'Oh, Greg, why did I ever meet you?' she muttered under her breath.
She found something to distract her thoughts a few days later with Joan's return from Dorset. Rose came back from talking with the builders one afternoon to find the older woman pegging washing on the line.
'Hello, Rose,' she cried cheerfully, setting down her peg basket and coming to kiss Rose on the cheek. 'I see you've made yourself at home. Well, I'm very happy to see you, my dear.'
'Yes, I'm sorry,' stammered Rose. 'You see, I decided you were right about Greg's place and--'
'No need to explain, my dear,' said Joan, although she ran a shrewd eye over Rose's flushed cheeks and downcast gaze. 'You just stay as long as you like.
Now, come inside and we'll have a nice cup of tea and I'll show you the photos of my new grandson.'
While they were consuming hot scones with jam and cream and tea strong enough to stand a spoon up in, Rose suddenly blurted out the question which had been worrying her for several days.
'Joan, why did you say you didn't like to think of an impressionable young woman staying at Greg's place?'
Joan's eyes opened wide and gleamed with unmistakable excitement. She refilled her cup and leaned confidingly towards Rose, lowering her voice and glancing over her shoulder as if she might be overhead.
'Goings on!' she announced in hushed tones, although there was a certain admiring undertone beneath the disapproval. 'Why, you wouldn't credit it if I told you the goings on there had been in that cottage of his since his poor mother left! Greg came from a good, steady family, but he's always been too wrapped up in his business affairs to settle down and marry decently. To tell you the truth, I think the idea bored him. But he certainly hasn't gone without women because of it. Oh, no! Not that he's ever gone too far with any of the village girls—he'd have their father or brothers to answer to if he did. But women from London, that's a different story! And from further afield too, some of them foreigners even. There was a young girl no more than eighteen or nineteen staying at- his cottage last summer and, when I came along the cliff path on my way to Polperro, there she was, as bold as brass, sunbathing on the back patio and not a stitch on! Can you believe it?'
'Not a stitch?' marvelled Rose, torn between disbelief, jealousy and amusement. 'Nothing at all?'
'Hmph. Weil, nothing worth mentioning,' replied Joan darkly. 'Unless you count those loincloth things. What do they call them now? Bee stings? No, no, that's not it. B-strings?'
'I think you mean a G-string,' murmured Rose, struggling desperately not to laugh. 'A lot of people do sunbathe in those, you know.'
'Not in Polperro,' said Joan, quivering with indignation. 'We have our standards, I hope. And I don't like to see them flouted so shamelessly. The brazen young hussy even sat up and said good morning to me. I was so embarrassed I didn't know where to look, although I must say she was a very pretty girl and quite well spoken. All the same, I blame Greg for the whole disgraceful incident.'
'Perhaps he didn't know she was sunbathing topless in his garden,' ventured Rose.
Joan snorted. 'Then he should have done. She was his guest, wasn't she?
Although what a man in his thirties was doing having a young girl like that staying overnight is more than I like to think about! Hugh Thomas tells me she came from a good family—ship owners, I believe—and he even had an idea there might be marriage in the air. But nothing came of it and Greg seems to have given her the brush-off now. Which just goes to show that he can't be trusted with women... now, will you have another cup of tea?'
Rose was silent, frowning thoughtfully as Joan bustled around the kitchen.
She found the old woman's revelations mildly disquieting. Of course, there might be nothing in them, but after her own upsetting experience of Greg's charm and capacity for deceit it did make her feel distinctly uneasy. It was a relief to her when Joan plumped down at the table with a fresh pot of tea and changed the subject.
'Now, tell me, my love,' she said, 'have you heard from your mother?'
'Yes,' agreed Rose. 'I telephoned her when I was in Plymouth the other day.
She's out of hospital and doing well and she should arrive in London in about two weeks' time, and, from what John Gleeson says, with luck we'll be able to move straight into the cottage. Would it be all right for me to stay here until then?'
'Stay as long as you like,' said Joan hospitably. 'I must say, it will be a real pleasure to see Fay again.'
Rose went to London two weeks later to meet her mother at Gatwick airport.
All the way up on the train she brooded over her problem, a problem which hadn't been helped by the appearance every Friday evening of a fresh bunch of roses in the cottage, each time with a note attached saying simply,
'Forgive me'. There was never any sign of how they had arrived there and she never saw Greg leaving in a car, although she watched from behind the lace curtains in Joan's house. She suspected that John Gleeson was the courier, but she did not tackle him for fear of appearing ridiculous. Each time the flowers arrived all the familiar turmoil was reawakened. She couldn't bear to throw them away a second time, so she gave them to Joan and then had to endure the silent reproach of their exquisite perfume each time she entered the sitting-room, not to mention Joan's interested glances.
But at least Rose always remained strong enough to resist contacting Greg.
She knew that was what he was hoping for, but she told herself that he would simply have to hope in vain. After all, he couldn't be in earnest with these apologies, could he? No. It was only a trick to lure her back so that he could have a casual fling with her. She told herself that macho pride prompted the flowers and the note, not affection. She must simply harden her heart and ignore him. But why was it so hard to do? As the train glided through the rolling green English countryside, why did she feel such a pang of misery at the mere thought that she was leaving Greg far behind? It was crazy, ridiculous, unworthy behaviour for a grown woman. She must stop behaving like a lovesick teenager and concentrate on welcoming her mother.
Fay Ashley's flight arrived at Gatwick only an hour late and she emerged into the arrivals lounge festooned with parcels. Rose felt a warm spurt of
affection at the sight of that familiar figure looking like an older version of herself. Wavy brown hair streaked with grey, blue eyes, a round face with pink cheeks and a short, plump figure. That's how I'll look when I'm fifty-five, thought Rose, and smiled with a touch of wistfulness. Her mother was a lovely woman, but quite ordinary, just like Rose herself. Could someone as good-looking, rich and broodingly sensual as Greg Trelawney really be seriously interested in a girl without a shred of glamour? It didn't seem very likely! All the same, Rose thought defiantly as she ran forward to embrace her mother, ordinary people are often very nice...
'Oh, it is good to see you, my dear,' exclaimed Fay Ashley, dropping some of her parcels in a rather flustered way. 'All's well in Cornwall, then?'
'Everything's fine,' Rose reassured her. 'And how are you, Mum?'
'Tired, my love. It was a long flight, but I'm fully recovered from the operation.'
'That's good. I found a nice little bed-and-breakfast place in Hampstead. I thought we'd stay overnight therefor a day or two until you feel fit to make the journey to Cornwall.'
Her mother smiled as she began gathering up her belongings. 'Well, I won't stay any longer than need be,' she said firmly. 'I can't wait to get home.'
It was worth all the trauma that Rose had been through since her arrival to see her mother's face as she got off the train in Looe. She looked at the steep green hills and the sapphire-blue sea with the gulls gliding overhead and burst into tears of joy.
'Oh, Rose. Oh, Rose.'
It was even better when they reached the cottage. John Gleeson had pulled out all the stops to finish work before Fay Ashley's arrival, and Rose felt a glow of pride as she showed her mother the refurbished kitchen, the
handsome new bathrooms, the freshly plastered a
nd papered walls and the thick new carpets.
'It's beautiful, my love,' exclaimed her mother. 'But it certainly wasn't like this when I left England thirty- five years ago. You must have done a lot of work on the place.'
'I did,' agreed Rose wryly.
Her mother's brows met in a worried frown. 'But how are we going to pay for it?' she asked.
'I took out a bank loan.'
'Can we afford it, Rose?'
'Don't worry! I'll make sure I pay back every penny of it. I'm writing some computer software at home and we should be able to start up our bed-and-breakfast business soon.'
'Won't we need council approval?' wondered her mother aloud.
'That's all organised,' said Rose. 'Now we only need to advertise in the newspapers, and I thought we could put our name down at the Looe tourist office.'
'How exciting! I wonder how long it will be before we get our first guest?'
They didn't have long to wait now that the builders had left. Rose felt a mingled sense of relief and disappointment at the realisation that she probably wouldn't receive her Friday evening bouquet. But she was wrong.
Promptly at six o'clock on the Friday evening following her mother's arrival, there was a ring at the front doorbell.
'Who can that be?' demanded Fay. 'Joan always comes to the back door.'
Rose was just getting to her feet with a look of apprehension on her face when her mother walked briskly up the hall and flung open the front door.
'How odd!' she exclaimed. "There's nobody here, but there's a beautiful bunch of flowers on the front step. Look, Rose. And there's a note with them.'
Rose practically elbowed her mother out of the way as she dived around her to snatch the bouquet. 'Damn him!' she muttered under her breath. 'Why won't he leave me alone?' Picking up the roses, she flung than furiously down the front steps. A note fluttered free and lay pathetically at her feet, its writing clearly visible. 'Forgive me'.
'What's this all about?' demanded her mother with a look that was half worried, half fascinated.
'Look, Mum, I don't mean to be rude,' snapped Rose, 'but would you please
mind your own business?'
Then, with a choking groan, Rose pushed past her mother, ran up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. She was still sitting moodily with her head in her hands and a stormy expression on her face when her mother arrived ten minutes later with a cup of tea. She set it down on Rose's bedside chest and sat on the end of the bed, eyeing her daughter thoughtfully.
'Oh, my love,' she murmured, putting her hand on Rose's knee. 'Don't take on like that. What's it all about? Is that dreadful Martin Inglis still pestering you? Did he send the roses?'
'Martin?' echoed Rose as if she had never heard the name before in her life.
'Oh, Martin! No, it wasn't him.'
'Then who?' demanded her mother, looking intrigued.
'Don't ask!' flared Rose.
Shaking her head, Far Ashley wisely left the room without saying any more.
But the next morning she woke Rose up at seven-thirty with a brisk knock on her door. Her eyes were shining as she came into Rose's bedroom.
'Guess what?' she demanded. 'We've got our first booking, Rose.'
'Oh, who is it?' asked Rose without interest.
'I didn't quite catch the name, the woman rang off too fast. She was a Ms Helen Arbuthnot ringing up to book a room for her brother. Apparently he's rather run down and suffering from depression, poor man. I gather he's gone through some kind of personal crisis, perhaps a broken marriage? Anyway, he wants somewhere quiet to get away from it all and if he likes it he'll be coming back a lot in the future. Isn't that exciting?'
'Mm.'
'Oh, come on, Rose! It's exactly what we wanted. Anyway, he's arriving tomorrow morning and I'm counting on you to help me. Now promise me you'll stop moping and give him a really good welcome. All right?'
'All right,' agreed Rose listlessly.
But when Helen Arbuthnot's brother arrived the following morning Rose was goaded out of her listlessness. They both heard the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway and the peal of the front doorbell, then Fay gave Rose a gentle push. 'Go on, you answer it, my love. It'll be nicer for him to see someone young and pretty.'
Rose opened the door, determined to make polite conversation, but what she saw drove all thoughts of politeness out of her mind. There was a Rolls-Royce parked in the driveway and a tall, muscular man with brooding, dark eyes planted ominously on the doorstep. Rose reeled back as if she'd been shot.
'You!' she breathed.
'Hello, Rose,' murmured Greg.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR a moment Rose was so startled that her mouth fell open and she retreated a pace or two down the hallway. This gave Greg the opportunity to step confidently inside. Part of Rose's brain registered that he was expensively dressed in lightweight, pleated beige trousers, a striped open-necked shirt and a tan suede jacket with a zipped front and ribbed cuffs, and that he carried a glossy Louis Vuitton suitcase in his left hand.
Then her mind reeled away from these trivial details to a far more pressing problem.
'Why can't you leave me alone?' she hissed.
'Because I want to see you,' said Greg in an injured voice.
'Well, I don't want to see you! Go away!'
His heavy black eyebrows arched mockingly and a small, taunting smile played about the corners of his lips. 'Oh, come, now,' he murmured. 'What's your mother going to say if you turn away a perfectly good paying guest?'
Rose ground her teeth, uttered a strangled sound and was just about to launch into a blistering retort when her mother suddenly appeared in the hallway behind her. Fay Ashley came forward with her face wreathed in smiles and both hands outstretched.
'Good morning, Mr...'
'Trelawney. Greg Trelawney.'
Fay's face lit up with interest. 'Welcome to Rose Cottage. I'm Fay Ashley and this is my daughter, Rose. Trelawney.... Now, that rings a bell. I remember a Pauline Trelawney in Polperro, many years ago. She was married to a fisherman. Would she be any relation of yours?'
'She's my mother,' agreed Greg.
'How nice!' exclaimed Fay. 'Perhaps I could go and call on her some time.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to wait until Christmas, then,' said Greg with an engaging smile. 'She lives in Florida now, you know.'
'I thought you said she lived on the Atlantic coast!' burst out Rose, unable to contain her indignation.
'Florida's on the Atlantic coast,' pointed out Greg.
'Well, you certainly haven't wasted any time making friends, have you, Rose?' asked her mother brightly. 'I can see you've been having a nice little chat already. Do come in, Mr Trelawney, and let me hang up your jacket and show you your room. Then perhaps you'd like a nice cup of tea. I'll pop into the kitchen and make it in a moment. I'm sure my daughter Rose will keep you company and give you anything else you want.'
'Oh, I'm sure she will too,' agreed Greg in a velvety voice, casting Rose a provocative sideways glance.
Not trusting herself to remain silent another moment, Rose muttered something incoherent and fled to the sitting-room. When Fay had hung up Greg's jacket, shown him his room and disappeared into the kitchen, he came in search of Rose in the sitting-room. She whirled around at the sound of his footsteps and cast him a glance full of loathing.
'You can't do this to me, Greg!' she protested hotly.
'Why not?' he asked in a steely voice. 'You chose to ignore my apologies when I sent them by letter, so I thought it was time I delivered them in person.'
'Oh, so you've come to apologise, have you?' sneered Rose.
'Yes.'
'All right,' said Rose with a toss of her head. 'Your apology is accepted. Now please go.'
Greg strode across the room and made himself comfortable in front of the fireplace with one arm leaning negligently on the mantelpiece. His dark eyes scanned her face searchingly with the shrewd, inquisitorial look that
she had come to dread.
'No,' he murmured in a voice that was all the more alarming for its Cornish softness. 'I won't go. At least, not until we've had this matter out.'
'Why not?'
'Because my apology is not really accepted unless you wipe out the offence and go back to where we were.'
'With you filling me full of lies and trying to make a fool of me?' challenged Rose.
Greg's mouth tightened. 'I had no intention of making a fool of you.'
'Well, what did you intend to do?' snapped Rose.
'I never had a calculated plan of action,' he snapped back. 'I'm not like that, I never have been. I just see what I want and go for it. And I wanted you, Rose. I still do.'
The way he looked at her sent a thrill of mingled excitement and misgiving down her spine. She turned away, her breast heaving, trying to fight down the turmoil of attraction and resentment that seemed to be setting every nerve in her body on fire.
'Well, I don't want you!'
'You're lying!' growled Greg, and with a swift movement he crossed the room and took her in his arms.
Her heart fluttered like a frightened bird and her breath came in shallow gulps as she looked up into his stormy face. What might have happened next she never found out, for at that moment they heard the rattle of the tea-trolley in the hall and Greg released her. The air seemed to-vibrate with
tension as Fay entered the room, but Rose was determined to hide her feelings. It would be too embarrassing to endure if her mother found out the truth about her and Greg, so she concealed her confusion under a light, bright manner.
'Do sit down and have some tea, Mr Trelawney,' she invited sweetly.
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