Rosie (14 page)

He was watching the rivulets coursing down her face, her bright eyes, the droplets of water on her dark hair.

‘Me? Look at you!’ he exclaimed, and wiped the water off her cheek. As he did so, he leaned forward and kissed her. Her scent filled his nostrils as he felt the softness of her lips on his. Gently his tongue crept into her mouth. She made no move to resist, and he slid closer to her, in spite of the gear lever.

For a moment she saw the hilarity of the situation, and let out a brief laugh, which turned into a sigh, and rested her head on his shoulder, inhaling with him the aroma of wet leather and damp clothing. ‘Wow!’ she said softly.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Wow!’

He stroked the back of her head, then turned her face towards his and kissed her again, tenderly and with an unexpected longing.

She began to breathe faster, as the rain beat down on the car’s hood. He laid a hand on her shoulder and felt the heat of her skin through the soaking cotton shirt. He kissed her lips, cheeks and chin. Her eyes were closed now, and she sighed with pleasure.

He felt himself becoming aroused by her closeness, her warmth and her perfume. He stroked her arm, then moved his hand down to her waist. She let out a whimper, put her hand on the back of his neck and drew his head towards her breast. He nuzzled into her, then he lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

Neither of them said anything as he undid her buttons and eased apart the translucent white cotton that covered her brown body. She was not wearing anything beneath the shirt. With the back of his hand, he delicately traced the outline of her breasts, then bent forward and feathered them with kisses. She arched her back with pleasure until, finally unsure of being able to control herself, she drew away with a gasp.

‘No.’

He raised his head and looked into her eyes, then leaned across and kissed her forehead. ‘Sorry.’

She shook her head. ‘No, no. Don’t be sorry.’

He rested his head on her shoulder until their breathing had returned to normal, then started the engine and drove her home.

 
 
15

Frustratingly temperamental.

T
he following morning he was lying in bed, listening to the rain pounding on the roof. He replayed the events of the previous evening over and over again in his mind. He had not expected to be so affected by her, and wondered if she felt the same. Where was she now? What would she do today? Not go out painting, that was for sure – not in this weather.

They had not made any arrangement to meet again. It was as if they both needed breathing space. There seemed to be fear on both their parts. He needed to take stock of his emotions and understand whether it had been simply an evening of easy passion. And what of Alex? She had seemed willing at first, but had pulled away. Too much too soon? Or had she not wanted to get involved?

He slid out from under the duvet and padded across to the window. A stiff breeze was blowing the rain in diagonal sheets across the steel-grey sea and into the cliff face. Battalions of droplets rattled against the window of the cottage and trickled down the panes. Not a good day for sailing. He pulled on a bathrobe and went into the sitting room, expecting to find Rosie in her dressing-gown.

She was fully clothed in sailing gear and pulling on a waterproof.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Getting ready to go.’

‘You can’t go out in this. Not sailing, anyway.’

‘Are you suggesting I’m a fair-weather sailor?’

‘I’m suggesting you should be. They won’t take you on the water in this, surely?’

‘Well, I’m going to go. I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t turn up.’

‘I think they’d understand if you didn’t.’

‘Never let it be said that your mother bred a gibber. That’s what my mum used to say.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Don’t be such a wimp.’

He looked at her with his head on one side. ‘Have you seen the weather out there?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re still going?’

‘I’ll take my stick.’ She made the concession grudgingly.

‘Well, that won’t stop you being blown off the cliff.’

She shrugged.

‘Look, give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll drive you there. At least I can make sure you arrive in one piece. Then it’ll be up to them to
keep
you in one piece.’

He showered quickly, threw on jeans, sweatshirt and trainers, and met her at the front door with his hair in a damp tangle.

‘Ooh, you look hunky,’ she said, with a glint in her eye.

Nick frowned. ‘Dreadful woman. Come on.’ Nick offered her his arm, which she resolutely ignored, so he put it through hers as they walked out into the windy morning.

‘Car smells nice,’ she said.

‘It got a bit damp last night. Caught out by the rain.’

‘First rain I’ve known that smelt of Chanel No. 5.’

Nick said nothing.

‘Same as I wear.’

‘I know.’

‘Did you have a nice time?’

He kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Nice girl. Lovely dark eyes.’

They motored on in silence.

As he pulled down the road that led to the sailing academy she tapped his arm. ‘Here will do.’

‘But there’s another hundred yards to go.’

‘Here’s fine. I can walk the rest. Need a breath of air, anyway.’

The rain had eased slightly so he let her have her way, remembering how he had hated his father dropping him off outside the school gates in a car that was too showy to be cool.

‘Don’t get out,’ she instructed. ‘I can manage.’

He watched her struggle, but resisted the temptation to get out and open her door. It was clearly important to her to do it herself. Instead, he leaned across and pulled at the stiff catch.

Rosie tutted. ‘I could have managed.’

‘Alex found it too stiff to open last night.’

‘Oh.’

She got out and straightened in the stiff breeze. ‘Goodbye, then, sweetheart. Be careful.’

‘What about tonight?’ Nick asked. ‘What time shall I pick you up?’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ll ring if I need a lift. I’ll probably be able to get one of my friends to drop me off.’

She lifted a hand to bid him goodbye, and was turning away when he called, ‘Rosie!’

She wheeled round.

‘You forgot this.’ He was holding her walking-stick. He could see she was about to snap that she didn’t need it when a strong gust caught her and propelled her towards the car. Rather than admit she had lost her footing, she tripped forward and took the stick from him. She reminded him of a cat who, having just fallen off a wall, completes the exercise with a jump into the air that implies ‘I meant to do that all along.’

‘Hmph,’ she said, and waved it at him, then walked off to the academy.

He slumped back in his seat and heaved a sigh. He hoped to God they wouldn’t take her out on the water on a day like this.

‘“I do not attempt to deny,” said she, “that I think very highly of him – that I greatly esteem, that I like him.” Marianne here burst forth with indignation – “Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment.”’ Alex paused and looked out of the window thoughtfully.

‘Go on!’ pleaded Victoria.

‘Mmm?’ Alex answered, distracted.

‘Carry on with the story.’

Alex turned to her. ‘Do you mind if we don’t? Could we have a break for a minute?’

‘But I want to know what Elinor says. If she really loves Edward or just likes him.’

‘Yes.’ Alex was already gazing out of the window again.

‘Please!’

Alex turned back to the book: ‘“Excuse me,” said she, “and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.”’

‘What’s partiality?’

‘Mmm?’

‘What does partiality mean?’

‘It means . . . fondness.’

‘You mean she fancies him?’

‘Probably. Now, shall we go out and get a breath of air? I think the wind is dropping.’

The man at the bank took the package with little ceremony and assured Nick that he could have it back whenever he wanted. It was a weight off his mind to know that the diamond was somewhere safe, but he still worried about Rosie – not just because she might now be one of those in peril on the sea, but also because of her mental stability. He was not sure that converting money into diamonds was a particularly sensible course of action. From what he had read, the diamond and gold markets were more volatile than bank interest rates, not less so, as Rosie had suggested. But what worried him even more was the possibility that his father was involving his own mother in some kind of scam. If only he would answer his bloody phone. Where the hell was he?

Henry was moving pictures. The last few days had seen quite a run on stock, and he was filling the gaps between the original works with a few signed prints of J-class yachts in full sail, creaming their way across the Solent. He didn’t care for them much: when you’d seen one depiction of
Velsheda
edging ahead of
Shamrock
against a pale blue sky and fluffy clouds, or
Endeavour
chasing
Britannia
off the Royal Yacht Squadron, you’d seen them all. But the public had a voracious appetite for them. Thankfully.

He was humming to himself as he positioned the paintings, reminding himself that the only reason he had to do so was because he had had a good week. When the doorbell pinged and Nick walked in he was well disposed enough to offer him a glass of claret.

‘God, no! Not at this time of day.’

Henry looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost lunchtime.’

Nick checked. ‘Eleven thirty is not lunchtime.’

‘Elevenses, then.’

‘A coffee would be good.’

‘Suit yourself, dear boy.’ Henry shrugged and disappeared into the stock room to put the kettle on.

Nick eyed the walls and saw the preponderance of prints. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting some more?’

‘Dead right I will,’ replied Henry, to the sound of running water.

‘Is there any chance of a cheque as well?’ enquired Nick, the merest hint of irony in his voice.

‘Ah. Will tomorrow do?’

‘Henry!’

Henry reappeared. ‘Cash-flow.’

‘Yours might be difficult but mine’s non-existent.’ Then he thought of the diamond.

‘Why you artists have to eat is beyond me. You can’t understand that your work is so much more attractive if you’re starving and look emaciated. Couldn’t you lose a few pounds and forget to shave for a day or two? I’d get more for your paintings.’

‘But nobody who buys them knows what I look like.’

‘Don’t split hairs.’

The kettle whistled. As Henry went to make the coffee he offered an olive branch. ‘How about five hundred? I can give you some more next week.’

‘Oh, all right, then. As long as you do.’

‘Trouble is, I’ve got another mouth to feed now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Alex’s have sold well. I shall have to ask her to up her output.’

‘She’ll be pleased.’

‘Oh, she is.’

‘You’ve seen her, then?’

‘Left just before you arrived. With the kiddie in tow. Sweet little girl. Asked if I’d like her to do some paintings, too. She brought me one as a sample.’ He came through from the back room with a sheet of A4 paper on which were stuck shells, sand and feathers. ‘To Henry from Victoria,’ it said.

‘Might become a cult,’ said Nick.

‘Might win the Turner prize,’ countered Henry.

‘No,’ argued Nick. ‘You can see what it’s meant to be.’

Henry grinned. ‘You’re in a good mood, in spite of a lack of funds.’ He pulled his cheque book out of his desk drawer and scribbled. ‘Here you are. Don’t –’

‘– spend it all at once.’

Henry went back for the coffee, and Nick shouted after him, trying to sound offhand. ‘Alex OK?’

‘Well, you should know.’ He came back with two mugs.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You were with her last night, she said.’

‘Well . . . yes . . . but I just wondered if she was OK today.’

‘Shouldn’t she be?’

Henry was winding him up, and Nick knew it.

Henry relented. ‘She was fine.’ And then, with a glint in his eye, ‘If a bit subdued.’

Nick sipped his coffee calmly. ‘Probably because of the weather – not good for painting.’

‘Very likely.’ Then he went in for the kill: ‘Are you two . . . er . . . I think the expression is “an item”?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve only known each other a week.’

‘Is that all? God, doesn’t time fly when you’re selling a lot of paintings?’

‘Henry!’

‘Sorry. Only a friendly enquiry.’ And then, under his breath, ‘I’ve known people to marry quicker than that.’

‘Yes, and how long did it last?’

‘In my parents’ case, it was forty-three years before my dad decided he’d had enough.’