Thinking of You

by Jill Mansell

  Had they really been cheap and nasty? Davy had said they looked nice.

  Then again, Davy wasn’t exactly known for his unerring sense of style.

  “Come on.” Rupert tilted her face up to look at him. “You know it makes sense.” His gaze softened as he stroked her cheek. “God, you’re a pretty little thing.”

  Jem knew he was going to kiss her. This wasn’t something she had ever imagined happening. But now that it was, it seemed entirely natural. As his mouth brushed against hers, she felt warmth spread through her body. Rupert’s fingers slid through her hair, then he drew her closer to him and kissed her properly.

  It was great. Then he pulled away and cradled her face in his hands, his hazel eyes searching hers.

  “What?” whispered Jem.

  “Sorry, shouldn’t have done that.” He smiled briefly. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

  Jem hesitated. Would it be too forward to suggest that he could do it again if he liked?

  But Rupert was shaking his head now, looking regretful. “Probably not the best idea.”

  This was his flat, she was his tenant. Maybe he was right. Not hugely experienced sexually, one part of Jem was relieved that he wasn’t launching himself at her, employing all his seduction skills and doing his level best to inveigle her into his bedroom for a night of torrid passion.

  The other part of her wondered why not and felt, frankly, a bit miffed. Wasn’t she attractive enough?

  “Come on, let’s watch The Office.” Rupert affectionately ruffled her hair before turning away to sort through the pile of DVDs.

  And that was what they did. For the next hour, Jem sat next to him on the sofa gazing blindly at the TV, completely unable to concentrate on what was happening on screen. Her mind was in a whirl; all she could think about was that kiss and the way Rupert had looked at her. Why had he stopped? And wasn’t he feeling anything now? Her whole body was fired up, awash with adrenaline, and he was acting as if nothing had happened between them.

  Had the kiss put him off? Had she done it wrong? Was Rupert regretting it now or did it genuinely not mean anything to him at all?

  One thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to be the one to ask.

  Jem’s heart broke into a gallop as Rupert moved, reaching forward for the remote control. He switched off the DVD and the TV, yawned widely, and said, “That’s it. Time for bed.”

  Was that some kind of code? Hardly daring to breathe, she watched him stand up, yawn again, and stretch his shoulders. Turning briefly, he said, “Night then,” before heading for the door.

  OK, not some kind of code after all.

  “Night,” said Jem, confused and disappointed. All these months of sharing a flat with Rupert and she had honestly never thought of him in a romantic way, but that had been because he was so out of her league it had simply not occurred to her that anything could happen. Rupert’s background, his gilded life and upper-class glamour, set him apart from the rest of them. He and Caro moved in elevated circles, whizzing up to London at weekends, staying with friends in country houses, and flying to Paris when the mood took them.

  It was a different world. He’d kissed her.

  And now he’d gone to bed.

  Let’s face it, nothing was going to happen. She’d been naive to even think it might.

  ***

  Jem had been in bed for ten minutes when the knock came on her bedroom door. Before she had time to reply, the handle turned and the door opened.

  Rupert stood framed in the doorway, wearing shorts and nothing else. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “What?” It came out as a quivery whisper. Her pulse was going for some kind of world record.

  “I think you heard.” It was dark but Rupert sounded as if he was smiling. “I can’t sleep.” He tapped his head. “You’re in here. I’ve tried to get you out but you won’t go.”

  Oh, that voice, that silky upper-class drawl.

  Moving toward her in the darkness, he went on, “And I wondered if it was the same for you.”

  Jem’s tongue was stuck fast to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t say no; she couldn’t say yes; she couldn’t say anything at all.

  “Room for one more in there?” Rupert tilted his head to one side. “Or would you rather be on your own? If I’ve just made a horrible mistake here, I’ll go back to my room.”

  Her fingers trembling, Jem reached for Barney Bear, the battered soft toy that had accompanied her to bed since she was five years old. Surreptitiously she dropped him down between the side of the bed and her chest of drawers, then lifted the duvet and pulled it back, moving over to make room for Rupert to join her.

  “You’re sure?” said Rupert as he slid into bed and took her into his arms.

  “Yes,” Jem whispered into his ear. She’d never been more sure in her life.

  ***

  At four o’clock, Rupert climbed out of bed and located his shorts.

  Jem pushed herself up on one elbow. “What are you doing?”

  “Being discreet. Better if Lucy doesn’t know about this.” Combing his fingers through his hair, he said, “She might think three’s a crowd, feel a bit of a third wheel. Easier all round if you don’t tell her.”

  He had a point. This was Rupert’s flat, she and Lucy were his tenants, and it could cause awkwardness.

  That made sense.

  Except… did it mean what they’d just done was a one-off, nothing more than a meaningless shag?

  Was that it?

  “Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Having pulled on his shorts, Rupert bent over and kissed her. “It’ll be fun. Like having an affair without all the hassle of being married to other people. It’s more exciting when no one else knows.”

  Relieved, Jem wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re right. It’s easier if we don’t tell Lucy. It’ll feel a bit funny, though. We tell each other everything.”

  “Well, this time you’re just going to have to stop yourself.” Straightening up, Rupert grinned. “We don’t want this to be spoiled, do we? Trust me, some secrets are better kept.”

  Chapter 8

  The advert had gone into the classified sections of today’s Western Morning News and the Cornish Guardian. Ginny had spent ages composing it, finally settling on, “Cheerful divorcee, 38, has lovely room to let in spacious home in Portsilver. Would suit lady in similar circumstances. £60 pw inclusive.”

  There, that sounded OK, didn’t it? Friendly and appropriately upbeat? If she were looking for somewhere to live, she’d be tempted herself. Gazing with pride at the adverts in the papers—all fresh and new and filled with promise—Ginny felt a squiggle of excitement at the thought of the fun she and her new lodger would have, going shopping together and—

  Yeek, phone!

  “Hello?” She put on her very best voice.

  “’Ello, love, you sound up for it. Fancy a shag?”

  Oh God. Outraged, Ginny said in a high voice, “No I do not,” and cut the connection. Her hands trembled. How completely horrible. Was this what was going to happen? Would she be harassed by perverts?

  The phone rang again an hour later. This time Ginny braced herself and answered it with extreme caution.

  “It’s me. How’s it going?

  Oh, the relief. Gavin. “Nothing so far. Except some vile pervert.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him to fuck off.”

  “Listen, let me know when anyone’s coming around to look at the room. I should be there. It’s not safe, inviting strangers into your home when you’re on your own.”

  Ginny relented. Gavin had offered before but she’d told him there was no need, seeing as she’d only be meeting women anyway. Now, though, she realized he was right. It was silly to take the risk. Gavin might be disastrous in many ways, but he did have his good points.

  “OK. If anyone does call.” Reluctantly, she said, “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’m free this evening. Yo
u didn’t, by the way.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Tell me to fuck off.”

  Ginny counted to ten. “That was you? Thanks a lot.”

  “Ah, but I got my point across. It might not be me next time.”

  Gavin was annoying enough when he was wrong. When he was right he was insufferable. Ginny, who hated it when that happened, said, “Fine then, but you can hide upstairs. I’m not having you sitting there like some minder while I’m talking to them.”

  “You spoil all my fun,” Gavin protested. “Never pass up the opportunity to meet new women, that’s what I say. Hey, what if a foxy young chick moves in and I start dating her? That’d be a laugh, wouldn’t it? Would you be jealous?”

  “No, just astounded by her bizarre taste in men.” Ginny was patient. “And no, it wouldn’t be a laugh either.” Counting off on her fingers, she added, “And thirdly, I can promise you now, my new lodger isn’t going to be a foxy young chick.”

  ***

  The doorbell rang at seven o’clock on the dot, heralding the arrival of the first of the three potential tenants who had phoned that afternoon. More nervous than she let on—heavens, was this what it was like to go on a blind date?—Ginny shooed Gavin upstairs and took a steadying breath before opening the front door.

  “Hello, love, I’m Monica. I’ve just been having a look at your window sills; you know they’d benefit from a quick going over with a dab of bleach. Brighten them up lovely, bleach would. Ooh, and those skirting boards could do with a dust.”

  The trouble with blind dates was, it wasn’t considered polite to take one look at the no-hoper in front of you and say, “Sorry, this is never going to work out, so why don’t we just give up right now?”

  But here she was, faced with the equivalent of a blind date with John McCririck, and Ginny knew she was going to have to be pleasant and chat politely to the woman because that was how these things were done. Even if this one had just criticized her window sills and she’d saw off her own head rather than allow her to move into this house.

  Monica was short and squat, with permed gray hair and flicked-up spectacles. She looked like a short-sighted turtle. She also looked sixty-five years old. And she hadn’t stopped talking yet.

  “…that’s what I do, love. My little secret. Just dab a toothbrush in vinegar and scrub away like billy-o—those taps will come up like diamonds! Here, you take my coat. Oh dear, haven’t you got a hanger? Now, why don’t we have a nice cup of tea and a good old chat before I take a look at my room, hmm? Then we can start to get to know each other. Ooh, I say, Gold Blend, that’s a bit extravagant, isn’t it? And washing-up liquid from Marks and Spencer, well I never. Nice and weak, please, love, we can share the teabag. No sugar for me, I’m already sweet enough.”

  Oh help, oh help, get me out of here. Ginny said, “Sorry, how old did you say you were?”

  “Forty-two, love. That’s why I knew we’d have plenty in common, what with being the same age.”

  “Ri-ight.” Ginny considered calling Gavin down from upstairs to see if he might like to flirt with the woman.

  “I’ll tell you a bit about myself, shall I? Well, my hubby and I are getting a divorce so we’re selling our bungalow, which is why I’m looking for a place to rent. And sharing’s nice, isn’t it? Cozy, like. Between you and me I’m not that bothered about losing him. My hubby’s a bit of a misery, quiet as a church mouse, never been the sort to join in with conversations. Used to spend all his time in his blessed garden shed when he wasn’t at work, so I can’t see me missing him much at all. Mind you, could have knocked me down with a feather when he said he wanted a divorce! Didn’t see that one coming! Men are funny creatures, aren’t they? I’ll never work out what makes them tick. Silly old fool, how he thinks he’s going to manage without me I can’t imagine. Did you know there’s a mark on the outside of your window? Some bird’s gone and done its nasty business on the glass. You want to get that cleaned off, it doesn’t look very nice. I could do it for you now if you like.”

  “She sounds perfect. When’s she moving in?” As soon as the front door closed, Gavin came downstairs.

  “Shhh, my ears hurt.”

  “Want me to give them a polish with Brasso? That’ll bring them up a treat.”

  “What a nightmare.” Ginny shuddered. “That was horrendous. I told her I had lots of other people interested in the room and that I’d let her know tomorrow.”

  “You’ve only got two more to see. What if they’re worse than her?”

  Dumping the coffee cups in the sink and thinking longingly of the bottle of white wine in the fridge, Ginny said, “There can’t be anyone worse than Monica.”

  ***

  “Hi, come in, I’m Ginny.”

  “Zeee.”

  Ginny hesitated, wondering if the woman had a bumble bee trapped in her throat. “Excuse me?”

  “Zeee. That’s my name. With three e’s.” There was a note of challenge in the woman’s voice, as if daring her to query the wisdom of this. “Zeee Porter. You shouldn’t have a table there, you know. Not in the hallway like that. Bad feng shui.”

  “Oh.” In that case, Ginny longed to tell her, you shouldn’t have grubby blond dreadlocks and earrings bigger than castanets emphasizing your scrawny chicken neck, and you definitely shouldn’t be wearing purple dungarees and homemade leather sandals over woolly toe socks, because that’s bad feng shui too.

  Zeee Porter, she learned, was thirty-six and—incredibly for such a catch—still single. Currently the only man in her life was her spirit guide, Running Deer. During the summer months, Zeee surfed, worked as a henna tattooist, and just, like, generally chilled out. The rest of the year she just, well, generally chilled out and waited for summer to come around again. Yes, she’d had a proper job once, in a vegan café in Aldershot, but being told what to do and having to get up in the morning had done her head in.

  “It was a bad vibe, man.” Zeee shook her head dismissively. “I just don’t need that kind of hassle in my life.”

  She evidently didn’t need the hassle of shampoo or deodorant either. Ginny wondered if Running Deer wore a peg on his nose or if spirit guides weren’t bothered by those kinds of earthly matters.

  Heaven knows what Monica would make of her. She’d probably march Zeee out into the garden and set about her with neat bleach and a scrubbing brush.

  Ginny dutifully showed her the room she wouldn’t be living in then said brightly, “Well, I’ve got lots of other people to see, but I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and let you know either way.”

  “I haven’t got a phone,” said Zeee. “Phones are, like, destroying the planet.”

  “Oh.” Except for when Zeee had rung earlier to make the appointment, presumably.

  “To be honest,” Zeee went on, “I think we’ll just leave it. No offense, but I wouldn’t want to live here anyway. It doesn’t really do it for me, know what I mean?”

  Flabbergasted, Ginny said, “Oh.”

  “Plus, Running Deer’s telling me I shouldn’t move in. He wouldn’t be comfortable here.”

  “Right.” Awash with relief, Ginny sent up a silent prayer of thanks to spirit guides everywhere. Hooray for Running Deer.

  Zeee flicked back her moth-eaten dreadlocks. “Plus, he says you have a muddy aura.”

  ***

  “God, what a stink. Open the windows,” Gavin complained. “Who’s next?”

  Ginny wasn’t getting her hopes up. The third and final prospective lodger was male. “His name’s Martin. I told him I was looking for a female to share the house with, but he said I couldn’t specify like that because it was sexual discrimination and I could be sued if I refused to even interview men.”

  Gavin’s lip curled. “Sounds like a nutter. Just as well I’m here.”

  “Actually, he didn’t sound like a nutter. He was quite nice about it. He’s split up from his wife,” said Ginny, “and just needs somewhere pretty fast.”

  “Probably because he
murdered her and the police are on his tail.”

  Ginny was fairly sure Martin wasn’t a murderer. “He apologized for being a man but said he really wasn’t difficult to live with, he didn’t play loud music and he was fairly sure he didn’t have any annoying habits. So what else could I do but agree to see him? You never know, he might be all right.”

  “Soft, that’s what you are. I’ll keep an ax upstairs with me,” Gavin said cheerily. “Just in case.”

  Chapter 9

  Martin Mason didn’t look like a murderer. He politely introduced himself, appeared happy with the room Ginny showed him, and complimented her on her decorating skills. In the kitchen he accepted a cup of tea and said, “Well, I expect you’ve got plenty of other people to see, but just to let you know, I’d be very interested in the room.” Drily he added, “Although I daresay you’ll end up choosing a female.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll decide when I’ve met everyone.” Was her nose getting longer? He seemed pleasant enough, but Ginny knew she wouldn’t be inviting this man to be her housemate, although she didn’t doubt that he’d pay his rent on time. Sharing her home with a gray-haired, suit-wearing, fifty-year-old assistant bank manager wasn’t what she’d had in mind at all.

  “I’d appreciate a quick decision,” said Martin. “I’m sleeping in a work colleague’s spare room at the moment, you see. I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

  Ginny nodded, remembering that his marriage had just broken up. Poor man, it couldn’t be easy for him; it must have come as a terrible shock.

  “So what happened? Is your wife still living in your house?” Was it impertinent to ask this? Oh well, she was curious.

  Martin blinked behind his owlish spectacles. “For now, yes.”

  “And she just kicked you out, told you you had to leave?” Ginny was indignant on his behalf; that hardly seemed fair.

  “Oh no. I was the one who left.” His tone was mild. “It was absolutely my choice. I just couldn’t stand being married to my wife a minute longer.”