A Whiff of Scandal Read online

Underneath, she was relieved to see, he was wearing a white T-shirt. A tight, white T-shirt. A very tight, white T-shirt. A bit like Patrick Swayze’s T-shirt in Dirty Dancing. All rippling biceps, bulging muscles and a six-pack for a stomach. Was that the only reason why he was flushed and panting heavily, the fact that it was as hot as a greenhouse in here? Perhaps she had been misreading the signs? Come to think of it, what was she doing even getting close enough to read signs? Hugh’s side of the bed was barely cold, metaphorically speaking, and here she was getting hot under the collar about another man. Another attached man. Okay, so they weren’t married, but was it really any different at the end of the day? Wasn’t one bitter and painful lesson more than enough? How could she even think about going through that again?

  She watched Dan from the doorway as he chipped away patiently at the bricks, his face set in concentration, trying to make the least possible amount of mess. Although he had stripped down to his T-shirt, beads of perspiration were covering his brow. The reason that it was always so hot in the house was that the minute her clients came in they were required to take off their clothes and lie on her couch covered only by a towel while she massaged them with warm oil. Now try saying there was nothing salacious in that! She wondered what Anise and Angelica would make of it. Or even Dan. Suddenly she was feeling very hot and sweaty herself. The promises she had made to herself seemed to be ringing as hollowly as Hugh’s. Despite her stern warnings to the contrary, her internal thermostat had deliberately disobeyed her and gone into massive overdrive.

  Chapter Seven

  GARDENIA

  A dark oil with a rich, sweet, floral undertone and jasmine-like scent. Almost all gardenia oil is synthetically produced. It is employed only in high-quality oriental fragrances. Therapeutically, gardenia has no obvious benefits.

  from: The Complete Encyclopaedia of Aromatherapy Oils by Jessamine Lovage

  Gardenia was pissed off and didn’t mind who knew about it. Fortunately, Cassia was pissed off too, so they sat and talked at each other, neither entirely listening to the other’s sorry tale nor pausing for breath more often than was strictly necessary. Reluctantly, they were in the Black Horse, but were pleased with themselves for having purloined the table nearest the fire. This hadn’t been particularly hard; being Saturday there was a sad lack of estate agents, oil men and lawyers, and it was left to the locals to swell Reg’s coffers. The trouble with Milton Keynes was that, as far as Gardenia and Cassia were concerned, there was nowhere to be seen. It was all brash, modern junk-food chains that tried to make up for a lack of character and atmosphere by neon paint, loud Tamla Motown music and waitresses who wore men’s clothes. There were no bijou little haunts favoured by Buckinghamshire’s answer to the glitterati, no discreet little cafés, no tasteful little wine bars. Well, there was Nicholl’s in Woburn but that didn’t really count. The food was sublime, but it wasn’t so much frequented by anybody who was anyone as by people who thought they were someone. There was a distinct difference. Life in Bucks was proving a constant disappointment to Gardenia. Let’s face it, there’s only so much posing you can do in a backwater country pub.

  Milton Keynes Development Corporation might have devoted millions of pounds and countless man-hours to developing a city where every road was a straight line and there were no traffic jams. It was all very commendable. But where was the heart? Having attracted all these top-ranking businesses to the place, where exactly were all the seriously affluent supposed to go? Back into London, where they’d just been lured out of? Where was the cultural centre? The art gallery, the theatre – the places where you went for tiresome small talk, tinkling laughter and tippling champagne? Entertainment seemed to revolve around The Point, a neon pyramid crammed with slot machines and video games devoted to bringing sensory relief to spotty thirteen-year-olds in scruffy leather jackets, before they went to watch something equally mindless on one of its ten cinema screens. That was it. The sum and total. The problem with Milton Keynes was that there was nowhere to show off. What was the point of wearing Nicole Farhi to sit in the dark and munch popcorn?

  ‘I’m pissed off, Cassia,’ Gardenia said tightly.

  Cassia shook her head. ‘I know, darling. You said.’

  ‘No, I mean really pissed off this time.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ Cassia creased her eyes sympathetically and raised her white wine to her pouted lips.

  ‘I mean it’s Saturday – Saturday, for pity’s sake – and what are we doing? Sitting in some down-at-heel pub, drinking Reg’s cheap plonk. I mean, it’s just not enough, is it?’

  ‘I know, darling.’ Cassia picked at the smoked salmon on her Advertising Executive’s Platter. ‘But at least these days Reg is producing food that doesn’t contract your arteries by just looking at it.’

  Gardenia, with a pained expression, nodded in agreement and pushed her Lollo Rosso round her plate. She sighed theatrically. ‘When I signed up for life this wasn’t what I expected at all.’

  ‘I know, darling.’ Cassia dabbed the corners of her mouth with her serviette. ‘You need a little excitement.’

  ‘Where from? Where exactly do you go round here for excitement?’

  ‘Search me, sweetie.’ Cassia shrugged and slurped her wine. ‘Greg is in the Bahamas for another bloody world conference on plastic surgery. Why, I ask you, do you have to go to the Bahamas to learn how to cut even more bits off ugly people? Why? And why, if he had to go, couldn’t he take me?’

  ‘I know, darling. I know,’ Gardenia said sympathetically. ‘But at least you have reflected kudos. At least when Greg goes to the Bahamas you can tell people. It sounds very impressive. I mean a plastic surgeon, it’s so fashionable. Where does Dan ever go? I can’t really tell people that he spends his life in Milton Keynes laying bricks. Where’s the envy factor in that?’

  ‘I know, darling.’

  They both sipped their wine and gazed longingly into the flames that licked the sooty sides of the fireplace.

  ‘He’s round with that woman at number five.’ Gardenia tossed her long dark hair in the general direction of Rose’s house. ‘He was supposed to come shopping in MK with me, but he had a prior engagement to knock bricks out of her fireplace. He said it wouldn’t take him long.’ She raised her eyebrows and stared pointedly at her Cartier watch.

  Cassia looked around her, checking that no one was eavesdropping. ‘She’s supposed to be a . . . a . . .’ she dropped her voice to a hushed tone, ‘. . . a woman of the night. Anise told me she has a constant stream of dishevelled men coming out of there. Lucky bitch!’

  ‘It’s much more boring than that, Cassia.’ Gardenia sighed wearily. ‘I hate to disappoint you but she’s only an aromatherapist.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cassia tutted miserably. They both took another swig of wine and stared at the fireplace. ‘Still,’ she brightened, ‘it’ll be nice to have some alternative therapies on our very own doorstep. Who knows, we might drag Great Brayford screaming into the nineties yet.’

  ‘I take it you mean the nineteen nineties.’ They both laughed brightly. Once the hilarity had died down, Gardenia continued, ‘Apparently, she’s done Cliff Richard.’

  ‘No!’ Cassia was wide-eyed with astonishment.

  Gardenia nodded knowingly. ‘And Mick Hucknall from Simply Red.’

  ‘Well,’ Cassia was astounded. ‘I’m simply green. Perhaps she’ll be worth a visit.’

  ‘There must be something about her,’ Gardenia said tartly. ‘She’s the only thing that’s put a smile on Dan’s face in the last few months.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He came home smirking and drooling like a teenage boy last week after he’d been to see her.’

  ‘You let him go to her for a massage?’ Cassia asked incredulously.

  ‘No. He’s not into that sort of thing. I told you, he’s opening up her fireplace.’ Gardenia stabbed at her smoked salmon. ‘He couldn’t wait to get round there this morning.’

  ‘So Dan’s got a case of the wanderi
ng eyes?’ Cassia sat back and crossed her legs.

  ‘If only!’ Gardenia sneered. ‘You know what he’s like. She’s just another one of his hard-luck stories. Another damsel in distress who needs rescuing by the mighty bricklaying knight in a Land Rover Discovery. He’s not happy unless he’s doing a good deed for someone. It turns him into a simpering simpleton.’

  ‘She’s very pretty, you know,’ Cassia conceded. ‘In a natural sort of way.’ She narrowed her eyes to slits. ‘I wouldn’t let Greg anywhere near her.’

  ‘Yes, but Greg isn’t Dan. Dan hasn’t got a deceitful bone in his body.’

  Cassia snorted. ‘Don’t be fooled, Gardenia. They’re all the same. Strip away the layers and they’re all bastards underneath.’ She pushed the plate of food away from her. The Lollo Rosso had gone limp. ‘You don’t think I’m under any delusions about what Greg gets up to at these so-called conferences. Swaying palms, all those innocuous-looking multi-coloured drinks with flowers in that can have you flat on your back in half an hour, all those dusky-skinned maidens. I’m no fool, Gardenia. I can tell exactly how much he’s been misbehaving by the size of the bottle of duty-free perfume he brings me home.’

  ‘Dan would never dream of leaving me. He wouldn’t dare.’

  Cassia flared her nostrils. ‘I wouldn’t waste a fiver on it at William Hill’s.’

  ‘You don’t know him like I do.’

  ‘Why are you defending him now? Only a moment ago you were complaining about him fiddling with someone else’s fireplace.’

  ‘It’s just that I wanted him to come shopping with me but he wouldn’t cancel. He said he’d promised her.’ Gardenia huffed. ‘Anyway, I’ve made other arrangements now.’ She looked sideways at Cassia.

  ‘You haven’t!’

  Gardenia smiled smugly. ‘While the cat is knocking bricks out of a fireplace, the mouse must make her own entertainment.’

  ‘Come on then, spit it out – you know you can’t keep a secret.’

  Gardenia looked coy. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you.’

  ‘Of course you should, darling!’

  ‘Well . . .’ Gardenia moved her Advertising Executive’s Platter to one side and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Dan!’ Cassia said sweetly. ‘How nice to see you.’

  Gardenia rubbed her ankle where Cassia had kicked her under the table. Her brow furrowed. Dan was ducking under the low beam that guarded the entrance to the snug by the fire. It was a well-known hazard for the locals but still had a good go at decapitating anyone over five foot two who wasn’t paying attention to it. For a moment Gardenia thought Dan looked taken aback. She studied him closely. He was definitely looking a bit sheepish. Perhaps he was feeling guilty for not taking her shopping after all. He looked over his shoulder shiftily and Gardenia followed his eyes. Rose stood behind him, still in the doorway, unwinding a chenille scarf from round her neck and struggling valiantly out of her coat. Dan took it from her and she smiled. He hung it carefully on the coat rack by the door. Gardenia’s frown deepened. It had been a very intimate smile. She glanced at her watch. And look at the time. Just how many bricks did one flaming fireplace have?

  ‘Hi, you two,’ Dan said, striding over to join them. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you’d be putting your plastic through its paces by now.’ He kissed Gardenia fleetingly on the forehead. She’d never noticed before how fleeting his kisses were. When had their mouths stopped lingering together? When had their lips gone from moist to dry? When had they moved on to cheek pecking? And now foreheads? ‘Fireplace finished?’ she asked tartly.

  Dan flushed. ‘Not quite.’

  Gardenia smiled sardonically. Hesitantly, Rose joined them.

  ‘Gardenia, can I introduce you to Rose?’

  Do I have a choice? Gardenia asked herself. ‘Hello,’ she said to Rose.

  ‘Hello.’ Rose pulled up a chair and joined them at their cramped table overflowing with half-eaten platters and lipstick-smeared wine glasses.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Cassia extended her hand. Her voice was gruff and sultry like Mariella Frostrup’s – who always sounded to Rose as if she smoked upwards of forty Benson and Hedges a day. ‘Cassia Wales. No relation,’ she tittered.

  ‘To who?’ Rose looked perplexed.

  ‘Charles, Prince of,’ Cassia explained patiently.

  ‘Oh,’ Rose said pleasantly. ‘I thought you meant Killer.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Killer whales,’ Rose explained. ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cassia laughed lightly, but it sounded as if she wasn’t sure why. She tried another tack. ‘My husband’s a plastic surgeon. He’s at a conference in the Bahamas at the moment.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Rose replied, unsure as to whether Cassia was expecting commiserations or congratulations.

  When there wasn’t anything more effusive forthcoming, Cassia continued, ‘I’ve been hearing so much about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope,’ Rose said self-consciously. Neither of them replied.

  Dan stepped into the breech. ‘What would you like to drink, Rose?’

  ‘Mineral water, please. Sparkling.’

  Gardenia narrowed her eyes. There was that smile again. ‘It’s a good job you moved here after the oil companies did. Before that, Reg had no idea that Perrier was a town in France, let alone that they bottled water,’ she said with a forced laugh.

  ‘Perrier isn’t a town in France,’ Dan said. ‘It’s just a trade name.’

  Gardenia flushed furiously. ‘I know that!’

  ‘Would either of you like another drink?’ he asked, judiciously changing the subject.

  Was she getting paranoid or was Dan looking pointedly at the glasses on the table. She stood up quickly. Too quickly. ‘I was just going.’

  Cassia looked surprised. ‘Were you?’

  ‘Are you still going into Milton Keynes?’ Dan asked. ‘If you wait till I’ve eaten, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I’ve made other arrangements,’ Gardenia snapped. She was far too overdressed for Milton Keynes and wondered if Dan had noticed.

  ‘Cassia?’ Dan moved his hand to signal drink.

  ‘No, no. I’ll just finish this.’ She downed the rest of her wine in one gulp. ‘Sorry to dash,’ she said to Rose. ‘I must come to see you. I absolutely adore aromatherapy!’ She stood up to leave and patted Rose’s arm. ‘Do give my regards to Cliff.’

  Rose looked at her blankly.

  ‘I’ve always been a great fan myself.’

  ‘Cassia,’ Gardenia fumed. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She winked at Rose.

  Dan returned with the drinks and sat down next to Rose. Reg followed him with a hangdog expression and a damp cloth and slowly cleared the table. ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Dan said brightly.

  ‘I could be back late,’ Gardenia said.

  ‘The shops shut at six o’clock,’ Dan pointed out.

  Gardenia hussled Cassia out of the door and into the street. The cold air hit her like a slap after the warmth of the pub and she wished she had worn something more sensible than the short-skirted suit she had on. But sensible wasn’t what she was planning to be.

  ‘Are you going to tell me now?’ Cassia hissed.

  ‘What?’ Gardenia was distracted. They had looked so comfortable together, like two old armchairs next to the fire. She peered in through the window; they were chatting animatedly over their drinks.

  ‘Don’t be difficult. You know!’

  Gardenia glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t, I’ll be late.’ It was a lie, but suddenly she’d had enough of everyone. Even Cassia. Like Greta Garbo, she very much wanted to be alone. Well, perhaps not entirely alone. ‘Tums, Bums and Thighs on Monday?’

  ‘I can’t wait till then,’ Cassia tutted. ‘Phone me. As soon as you can. I want to know everything. And I mean everything!’

  ‘Okay. I’d better go.’ They kissed the crisp air at the side
of each other’s faces. Gardenia watched as her friend clicked back up Lavender Hill towards her house. If she was going to be unsensible in or out of her unsensible suit, the last person in the world that she should ever dream of telling was Cassia Wales unless she wanted the whole village to know by tea-time. She was in no doubt really about the fair-weather allegiance of her friend. One sniff of Cliff Richard and she’d be scrambling over the battlements into the enemy camp quicker than Cliff could sing ‘Living Doll’.

  Chapter Eight

  Gardenia had taken Rose quite by surprise. It wasn’t just that she was sitting as large as life in the pub when Dan had quite clearly expected that she would be long gone to Milton Keynes, it was the way she looked. It wasn’t what she had expected at all. Dan was so natural, so easy, so unaffected. Whereas Gardenia was totally artificial, and utterly stunning. Everyone – well, mainly Mr Patel – had said she was beautiful. They just hadn’t managed to convey quite how beautiful. She was tall and slim – no, not slim. Thin. Very thin. Thinner than Jodie Kidd, if that was humanly possible. But it suited her. She had an oriental, exotic look, delicate like an orchid. Her hair was long and dark, almost black, and shiny like the coat of a well-groomed cat. Her eyes were slightly slanted, adding to the overall feline impression, and they were piercing china-blue.

  No wonder she didn’t want kids. She had the kind of figure that wouldn’t take kindly to being ruined. If there had been supermodels in Great Brayford, she could quite easily have been one. Except that now she was the wrong side of thirty and, consequently, about fifteen years too late. Also her mouth was too bitter. If it had been softer, she would have been irresistible. But it wasn’t and it made Rose feel pathetically relieved.

  Dan was stretched out, eschewing the contour of his chair, feet dangerously close to the hearth. He nursed his pint to his chest and was looking decidedly thoughtful. The flickering light from the fire caught the few amber tints in his hair that hadn’t been entirely caked in brick dust and still had some sort of reflective index left. Rose broke the silence. ‘I didn’t expect to see Gardenia here.’