Juno stared. There was really very little else she could do apart from the unacceptable alternative of standing and grinning like some sort of poleaxed-meercat which she had a horrible feeling she was about to do. She couldn’t quite work out why Scott Butler was now in front of her, looking down at her in some surprise. Surely, he belonged back in Westenbury, back at the surgery, not down here among the travellers at King’s Cross?
‘Are you going back?’
‘Back where?’ Scott Butler looked confused.
‘New Zealand?’
‘New Zealand? Well, unless there’s a train I can catch directly to Auckland from here, I reckon I’m in the wrong place. You know, my flight home to New Zealand goes from Gatwick.’
‘So, you are going back? You’re going home?’ Juno felt an icy lump of something hard around where her heart had, until then, been lodged.
Scott shook his head, taking Juno’s elbow and moving her away from the Lost Luggage queue. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Juno. I was just walking past and spotted you.’ He paused, frowning as he continued to stare. ‘Are you alright? You look… strange… worried?’
Juno took a deep breath, ‘I’m standing in for Izzy and Declan at some conference this afternoon. I came down early, put my luggage in here for the morning, lost my purse and ticket and now this man here—’ Juno turned and gave the attendant a filthy stare ‘—even though he’s had a good rifle through my knickers, won’t give me my case back.’
‘OK.’ Scott quickly assumed control and, even though Juno hated the idea of appearing like some weak helpless woman, was relieved to have someone on her side. Within the next five minutes, Scott – backed by the concourse station police on whom he’d pounced and ushered to the front of the queue – had flashed both his own passport – was he heading back down under? – his driving licence and the necessary fee to release Juno’s case.
‘Do you not have Apple Pay on your phone?’ Scott asked, as they walked together from left luggage. ‘Or have any of the banking apps to get your cash out? You know, if you go to a local ATM, they give you a code…’
‘No,’ Juno interrupted tiredly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m not up on any of that sort of thing. I was still using my cheque book until recently… and I can’t pay you back until we’re back in Yorkshire,’ Juno continued as they headed towards the underground, embarrassed at her apparent lack of modern-day finance technology.
‘I think I can manage without the twelve pounds.’ Scott grinned down at her and, veering them both towards the taxi rank, added, ‘and I think we can treat ourselves to a taxi, don’t you?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, we’re really late. We’re going to have to head straight there now.’
‘So, did you know I was coming to the conference?’ Juno looked across at Scott as they sat in the back seat of the black cab. Dressed in a loose-fitting pink-striped shirt, jeans and long navy Burberry mac, Scott Butler oozed style as well as something else Juno was beginning to recognise every time she saw him. She supposed it was sex appeal. Whatever it was, it was making her squirm somewhat, especially when his knee accidentally touched her own.
‘How come every time I see you, you’re in the middle of some drama or crisis?’ Scott sat back in his seat and then sat up again, as if trying to work something out. ‘What have you done to your hair?’
‘Mizzle.’ Juno put a hand to her blonde hair, touching the curls that had replaced the sleek locks she’d set off with that morning.
‘Mizzle?’
‘Is it a Yorkshire word? I don’t know. Anyway, a sort of drizzle that totally ruins your hair when you’ve walked 432,607 steps through the streets of London in it without a brolly.’
Scott laughed. ‘Suits you – you should always leave it natural, like this.’ He smiled at her, reaching a hand to move a curl from in front of her eye.
Jesus what was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy the taxi ride, take in the sights and sounds of London, instead of feeling as though her stomach was in the process of turning itself inside out. ‘So,’ she repeated, trying to speak calmly and intelligently, ‘this conference? You knew I was going instead of Izzy?’
‘Not until last night. Declan said I probably wouldn’t want it, that he was sure I had much better plans for my weekend than sitting through a boring conference on a Saturday afternoon, but there was his place available if I fancied it and a free room going in a rather upmarket hotel to boot…’
‘Oh, oh no…’ Juno felt herself going pink. ‘No, I’m really sorry, Izzy’s already given that room to me.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s mine – and the only reason I agreed to come down.’ Scott raised an eyebrow and then, seeing Juno’s face, started to laugh. ‘Don’t panic.’ He grinned at Juno’s confusion. ‘Izzy put me right straight away on that score. Said she’d already given it to you. She got really mad again with Declan who she accused of handing out free hotel rooms willy-nilly without consulting her. Apparently, she was only just speaking to him again after he’d double-booked the wedding they’ve had to go to instead. Which was a bit much seeing she’d already handed it out to you without telling him.’
‘Right, well, I’m sorry about that. It’s supposed to be a very lovely room.’
‘Honeymoon suite, I heard.’
‘So, where are you staying then? Somewhere near?’
‘No, I’ll probably head back north later this evening. You know, after the conference is over.’
‘Oh, right, OK.’ Juno felt a sudden rush of disappointment. She’d already seen in her mind’s eye a cosy little dinner for two in some little upmarket bijou London restaurant. Bloody hell, what was the matter with her? She was a married woman with two almost teenaged children. And a head of mizzled-messed-up curly hair.
‘Unless you fancy dinner somewhere afterwards?’ Scott smiled at her. ‘You know, just to discuss what we’ve learned at the conference and how we’re going to cascade the information back to the others next week?’
‘Really?’ Juno stared. ‘Do you reckon it’s going to be that riveting?’
‘Oh absolutely. We have to take this seriously, Juno. You know, take a professional stance; I do hope you’re good at taking notes?’
Juno gave Scott a sidelong glance, taking in the gorgeous green eyes and short dark hair. Was he being serious?
The taxi pulled up outside a Georgian building with a cream-coloured stone façade and Scott paid the driver before helping Juno out with her purple case. ‘What’s with the sawn-off handle?’ he asked, sucking at his thumb where the jagged metal had caught the skin.
‘Oh, the handle got bashed on one of Fraser’s trips abroad and wouldn’t then retract back down. He said he wasn’t about to throw away a perfectly good case because the handle was no longer “fit for purpose” so he sawed it off. And left me with it…’ Juno was embarrassed. Right come on, we’re up here.’ Avoiding the offending bits of metal, she grabbed the case by its material handle and headed for the entrance.
*
For almost four hours Juno sat on an inflexible orange plastic bucket chair, trying hard to take in the line graphs, waterfall and pie charts intent on conveying the statistics for small rural General Practice surgeries she didn’t really understand. As she and Scott had arrived late (she really would send in a letter of complaint re the King’s Cross knicker-rifler) they’d been unable to sit together and, as she squirmed on the hard plastic, she found her eyes drifting again and again towards Scott seated two rows in front of her. He’d shrugged off his coat in the over-heated hotel conference room, the tanned skin of his neck in his pink-striped shirt revealed as he bent over his laptop. Juno felt an almost overpowering urge to go and press her mouth to that place where his skin merged into the curling black hair, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers, beneath her lips…
‘Did you get that last bit?’
‘Sorry?’ Juno was brought abruptly back from her little fantasy with Scott’s neck by the bloke on her right leaning into her, spreading his oversized thighs over onto her bit of orange plastic as he did so.
‘That last statistic on the elderly – I didn’t quite catch it. Was it 15 per cent or 85 per cent are over the age of eighty in rural communities?’
‘Er, the first I think.’ 85 per cent octogenarians? Was the man mad? Juno endeavoured to look intelligent as well as absorbed, wanting to escape back into her little Scott scenario. She gave the fat chap an on/off smile, shifting herself pointedly away from the man’s bulk and looking once more in the direction of the course leader who happened to be slightly to the north-east of Scott. Did he have chest hair? Scott, not the course leader. Juno tried to visualise Scott’s torso inside the crisp, beautifully ironed shirt. Who’d ironed it for him? She frowned. Did Antipodean men iron for themselves? Weren’t they all a bit, you know, Gooday, Bruce, wielding alligators like Crocodile Dundee. Crocodiles, Juno, otherwise it would be Alligator Dundee. Or was that just Australians? Did New Zealanders favour sheep? And was she being terribly sexist as well as stereotypical? She was now drifting into a rather lovely scenario where Scott, in the manner of Farmer Gabriel Oak, was chasing towards the high cliffs ahead of them, his precious New Zealand flock of Merinos (it was the only breed she could recall from Westenbury Comp Geography sessions with the teacher whose name she couldn’t) about to tumble to their demise and she, Juno, singlehandedly had managed to stop from leaping to their death over the cliff…
Juno’s head rolled onto Fatso and she jumped as she realised she’d fallen asleep and, oh Lordy, was dribbling into the bargain. Her ridiculously early start, long tramp through the streets of London plus the almost overpowering heat in the room was having her eyes closing once more. Bit daft, that saving sheep thing; she was probably as nervous of sheep – nasty devil-eyed creatures – as her mother-in-law’s hounds and Harry Trotter.
‘Mint?’ Her neighbour shoved a tube of extra strong mints under Juno’s nose and she took one gratefully, sat up straight and tried to concentrate on the lecture which had moved on to incontinence in elderly men in rural areas. Couldn’t they just nip over the wall and pee in a field if they got caught short?
A different speaker rose to the rostrum – a woman this time – but the content of her lecture was no more riveting than the last. Juno reached for her complimentary bottle of water and tried hard to concentrate but, by 5 p.m. she was beginning to give up the will to live. When, at 5.30 p.m., the speakers appeared to be wrapping it up and the majority of the GPs present were looking at their watches and reaching for coats and jackets, a couple of them, who obviously had nothing better to do on a Saturday evening in this, the best city in the world, raised their hands in order to pose questions.
Scott turned and very discreetly pulled an imaginary knife across his throat, crossing his eyes in mock despair as he did so. Juno giggled, relieved that it wasn’t just her that had had enough. Ten minutes later he stood and made his way towards her, taking her hand. ‘Come on, let’s get out while we can.’
They walked quickly out into the street, breathing in the cool spring air. Even London city air smelt wonderful after the cloying, stultifying warmth of the conference room. ‘I need a drink,’ Scott breathed, still holding Juno’s hand. ‘Or would you rather get a taxi straight to your hotel?’
‘Drink, definitely. And a large one please.’ Juno stood and turned towards Scott and then found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his as he smiled down at her. The moment, probably no more than a second or two, seemed to go on for ever as the late Saturday afternoon shoppers and tourists tutted and frowned, impatient at the necessity of walking round the pair of them. Scott put up cool fingers and stroked Juno’s face briefly before taking her case in one hand and her hand in his other and leading her into a bar on the corner of the street.
The place was surprisingly quiet and Juno was able to find a seat while Scott went to the bar, returning with a bottle of chilled Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and a couple of glasses.
‘Are you going to stay in London tonight?’ Juno was unable to refrain from asking.
Scott said nothing but poured each of them a large glass and handed Juno’s to her. ‘Be careful with that,’ he said finally, ‘it’s a large glass and I bet you’ve not eaten since lunchtime?’
‘Breakfast time actually; no money to buy lunch.’ She smiled ruefully at the memory, the heavenly wine hitting every spot that needed hitting, firing up every one of her senses as Scott smiled back in turn. Emboldened by the alcohol she repeated: ‘So, tonight? Are you staying in London or are you going to take the train back north?’
‘That depends on you,’ he said, replacing his glass and taking Juno’s hand.
‘On me?’
‘Juno, you must know I’d like to spend time with you. Be with you…’ Scott broke off, frowning.
Juno felt her pulse race. This, for heaven’s sake, was all she’d been dreaming of for weeks. Taking a deep breath, she asked, ‘But?’
He took her hand. ‘But you’re a married woman. I’ve no idea what the state of your marriage is. I don’t want to be the one to mess things up for you…’
‘I think they’re pretty messed up already,’ Juno said sadly. ‘I mean, I’d be in Boston with Fraser if they weren’t, don’t you think?’
‘I really don’t know. You never talk about him. Are you together? What? The last thing I want to be is the cause of… you know…’ Scott trailed off but continued to stroke Juno’s hand gently. There was something incredibly erotic about the way in which his thumb moved slowly across the base of her own.
‘I’m not very good at this,’ Juno said before taking a huge gulp of wine and spilling some of the liquid onto her hand.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you were,’ Scott laughed, mopping at her hand with his scarf. ‘You really should have something to eat, you know. That’s going to go straight to your head.’
‘I’m not hungry.’ Juno held his eyes, unable to look away. She didn’t think she’d ever before felt such a powerful lust for any man; had never before needed so badly to be kissed.
‘Come here,’ Scott said softly. He took her hands, kissing the tip of each finger in turn before reaching for her mouth. It was barely a kiss, a mere touching of warm full lips to her own, but it was enough to send a bolt of lust right down to the very place it mattered. ‘What do you want to do?’ he whispered. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘I’d like to find my hotel,’ Juno said, all caution thrown to the wind. ‘And I’d like you to find it with me.’
‘Are you sure?’
Juno nodded.
‘Come on then, let’s go.’ Scott hailed a taxi with a confidence that Juno knew Fraser could never emulate. Cabs would usually sail by him as he fussed and grumbled about the potential cost of a ride when they could have walked the distance. Even in the rain.
They didn’t speak in the taxi, no arm, leg or particle of clothing touching, and Juno began to wonder if she’d imagined the sexual charge between them. Had she made it all up after a large glass of wine on an empty stomach? Was Scott about to drop her off at the hotel before continuing on to King’s Cross and the train back north?
‘We’re here.’ Scott paid the taxi fare and opened the cab door for her.
‘Goodness.’ Juno was momentarily lost for words as she looked up at the display of blatant ostentation that was the Clarion Hotel. Almost immediately a uniformed porter – presumably more accustomed to the usual Louis Vuitton and Bottega Veneta luggage of the hotel guests – took charge of her battered purple case, wincing slightly, whether at the sight of the sawn-off handle or because he’d nicked his finger on the rough metal Juno wasn’t quite sure.
Five minutes later she had the key card to the room in her hand but, as she turned to look for Scott, was surprised to see him in conversation at the other end of the long stretch of wood and metal that was reception. She made her way over to him, frowning.
‘Just booking in,’ he said. ‘There’s a single room free.’
‘Oh.’ She’d obviously read the signs wrongly and, embarrassed, she turned away.
‘Juno.’ Scott took her arm and moved her towards the elevator. ‘Are you sure about this…?’ The elevator door closed on them and Juno realised she’d never been more sure of anything in her life. His hand reached for the back of her head and, clutching a mass of curls, he brought her face up to his own, kissing the corners of her mouth, gently sucking at her top lip until she was convinced her legs would have to give way beneath her. Scott pressed her gently towards the back of the lift and, as they reached their intended floor, simultaneously pressed the lift button so that Juno suddenly found herself whooshing back downwards instead of up. Crikey, this was like something out of a film. Loving every moment, she instinctively pressed her face into Scott’s neck and the combination of the movement of the elevator together with the wine she’d drunk and the heady scent of this gorgeous man’s skin was enough – she would at a later date tell Ariadne – to have her almost climax on the spot.
They tumbled out of the elevator onto a long, red-carpeted corridor and, following the signs indicating room numbers, turned quickly left and found Izzy and Declan’s room. My room, Juno thought to herself. The room where I’m going to make love to a man who isn’t my husband.
And what a room. It was palatial – everything from the heavy, floor-length damask curtains with their twisted rope tie backs, to the bedcover and pillow shams and on to the huge amount of carefully folded and presented fluffy towels was all in cream. The bathroom would have easily fitted three of Juno’s bathroom back at home and the ridiculously over the top basket of fruit, together with a selection of expensive-looking chocolates, had her almost gasping in wonder.
‘I just want to stand and stare at it,’ Juno finally said. ‘You know, not disturb any of it by using the towels or eating a banana.’
‘Try a grape.’ Scott smiled at her delight and threw one in her direction which she deftly caught and ate. He moved towards her, cupping her face in his large, tanned hands. ‘Juno,’ he almost sighed, ‘if I don’t make love to you this very minute, I really think I shall go mad…’