A Whiff of Scandal Read online

  ‘How did you meet?’ He underlined the DAN he had completed in the dirt.

  ‘One of my aromatherapy clients was a colleague of his and he recommended that Hugh come to see me to help him get over his jet lag. We progressed from treatment couch to cosy restaurants in three short appointments and pretty soon I was a cheaper option for him than the Holiday Inn.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Dan reached out unexpectedly and took hold of her gloved hand. He didn’t look at her. He just kept staring straight ahead, his eyes following Fluffy as he padded relentlessly through the bracken, panting with the effort. Rose’s mouth was suddenly dry and she could feel her heart beat in her ears – which she was sure were glowing red because of the cold. She could feel nothing but the firm pressure squeezing the acreage of glove against her small hand and she wished that she hadn’t been a wimp and wasn’t now paying the price of having her hand inside what was, in effect, a dead sheep.

  ‘It’s not a matter of being hard on myself,’ she said flatly, amazed that her voice had managed to maintain a level pitch. ‘I’m just not deluding myself.’

  ‘So what was the attraction?’

  ‘The attraction?’ Rose gave a cynical little half snort. ‘He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t poor. He had a car. And his own teeth and hair. These things get harder to find in a man as you get older.’ She poked at the ground with her stick again. ‘Hugh is the only man who can wear a one hundred per cent linen suit and never ever look creased.’

  Dan was impressed. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

  ‘I knew you would be.’

  ‘That’s quite an achievement.’

  ‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

  Dan squeezed her hand, not a hearty, jocular squeeze, a small, tight, uncertain, apologetic movement. ‘What does he do?’ he continued in a suitably serious tone.

  ‘He’s an architect. Very important firm in Charlotte. North Carolina.’ She hadn’t known where it was until she looked it up on a map to see where Hugh’s wife lived. Hugh’s wife Ruth. And their children. Abbey and Jordan. She stared sightlessly at the trees. ‘His working life is all straight lines, plans and boundaries. Neat. Tidy. Ordered. Yet personally he’s a mass of squiggles, doodles and unintelligible scribble.’

  ‘Did you move out here to forget about him?’

  ‘Who?’ she said.

  Dan twisted his mouth in admonishment.

  ‘Sorry, bad joke,’ she admitted with a tired laugh. ‘I came here to start a new life, as they say. I’d tried to end the relationship several times, but it was impossible. Hugh can be very persuasive.’

  ‘I bet,’ Dan said darkly.

  She ignored the remark. ‘So I’ve made a clean break. He doesn’t know where I am and he never will.’

  ‘Brave lady.’ Dan sounded impressed again.

  ‘Or a ruddy great fool,’ she answered. ‘I’m not sure which yet.’

  ‘Any regrets?’

  ‘Hundreds,’ she said lightly. A sadness descended on her and she suddenly felt as if she’d jogged up the track with a one-hundred-pound pack on her back. She shivered again, in spite of herself.

  ‘Come on.’ Dan tugged at her hand. Their eyes locked and they both became aware that he was still holding her hand. Self-consciously, he let it drop. ‘It’s getting cold,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back.’

  They stood up slowly, Rose stretching her back after sitting so long in the chill air. Dan whistled for Fluffy and he followed them as they cut back along the dirt road that bordered Woburn Golf Club.

  A grey dampness hung in the air as the light started to fade. The sort of dampness that meant she would have frizzy hair by the time she got home. They wound their way back along the edge of the forest, the spindly twigs of silver birch providing a fussy edge to the taller more robust trees, until they reached the car park.

  The dark-haired couple with the fair-haired children emerged from another track, still wound round each other like sex-starved sixteen-year-olds. They converged on the Mercedes parked next to Dan and Rose. ‘Mummy, Daddy,’ the children cried. ‘Look at that lovely dog!’

  Fluffy glowed with pride, parading his mud-caked fur in all its glory. The parents, smiling and benevolent, nodded to her and Dan and ushered their children into the gleaming car, curiously unscathed by the sea of mud. Mummy kissed each of them on the head for good measure. So they weren’t a single parent family, with delinquent children and a wicked stepmother. They were actually happily married with two perfectly well-adjusted and polite children. Rose’s heart sank. When had Hugh turned her into such a cynic?

  They drove back to the village in silence, Fluffy unceremoniously ensconced in the boot. Dan crossed the busy dual carriageway of the A5 then wound through the tight single-track lanes, the edges of the road indistinct, clogged with slippery leaf mulch. The trees entwined their branches overhead, nature’s naked trellis waiting patiently for the decorative beauty that spring would soon bring.

  Dan swung the car into Lavender Hill and stopped outside Builder’s Bottom. Rose slipped off his warm, comforting gloves and laid them on the dashboard. The sky was darkening to evening, turning from a washed-out wintery blue-grey to a rich, deep indigo. It was cut with bold splashes in improbable shades of vibrant pink and flaming orange. The thin sliver of the moon hung expectantly over the golden glow of the sinking sun. The trees stretched delicate tendrils heavenwards, edging the sky with an exotic border of filigree black lace. If an artist had captured it accurately, you would have sworn he’d been taking drugs.

  Rose sighed contentedly. It was spectacular.

  ‘It’s spectacular isn’t it?’ Dan said, a hint of awe in his voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed. This was the perfect end to a perfect day.

  He turned to her and his arm rested casually across the back of her seat. ‘It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it?’

  Rose smiled at him. ‘A day that starts with knocking out a fireplace can only get better.’

  He laughed. ‘No, I mean it. It’s been great.’ His voice took on a serious note. ‘Maybe we should do it again sometime.’

  Rose could feel her cheeks turning the same colour as the vibrant pink in the sky. It probably looked more flattering on a landscape. She felt as if she had known Dan for years. They fitted together so well. He was a soul mate – their bodies buzzed with the same vibration, their minds were tuned to the same station. Usually she was on Jazz FM, while everyone else was on some bizarre long-range programme that whistled and faded in and out, so that you never quite caught its full meaning. This was different. They were so easy in each other’s company. There was none of the edginess she felt with Hugh, the constant wondering whether everything was all right for him, whether she was inadvertently going to offend him in any way.

  ‘It’s made me realise something.’ Dan’s voice sounded gruff. His eyes were black and inscrutable in the half-light.

  The car was getting hot and stuffy. She could feel cold trickles of perspiration under her arms. Why did she always seem to fall for men who were attached? Why wasn’t there some uncomplicated single man who made her body sing? This couldn’t go any further. She knew how she felt and she knew Dan was feeling the same. This had to stop; the last thing she wanted was to replace one tangled web with another. ‘Dan, I . . .’ her voice faltered.

  ‘I’ve realised,’ he said clearing his throat, ‘that the situation with Gardenia and me can’t continue like it is.’ His voice was thick with emotion.

  ‘I don’t think this is—’

  ‘I’m not being fair to her.’ He gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead, not seeing the view any more.

  ‘You’ve got to be sensible about this.’ There was an edge of panic creeping into Rose’s voice. ‘You mustn’t think that you have to—’

  ‘Spending the day with you,’ Dan continued, ‘relaxing, chatting, enjoying each other’s company, has really opened my eyes.’

  ‘Well, it’s good that we can be friends.’ Thi
s was like a fast-moving river, the current white-frothed and surging out of control.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said with determination.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘So right. It was what you said about conversation being difficult that made me start to think. How can Gardi and I ever begin to talk about things when we never spend any time with each other? We need to get out more. Do things together.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I can’t blame Gardi for the problems in our relationship when I don’t put any commitment in myself. Can I?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice had risen to a squeak.

  ‘You’ve really helped me to see that today.’ He smiled at her and his teeth were Colgate white. It was such an innocent smile that it squeezed her heart.

  ‘What I really need to do is make an effort with Gardenia. This isn’t all her fault. I can see that now.’ He reached over and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Rose. You’ve been a real pal.’

  She turned and tried to smile at him, but for some reason her jaw muscles had gone into temporary paralysis. Why was it that when she had just heard exactly what she wanted to hear, she didn’t feel a surge of immense relief coursing through her? Why had the hollow, empty, desolate feeling that had swamped her when Hugh had left suddenly enveloped her again?

  ‘Come in for a drink,’ Dan suggested. ‘I bet you could do with a nice cup of coffee to take the chill from your bones.’

  It was going to take considerably more than anything Maxwell House could offer to take away this aching chill.

  Rose shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better be off.’ She put her hand on the car door. ‘Besides, you’ll have all Gardenia’s shopping to admire. I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

  He stared at her with a wounded look. The sort of look that a dog gives you when you won’t play with its favourite ball. ‘Have I upset you?’

  ‘No,’ Rose said, struggling to sound up-beat. ‘As you said, it’s been a lovely day.’

  ‘I’ll pop by and finish off the fireplace next week.’

  She was tempted to say don’t bother, but she wanted him to bother very much. ‘Whenever,’ she said airily.

  ‘Rose.’ She was halfway out of the car door and had to turn back to face him. ‘Could I just ask you one thing?’ He took her silence as acquiescence. ‘Didn’t you ever feel guilty?’ He fidgeted in his seat. ‘About Hugh’s wife?’

  ‘As guilty as hell,’ she said glibly.

  His eyes held hers. ‘But not guilty enough to end it?’

  A lump came to her throat. Guilty enough to feel sick every time Hugh had phoned home from the flat. Guilty enough to feel a debilitating twist of pain in her stomach if Ruth ever rang when they were making love, leaving her soft, drawling voice echoing from the answerphone. Guilty enough to lie awake at night wondering what Ruth was like. Was she better than her? Was she brighter, thinner, prettier? Guilty enough to worry what the children would think of their father if they ever found out. What harm it was doing them. Guilty? ‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Not guilty enough to end it. Why do you ask?’

  He sighed and looked away from her. ‘I just can’t picture you as the other woman, somehow.’

  ‘I bet there are a lot of things you couldn’t picture me as, Dan, but I’ve probably been all of them in my time.’ She swung her legs out of the car, dropped to the ground and slammed the door with a hefty thunk.

  The electric window slid down. ‘Don’t go like this, Rose. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘You’re right. It isn’t.’ Rose turned on her heel. ‘Thanks for a great day, Dan,’ she called over her shoulder. Striding off along Lavender Hill, her eyes were blurred and stinging and she hoped to God that Anise had finished mutilating her hedge and she could get into the house before she started to cry. She fumbled with her key in the lock, her hands cold and bare without Dan’s spade-sized gloves to protect them. Inside the house, she leaned against the closed door and let the tears pour down her face unhindered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gardenia was late. A prickle of irritation ran round Dan’s collar as he frowned at the clock again. She could have bought up Milton Keynes by now. And brought it home, tried it on, decided she didn’t like it and taken it back for a refund. Gardenia was trying to turn ‘unshopping’ into an art form.

  He stirred the bolognese sauce which was now gelatinous and brown and was starting to stick nicely to the bottom of the pan. Spaghetti bolognese à la peace offering. It was becoming a familiar dish on the menu.

  Dan sipped the sauce from the end of the wooden spoon and winced as he burnt his tongue. It tasted exactly the same as when he had tasted it five minutes ago. Where was she? The shops had shut hours ago. He wiped his hands on his PVC apron. It had an unrealistic impression of a bosomy woman in stockings and suspenders on the front, which made it look as if he was wearing stocking and suspenders. The apron had been a birthday present from the lads at the site. That and a bright red, three-legged barbecue. Gardenia hated both of them. She said the apron made him look like a prat. Eating burnt sausages and incinerated steak in the unprotected atmosphere of the fresh air, especially when cooked by a prat in a pinny, was not Gardenia’s type of entertainment. At all.

  It was difficult to know in a situation like this if Gardenia was just being awkward and making him pay in some obtuse way for not going shopping with her or whether she was upside down in a hedge somewhere, the tangled wreckage of an old but faithful Mercedes with over one hundred thousand miles on the clock strewn around her. He stirred the sauce with growing unease. Spaghetti à la peace offering was a dish, unlike revenge, that was best eaten hot.

  When the Merc, untangled, swung into the drive twenty minutes later, a mixture of anger and relief flooded through him. By the time Gardenia burst into the kitchen loaded down with bags from John Lewis and House of Fraser, the anger had won. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked belligerently.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Gardenia answered in the same tone, dropping her packages carelessly on the York stone floor that had taken him weeks to lay.

  The spaghetti à la peace offering was going to have to work wonders. ‘The shops have been closed for hours.’

  ‘I ran into someone I knew.’

  ‘Who?’

  Gardenia flushed. An unstoppable thought tiptoed into Dan’s brain. Gardenia never flushed. She had skin like porcelain that defied the best attempts of sun, sherry and full-bodied red wine to turn it even faintly pink. It was hard to tell when she was ill, because she was always that pale.

  ‘Someone you don’t know,’ she said evasively.

  ‘Who?’ Dan persisted.

  Gardenia frowned and flopped into a chair. ‘What’s the point of telling you if you don’t know them?’

  ‘I might do,’ he said petulantly.

  ‘It was Beverly Langford.’ She smiled tightly at him. ‘You’re no wiser, are you?’

  ‘Bonnie’s sister,’ he tried.

  ‘Get a life, Dan.’ Gardenia flung back her head, letting her silky skein of hair drape over the chair.

  ‘I was just about to dish up.’

  Gardenia eased herself upright again and prodded the candles on the table. ‘What are these for?’

  Dan hadn’t been able to find the candlesticks. The cupboards in this house were a mystery to him. There were Dennis Potter plays that were easier to fathom. He’d found the candles all right. Pink. Pastel. Matching the dining room. And any person in their right mind would have put the candlesticks jolly near to them, wouldn’t they? No. Not Gardenia. Goodness only knew how her logic worked. Her eclectic sorting system wasn’t confined to the cupboards either. The address book was no better. The doctor was under H, for Dr Henderson. The milkman was under R, for Ron Miller. The accountant was under T, for Tax. And the vet was under D, for Dog, of course.

  This was why the two fine, tapering, pastel-pink candles were now stuck to brightly-coloured saucers with Blue Tac.

 
‘Has there been a power cut?’ she asked.

  It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Great Brayford did seem to have more than its fair share of enforced candlelit dinners. It was surprising that the population wasn’t bigger. ‘I was trying to be romantic,’ Dan said. ‘You know, soft lights, soft music, soft-in-the-head?’

  ‘Why?’ Gardenia sounded suspicious.

  Dan blew out heavily through his mouth. ‘It’s the sort of thing couples do.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘That’s my point,’ he explained patiently. ‘I thought it was time that we did.’

  ‘Why?’ Gardenia sounded even more suspicious.

  He spread his hands expansively and shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Up to?’ he said innocently. ‘Nothing.’

  Her eyes disappeared totally behind a veil of mascaraed eyelashes. ‘What did you do this afternoon?’

  It was Dan’s turn to flush. He turned back to the cooker. ‘This dinner’s going to be cold.’ More accurately, it was going to be burned.

  ‘What did you do?’ Gardenia could be like a terrier with a trouser leg when she wanted to be.

  ‘I went for a walk in Woburn Woods.’ He was appalled that he sounded cagey. It was a perfectly innocent and pleasant walk with a friend. A female friend, his conscience prodded him. A female friend he was starting to like a lot, his conscience got out a pickaxe and hacked away.

  ‘Who with?’ Gardenia raised one eyebrow. It was a terrifying gesture that meant she knew she was on to something. He couldn’t do it himself, despite practising for hours in front of the mirror. Even if he held one eyebrow down for ages, as soon as he let go, it shot up into his hairline, rendering his facial expression merely pleasantly surprised rather than highly intimidating. There were skills that only women had – ‘the look’ and the ability to be acerbic using only the eyebrows were just the start.