How could she have behaved like that? The drug might have lowered her resistance, removed her inhibitions, but surely it couldn’t have made her do what she had done, not unless there had been a part of her that had wanted to behave like that, not if somewhere deep down inside her there wasn’t something that meant that she was–what? A whore like her mother?
Rose gasped as she took a corner too fast, and then braked, sending the Mini skidding across the thankfully otherwise empty road, to come to a halt inches short of a deep ditch.
She stalled the car but was shaking so much that she couldn’t restart it for several minutes, and then when she did, she felt so sick with nerves and despair that she could only drive it slowly to a small lay-by and pull in whilst she tried to calm down.
She was not her mother, she was herself. But what was herself? What if the drug had revealed her true self? What if in the past that true self had simply been kept under control? What if now, like a genie released from a bottle, there was no way she could force that true self back into captivity again?
Rose longed for the comfort of Josh’s reassuring presence. He would have understood. He would probably have laughed and teased her and made her feel that what had happened wasn’t really so bad after all. But Josh wasn’t here, and if he had been then last night wouldn’t have happened in the first place because she would have been safe with him.
She was shaking, sick inside with fear and panic. She wiped her hand over her cheeks to remove her tears. She couldn’t stay here like this. She must forget what had happened. She must forget it and tell herself that she wasn’t her mother.
Rose turned the key in the ignition. It took three attempts before the Mini’s engine fired. Carefully and slowly she pulled back on the road. She must look forward, not back, but with her driving mirror there to remind her of what lay behind her, Rose dreaded looking in it and seeing the spectre of her inheritance staring mocking back at her.
Janey looked at her watch–again. She’d been sitting here in the pub for over half an hour waiting for Charlie. She scanned the crowded bar area again but there was no sign of him.
It was silly feeling let down and disappointed because Charlie wasn’t here for her to pour out her troubles to, she acknowledged. She was the one who gave him a supporting shoulder to lean on, not the other way around. Right now, though, she felt it would be very comforting to be looked after. She had a small pang of longing for Denham, with the comfort of the calm sureness of her father and the loving kindness of her stepmother to turn to.
Janey reached for her cigarettes and lit one, the nicotine helping to soothe her. She was being awfully silly getting herself into such a state over something that was just a mix-up and that Cindy would soon sort out once she was back.
Thinking of her friend and partner helped to calm her. Cindy had told her to leave the financial side of the business to her, Janey reminded herself. Cindy would sort everything out. She had been silly to panic. Cindy would laugh at her when she told her how worried she had been, and remind her, no doubt, that she had no head for money.
She was home now. Safe. Rose’s hand shook slightly as she poured herself a cup of tea, and then held it between her hands as she sat in the kitchen.
It had been an unexpected bonus to arrive back and find that she had the house to herself. The first thing she’d done was run herself a bath and then scrub her skin clean, anxiously checking for any remaining paint.
She’d heard enough
descriptions of people tripping out to know that what she’d experienced was not unusual, but that didn’t stop her feeling horrified. The whole episode was something she desperately wanted to forget.
She heard the front door opening and then Janey calling her name.
‘I’m in here,’ she called back. She must just behave as though the whole thing had never happened. She must tell herself that it hadn’t happened…
Chapter Forty-One
By Monday morning Rose had managed to convince herself that whilst she felt like curling up into a small ball every time she thought about Saturday night, there was no point in mentally beating herself up for it. Unless she chose to tell someone, which she most certainly was not going to do, it was unlikely that anyone was ever going to know about it.
She doubted that to Pete the episode was anything out of the ordinary and news worthy of sharing, even if he was fully able to remember it–or her. Doubtless there had been a procession of willing bedmates through his life, amongst whom she was hardly likely to merit even the vaguest memory.
Thus armoured against her own guilt-ridden conscience she was able to report to David Mlinaric very firmly and determinedly that although she was grateful to him, the project needed an architect and not her.
That done, she settled down to work on the story-board she was creating for the drawing room of a newly married couple who had moved in further down Cheyne Walk.
She’d been working on it for less than half an hour when the flowers arrived, an enormous and very artistic display of white petals and greenery from Pulbrook and Gould, which smelled and looked divine, and which Rose knew must have cost a small fortune.
The attached card said, ‘Hi, groovy chick–you were the best ever. See you when I get back, Pete xx.’
Rose was still staring at it, appalled, when Josh walked into her office, doing a deliberate double take when he saw the display.
‘Not missed your birthday, have I?’
Rose’s reply was distracted. She was itching to conceal the card, but she couldn’t without him noticing, so she tried to turn his attention to something else.
‘Have you spoken to your solicitor yet about ending the partnership?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come round about. So who are the flowers from then?’
‘Oh, no one, really, just a client.’