancras with his sister was Not Bad.

  Katy had been a wonderful guest. Another Before ...goal was ‘make a spontaneous decision’ so he’d invited her to Paris. Well, that wasn’t quite true; she’d nagged for weeks but he was glad she’d come. For three days he’d enjoyed her bawdy humour and dating stories. She hadn’t forced him to drink. And now she was a model passenger, gratifyingly grateful for hot, lemon-scented towels and free chocolate muffins while he checked the exchange rates on his laptop. Yet despite luxury and easy company, David was far from comfortable.

  “You HAVE to snap out of it.” Katy sighed with frustration, closing his Mac Book to demonstrate.

  David had the grace to look ashamed. “What can I say?”

  Katy sighed. “Either that you want her back, or you don’t.”

  He admired her logic. Since when was it her place to give advice? He wasn’t complaining though: it was loads better than Ian’s ‘get laid, clear your head.’

  He stared unseeingly at her as the train plunged into the tunnel. He’d seen Katy through many tough times. Grades through school, standing up for her about knowing too much. It hurt him to remember the times she had come to him crying: he had felt responsible for her happiness, and was wise enough to recognise she was probably just trying to repay the favour.

  “Of course I want her back. That’s why I’m doing this.” David faced the window. It was true. But whether he’d ever get the chance to tell Rosy without having to force the issue was looking slimmer daily. Not a single phone call or email had been returned and with the wedding in less than five months’ time, things looked extremely bleak.

  “The only roadblock is Angus Hart.” Katy hesitated. The thought of telling David what she’d seen made her feel sick and she began to regret the muffin.

  David was puzzled. He remembered Angus as a bumpkin with a dark crop. Large hands. Blatant disregard for the countryside code. He shook his head emphatically. “The guy’s an idiot.” But Katy’s silence was less than reassuring.

  “Just be careful, that’s all. She slid her eyes sideways into the darkness and sighed. “The fact is, you haven’t been taking care of her and, as you know, she’s inclined to be rather ... “

  “Unpredictable.”

  “So you never know what she might or might not have done, or be thinking about doing,” Katy said, with skills in diplomacy she didn’t know she had.” So it makes sense to cut your losses and tell her how you feel.” She eyed David’s half-eaten chocolate muffin. “Especially on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Why should she listen? She’s ignored practically every call I’ve made.”

  Sugar-fuelled, Katy snapped. “For the hundredth time, do you want her back or not?”

  He thought hard. Paris was exciting, expensive and he’d found an excellent brand of eczema cream. He’d played a blinder: whilst thousands of students his age sweated it out in London hospitals dealing with burns victims, he’d escaped. He got to chat to satin skinned Parisian beauties every day and discuss their breast size. And Jen was good fun. She’d deserved that necklace, God only knew! Rosy would see that eventually ... but Rosy was different. He supposed he understood her fury, but if only she’d talk to him! Her absolute silence was puzzling and he was beginning to doubt he knew her quite as well as he’d thought. Given half a chance, the Rosy David knew would demand a piggy back home along Kilburn High Road. His Rosy, when they couldn’t decide about supper, would concoct elaborate ‘restaurant crawls’ with a starter in an Italian, an Indian main course and pudding at McDonalds ... or bed.

  Paris was exciting. But extremely hard work and he was doing all this for a reason. So yes, he did want her back.

  “Don’t mention Jen. Whatever happened, you and Rosy have some serious talking to do.” Katy studied the pattern of crumbs. “Before it’s too late.”

  They sat in silence until the train emerged into cold, grey Dover drizzle. Sunday. An hour behind French time. She’d be walking Storm — a picture of Rosy swaddled, stomping around muddy fields squeezed his heart. It would be wet, and she’d want something warm. Or someone. Him. God, he missed her. He made another spontaneous decision.

  “You’re brilliant. If Rosy and I are going to work, I need to pull my socks up.”

  Katy looked puzzled but smiled. “Assuming the ring’s still on her finger, it needs to be something special. What do you have?”

  David watched pylons shoot past. Rain spattered arrows pointed towards London. “It won’t be difficult,” he said with more confidence than he felt.” Where there’s a will.”

  Scraping a fingernail around the muffin case, Katy smiled reassuringly and hoped Angus didn’t feel the same way.

  * * *

  But, as the minicab slipped through rain-sodden fields towards Lytton, David’s confidence started to wane. What had Rosy told her parents? What if she refused to see him? What would it take? He stared mournfully at the flowers in his lap. Something told him it could be more than garage blooms.

  Opening the door, Judy’s panna cotta smile hardened.

  “For you.” He shook the bunch of flowers in an effort to perk them up a bit but succeeded only in showering petals over the carpet and releasing a puff of pollen.

  Judy sneezed, took the flowers and wordlessly led him in. Storm was gobbling supper. David glanced around at the familiar surroundings: the clock on the wall with the bendy hands; the old oven glove and tea towels festooning backs of chairs and the Aga rail. The kitchen felt like home and with sadness he realised it might never be. Judy kept her eyes on him as she pulled out a chair from under the old pine table.

  “I’ve treated your daughter badly.”

  Her back was to him as she leant over the sink making savage slashes at the cellophane. She reached for a large earthenware jug and hugged it to her chest like a security blanket.

  “I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know.“

  “I’m not Rosy.” Furious, Judy cut him short. “Tell her. She loved you. Trusted you ...” she took a breath that added a good two inches.

  Somewhere inside David, something died with her use of the past tense. “May I see her? Where is she?”

  “At the town hall doing some last-minute rehearsing.”

  “For the wedding?” His heart twanged. Valentine’s Day. It made sense.

  Judy looked at him with thinly disguised contempt. “Not on her own, David. That would be ridiculous. For the play. The secondplay Rosy has written, produced and has been directing for the last three weeks.” David looked blank.

  “Oh, forget it.” The handle of the jug, along with her composure, snapped. At a loss, David gave her a clumsy squeeze, feeling like an elephant with a duckling. Judy resisted and then grabbed a gingham tea towel to blow her nose.

  “That’s the last thing anyone needs, you comforting me,” she whispered, giving a small, watery smile as he offered his hanky. “I always said to Rosy it was a good sign you carried a clean handkerchief.”

  David waited as she circled the table like a nervous deer, then came to settle in a chair.

  “This play means such a lot to her. I thought you’d be aware, that’s all.” Judy’s chin was a small behemoth. “Angus Hart knows more about her life than you at the moment.”

  That name again. David grimaced.

  There appeared to be little to say for what felt like a very long time. From the sugar bowl, hand-painted chickens laughed at David through yellow eyes. He fiddled with his tie and thought about leaving, but under the circumstance
s it seemed ruder than staying. Judy stopped twisting his hanky. Her cheeks were pale and glistening; her usually invisible crow’s feet marked deeply.

  “Charles,” she said quietly, “has prostate cancer.”

  David froze.

  Charles George was the healthiest person over sixty he knew. It was rarer for David to see Charles ill than naked. But then a pulmonary embolism had swooped on David’s own father, carrying him off beyond reach. The only silver lining had been the inheritance, which had paid for David’s exorbitant medical school fees.

  David had met Rosy the week after the funeral and the thought of something similar happening all over again to the person he loved most was inconceivable. Judy rose and closed the door, glancing at the clock. “He’s taken to leaving the surgery earlier recently. He gets tired. He thought he knew what it was, of course,” she spoke quickly, defensively. “He diagnoses other people every day; he just never thought it would happen to him.” She untied her hair, scooped it up and fastened it again. Just like Rosy. David’s heart stretched with the elastic band.

  “Don’t talk if you don’t want to.”

  A loud bang on the front door made them jump.

  “I’ll go,” David said quickly but Judy was halfway down the hallway. After a few moments she returned, sporting a small cardboard package with a discreet but distinctive ribbon. David knew the signature colours well; he’d been dragged often enough into the little shop in Chelsea. They opened their mouths at the same time to speak, but Judy’s words came out first. “David, how generous,” she sniffed the box.

  And, as though he were one of his own patients coming round from an anaesthetic, David realised that he could turn this to his advantage.