Husband For Real
Normally she bemoaned her lack of inches, but at the match she was only too pleased to tuck herself between her tall friends, with lanky Joe Kidd and a few more yelling males for cover as they cheered the home team on to victory over a neighbouring college. Sinclair, at outside half, played with a brilliance which roused a frenzy of appreciation in his fans on the touchline, but Rose’s gloom deepened with every penalty he kicked between the posts. If only she’d set out to capture some ordinary mortal’s interest she might have at least had some chance of success. But with Sinclair she hadn’t a hope. She could just give up, of course. But her Dryden backbone stiffened at the mere idea. When the referee blew the whistle after Sinclair threw himself over the line to score a final try, Rose watched the mud-covered hero leave the field surrounded by shoulder-slapping team mates, and made herself a solemn vow. She would succeed. Somehow.
While the trio were thawing out over mugs of coffee back in the flat later, Will Hargreaves rang with the news that the rugby crowd would be in the Sceptre in the town that night.
‘Thanks, Will,’ said Con triumphantly. ‘Keep us a seat.’
Fabia turned to Rose with a militant gleam in her eye. ‘Right. Let’s get to work. By the time we finish with you, Rosebud, the great Sinclair can’t fail to notice you.’
Deaf to her protests, Con and Fabia curled up Rose’s newly-washed hair, bullied her into a skinny-ribbed sweater of Con’s and a pair of Rose’s own denims discarded as too tight. Then they sat her down in front of a mirror and went to work on her face with the intentness of Renaissance painters creating a masterpiece.
‘My word,’ exclaimed Fabia when they’d brushed Rose’s hair into a rippling waterfall down her back. ‘Didn’t we do well?’
Rose eyed her reflection with a touch of awe. Outlined in black, violet shadow in the hollows, her eyes looked larger in her small, triangular face, balancing the wide, full-lipped mouth Con had outlined with a pencil then painted with natural lip-gloss to leave the eyes to dominate. ‘I look so different—’
‘You look gorgeous, Rose,’ said Con, so obviously sincere that Rose relaxed.
‘Not too much over the top?’
‘No,’ said Fabia, patting her shoulder. ‘We just added a few touches. The basic material was there to start with.’
The Sceptre was crowded by the time they arrived, but Will and Joe had kept places for them at a corner table near the bar. Rose spotted her quarry the moment she arrived. The thick dark hair and honed bone structure of his face were unmistakable. Even laughing among a group of his friends he stood out from the rest; something so mature and self-contained about him Rose felt a sudden stab of panic, glad to slide into a seat with her back to the room.
‘Don’t look at him,’ whispered Con. ‘We’ll tell you what to do next.’
‘Dance on the table?’ snapped Rose.
‘If you like! But first I’ll tell you when it’s your round so you can go up to the bar.’
Rose suddenly regretted the cheeseburger she’d wolfed on the way back from the match. She smiled her thanks when Miles, one of her most faithful admirers, put a glass of lager in front of her, but the very thought of it made her gag. She turned to Joe Kidd determinedly and began to discuss the match, but for once Joe, normally a devotee of Con’s, was more interested in chatting Rose up than talking rugby.
There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down. ‘What have you done to yourself, Rosie? You look—’
‘Back off, Joe,’ whispered Con urgently, glaring at him. Then, in an undertone reminded Rose of her priorities. ‘Sinclair’s just gone up to the bar to get a round in. On your bike.’
‘But we’ve all got drinks,’ muttered Rose wildly.
‘Buy some peanuts, or something.’ Con tugged her to her feet. ‘Go.’
Rose pushed her way through the crowd and, conscious that her eagle-eyed mentors were watching, managed to wriggle eventually into a space alongside Sinclair. He glanced down at her and, as instructed, Rose gave him a cool little smile, then looked away, stomach churning. Her heart leapt as she felt fingers brush her arm. Pulse racing, she turned to look up into eyes the colour of burnished pewter.
‘Hello,’ said Sinclair. ‘Don’t I know you?’
CHAPTER TWO
THE deep voice held a trace of Scots accent which did alarming things to Rose’s knees. Heart thumping under the clinging pink sweater, she somehow managed to follow Con’s instructions and frowned, pretending to think, but before she could mention the stadium he snapped his fingers.
‘Pocahontas with the rope of hair!’ he exclaimed, and gave her a slow smile which put a final end to any nonsense about giving up her scheme. ‘I’ve seen you at the track.’
‘Oh, right.’ Rose returned the smile, deeply grateful that he hadn’t needed a reminder. ‘I’m not there often enough, I’m afraid.’ She took the bull by the horns. ‘I watched the match this afternoon, by the way. Congratulations.’
‘Good game,’ he agreed. ‘You like rugby?’
Rose nodded, then drew his attention to the barman, who was waiting for payment. Before Sinclair handed over the money he turned to her in enquiry.
‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I already have one, thanks. I just wanted some nuts.’ She gave a surreptitious glance at the table in the corner, where everyone was watching, riveted, as Sinclair insisted on paying for the packet of nuts Rose didn’t want, signalled to a friend to take the tray of drinks away, then leaned against the bar with the air of a man prepared to linger.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
Nerves rendered her answer so quiet Sinclair had to bend his head to hers.
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘Rose,’ she said in his ear. ‘Rose Dryden.’
‘Mine’s Sinclair.’
Fascinated to find he pronounced it to rhyme with ‘sprinkler’, Rose gave him a polite little smile, thanked him for the nuts, then went back to her table.
‘That went off well,’ said Con in her ear.
‘Yes. He remembered me from the track.’
‘I knew he would!’
Normally Rose would have enjoyed the evening, but suddenly the crowd she was with seemed immature and noisy, and the usual overtures from the male contingent, more persistent tonight due to her new look, failed to amuse. After an hour or so she’d had enough.
‘I’m going,’ she whispered to Con. ‘Headache.’
‘Want me to come with you?’
‘No, it’s early. You stay. I just need fresh air.’ Rose chose a moment when everyone was embroiled in a heated argument, made for the cloakroom, then changed direction and slid through the exit door unnoticed.
Rose had never walked back to campus alone at night. As she left the town to climb the hill to the college she heard footsteps behind her and felt suddenly afraid. And at last began to run, her worst fears confirmed when someone began to run after her.
‘Rose—Rose Dryden,’ called an unmistakable voice, and she whirled round to find Sinclair gaining on her.
‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, and tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’
‘I saw you leave and came after you.’ He wagged an admonishing finger. ‘You shouldn’t wander around alone at this time of night.’
‘It’s quite safe,’ she said defensively.
‘Then why did you run when I followed you?’
Rose shrugged. ‘Instinct, I suppose.’
‘I’ll see you to your door. Are you in hall?’
‘No, one of the college flats.’ She fell into step with him, hardly able to believe her luck. Con and Fabia would be over the moon.
‘So tell me about yourself,’ ordered her companion. ‘How old are you?’
For a moment Rose thought of lying, but something about James Sinclair decided her against it. ‘Eighteen,’ she admitted reluctantly, certain that from the lofty heights of twenty-two he would instantly lose interest. Then she remembered her coaching. ‘And, if you want my CV, I’m reading English Literature, like foreign films, and go for the occasional run to keep fit. Sorry you asked?’ she finished, laughing.
‘Not at all.’ He smiled down at her when they paused at the entrance to her building.
‘How about you?’ she said casually.
Sinclair hesitated, then gave her the information she already knew, that he was doing business studies and economics.
Time to go before he got bored. Rose smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for troubling to come after me. I appreciate it. Goodnight.’
His eyes narrowed in warning. ‘Before you go, Rose Dryden, promise you won’t walk home alone at night again.’
She nodded obediently.
‘Say it,’ he ordered.
‘All right—I promise.’
‘Good. See you on the track some time.’ He shook the hand solemnly, gave her the slow-burning smile, and Rose, heart thumping at the sight of it, managed a friendly little nod and went inside.
When Con arrived, earlier than usual, she checked to see Rose was awake, then beckoned Fabia into the room with her. ‘Are you all right, Rose?’
‘Fine.’ She abandoned her book and sat up cross-legged on the bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘Someone looks pleased with herself!’ said Fabia, lolling at the foot of the bed. ‘Mind you, I would be too, if Sinclair had bought me some nuts. Have you eaten them?’
Not for the world would Rose have admitted that the unopened packet was zipped safely away in her tote bag. ‘I think I left them in the pub.’
Con settled herself in the room’s only chair. ‘Admit it, Rose, the plan’s working like a charm.’
‘Better than you think!’ said Rose in jubilation.
The other girls stared, wide-eyed when they heard Sinclair had gone after her to see her home.
‘Did he kiss you goodnight?’ demanded Fabia.
‘Of course not!’ Rose smiled demurely. ‘We shook hands.’
The other two laughed their heads off, then Con got up to make some coffee, respect in her eyes. ‘I never thought you’d pull it off, you know. Sinclair’s immunity to our sex is legendary.’
Rose pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he sees me as one of the opposite sex, exactly.’
Fabia shrieked with laughter. ‘Are you kidding? With all that hair and the magnificent paint job we did, not to mention a shape to die for in that sexy little sweater of Con’s—of course he thinks of you as a girl.’
‘But a very young one,’ said Rose, depressed. ‘He gave me a right old lecture about walking home alone.’
Con was undeterred. ‘Sinclair noticed you, remembered you, wanted to buy you a drink, then came after you to make sure you were safe. Don’t worry about the little girl aspect, ducky—remember Lolita!’
Embarking on phase two of Con’s plan, Rose missed the next day’s run, but after completing a third circuit in solitude the following morning had begun to think all the heart-pounding effort was in vain by the time the familiar athletic figure appeared. She returned the smile Sinclair gave her as he passed, completed the circuit, then left before he could lap her, or she fell in a heap. Whichever came first.
She wouldn’t have admitted it to the others, but it was an effort of will to stay away from the track next morning. But none at all to stay in the same night.
‘I must do some work,’ she said firmly. Because Sinclair never patronised it, an evening at the students’ union no longer held the same allure.
Rose no longer needed a morning call for her run. Next morning she was out of the room by six-thirty, shivering in the cold half-light as she hurried to the stadium, openly looking forward, now, to her early-morning glimpse of Sinclair. To her horror he was there before her again. She groaned. Now she’d have to do even more circuits just to keep up the myth that she liked running. She jogged up and down on the spot for a moment, to warn muscles of the coming ordeal, then started down the track at a speed moderate enough to give her any hope of staying the course long enough to look convincing.
When Sinclair passed her this time she was rewarded with a ‘Hi!’ to go with the smile as he went flying by.
‘Hi,’ panted Rose, and ran on, making no attempt to catch up with him. This, she soon found, wasn’t necessary. The next time Sinclair caught up with her he slowed down and ran with her.
‘Come on, try to speed up a little,’ he exhorted, not even out of breath.
Rose did her best to obey, but after three gruelling circuits she flung up her hands in surrender and slumped down at the side of the track, her head on her knees as she tried to get her breath back.
Sinclair hunkered down beside her, looking concerned. ‘Hey, sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to finish you off.’
She turned a crimson, sweating face up to his. ‘I’m not—in your—class,’ she gasped.
‘You easily could be. Come every morning for a while. You’ll soon get into shape. Not,’ he added, with the smile that was no help to Rose in trying to breathe normally, ‘that there’s anything wrong with yours.’
She scrambled hastily to her feet, glad that her crimson face could hardly turn redder. ‘Time I got back to shower.’
‘Ah. You don’t care for personal remarks.’
She liked his a lot. Rose smiled non-committally as he fell in step beside her, wondering if he meant to see her back to the flat again.
‘I bring some kit and have a shower here sometimes when I’ve got lectures,’ he said casually. ‘If you do the same tomorrow we could have breakfast afterwards in the transport café down the hill.’
Rose felt a rush of excitement, wondering if this would be Con’s idea of progress. Not that it mattered. By this time, plan or no plan, Rose Dryden was totally committed to her crusade to make the lofty, uninterested-in-women James Sinclair fall in love with her. Nothing was going to persuade her from it until she either succeeded, or he told her to get lost.
‘If it doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry,’ he said curtly, and turned away.
Rose came to with a start. ‘It appeals very much. I’d like that.’
‘Right, then,’ he said briskly. ‘See you in the morning.’
Rose passed acquaintances by unnoticed as she jogged back to the flat in a dream. Her reception committee was waiting impatiently, as usual, demanding every last detail of the encounter.
‘Wow,’ said Fabia in awe. ‘You’re definitely winning, Rose.’
‘But the prize is breakfast in a transport caff after slogging round the racetrack, not a candlelit dinner for two,’ Rose reminded her, deliberately prosaic to hide her elation.
‘Where Sinclair’s concerned,’ said Con, laughing, ‘it probably counts for the same thing.’
When Rose arrived at the stadium next morning, sports bag in hand, Sinclair was racing round the track at a speed that exhausted her to watch.
‘Hi,’ he panted, coming to a stop beside her. ‘Come on, a slow turn or two to warm up, then speed up a bit each circuit as you go along.’
When they took off round the track together Sinclair somehow managed to restrain his long stride to keep up with Rose as they ran, and to her surprise her technique improved so much with Sinclair for coach and pacemaker she even managed to stay upright when he called it a day at last and let her stop.
‘Into the shower,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t be long.’
Inside the deserted women’s section Rose swathed her hair in a towel and leaned into a spray as hot as she could bear, then towelled herself hastily, slapped on some of the body lotion Fabia had provided, zipped up a yellow hooded sweatshirt and wriggled into the clinging jeans. Con had ordered her to use eyeshadow and mascara, but Rose was so eager to rejoin Sinclair she didn’t bother. She loosened the braid, tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon and put some lipstick on as a gesture to the occasion. When she joined Sinclair outside her entire body simmered with excitement which increased when she saw the gleam of approval in his eyes.
‘If you feel as good as you look,’ he told her, taking her bag, ‘the run was a success.’
‘I feel great. And very hungry,’ she added, almost dancing along beside him as they hurried down the hill to the town.
The transport café was packed, and full of steam and the smell of frying, and Rose loved every last thing about it. Sinclair exchanged greetings with some of the long-distance drivers who formed the majority of the clientele, seated Rose in a corner near the fogged window, then without consulting her went off to collect their meal.
‘Bacon sandwiches—the staff of life,’ he announced as he returned with the food.
Rose, who rarely ate any breakfast at all, fell on her sandwich ravenously. ‘That was fabulous.’ She sighed, as they drank strong tea afterwards. ‘But if I lost any ounces on the track I’ve put them all back on now.’
‘Is that why you run? To lose weight?’ The assessing grey eyes scanned her from head to toe.
‘No,’ said Rose with complete truth. ‘I just want to get fitter, release the endorphins and so on. Isn’t that supposed to help the brain to function?’
‘It does it for me,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s part of my training. I should really have given up rugby for my finals’ year, but the season will be over soon; then I’ll channel all my energies into the last push to the exams.’
‘No more running?’ she said involuntarily.
Sinclair regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘If I gave it up,’ he said slowly, ‘I think I’d miss my morning run. Now.’
Rose gulped down the last of her tea and stood up, afraid he’d tune in to her excitement if she stayed a second longer. ‘Could I pay my share, please?’
‘No.’ Sinclair got up, smiling at her indulgently. ‘You can pay next time.’
Next time! Rose’s heart sang as she walked briskly up the hill with Sinclair, ignoring the awed, disbelieving looks of her peers as they recognised her companion. When they arrived at her entrance Rose thanked Sinclair for the meal and turned away quickly so he wouldn’t suspect how much she longed to linger, but he caught her arm.
‘Rose, wait a second. We’ve got another home match the day after tomorrow. Will you be there again?’
Again! So he had noticed her.
‘I don’t know. It depends,’ she said vaguely.
To her delight he looked slightly put out. ‘If not I’ll be running on Sunday, same as usual. Come and try for an extra circuit and I’ll buy you two bacon sandwiches this time to compensate.’
‘OK,’ she said casually, and forced herself take the stairs without a backward glance.
Con was full of admiration when she heard that Rose was neither turning up at the Saturday rugby game, nor going to the pub later on.
‘Good move. Fabia’s meeting Hargreaves at the Sceptre after the match, but I’ll go to the flicks with you instead, Rose,’ she added nobly.
‘In the afternoon, if you like. The Cameo’s showing one of those French films I’m supposed to like, so I’d better see it to impress Sinclair. But in the evening you have fun in the pub with Fabia and the others, as usual. I shall stay here and watch TV. Or even do some work.’ Rose grinned, her eyes dancing.
‘Clever little bunny! You don’t need teacher any more.’
‘I’m grateful for all the help I can get, but I do have the odd idea of my own, Con. Sinclair let slip that he noticed me at the match, and he definitely saw me at the pub, so this week I shall be missing from both. But I need you and Fabia and the rest there in force to make my absence marked. And a detailed report when you get back.’
During Saturday evening, while the comings and goings outside early on made it difficult to concentrate on a Shakespeare essay, Rose was almost sorry she’d had the self-control to stay behind while the others went out. But, quite apart from wanting Sinclair to note her absence, secretly Rose had worried that he might do no more than give her a casual wave anyway, if she’d turned up at the Sceptre. And no way was she willing to risk that.
‘Sinclair was there, right enough,’ said Con breathlessly, the moment she came through the door with Fabia. ‘Flushed with victory, after his usual star turn on the rugby pitch. He saw us arrive, and craned his neck to see if you were with us. Then afterwards he kept glancing over to our table to see if you’d put in a late appearance. It’s working, it’s working!’ She seized Rose’s hands and yanked her off the bed, whirling her round like a dervish until they collapsed in a heap with Fabia, laughing their heads off.
‘What are you two on?’ demanded Rose, giggling helplessly.
‘Adrenaline,’ gurgled Fabia, and eyed her with envy. ‘Damn. I wish I’d drawn Sinclair’s name out of the hat myself now.’
Con threw back her head with a yelp of laughter. ‘Come on, Fabe, can you honestly see yourself pounding round the track at dawn?’
Fabia joined in the laughter good-naturedly. ‘Not a chance. No man is worth that kind of effort.’
‘I rather enjoy the running now,’ confessed Rose. ‘It gives a terrific buzz.’
‘And ruins the mascara!’
‘Never wear any.’
Con patted her hand. ‘You don’t need it, anyway. Is Sinclair still treating you like a kid, by the way?’
Rose thought it over. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think he is.’
‘I bet he’s wondering where you are tonight, and who with,’ said Fabia with relish. ‘He’d never believe the truth.’
‘He’s about the only one who might,’ said Con. ‘Sinclair’s got tunnel vision when it comes to the study bit, according to our faithful researchers. Will and Joe give off gamma rays of hero-worship whenever his name is mentioned.’
Rose felt a sharp twinge of conscience. ‘I just hope he never finds out what we’re up to.’
‘He won’t. Neither of them knows him well enough for intimate little chats. Besides, we have enough relevant information by now.’ Con ticked off her fingers. ‘Sinclair comes from somewhere near Edinburgh, lives in digs here in the town, likes foreign films and excels at almost every sport—as if we didn’t know—but apparently he likes fishing, too, and holidays on Skye, and, of course, ambition is his middle name. There.’
‘When did you find all this out?’ demanded Rose.
‘I had to be dangerously sweet to Hargreaves on the way home from the pub to wheedle the home background out of him.’ Fabia batted her eyelashes. ‘I stopped short of surrendering my virtue, but only just.’
‘Good,’ said Con approvingly. ‘Keep him on the boil in case we need his help again. And don’t even try to look noble—you know perfectly well you fancy him.’
‘A good thing I do in the circumstances!’ Fabia pulled a face. ‘Though he’s now convinced I’ve got a crush on our hero. Not that it matters. Will told me tonight I don’t stand a chance in that direction, because Sinclair, I quote, “has no time to spare for girls”.’
‘Except at dawn’s early light for Rose,’ said Con, laughing.
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