Rosie (11 page)

‘Why should I be?’

‘Because of last night. You know. With Nick.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you fancy him?’

Alex looked at her admonishingly. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

The child shrugged. ‘Just wondered.’

They sat in silence for a while longer.

‘What if I do?’ asked Alex evenly.

Victoria examined her apple core. ‘Don’t you think he’s a bit quiet?’

‘Not at all. He’s just . . . well . . . thoughtful.’ Alex took a bite of her sandwich.

‘I think he’s quite nice.’ Victoria put her apple core into an empty crisp packet. ‘Will you see him again?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Don’t you want to?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m just not sure . . .’

‘If he wants to?’

Alex nodded.

Victoria stood up. ‘You can go without me, you know. I don’t want to cramp your style.’

‘
What?
’ Her mother looked at her hard.

‘I don’t mind if you want to be on your own.’

Alex patted the ground next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’

Victoria flopped on to the plaid car rug beside her mother, leaned against her and gazed out over the sea. Alex stroked her hair. ‘You’ve never cramped my style – understand? Never. And I don’t want you thinking you have to keep out of the way. It’s you and me in this, OK?’

Victoria raised her face to her mother’s and nodded. A few moments later she said, ‘I liked Rosie.’

‘Yes. Me too.’

‘She’s fun. And not old. Well, I mean she
is
old, but she doesn’t
seem
old, does she?’

‘No. But some people are like that. They don’t fit other people’s preconceptions.’

‘What are they?’

‘Preconceptions? Oh, like prejudices.’

‘Like Mr Darcy had?’

‘Sort of. People don’t always fit into boxes. It doesn’t do to make hasty judgements. Sometimes they surprise you.’

‘I don’t like surprises.’

‘Oh, the right sort of surprises are nice.’

‘Do you think Nick might be surprising?’

‘Too early to say, I suppose. Maybe.’

‘So you will see him again?’

Now Alex stood up, and brushed the crumbs off her jeans. ‘For someone who thinks he’s a bit quiet you seem very anxious that I should.’

‘Maybe I have a pre-, a pre-thingy.’

‘Preconception.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll see. Anyway, we’ve only a few days left here so there may not be time.’

‘Do we really have to go back? Couldn’t we just stay here?’ Concern was etched on Victoria’s face.

Alex folded up the rug. ‘We’re only just across the water. We’re not far away.’

‘I know, but it’s different here. Quiet.’

‘So, quiet can be good, then?’

Victoria nodded.

‘Not boring?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you’ve got school next week.’

The child pushed her hands deep into her pockets. ‘They have schools here, too.’

Alex put out her arm and turned Victoria to face her. ‘Don’t you think we’re being a bit premature?’

Victoria shrugged.

‘And you do know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Too soon.’

‘Yes. Let’s just take our time, shall we?’ She handed Victoria the carrier-bag that contained the remains of the picnic and began to walk across the grass to the car.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘What does playing hard to get mean?’

Henry Kinross had had a good day. He had feared the worst when he opened the gallery that morning. The weather was pleasant, which was not what he needed, but then the clouds had come over and the wind strengthened. It turned into the sort of day when people were happy to shelter in an art gallery. Much better.

He had sold seven paintings: four of Nick’s, one of the gloomy canvases that he and Nick had disliked (purchased by a taciturn couple from Chalfont St Giles), and two of Alex’s brightest creations had been snapped up by a young couple from Fulham. He felt vindicated for having given her a chance. He had a new
protégé
. An attractive one at that. Perhaps he should ask Alexandra Pollen out to lunch. Butter her up a bit. Or maybe he was being a shade optimistic. And Nick seemed to have taken a shine to her. It wouldn’t do to fall out over a woman. After the last time . . . well, maybe it was safer to stick to the St Émilion. You knew where you were with a bottle of claret.

When it came to the opposite sex, what he needed was a mature woman, someone with a bit of conversation. Companionship was just as important as sex, for God’s sake. The sad thing was that both were in short supply.

The sound of the bell broke in on his musings. He looked up to see Nick standing in the doorway with a bright-eyed lady on his arm. ‘Henry, can I introduce you to Rosie?’

‘Dear boy! Of course!’

 
 
12

Rich, but not dazzlingly so.

S
he was rather older than Henry would have liked – she must be nearly seventy, he thought – but she had a certain sparkle – and some indefinable quality that he found particularly engaging.

Over a bottle of claret in the Red Duster, Rosie and Henry became better acquainted. After a few minutes, he realized that, had she been a few years younger – well, a good few – she would have been the woman of his dreams. She was startlingly knowledgeable about art, easy to talk to and surprisingly coquettish for someone of her advanced years. He could still not work out how old she was, but that made her all the more interesting.

Nick was listening to the two of them, and marvelled at his grandmother’s ability to adapt her personality to suit present company. She could find common ground with anybody, whoever they were, raise her game, or lower it, to suit the occasion.

Her eyes shone like pale sapphires when she was being made a fuss of. She didn’t simper, she flirted, which, in a woman of eighty-seven, came as a bit of a surprise – to Nick, and, apparently, to Henry too.

Nick watched as she put away a couple of glasses of claret and a plate of steak and Guinness pie. She glanced at him occasionally, but Henry had her full attention, and she his.

Nick felt a little left out, then saw the funny side. But not for long. His problems surfaced and spun in his head. Should he broach the subject of Rosie’s financial status? Was it any of his business? Well, as far as the car was concerned it was. And what was he to do about the Russian thing? What
could
he do? And there was the matter of the two men who had turned up with menaces. And what about Alex? He would call her and invite her out.

Alex’s suspicion that Nick was a loner had been understandable but was not well founded. He needed space – as all creative souls do – to paint and think, but that didn’t stop him believing that, one day, he would find the perfect person with whom he could spend the rest of his life. Mind you, there were times when he thought it improbable. His relationship with Debs had proved that: he’d thought she was the one. But he had also admitted to himself that while he had loved her he didn’t believe in being ‘in love’. Not a good start for someone seeking a lifelong soul-mate.

Here he was, living on the Isle of Wight, with a handful of dalliances and one major relationship behind him. He was nearly thirty-nine, reasonably tall, still predominantly dark and moderately good-looking in a lop-sided way, with just about enough to live on and the hope that things might get better. In short, he had enough of the dreamer in him to be assured of a bright future, once he realized he was just as capable as the next man of falling in love.

By eight o’clock Rosie was living up to her name: her cheeks were brightly flushed. She was noticeably giggly, too, and a little wobbly on her pins. Nick saw the warning signs and decided to take her home.

‘Oh! Do we have to go? I’m having such a lovely time.’ She didn’t slur her words, but there was a slight over-enunciation.

Nick looked at Henry, whose countenance almost matched the liquid in his glass.

‘Stay for another bottle, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Don’t let this dauber take you home yet.’

Nick raised an eyebrow at his grandmother, and for once she took the hint: ‘No. He’s right. We’d better be going. Things to see, people to do, you know. Ha-ha.’ She pushed herself up, steadied herself on the table, then walked gingerly to where Nick waited with her coat.

Henry stood up. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure. Perhaps we can do it again some time.’

Rosie beamed. ‘Oh, I do hope so. Thank you for your company.’

Henry ambled over to her, bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Take great care, precious lady.’

She beamed. ‘Oh, to hell with that! Life’s for living, and I’m going sailing tomorrow.’ She took Nick’s arm and walked out of the Red Duster, swaying gently from side to side in a decidedly regal sashay.

The silver Mercedes with the brand new numberplate completely blocked the track to the Anchorage.

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Language, Nicholas!’ his grandmother admonished him.

‘Well, look at that! Blooming holidaymakers! Think they can park anywhere.’ He manoeuvred the MG on to the verge beside the track. ‘Can you walk from here?’

‘Of course. ’Snot far, is it?’

Her speech was sibilant now. He suppressed a grin. ‘Only fifty yards or so. You can take my arm.’

‘Oh. Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.’

He walked her up the final curve of the track, and his heart missed a beat as the veranda came into view. Someone he had not seen in months was sitting on the step: his father.

‘Hello, Nick! How ya doin’?’

‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

‘Come to see you and Mum. Hello, old girl.’

Rosie screwed up her eyes. ‘Derek! Who told you I was here?’ And then, with a note of anger in her voice, ‘You’ve not come to take me away, have you?’

Derek Robertson got up. ‘What would I want to do that for?’

‘Because of Anna. She wants me in a home.’

Nick’s father shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me, old love. I’m happy as long as you are.’

They stared at each other for a few minutes, until Derek asked, ‘Can we go inside, then? It’s a bit nippy out here.’

Nick handed his grandmother over to her son, unlocked the front door and let them in. He put on lights, motioned Rosie and Derek to take a seat and asked his father what he would like to drink.

‘Scotch, please, old lad.’

‘Some things never change,’ said Nick, wryly. He left his father and grandmother while he went into the kitchen to fix the drinks.

Derek Robertson could not have looked more different from his son. For a start he lacked height, and his manner of dress, while not exactly shouting ‘spiv’, had a showy look, from the slip-on buckled loafers to the black shirt and brown suede blouson. He even had crinkly dark hair and a thin moustache. If you had seen him walking along the via Condotti you would have taken him for an Italian with Mafia connections.

Nick watched as his father sipped Scotch and enquired after his grandmother’s health. Rosie was doing her best to concentrate, but the alcohol was taking its toll, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

After ten or fifteen minutes she excused herself. ‘I’d love to sit up and talk to you, Derek, but I’m afraid I must go to bed. I’m completely done in.’ She giggled. ‘Knacked, I think, is the word. Yes. That’s it. I’m completely knacked.’ She pushed herself out of the chair and tottered elegantly towards her son, who rose to meet her. ‘Goodnight, dear.’ She pecked him on the cheek and wobbled unsteadily. ‘Oops. Steady the buffs.’

‘Goodnight, old girl. Look after yourself.’

‘Oh, I don’t need to. I’ve found somebody else to do that.’

Nick tried to butt in.

‘And it’s not my grandson. I met a very nice gentleman today. In the pub. Henry. Art dealer. Lovely man. Very good company. Mmm. Lovely big hands.’ Without a backward glance she walked carefully in the direction of her bedroom.

Derek looked at his son. ‘Is she behaving herself?’

‘Depends what you mean.’

‘Always done her own thing, Rosie. Never been one to conform. Know what I mean?’ He winked.

‘Yes.’ Nick paused. ‘Dad?’

His father was knocking back the remains of his Scotch. He put the glass down. ‘Any more in that bottle?’

‘A drop. Are you driving?’

‘Only a small one, then.’

Nick poured a little of the amber fluid into his father’s glass and continued the conversation. ‘Dad . . . I had two guys here today asking for you. Something to do with a package.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘What?’

‘I told them it wouldn’t be here till tomorrow. They never bloody listen.’

‘Who don’t? And what won’t be here till tomorrow?’

Derek Robertson knocked back the contents of his glass in one and reached down the side of his chair. He lifted out a small padded envelope.

‘What’s that?’ asked Nick.

‘You don’t need to know,’ replied his father. ‘When those guys come back tomorrow just hand it over to them, will you? They won’t give you any trouble now.’

‘But why can’t
you
give it to them?’

‘Because I won’t be here. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Evidently he recognized Nick’s confusion and irritation from the look on his son’s face. ‘No, don’t worry. They won’t do anything stupid as long as you give them that envelope.’