CATHERINE GEORGE - Husband For Real

‘The average man doesn’t need much persuading to talk about himself,’ he said wryly.

‘Average’ was the last word Rose would have applied to Sinclair. ‘I must go—or should I help you wash up first?’

He ruffled her hair, smiling. Like petting a puppy, she thought, resigned.

‘I’ve got a better idea. Stay and have some more tea. It’s still hissing down out there.’

Rose glanced at the window. ‘You’re right. OK. Then I really must get back.’

‘Rose, it’s only half-eight, and it’s Sunday. What’s the rush?’

‘I must be keeping you from your work.’

‘I’ve got the rest of the day for that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or is there someone waiting for you?’

He didn’t like the idea!

‘A playmate of my own age, you mean?’ she said, smiling.

‘Hell, Rose, you’re not that much younger than me,’ he said irritably, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is there someone?’

Afraid he might wash his hands of her if she even hinted there might be, Rose shook her head. ‘No. Only my flatmates. And I doubt if they’re even awake yet.’

‘Right.’ He picked up the kettle. ‘You sit there for a minute, and I’ll go and fill this again.’

‘Can’t I wash the plates, or something?’

‘I’ll let you off as it’s your first visit. Next time you can do the catering.’

Next time! Rose sat deep in thought after he’d gone. It seemed Con might be right. It actually was possible to deliberately rouse a man’s interest. Though it was impossible to imagine James Sinclair as any woman’s slave. Nor falling madly in love with Rose Dryden, either, however faithfully she followed the plan of campaign. But he was definitely taken with her a little bit. Enough to invite her back here, and coach her on the track. Which was way beyond anything she’d expected.

When Sinclair came back he gave her a searching look as he plugged in the kettle. ‘Where were you last night, Rose?’

‘Working.’

He frowned. ‘A part-time job? Where?’

‘No job. I was writing an essay. I went to the Cameo in the afternoon, then caught up with some work afterwards. Why?’

‘I noticed you weren’t in the pub. I wondered if you were ill.’ He made two more beakers of tea, and handed her one.

She shook her head, full of secret jubilation. ‘Since I’ve taken up running again I’m fighting fit.’

‘I said you would be. So what film did you see?’

‘They were showing a re-run of Manon des Sources. It’s one of my favourites,’ she added, crossing mental fingers.

His eyes lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Mine too. I never managed to catch the prequel—what was it called?’

‘Jean de Florette. That’s on this week for three days—then it’s Belle du Jour,’ Rose added hastily, afraid she’d been too obvious. She sighed. ‘Catherine Deneuve is so beautiful.’

Sinclair shrugged. ‘Not my type. I prefer my women dark.’

‘Sounds as though you own a harem,’ said Rose flippantly, and drained her mug to avoid looking at him.

‘Your face is very expressive, Rose,’ he teased. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I just wondered if you had someone—a girl, I mean—back home. Which is absolutely none of my business, of course,’ she added in a rush, wishing she’d held her tongue.

‘I don’t have a woman back home, or anywhere else for that matter. The grapevine is absolutely accurate,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’ve got no time for girls.’

‘Which is a cue for this one to leave, if ever I heard one,’ she said promptly, and jumped to her feet. ‘Rain or no rain, it’s time I was off.’

He ran down the stairs ahead of her to fetch her shoes and slicker. ‘Shall I call a cab?’

‘No. The exercise will do me good.’

‘Hands up.’ He put the slicker over her head, then drew the hood over her hair. ‘See you on the track in the morning, then.’

Rose smiled non-committally as she stamped her feet into her damp track shoes. ‘Thanks again for my breakfast,’ she said, when he opened the front door. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, James,’ he corrected.

‘Everyone else calls you Sinclair,’ she pointed out, careful to pronounce it as he did.

‘Exactly.’

Rose smiled uncertainly. ‘Goodbye, then—James.’

‘See you in the morning. Don’t hang about on the way back, and straight in the shower when you get there.’

She saluted smartly, gave him a cheeky grin, then took her bag from him and went off down the path at speed, turning to wave at him as he stood at the open door.

When she arrived at the flat, sodden, out of breath, and utterly triumphant, she dumped the dripping slicker in the bathroom, then went to join Con and Fabia.

‘Where on earth have you been until now?’ demanded Con.

Fabia eyed Rose’s glowing face with suspicion. ‘You can’t have been racing round that track all this time!’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Rose began stuffing her shoes with kitchen paper to dry them out. ‘There was so much surface water James said it was unsafe to run so he took me back to his digs for breakfast.’ She looked up, laughing at the identical look on both faces.

‘At his digs?’ said Con faintly. ‘Like in his room?’

Rose nodded gleefully. ‘His landlady was away for the weekend, and he’s the only lodger. We had the house to ourselves.’

Fabia blew out her cheeks and sat down abruptly. ‘You’ve cracked it, then!’

‘Hold on. I haven’t achieved that much,’ warned Rose. ‘James isn’t in love with me—’

‘Not yet,’ put in Con, eyes gleaming, ‘but he’s interested enough to ask you back to his place for breakfast.’

‘For which I was truly thankful,’ said Rose piously. ‘I think my efforts on the track entitled me to a couple of bacon sandwiches at the very least.’

‘Did you have to make them?’

‘No. James,’ she said with emphasis, ‘made them with his own fair hands.’

‘Did he ask you to call him that?’ demanded Con, impressed.

‘Yes. Sinclair to everyone else; James to me.’

‘So what happens next?’ said Fabia eagerly. ‘Has he asked you for a proper date?’

Rose’s face fell. ‘No. Though heaven knows I hinted enough—told him about the film we saw, and the one showing this week. He may like foreign films, but he’s not taking me to see one.’

‘Never mind. I think you’ve worked miracles as it is,’ consoled Con. ‘When do you see him again?’

‘He said he’d see me at the track in the morning, but I suppose I’d better give it a miss until Tuesday.’

Con shook her head. ‘If he wants to see you tomorrow, be there.’

‘Won’t that be overkill?’

‘No. This, my pet, is phase three. Time to hot things up.’

‘I just hope it doesn’t end in tears!’

Fabia frowned. ‘Why should it? It’s just a game.’

Rose thought about that a lot later that night, once she was in bed. Since the exchange of confidences with James it no longer felt like a game. Which lay on her conscience so heavily sleep was elusive. But next morning she got up early, just the same, and let herself out into a cold, but thankfully dry morning to join James at the stadium, smiling in welcome.

‘Hi! I’ve done my bit,’ he informed her. ‘Ready to try for an extra lap today?’

Rose nodded eagerly, went through a few warming-up exercises, then set off with him round the track. Under his tuition she found herself running a slightly faster circuit every time, exhilarated by her success, until halfway round for the fourth a sudden, stinging pain in her foot ruined her balance and she fell heavily, her momentum sending her rolling over and over to land flat on her back, completely winded.

‘Rose!’ James fell on his knees beside her. ‘What the hell happened? Are you all right?’

Rose had no breath to spare for talking. While she fought to get air in her lungs he ran his hands over her arms and legs, probed her ankles, found nothing broken and pulled her carefully to her feet.

‘Come on, breathe. Deep, even breaths. That’s the way. Good girl. Lean against me for a bit.’

Rose obeyed gratefully, heaving in gulps of air, but soon grew much too conscious of the heat and scent of his body, the heart beating like a drum against her cheek. She pulled away, smiling shakily. ‘Stupid—thing—to do. Sorry.’

‘There must have been water on the track,’ said James gruffly. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

She nodded. ‘Embarrassed, that’s all.’

‘Here, take my arm. I’ll help you back to the flat.’

Rose stared at him, horrified. ‘No, please! You don’t need to. I’ll be fine.’

He scowled down at her. ‘Be sensible, Rose, you’re limping.’

‘There’s something in my shoe.’

James sat her down on the track and removed the shoe, swearing under his breath when he found a small nail sticking up inside it. He removed her bloodstained sock and located a puncture on the sole of her foot. ‘No wonder you fell, Rose. What the hell was something like this doing on the track?’

‘Maybe it got washed down from somewhere in that weather yesterday.’

‘In which case there may be more. I’d better report it. In the meantime you need a dressing. Wait there a minute. I’ll raid the first-aid box in the men’s showers.’

While he was gone one of his rugby team mates appeared for a morning run, and hurried to Rose in surprise.

‘What’s wrong, love? Sprained your ankle?’ said the large, amiable giant.

‘No, I trod on a nail,’ she confessed, feeling horribly self-conscious.

‘Bad luck! I’ll get you something to put on your foot,’ he offered, then stared in astonishment as James appeared.

‘Sinclair? A bit late in the day for you, isn’t it?’

‘Hi, Greg. Be careful on the track. There may be more like this.’ James held up the nail he’d taken from Rose’s shoe.

Greg looked on, riveted, as a sticking plaster was applied to Rose’s foot and her sock and shoe carefully replaced.

‘There,’ said James, pulling her to her feet. ‘Can you stand on it, Rose?’

She tried the foot gingerly. It was sore, but she could walk. ‘It’s fine,’ she said firmly. ‘Sorry for all the fuss.’ She gave a smile that encompassed both men. ‘Thanks a lot. I’d better get back. Bye.’

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