Chloe's Rescue Mission (12 page)

Running my tongue over my top lip, I savoured the memory. Everything – the location, the dance, his hands on me, his voice when he said my name, had primed me perfectly for the moment when he’d so expertly done the deed.

I let out a yelp of frustration. He had taken the lead. ‘It’s not as though I slipped Rohypnol in his drink and forced myself on him,’ I told my breakfast.

And, despite anything he might say to the contrary, I was absolutely certain he had been completely engaged in it too, unless he was an even better actor than half my friends. In the cool light of day, the memory of that kiss was seriously tainted by his unpredictability.

I poured myself some tea and gazed out of the window. Whatever the case, he was right about one thing – not mixing business with pleasure made total sense.

I hoped, over time, I would prove I wasn’t the game-playing kind of girl he might imagine me to be. After all, actions speak louder than words. No matter how much I’d discovered that I was drawn to Duncan on a personal level, my prime objective was to put the theatre back on its feet, and then my own life.

Across the room, propped up on the dressing table, was one of the theatre flyers. On it, there was a picture of Grandee looking enigmatic in his role as Hamlet. The picture had been taken before I was born. The face I remembered, had been etched with lines from over forty years of assuming different characters. I’d been just six when my own father had died, and it was Grandee Joshua who had taken us on. He always said it was his most fulfilling role.

I smiled to myself, a familiar tug of affection constricting my throat. ‘Don’t worry, Grandee. I won’t let you down.’ I placed my hand over my heart. ‘And that’s a promise.’

Sniffing, I returned to my breakfast. A courtesy English newspaper was folded on the tray. Having laden my toast with butter and jam, I opened it up and began to read. That toast was good.

I turned a page, gasped and choked.

In the top of the gossip column, it read: ‘Dunc Juan’s New Leading Lady’. Right beneath it, was a picture of me and Duncan leaving the dance-floor, his arm snugly wrapped around me, our heads leaning together – looking for all the world like an item. And below, a more grainy but intimate picture of us in the garden, locked in a kiss with his hands on my backside. According to the report, I was ‘very happy’ and ‘looking forward to spending more time with Duncan’.

‘Bollocks!’

My heart was flipping around in my chest like a fish in a net. Aside from the shock and humiliation was the knowledge that Duncan would feel totally justified in the accusations he’d made.

There was no way I wanted him believing I’d engineered it. I was just as much a victim as he was.

I needed to speak to him.

Leaping up and rifling through my bag for my phone, I flipped it open. A realisation hit me – I didn’t have Duncan’s number. Yes, I had a number for Thorsen Leisure but nothing for him. Damn! What room was he in? I snatched up the hotel phone and rang reception.

‘Please can you put me through to Mr Thorsen’s room.’

‘I’m sorry. Mr Thorsen has already left.’

My brain stalled. Left? Without me?

‘Is he playing golf?’

‘I don’t believe so. We have a message in reception for you, would you like me to send it up?’

A message. A Dear Chloe…

‘Yes. Thank you.’

I dropped the phone back on its cradle and closed my eyes. My stomach clenched uncomfortably around the fried breakfast. The ache in my brain spread into my neck. Outside, a huge cloud swallowed up the sun.

Two days ago, I’d sat with him on the aeroplane, brim-full with optimism and now, now I felt…well…abandoned. That was it. I felt as if I was no longer on his team. And it hurt.

When the message was delivered, I took it onto the balcony. I needed some fresh air. Ms. Chloe Steele was typed neatly on the envelope. I tore it open and yanked out the note.

It was on hotel paper – also typed.

Dear Chloe,

I have made arrangements for you to return to Bristol on a scheduled flight. There will be a car waiting to take you back home to Barnworth. Details below.

My apologies for having to leave earlier than planned. Marlean will contact you about the theatre project.

Regards,

Duncan.

I wondered if it had always been his intention to ship me home like that. Surely not. He’d been so open in his conversation – he would have said something.

I re-read the note: My apologies for having to leave earlier than planned. He had planned on flying home with me but I guessed last night’s little drama had changed his mind. And even if it hadn’t, one look at the morning’s newspapers would have clinched it.

Folding the note and replacing it in the envelope, I gazed at the view.

When I thought about it, my indignation began to subside. Hadn’t I publicly offered to ‘sell myself’ for the theatre? And since Duncan was clearly accustomed to attracting the fame-hungry variety of female, why wouldn’t he tar me with the same brush?

How quickly things changed.

My car to the airport would be leaving at ten-thirty. I scanned my room, taking in the detritus from the last twelve hours: empty miniature bottles, discarded clothes, scattered make-up, business cards and now, this morning’s breakfast and the crumpled newspaper. Dropping the envelope into the bin, I peeled off my robe and headed for the shower.

Saturday afternoon at Bristol Airport was busy. I dragged my battered old suitcase from the conveyor belt and headed out. As I scanned the taxi drivers waiting with name boards, there was a flurry of flashing lights and cries of, ‘Chloe, over here!’ ‘Chloe, how’s Duncan?’ ‘Give us a smile, Chloe!’

Mike, who drove me to the airport on Thursday, hurried forwards. ‘Sorry about all this, Chloe.’ He picked up my case. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about this pack of hooligans. If I were you, I’d smile.’

But I didn’t want to smile. That would look exactly like I was pleased with the attention – and I wasn’t. I bit my lip and stayed close to Mike, practically diving head-first into the car when we reached it.

Drizzle was falling, from a sky that was an ominous shade of purple in the west. I turned my phone on and immediately saw three missed calls. I rang my messaging service.

The first was from Beth. ‘What did I tell you? Dunc Juan didn’t get that reputation for nothing. You lucky mare! Can’t wait to see you and hear all the juicy gossip. Ciao!’ The second was Gemma. ‘Hi Chloe. Nice to see the publicity train’s already rolling. Good for you! Call me when you’re back in the UK. Loved the dress, by the way – best rear view since Pippa Middleton.’

With my heart hammering in my throat, I waited for the third message – it was bound to be Duncan.

‘Hi Chlo. Nice photos. D’you want me to put them on the website?’

I snapped the phone shut.

I’d sought publicity. I’d even wanted to dance with Duncan. Hell, I’d wanted more than to dance with him. Now I was scrunched down in the back of a car, contemplating all manner of disguises to avoid a repeat of the scene at the airport. Who had tipped the press off in the first place? The most likely candidate was Gemma – although it seemed a pretty dirty trick to play on someone you were intending to promote legitimately. No, surely not Gemma. Then it had to be that slime-ball, Ross. And did photographers spend their days lurking around airports in the hope of a scoop – or had they been tipped off?

Thoughts were sparking off in my brain. The family phone wasn’t even ex-directory, anyone could call me or, worse still, drop in unannounced. I rang Mum.

‘I’ll be home in an hour or so. Have any reporters been in touch?’ I asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

‘No, darling. Will you be bringing Duncan?’

‘Nooo!’ I moaned. ‘See you later,’ I added, over Mum’s ‘What a pity.’

Thankfully, traffic on the motorway was moving well. I just wanted to be tucked away in the Cotswolds, hidden from public view. I stopped nibbling at the side of my thumbnail and leaned forward.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to Mike. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have Duncan’s phone number, would you?’

He glanced at me in the mirror. ‘If I did, it would be more than my job’s worth to hand it over.’

‘Is that specifically to me – or to anyone?’

He smiled. ‘To anyone.’

Now I chewed my lip and stared out of the window for a moment. I looked back. ‘Okay, I accept you can’t give me his number – but could you phone him for me and let me speak to him.’

He glanced at me again.

I pressed on. ‘Please. There’s been a dreadful misunderstanding and I can’t bear to wait until Monday to clear it up.’ If I waited until Monday it could be even worse. ‘Please, if you can phone him, will you?’

I could tell he was considering it. I sent up a silent plea to Grandee to give him a nudge in the right direction.

It worked. ‘I wouldn’t do this for anyone, you know. But I thought your grandfather was a smashing actor.’

I could have cried with gratitude. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘No worries.’

He touched the Bluetooth headset clinging to his ear and after a moment, said, ‘Call DJT.’

In the back, I was clutching my hands together so hard I could’ve broken my own knuckles.

‘Afternoon, Duncan, Mike here.’

I swallowed. I was one small step closer to clearing things up.

‘Yes, I did. Actually…Miss Steele was wondering if she could speak to you.’

I strained to hear the response, but Mike’s ear-hole was very absorbent.

‘Right. I see. Certainly. One moment.’

Mike glanced in the mirror at me. ‘He says, can he call you later?’

I frowned. ‘Of course.’

Mike gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘She’d be very grateful if you would.’ He closed the connection. ‘He’s quite a busy man, you know.’

I nodded. ‘Thanks, Mike’

The truth was, Duncan probably didn’t really want to speak to me at all. I settled back into the seat and closed my eyes.

*

Duncan stood at the polished granite breakfast bar at his apartment in Bath, slowly beating his pen on the newspaper.

He’d come home early because he had needed to put some distance between himself and Chloe. He didn’t play around with nice girls. Life was much simpler when he kept his socialising on a shallow, superficial level. The type of women he met on his social circuit wanted to be seen with him, and it suited him just fine. Sure, some of them were intelligent and entertaining but every one of them was on the circuit with a similar set of motives and they knew the rules. He had two principles where dating was concerned: only when the occasion called for it and absolutely no strings attached. Last night he’d come bloody close to breaking the rules. And, more alarming, something within him still wanted to. Perhaps he was finally tiring of this self-imposed discipline. He couldn’t believe it was entirely down to Chloe’s particular brand of charm.

Now, he was trying to decide if she
was
capable of selling out to the press. He supposed so – she’d sold her services on TV, after all. And why had she asked Mike to call him – to offer an explanation or to do a deal? If it were the latter – well, she would just have to do it on his terms and in his time.

He threw his half-drunk coffee down the sink. What he needed was a good workout. He changed into t-shirt and shorts, pulled on his trainers and went into his training room. He stepped onto the running machine and, as his feet pounded the conveyor belt, he nudged the speed up by gradual increments. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow. While he was training he could think – solve problems. Some of his best solutions came to him when he was training. Chloe was today’s problem but no matter how much he sought an answer, her image just seemed to swim back into his thoughts, as if goading him to fail.

Faster. Damn it. He was not going to be beaten.

Forty minutes later, as he rubbed the moisture from his face with a towel, he’d come to a decision.

I hadn’t even put my key in the lock when the door was flung open by my mother who hauled me inside. ‘Darling, what a momentous week for you!’ She slammed the door and took my bag from me. ‘Come and sit down while I make you some tea. And we’ve got lemon drizzle cake, too.’ She propelled me towards the kitchen.

‘Hang on, Mum.’ I baulked. ‘What’s going on?’

Kandy was out in the back garden, barking her head off to come in.

‘You look like you need a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Then you can tell me all about your trip…and everything.’

I walked through the kitchen to let Kandy in, who bounced up at me as if I’d been gone a month not two nights. Sitting down at the table I watched Mum pulling down china mugs, humming busily as she did so.

‘Mum. If you think there’s a massive romance building, forget it. Whatever you’ve heard about last night, forget it. I’m going to,’ I lied, massaging the dog’s ears.

‘I won’t mention it at all, sweetheart,’ she said, humming some more and slicing lemon for her own tea.

I sat back against the wall. I knew Mum was itching to hear the details. It was a wonder Beth hadn’t taken root, rather than miss a word of the story. I looked into the hall. ‘Why are the curtains closed? Have the press been snooping round?’

‘Are they closed? Oh, I hadn’t noticed.’ She put a wedge of cake onto a plate and placed it on the table in front of me. ‘How’s that?’ She smiled at me and stroked my cheek.

I glanced at the cake. ‘Looks lovely.’

More humming.

‘Mum. Something’s going on, and I’m not touching this cake till you’ve told me what it is.’ I didn’t much feel like eating anyway.

Mum took her hand from the kettle and tugged on the hem of her blouse. She turned and looked me in the eye. ‘I had a visit from Warren, this morning.’

I dropped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. ‘What did he want?’

‘He said he was passing and thought he’d drop his proposal in.’ She pointed to an envelope on the table. ‘I told him you were away on business, and he said, “I know,” rather pointedly. Of course, there was nothing in my paper about your…’ she wind-milled one hand, ‘whatever it was with Duncan…but Beth rang to tell me about it.’

No surprises there.

I shook my head slowly. ‘Did Warren say if he’s planning on dropping by later?’

‘No. I told him you were away till Monday. I thought it would give you time to recover. And by then he’ll be back in Birmingham.’

Kandy flinched as I let out a yell of frustration. ‘I wish we didn’t have to lie to him. But it still feels like he’s trying to control my bloody life and he’s not even part of it any more. Is it any wonder I ran away last time?’ I picked up the fruit bowl and plonked it on top of the envelope. ‘I’ll read it later.’

Mum let out a heavy sigh. ‘There’s always the option of a restraining order.’

‘On what grounds? Offering to help the theatre out in a crisis?’ I shook my head, and jumped as my mobile rang. ‘If this is him…’ I pulled the phone from my pocket and passed it to Mum. ‘Can you answer it and tell whoever it is, I’m out of the country?’

‘Good afternoon,’ she said after opening it. She smiled. ‘I’m very well, thank you. Yes, wasn’t it? Of course, just one moment.’ She put a thumb over the microphone. ‘It’s Duncan.’

I groaned and held my hand out.

Mum was busy removing varnish from one of the car-boot dining chairs, as I paced up and down the garden. The buzz of the electric sander was oddly soothing. Normality. That’s what this was. Although, at any minute, I expected a camera lens to poke through the hawthorn hedge on one side and Warren to vault over the other.

Duncan was coming to see me. There was no chat in his phone call, just a token greeting followed by his declaration that we needed to talk. When I’d tried to protest my innocence about the newspaper article, he’d said abruptly, ‘Not over the phone, Chloe.’

Did that mean his phone was bugged? Worse still, was mine?

I paced some more. Kandy was watching me with one eye – just in case a decent walk might be in the offing. The sander became silent. Mum dragged her sleeve across her face to remove the dust. ‘Chloe, darling, why don’t you pop my spiky gardening shoes on and aerate the lawn while you’re at it?’

I stood still. It was no good. There was at least another hour to kill before Duncan would be here. ‘Mum, remember all those old wigs of yours – do you still have them?’

Mum tilted her head, as if to say, What do you think? She never threw anything of sentimental value away. ‘Top of my wardrobe, on the right.’

The selection was diverse. I picked out a sleek, black bob. It was less conspicuous than the seventies Afro, the auburn curtain or the ditzy blonde froth. I brushed it. There were a couple of kinks in one side, so I steamed them out under a damp tea-towel on the ironing board.

Pulling on my mother’s baggy gardening fleece and a pair of Wellington boots over my jeans, I wandered back out to the garden and whistled to Kandy.

‘Darling, I’ve seen you look prettier,’ Mum said. ‘You won’t win his heart looking like that.’

I hauled the hood of the top up over the wig. ‘Mum, drop it!’

Mum gave a little shrug and returned to sanding. I marched past her with Kandy on a very short leash.

The sun was low in the sky. I headed down the lane, a jumble of thoughts fighting for attention. Duncan was coming to see me. He was mad at me. He must be. I was pretty mad, myself. Seeking publicity was one thing, pissing off your chief sponsor was another – whether intentionally or not.

As for my misguided and inconvenient crush on him…that really needed putting to bed.

No, not bed. Wrong idea.

I had to get a grip on reality and stop thinking of him as anything other than a sponsor.

I let out a groan of frustration. Kandy looked up.

‘Don’t worry, Kandy. I’m not cross with you.’

The path through to Wilson’s Copse was muddy and flanked with wild flowers. I picked pansies and cornflowers as I went, all the time wondering whether Duncan could be convinced of my innocence. And if not, then I guessed it was back to plan B – King Lloyd Holdings. I sighed heavily and not for the first time.

In the copse, a lush carpet of bluebells spread around us, each pretty head totally oblivious to the worries gnawing at my brain. As Kandy ambled alongside, I picked a few and added them to my ever-growing bouquet.

I hoped, above all, I could say enough to convince Duncan of my innocence and retain his support. Although I knew, one hundred percent, I had to remain distant and professional. ‘Come on, Kandy,’ I looped back around the copse to head for home. ‘Whether I want to or not, I have music to face.’

*

Duncan steered his Range Rover round the sharp bend and swore when he had to brake harshly to avoid hitting a village local who had just scrambled over a stile. He registered some very muddy boots and a saggy, battered grey fleece. In his world where celebrity and haute-couture seemed so important, there was something comforting and unaffected about the rural sense of style. It reminded him of his roots. He halted to give the guy chance to right himself and be on his way.

A dog loomed above the stile and its owner turned towards him. Peering from beneath the hooded top, which barely disguised a thatch of laughably artificial hair, was a familiar face. As Duncan raised his eyebrows in recognition, he saw Chloe’s mouth pop open and her shoulders sag. Kandy stood as tall as her mistress, paws planted on the upper beam of the stile, and barked protectively. She ducked at the sound and turned to silence the dog with a raised finger and the sharp command, ‘Friendly!’

Friendly, Duncan thought. We’ll see. He pressed the window button and studied her as it slid down. ‘Hello.’

She offered him a weak smile – would that be guilt or embarrassment?

‘Hi,’ she managed before turning away to guide Kandy through the stile, then she stepped towards the car, her eyes meeting his. ‘You’re a bit earlier than I expected.’

He took in her preposterous appearance as she blinked up at him. ‘I’ll drive on up to the house, shall I?’

She nodded.

As he drove off, he glanced in the mirror. Chloe was walking up the lane, head down, fingering the fringe of her wig. At any moment he expected her to yank it off and fluff up those lavish curls beneath. He pulled onto the drive of Juniper Cottage, switched off the engine and took a deep breath before opening his door and stepping out onto the gravel. As Chloe came into view, he was surprised to see the wig still in place.

*

I trudged up the drive and Kandy veered towards Duncan to check he still smelled the same as last week, but I pulled her back. ‘Kandy, you’re filthy.’

‘It’s okay,’ Duncan said as he moved to stroke her.

I didn’t give him chance but steered Kandy to the side gate, unclipped the lead and sent her into the garden. It was too great a risk to soil his neat-fitting, designer jeans with all the crud she’d accumulated on our walk. Clicking the gate shut, I moved over to the front door. Dropping my bouquet of eclectic greenery and wild flowers, I toed one boot off and stood on my shabby-socked foot to tug at the other. I knew I ought to ask about his journey or comment on the weather but it seemed too trivial, bearing in mind the much bigger issue on the agenda. And the longer the silence stretched between us, the more tongue-tied I became.

He was now standing about a metre away. He broke the silence. ‘What’s with the wig?’

I placed my boots neatly against the wall and stood up. I noticed a faint crease in the centre of his forehead. He stood with his feet apart, fingers in pockets, thumbs through belt loops, looking set for battle. I shrugged. ‘Contrary to what you may be thinking, it was a huge shock for me to see…’ I couldn’t bring myself to describe it, ‘…that the press had been lurking behind the bushes in Spain. Unlike you, I’m not used to seeing my private life plastered all over the tabloids. This,’ I said, pointing to my head, ‘is my feeble attempt to hold on to some anonymity.’ I turned and gestured inside. ‘You’d better come in. If I’m destined to be papped again, I don’t want to look like Popeye’s girlfriend wearing an old sack.’

Once indoors, I pulled both the wig and the hood from my head. My own hair was twisted into a tight ponytail and anchored into place with clips.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I asked.

He hesitated. Maybe he just wanted to get this over and done with. He looked taller but maybe that’s because I had no shoes on.

‘I’ll have coffee, black please.’

I nodded and made my way into the kitchen.

Kandy was sniffing at the back door. She barked.

‘I don’t mind if you want to let the dog in,’ he said.

I rammed the kettle under the tap. ‘She’s not allowed in after a walk until she’s been cleaned.’

He glanced at the back door. Hanging beside it was Kandy’s old, striped towel. He reached out and held it up. ‘Is this hers?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, you don’t have to do that. She can wait.’

Completely ignoring me, he pulled the towel from its hook and opened the door. Bloody control freak. Either that or he preferred the company of dogs to mine. He stepped outside and spoke really gently to her, allowing her to familiarise herself with his smell, before straddling her like a sheep-shearer and working along her grubby undercarriage with the towel. How come she took it all so calmly? She usually squirmed like a worm on a hook when I tried cleaning her. And why did he have to be so irritatingly determined to clean her up – must he always be in charge?

Between him and Warren, I might as well get my brain rewired and fitted with a remote control.

All the same, I couldn’t resist tormenting myself by watching how his sweater stretched over the muscular structure of his shoulders. I knew how firm they felt, too. I’d found that out just about twenty hours ago. As he moved to stand up, I darted over to the mug-tree and lifted off two cups.

Upstairs, I could hear water thundering into the bath. I’d given Mum strict instructions to keep out of the way when Duncan came round. The bottle of port was on the table, so no doubt a large glass of it would now be perched on top of the linen basket, along with a plate of cheese and crackers – Mum’s favourite bath-time treat.

I heard Kandy’s claws clicking across the ceramic tiles ahead of Duncan’s more muted Italian loafers. I busied myself with his coffee and my own peppermint tea. I heard the back door close and listened for where Duncan went next.

His voice was right behind me. ‘I’m afraid the towel’s filthy. What do you want me to do with it?’

The smell of his cologne was the same as last night – it was earthy with patchouli and something else. Get a grip, Chloe. Focus on what’s important.

I turned. He was closer than I wanted him to be.

Last night, he’d virtually accused me of soliciting favours from him like some social-climbing hooker. Now he was messing with my personal space – all because he refused to discuss it on the phone.

I stepped away and gestured to the back door. ‘Thanks. Leave it there, I’ll see to it later.’

I squeezed my teabag over the mug and dropped it into Mum’s mini compost bin by the sink. I somehow doubted there’d be one of those in Duncan’s penthouse by the Thames. There was the sound of a kitchen chair scraping across the floor. I turned with both mugs and saw him settling by the table and pulling the parish magazine towards him. Bizarre – the multi-millionaire mogul reading St Mildred’s Echo.