Husband For Real. Catherine George

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