LOVE IS FOR THE LUCKY Page 12

  ‘Tom and Griff.’

  ‘Oh!’ She smiled, though suddenly she felt as if she were sliding down a helter-skelter. She had started to make herself believe that the cut was healing, but one mention of his name could rip apart the careful stitches and open it up as deep as ever. ‘Shouldn’t you ask Stevie too, then?’

  Annie’s mouth thinned in dislike. ‘No, thank you,’ she returned tartly. ‘Besides, she’s not here—she’s in America, touring.’

  ‘Oh? She’s doing quite well, then?’ queried Ros lightly.

  ‘Haven’t you been listening to the radio or reading the papers? She’s been at the top of the charts for three weeks with her second record, and her LP’s doing well too. She’s a star—and don’t we all know it!’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ mused Ros. ‘I’m not surprised, really—she looked the sort who knows exactly how to get what she wants.’ And that would include getting Griff to marry her, she reflected, remembering the girl’s coolly calculating ‘tactics’. How well were they working? Or had she been the one to succumb, and become just another notch on his belt?

  The day of the christening was a beautiful, clear, crisp December day. A heavy overnight frost had gilded every twig with silver that sparkled in the pale winter sun, and the air was as fresh as chilled champagne. The village church was full of smiling faces—everyone

  in the village had come to the christening of Paul and Annie’s baby.

  The church had been built in the days when the profits from the wool-trade had made the area rich, and was much grander than the size of the present-day population suggested. Above the altar, a jewel-bright stained-glass window soared high into the vaulted stone roof.

  Ros sat in the front pew, with Lucy snuggled up beside her. As she had promised Annie, she had bought something special to wear—a suit of soft mohair wool, in a beautiful sapphire blue, made by one of the top designers—and she had put up her hair beneath a chic little pillbox hat with a veil.

  She had half turned in her seat to talk to one of the neighbours in the pew behind, but, though she was doing her best to pretend she hadn’t noticed him, she was all too aware of Griff, seated not ten feet away from her along the pew. He was wearing a light oatmeal-coloured jacket that suited his dark colouring and emphasised the powerful breadth of his shoulders.

  She hadn’t seen him since the night of the party. Annie had innocently volunteered the information that he was working on the music for a film, and appar¬ently he was as single-minded as she was herself when he was involved in something.

  It was strange how, every time she saw him, she was startled afresh by the sheer physical impact of his presence. He was sitting back in the pew, laughing at something Paul had said, and as he turned his head he caught Ros’s eye, and smiled.

  She looked away quickly, and then immediately re¬gretted that she had reacted like that—she should have

  simply returned him a friendly smile. But it was already too late to regain the moment. The organist had taken his place, and the rich music swelled, bringing the congregation to its feet. As it was so close to Christmas, the vicar had indulged them with a popular choice of carols, and the singing was lusty.

  The christening came just before the end of the service. As Ros stepped out into the aisle to follow Annie and Paul to the font at the back of the church, she found herself walking between Tom and Griff. It wasn’t too difficult to share a smile between the two of them, and she was able to present a semblance of far more composure than she felt.

  The star of the proceedings, resplendent in the long white christening robe that had been passed down through Annie’s family, screamed from the moment he was placed in the vicar’s arms until he was handed back to his mother.

  The service over, the guests drifted across the road to Annie’s house, where a lavish buffet had been spread, crowned by a white christening cake. There was soon quite a crowd in Annie’s spacious rooms, everyone chattering at once, and after the peace of her self-imposed isolation Ros was soon finding it all a bit too much.

  She retreated to the hall, where she found Annie on her way upstairs with a rather grouchy small baby. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Anything I can do?’

  Annie sighed. ‘I’m just going to try to settle him down for a nap. He’s been passed around and cooed over so much, he’s worked himself into a thoroughly bad temper.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ offered Ros at once. ‘I thoroughly sympathise with him.’

  ‘Oh, would you? You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ Ros asserted firmly. ‘Come along, young man.’ She took the baby carefully into her arms. ‘Does he need feeding or changing or anything?’

  ‘He might want a fresh nappy—they’re in the airing-cupboard. And the nappy cream…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I know where everything is,’ Ros re¬minded her. ‘Go on, you go back to your party. We can manage, can’t we, young man? Let’s get you out of this silly frock, and then you can have a nice sleep.’

  The nursery was two floors up, far enough away for the noise from downstairs to be muted. Ros mur¬mured softly to the baby as she changed his nappy and dressed him in a comfortable sleeping-suit, and armed him with his dummy, then she settled herself in the rocking-chair to soothe him to sleep.

  She was drifting in an idle reverie when she became aware that she was being watched. She looked up, startled, to see Griff standing in the doorway. He came quietly into the room, and sat down opposite her on a low stool.

  ‘Hi,’ he murmured, smiling that irresistible smile. He reached out his hand to play with the baby’s tiny fingers. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen you in months, and I find you with another man in your arms,’ he joked gently.

  She managed a smile. ‘But you have to admit, he’s rather a special man,’ she pointed out, glancing down at the now sleeping child.

  He nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve never been asked to be a godparent before,’ he told her. ‘It was real nice of Annie and Paul—they’re nice people.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ She was watching him warily, but he didn’t seem to be trying to flirt with her. He was just being… friendly. Well, maybe that answered her question—his relationship with Stevie must be going his way. ‘Annie was telling me you’re working on a film score,’ she remarked conversationally.

  ‘That’s right—I took your advice about making more time for my own music. And you were right— I’m happier doing that. In fact, it’s a good thing I’ve got Tino and Juanita to keep me in line, or I’d sit over it twenty-four hours a day.’

  Ros laughed. ‘I know—usually it’s Annie who nags me to eat. And unless I get stuck, the housework piles up till the dust comes up to my knees!’

  He laughed with her, and for the first time since she’d known him she felt herself beginning to relax a little in his company.

  ‘Is that what you do when you get stuck?’ he asked. ‘Housework?’

  ‘Sometimes. Or sometimes I walk. There are some lovely places around here—and not too many tourists at this time of year.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d like to see them—maybe you’ll show me some time?’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed readily.

  ‘Good.’ It seemed then that they had run out of conversation. Ros stood up, carried David over to his cot, and settled him down beneath his pale blue quilt. ‘There,’ she murmured. ‘Goodnight, little one.’ She smiled at Griff. ‘We’d better leave him now.’

  He nodded and followed her, tiptoeing from the room.

  She closed the door behind them very quietly. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I’d better go back into the throng, otherwise I’ll be accused of being anti-social. The trouble is, I don’t have much to say on the finer points of sheep-dipping or the price of ewes.’

  Griff chuckled. ‘At least it’s a little better than how many million dollars some bozo’s made on his latest album, or who’s doing the best silicone cheekbones,’ he countered drily.

  Ros smiled up at h
im. ‘You’re probably right,’ she agreed.

  She had forgotten her casual promise to show Griff the local beauty spots, but the following morning she answered an unexpected knock on her door to find him standing there, his hands in the pockets of a black leather flying-jacket. He smiled down at her in a friendly way.

  ‘Hi. I’m stuck again,’ he announced. ‘How about a nice brisk stroll to blow the cobwebs away?’

  ‘Oh… yes, if you like,’ she agreed breathlessly, her heart racing at the sight of him, even as her head re¬minded her sternly to be sensible.

  ‘I’m not dragging you away from anything important?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she assured him quickly. ‘I was just trying to think of an excuse not to tidy out the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Then I’m happy to oblige.’

  She smiled. ‘Hang on, I’ll get my coat.’ She pulled on her old duffel coat—after all, it didn’t really matter

  what she looked like, he wasn’t going to be impressed anyway. ‘Ready!’

  It was nice to walk up over the moors with the wind in her hair. The pale sun gave little warmth, but the moors were still purple with heather, and overhead the kestrels soared high in the pale blue winter sky. They walked in silence for a while, Griff measuring his lazy stride to hers. The path followed the line of the beck that burbled down and under the bridge at Arnby. High on the moors it had carved a scar in the hard rock, plunging in a sheer drop to a dark pool below.

  ‘This is my favourite place,’ she confided. ‘Not many people know about it.’

  He nodded slowly as he gazed around. ‘I can see why you keep it a secret,’ he approved.

  He sat down on a flat rock near the pool’s edge, and she joined him, careful not to sit too close. It was taking a considerable effort to retain the note of casual friendliness, but she didn’t want to spoil this precious interlude.

  ‘How’s the film score coming on?’ she asked, trying to make conversation.

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘What’s the film about?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘It’s a kind of space odyssey—the special effects are stunning. So I’m using a lot of synthetic sounds, but on a symphonic structure.’ She listened in fasci¬nation as he outlined the story of the film and his ideas for the music, humming her bits of the theme. She listened in total fascination—she didn’t even notice the time flying past.

  At last he rose to his feet. ‘I’ve kept you out here in the cold long enough.’ He smiled down at her, of¬fering her his hand to help her up.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she protested quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how flustered she was by that fleeting touch. ‘Has it helped?’

  ‘It was just what I needed—fresh air, some nice scenery, and a bit of undemanding female companionship.’

  She managed a smile, glad that he didn’t know just how hard it had been for her to provide the latter.

  ‘Maybe we could do the same thing again tomorrow?’ he suggested as they strolled down the rocky path.

  ‘Of course.’ Her heart was jumping, but her voice was steady.

  They parted where the path forked, he taking the short-cut that led over to the Priory. She watched him go, her mind in turmoil. He was offering her friendship, and that was something she would treasure. But it wasn’t going to be easy—she was going to have to guard her heart every moment. Tomorrow…

  It quickly became a routine, walking over the moors with him, just sharing the pleasure in the wild beauty of the Yorkshire landscape. As Christmas ap¬proached, she longed to ask him what his plans were for the holiday, but she didn’t quite know how to raise the subject, afraid that he might think she was over-stepping the invisible line that had been drawn in their relationship.

  In the end she just blurted out, ‘Well, it’s Christmas in a couple of days. Is Stevie coming home?’

  ‘No—why should she?’

  She blinked at him in surprise. ‘She’s too busy to come home for Christmas?’

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘It’s no different from any other day of the week,’ he responded, not a trace of emotion in his voice.

  ‘But… Christmas,’ she protested, shocked by his indifference.

  ‘Oh, yes—the season of goodwill,’ he sneered. ‘So the fraction of the world that can afford it stuff them¬selves stupid while those in the poor nations starve. Everyone rushes round buying presents for people they can’t stand, just because they expect to get something back.’ He swung his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘The whole thing makes me sick.’

  ‘Why are you always so cynical?’ she asked sadly. ‘Don’t you believe anyone ever does anything except because they expect to get something back out of it?’

  ‘I haven’t met many people who don’t,’ he returned harshly. His hands were deep in the pockets of his flying-jacket as he gazed out over the bleak hills. ‘Why am I cynical? 1 never found any good reason not to be.’

  He went on, seeming to speak almost to himself. ‘You know, when 1 was a kid, if anyone asked me what I wanted to be when 1 grew up, I used to tell them I wanted to be the biggest rock star in the world. I used to learn all the songs off the radio, and dream that I was standing up on a great big stage, in front of thousands of people, all screaming for me.

  ‘And then one day it all came true. The noise hits you like a tidal wave. Playing a stadium, it’s not like playing a theatre. It’s not just the numbers—you can see them, all of them out there, and you just can’t believe that they’ve all queued up and paid for their tickets, just to hear you play. You can feel they love you—people you’ve never even met. And all you want to do is give them something back.

  ‘But then there are the others, the ones that don’t want anything but to hang around you, and have you make them look good. They trade on your name, and smile in your face while they’re ripping you off behind your back. Even Pa—he left town when I was about five or six, left Ma to manage on her own. Suddenly when I was making it big, there he was, back to find his long-lost son.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘And then there were the women. In the music business, you can get hooked on booze and drugs, or you can get hooked on women. I chose the latter. In the beginning I was like a kid in a candy shop. But it doesn’t take you long to realise that you’re no more to them than some kind of trophy—the way the old white hunters used to stick tiger heads on their walls. Or maybe they liked to get their picture in the papers, or thought they could sing a bit themselves, and maybe you could help them. Yeah—I’m cynical.’

  She stared at him, desolation in her eyes, unable to find anything to say. What was it he had said, that night in London? ‘After a while, so many people have used you, you get to feel as if you’re all used up.’ What could she say? He didn’t want sympathy, and how could she offer understanding? He had stood in

  the teeth of the gale all his life, while she had scuttled for cover at the first chill breeze, never daring to lift her head up ever since.

  She followed him up the path, her heart aching. That brief glimpse into the dark side of his nature had only made her love him more—love the man, not the glossy, two-dimensional image she had adored for years. He was complex, fascinating—and so sexy that he took her breath away. But he could never be hers.

  Maybe it would be better if she went away, after all. She could sell her cottage to Tom, never come back here… But she could never escape from Griff, no matter how far away she went—she might as well try to defy the force of gravity.

  They walked for hours that morning, Griff seeming to forget to slacken his pace, so that it was all she could do to keep up with him. Hardly a word was exchanged between them until they got back to the fork in the path. Then he stopped, and smiled down at her crookedly.

  ‘Thanks, lady,’ he murmured.

  ‘F… for what?’

  ‘For lending me your moors.’ He took her face in one hand, tilting it up. ‘If it matters to you, Happy Christmas.’ He bent his
head, and brushed her lips lightly with his. Then he was gone, leaving her standing on the path as if she had been carved from the cold, hard rocks.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THERE was no sign of Griff at the Christmas-morning service in the village church, but Ros couldn’t put his words out of her mind, even amid the warmth and laughter of Christmas dinner in the happy Osbourne household. She glanced around the room, resenting the shadow he had cast. Everything should have been perfect—what right did he have to spoil it with his cynicism?

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’

  She glanced up with a smile as Tom came over and sat down beside her. ‘I’m afraid I’d be cheating you,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t really thinking anything—just en¬joying myself.’

  Tom slanted her a doubtful glance, but he didn’t argue. ‘What about that cottage of yours?’ he asked instead. ‘I’m still interested, you know.’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. It does need a lot doing to it.’

  ‘I know that.’ He sat forward eagerly. ‘Come on— I’m encouraged. You’ve always turned me down flat before.’

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘You’re very persistent.’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll get fed up with arguing with me, and sell.’

  ‘You might not agree with the price I want. Or you might not be able to get a mortgage—building so¬cieties often aren’t keen to lend on a property that old.’

  ‘I don’t need a mortgage—I’ve got the money Aunt Hattie left me,’ he countered promptly. ‘I can get the contracts drawn up in five minutes—all you’ve got to do is say the word.’

  ‘Besides, I wouldn’t want it to be just a weekend cottage. It ought to be lived in.’

  ‘Of course. Most of my business is up here, with the farms and the villages. It’ll make a good base. And when Thea and I are married…’

  Ros stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Tom! You’re not going to marry Thea?’ she gasped.

  He grinned. ‘Yes, I am. Oh, I know she’s got her faults—I ought to, we practically grew up together. But I know how to handle her.’ He sounded absol¬utely confident, and on reflection Ros had to admit that he could be right. He would give Thea the stab¬ility she needed, while she could put some fizz into his life. They would make a good couple.