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Three Dozen Red Roses and a Werewolf

A Valentine’s Day short story that was written for my Facebook readers’ group. This is set after the events of Oz and just before the epilogue of that book. Silas’s jealousy over Oz’s admirer is mentioned in the epilogue.

Silas

It’s twilight when I draw up in front of the house. The sky is a mass of lilac shot through with a deep navy blue, and the first few stars are starting to come out. I jump down from the Land Rover and pause, inhaling the scent of the sea on the air. Home.

Chewwy jumps down next to me and noses my hand.

“I know, mate,” I say, scratching his ear. “It’s good to be home.”

He looks up at me reproachfully, and I shrug. “I know you don’t like the groomers, but you know who does? That small Irishman we live with.” I point a finger at him. “Just do as you’re told.”

He huffs and trots up the steps, nosing his way through the front door that someone has helpfully left ajar.

I’ve been away on a course for the last few days. It’s been nice staying in a hotel and catching up with colleagues, but the days away from Oz couldn’t have come at a worse time. As if the world is synchronising with my thoughts, there’s a massive crash inside the house and a few cries of anguish. Then a voice rises, shouting, “Who the fuck let that dog on the set? What tosspot wanker let an animal onto a working set?”

Almost immediately, Chewwy shoots out of the house, offering me a wounded glance as if I’m responsible for the current situation. He hightails it around the house, no doubt heading for my boyfriend, who actually is responsible for it.

“It” being the film crew. One of the crap spots in my usually sunny life.

I look up as the door slams open, and West, the director, appears. His thick blond hair stands on end, and his face wears its customary scowl. He looks around but doesn’t spot me, as I’m standing in the shadows.

“Where is the prick who completely destroyed the last shot of the day?”

His harried assistant, Jamie, appears behind him. “Oh, West, it’s not that bad.” He sighs. He’s wrapped in a huge puffer coat, a bundle of scarves, and a red pom-pom hat. He wraps a pashmina around his thin shoulders. “Why is it so fucking cold here?”

“Not bad ?” West splutters. “We were filming the hero’s last tender words as he lay dying when a fucking yeti appeared. How is that not bad?”

“It’s a fantasy film. Just say he’s a magic dog.”

West glares at Jamie, who, as usual, doesn’t seem at all perturbed by his dramatic nature. “A magic dog ?” he repeats.

“Well, yes. Or a werewolf. That could work.” Jamie looks around and shudders. “All the fucking trees around here could be harbouring anything. Fucking nature,” he says with a weary resignation that makes me smile.

I step away from the car and grab my bag. “Sorry, that was me,” I call.

West squints. He hasn’t got his glasses on, as he loses a pair almost as soon as he gets them. “You absolute knobhead,” he spits. “You’ve just ruined a day’s work. I’ve got a good mind to report you to your boss.”

“My boss?”

I wonder if he’s talking about Oz. Many visitors get the same impression, which is hardly surprising, considering his bossy temperament. I push the thought of his bossiness away, as it never fails to make me hard. Not appropriate when dealing with the film crew.

Jamie nudges his boss. “Yeah, that will be super,” he mutters, retrieving a pair of glasses from his pocket and polishing them on his sleeve. He hands them to West and shakes his head. “You can report Lord Ashworth to Lord Ashworth. I’m sure it’ll make more fucking sense than the current script we’re shooting.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t be so dismissive,” West says, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on. The tortoiseshell frames suit his angular face and wild hair.

I offer him a conciliatory glance. “Anyway, I am sorry. I thought you’d be finished by now.” I hoped , more like it, but I’m too polite to say that.

West grimaces. “Yes, well, we had to finish up another shot that was also ruined.”

“Two old ladies appeared in cagoules asking where the gift shop was,” Jamie explains.

“I thought we had rented the entire estate,” West snaps.

“You rented the house,” I explain. “The rest of the grounds are open because we have livestock and tasks to perform. I’m surprised Niall didn’t tell you that.”

“He did.” Jamie shudders. “In very firm and wonderful detail.”

“Well, there you go, then.” I smile at them. “Now, can I help you with anything else?”

West shrugs. “Not unless you have a time machine in which I can ascend and sail back to a time before I ever considered the job of a film director.”

He turns away and wanders back into the house, and I bite my lip, looking at Jamie.

He rolls his eyes. “A film set is the only place in the universe that would tolerate his dramatic temperament. Don’t worry about it. The shot’s in the can, anyway. In a few minutes, he’ll be waxing lyrical about the skyline and the trees again.”

I wasn’t particularly worried, but I plaster a relieved look on my face. Then I gaze around. “Have you seen a small but mighty Irishman around here?”

He chuckles. “I think Oz is in the gift shop.” He winks. “Just look for Rob, our producer. He’ll be hanging over him with his tongue out.” I stiffen, and he must see something in my face because he holds his hands up immediately. “I wasn’t implying anything, Lord Ashworth.”

“Silas,” I correct automatically.

He wrinkles his nose. “Silas, I wasn’t implying anything was going on. Rob might fancy Oz, but I’m sure Oz only has eyes for you.”

Oz’s pretty eyes are the colour of a Bombay Sapphire bottle, and Rob is probably staring into them with that fucking lovestruck expression he assumed the first day he met my boyfriend. It’s profoundly irritating.

Jamie is still talking, but I’m possessed with such a strong desire to find Oz that I’m uncharacteristically rude. “I’m so sorry,” I interrupt. “But I’d better get round there.” I hesitate, searching for an excuse for the rush. “I need to check if the… if the key ring delivery has come.”

“Well, it does sound imperative,” he says. “Is key ring a euphemism for sex?” He bites his lip.

“Erm, no. We sell them in the shop.”

“Oh, well then.” He waves a hand. “That sounds very urgent.”

He walks off, muttering something about country folks, and I go to the car to grab the three dozen red roses I bought for Oz and then make haste towards the gift shop.

I pull my coat around me as I walk along the path. February has been freezing, with no sign of spring in the air. Most nights, I come home bitterly cold to the bone, as my job finds me in many barns and stables. Oz will usually have supper on the stove and a hot bath waiting, and it’s become a favourite time of mine. I’ll lie in the huge claw-foot bath that’s washed many of my ancestors’ posteriors, and he’ll perch on a stool chatting about his day. I will inevitably try to entice him into the bath, which is usually successful. Oz does like sharing space with me. I smile. Supper will then burn, and the bathroom floor will be flooded, but I always accept Oz’s fussing with a warm heart and a happy smile. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how lovely it is to have my own person and not be alone anymore.

The house looms next to me, golden lozenges of light from the windows hitting the path like a magic trail in front of me. The sea roars in the background, and the air is so bracing that my earlier tiredness is blown away.

Chewwy suddenly appears from the side, giving me a start. “Don’t do that,” I chide. “You’ll give me a bloody heart attack.” I stroke his big head. “You do look a bit like a werewolf. Maybe Oz could get you a bit part in the movie.” I point my finger at him. “But as your agents, we’ll demand a cut of your pay. How does one hundred per cent sound?”

I could swear he rolls his eyes, and then he heads off down the path, looking back at me to check I’m following. We walk past the overspill car park, where trailers and motorhomes are parked with wires trailing everywhere — more signs of our current occupation. A door opens, and music briefly blares out before it’s slammed shut, and people scurry here and there holding clipboards. I stand back to allow a harassed-looking woman towing a rail of clothes to get past and then make haste to get away with Chewwy at my heels.

I come around the corner of the house and spot the gift shop. It’s an old building that used to be the office for my father’s stable master and one of the first jobs in the conversion that Oz was involved in. It, therefore, has a lot of fond memories attached to it, some of them very recent. Last weekend, Oz and I had been overcome by passion, and I’d shagged him over some boxes in the stockroom.

The door is open, showing the bright interior, and my smile dies when I see Rob standing close to Oz. My boyfriend stands by the counter with boxes strewn around him. His dark hair is longer than usual, and he’s wearing a pair of jeans worn thin with age and with holes in the knees. On his feet are his old combat boots, and a pair of neon pink thick socks poke out the tops. I’m gratified to see he’s also wearing one of my old jumpers, the navy wool hanging on his slim figure. He’s always cold in the winter, and my knitwear regularly disappears.

The producer is watching him avidly. He’s a handsome man with smooth blond hair and blue eyes. He’s a few years younger than me, putting him nearer Oz’s age. As I watch, he steps closer, saying something and putting his hand on Oz’s arm.

I tense, and Chewwy astonishingly growls, but I’m gratified by how quickly Oz shakes off Rob’s hand. Oz says something, making Rob back up a little, and I take that as my cue to enter stage left.

Whistling to Chewwy, I stride into the gift shop. Oz looks up at the noise of our arrival, and his whole face lights up.

“ Silas ,” he exclaims.

My heart clenches because everything he feels for me is written all over him. He’s not one for over-the-top declarations of love or extravagant gestures, but the simplicity and strength of his love is his calling card.

He rushes over, his whole face shining, and then stops abruptly as I thrust the bouquet at him. “For you,” I say rather awkwardly, suddenly realising that I don’t know if he even likes flowers. “Or not.” I give a nervous laugh. “If you don’t like them, don’t worry about it. You can just put them in the main house.”

I watch him carefully set the bouquet on the counter as if it’s made of glass, and then I let out a startled ouf as he turns and rugby-tackle hugs me, his grip tight and his face glowing and soft.

“I’ve never been given flowers before.”

I frown. “Well, that’s just sad, darling.”

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Thank you. I love them.”

Rob’s presence fades immediately from my mind, and I bend to kiss Oz, feeling the softness of his lips and the scratch of his stubble.

The kiss is a little more forceful than usual, which I’ll put down to my ruffled feelings, and when I pull back, his eyes are bleary, but his face is quizzical because he’s noticed. Of course he has. He’s as sharp as a tack.

“You’re early,” he says rather than questioning me.

I smile, brushing a strand of dark hair off his forehead. “The course wrapped up early, and luckily, when I called in at the groomers, Chewwy was already done.”

He looks down at the dog, who is waiting attentively for his own share of affection from Oz. “Look at my handsome baby,” he coos, stroking the big dog, who jumps around whining and nudging Oz so fiercely that he staggers. I reach out and haul him next to me.

“My hero,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes.

I grimace. “You might not be thinking that when you hear the complaints coming our way. Chewwy ran on set.”

“Oh, dear. He’s so fame-hungry. Will he ever get his chance at stardom?” he says in a tragic voice, making me laugh.

However, Rob doesn’t seem quite so happy. “He actually ran on set ?” he asks crossly.

I scratch my chin. “Yes. West didn’t seem very happy.”

“Of course he wasn’t, Lord Ashworth,” he says in a clipped voice. “When we booked this place, we did specify that we would need to film uninterrupted. You really should learn to control your animals,” he finishes disapprovingly, looking me up and down as if I’m a naughty child.

I raise my eyebrow but refrain from saying anything because he’s not wrong.

However, Oz stiffens. “Accidents happen,” he says sharply, and Rob falters. I don’t interrupt because my boyfriend is now firmly engaged in protective mode, and there’s no stopping him when he gets in this mood. “And your group would know that since they filmed in the far field yesterday despite being denied permission to do so and trampled down some crops. Your lead actor also spilt rum over a priceless rug.” He arches one black eyebrow. “So, let’s just say accidents happen.”

“ What ?” I say, dismayed.

Oz glances at me. “Niall dealt with the field.”

“With rather a lot of bad language,” Rob says, and I repress a grin.

Oz leans close. “It was the rug in your study.”

I gape at him. Why is he going on about this when we both know that rug is a cheap knockoff? Then I catch on.

“Oh no ,” I say in a sad voice. “I believe Henry the Eighth walked on that piece.”

“I’ve given them an invoice for the rug,” he says, offering me a subtle wink that makes me want to laugh. “But let’s leave off the lecture about priceless historical artefacts.”

“It was such a beautiful piece too.” I give a sigh. “But like Oz said, accidents happen, and we’ll say no more about anything.”

Oz bites his lip, and I slide my arm over his shoulder, drawing him close and feeling his body tighten with repressed laughter.

Rob’s eyes narrow as Oz snuggles into me. “I have to go, but we’ll continue our conversation later, Oz,” he says softly to him, shooting me a look as if wishing I was in some faraway land.

I tense, but the look of incomprehension Oz gives him quickly relaxes me. Incredible, but Oz has no idea that Rob is flirting with him. I guess that’s not surprising, as Oz is a creature of forward momentum. He’s constantly looking onward to the next challenge, and Rob is firmly in Oz’s workday category, whether he knows it or not. Oz is also fiercely loyal. He wouldn’t look at another man, and I know it. His following words prove it.

“I don’t think that will be possible, Rob. Silas is home now, so I’m off the clock. You know my time with him is non-negotiable.”

Oz looks at me, smiling, but his eyebrows rise a fraction as he studies my face.

Did he notice my jealousy? I hope he knows distrusting him is the furthest thing from my mind. It’s my insecurities at play here. Not his.

He gives me a cheeky wink. “We have plans, so we’d better be going,” he says briskly. He glances at Rob. “No doubt you’ve got the cast supper to go to.”

I straighten. “Of course we should go. Don’t let’s keep you, Rob.”

Oz gives me a wry grin. “I’ll just put these boxes away in recycling, and then I need you for something.”

I hope it’s sexual. For a wild second, I think I’ve said the words out loud, but Rob carries on staring at my boyfriend obliviously.

The amusement on Oz’s face says he knows exactly what I was thinking, and he approves. “Two seconds,” he says throatily, and gathering up the mess of cardboard, he disappears into the back of the shop, leaving Rob and me standing in uneasy silence.

I offer Rob a bland smile and move behind the counter, gathering Oz’s black puffer jacket and catching the scent of his spicy ginger cologne. “Supper will be getting cold,” I say smoothly.

Rob watches me with a stormy expression. “You do know that you won’t be able to keep him?” he says sharply.

I blink. “Oz?” He nods. “He’s not a bicycle, and I haven’t been naughty.”

He frowns. “Burying someone like him in the depths of nowhere is crazy. He’ll be on his way soon.”

I eye him. A few months ago, his words would have hit at my inner worries — that Oz was too vibrant to be stuck in a house that was falling apart. However, I’ve been with Oz long enough to quiet that voice, so I smile, knowing it will irritate Rob.

“You don’t know Oz at all, do you?” He starts to protest, but I talk over him. “You can’t possibly know how happy he is, how much this place is home to him.” I shrug. “We mustn’t keep you,” I say again, nodding towards the door. “Enjoy your supper, and I hope my estate is working well for you.”

I make my tone impossibly posh because I don’t need an idiot like this trying to tell me about my own boyfriend. His only response is a scowl.

Chewwy shifts at my feet and utters a low rumble. It’s the noise he makes when he wants his dinner, but Rob goes pale and backs up a few steps as if he’s encountered a werewolf. “You keep that bloody dog away from me,” he says, pointing a shaking finger at me. “He’s a fucking menace.”

I gaze at him in astonishment. Does he think Chewwy was growling at him? The dog wouldn’t hurt a flea. I open my mouth to reassure him but then reconsider when I remember the hug Rob gave Oz that lasted far too long.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine when you’re gone. He’s very protective of Oz.” I reach down and scratch Chewwy’s head. “It’s alright. Rob isn’t a threat, baby. I know how you are with those.” I wink at Rob. “We were picking bits of the last offender out of the shrubbery for ages.”

He blanches and backs out of the door, and then he’s gone, his hurried footsteps marking his exit. I smile in satisfaction and then turn around and jerk when I find Oz leaning against the door, watching me. One eyebrow is raised.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously. I’m so glad I was, though.”

“Really?”

He nods, pushing his hair back and showing off his neon yellow nail varnish. “How else would I have realised that my boyfriend has such a talent for sprouting whopping fibs?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d put it like that,” I say, shifting nervously.

“No, I’m sure you’d say it in another very fictional way, Maeve Binchy.” He tuts. “Such stories ,” he says, his Irish accent thick with amusement.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t like him. He fancies you.”

He starts to laugh, his face merry and those pretty blue eyes creased in amusement. I relax and enjoy the sight, smiling at him affectionately. After a bit, he recovers. “Well, if he did ever fancy me, I’m sure he’s getting over it after being threatened with one of the Hounds of the Baskervilles.”

Chewwy groans and settles down on the floor, looking long-suffering between us.

“I’m sure Chewwy is fierce somewhere deep inside,” I say tentatively. “If Rob pushed him, I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy.”

We both look down at the dog, who is licking his testicles.

“Thank you, Chewwy. You’ve just reminded me of something,” Oz says cheerfully.

“Reminded you of what?”

“I have plans for you.”

I swallow hard at the hot promise in his eyes and then groan. “Do we have to do the cast supper first?”

We serve the dinner in the restaurant, and it’s a lengthy occasion fuelled by copious amounts of booze. Either Oz or I always attend.

I perk up when he shakes his head. “Nope. They can get on with it themselves tonight.”

“Why?”

“I have plans. Valentine plans.”

I grin at him. “I have presents in the car for you.” One is a jumper, the colour of his eyes. The other is a watercolour picture of our beach by a local artist. I’d seen it in Padstow while passing a gallery and gone in and bought it straight away. I didn’t care what the price was. I had to get it for him.

His face softens with so much love that it makes me swallow hard. “Yours are upstairs. We’ll get them on the way.”

“On the way? Where are we going?”

“Up to the attics.”

I sigh. “Are we looking for more furniture?”

Something about that seems to amuse him. “You’re hardly David Dickinson.”

“Sadly, I’ve yet to achieve his level of fake tan.”

“We are going up there because it’s probably the only place in this huge house where we’ll have some fucking peace. I have a Valentine’s picnic set up with candles and wine.” He winks. “I might also have made up an old mattress with the nice sheets in case you feel in a Barry White sort of mood.”

“I’m always that with you.” I draw him to me, loving the feel of him in my arms. “That’s a brilliant idea.” I kiss the end of his nose. “You’re always full of surprises. I’m betting when we’re in our eighties, you will still confound me at every turn.”

“And is that good?” he whispers.

I grin at him. “Oz, it’s the best .”

And I mean every word. I always want him to know how special he is to me. How extraordinary that this wonderful human crossed my path and was the perfect match for me. My person. My Oz.

I kiss him and then nuzzle into his hair. “Let’s go and test that mattress,” I whisper, and he starts to laugh.

“You should write the verse in cards, you sweet-tongued devil.”

I groan. “I’m never going to be allowed to forget this, am I?”

“Your display of green eye?” He sighs in a dramatic fashion. “It was so thrilling. Like a Georgette Heyer novel. If I’d left you any longer, you and Rob would probably have been getting out the duelling pistols on the lawn.”

“I think I hocked them to pay the gas bill.”

His eyes are alight with laughter. “My hero.”

“Just yours,” I say, but then he kisses me, and my words die away. They always do when I have Oz in my arms.