Rosie (20 page)

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Dry as a bone.’

She smiled. ‘In more ways than one.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. The Cloudy Bay is on ice.’

‘Cloudy Bay? Are we celebrating or something?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The end of a misunderstanding.’

He ushered her up the steps and on to the veranda where a small table was laid for two, with a bowl of wild flowers.

Alex sat down beside the table and Nick disappeared into the cottage. The evening was unseasonably warm. Away to the west, the sun was setting over the Dorset coastline, staining the sky with copper light. She had to work hard to tell herself this was no dream. This was where someone could live. Where someone could stay.

He returned with a bottle of the New Zealand wine and two glasses. He poured, they drank, and looked out over the sea as the sun sank below the horizon.

‘Do you ever take this view for granted?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s never the same twice.’

‘A bit different from my view in Portsmouth,’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky.’

He smiled at her. ‘I know.’

Over supper – lobster, bought from the fisherman at Sleepyhead Bay – he told her about Rosie’s accident. Then, feeling the need to unburden himself, he explained about Rosie’s preoccupation with her Russian ancestry and his researches into the royal family. It no longer sounded ridiculous. He found himself talking easily and she was attentive, absorbed, and asked questions in all of the right places.

Finally he said, ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’

Alex shook her head. ‘No. Unusual, but not unbelievable.’ And then, ‘Oh, my God!’

‘What?’ He stared at her, worried that something had happened.

‘Our names.’

He sighed with relief. ‘I know. Silly, isn’t it?’

She grinned. ‘I think it’s rather sweet. Did Rosie notice?’

‘Immediately.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ Alex looked more serious. ‘And you still don’t know for certain who her parents were?’

‘No, and I don’t really know where to start. The librarian in Newport suggested the Russian embassy, but I’m not sure how tactful that would be.’

‘Could I have a go?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Maybe I could do a bit of reading. Research. It might be easier for me – not being related.’ She hesitated, not sure if she’d overstepped the mark.

‘If you like. That would be great!’ Nick said enthusiastically.

‘You jot down the facts and the names you know, and I’ll have a dig around, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’

‘I’m pleased you want to bother – that you think it’s worth it.’

‘Of course! It’s fascinating. Not sure what we’ll find, but it’ll be a bit of an adventure.’

‘As long as you want one.’

Alex looked across the table at him, and then laid her hand on his. ‘Oh, I think so.’

He led her into the bedroom, then turned to face her. His heart was pounding. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Nick put his arms round her and kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips. Her skin was soft and fragrant, her body lithe and supple. He caressed her back and waist, then unfastened the tortoiseshell clip that held back her sleek brown hair and let it fall round her shoulders. He stroked it as she nuzzled his neck, and kissed him, running her fingers across his shoulders.

Then she pulled away a little and gazed at him. Her eyes were shining, lips parted. She held up her hand and he took it, then pulled her towards him and kissed her again, his hands moving down her back. She sighed softly, before lowering her own hands towards his belt. She undid the buckle, and he raised his hands to her shirt and peeled it upwards. Soon she stood before him in her underwear – lacy and white.

Gently he ran the back of his hand across her flat stomach and up towards her breasts. He circled them with his fingers, then undid the bra and let it fall to the floor.

She looked vulnerable now, and he could hear her breathing, almost as though she was frightened. She reached down, and slid her hand inside his trousers. He put his arms around her and pulled her towards him.

They sank on to the bed, and within moments were naked and entwined.

Later, they lay silently in each other’s arms, as the evening breeze rustled the muslin curtains at the window.

Then he asked, ‘Do you have to go?’

Alex stroked the hair back from his forehead. ‘I should really say yes.’

‘But?’

‘Victoria’s with friends – I couldn’t get a sitter.’

‘Stay, then?’

‘Yes, please.’

 
 
22

Seldom sets any fruit.

H
e watched her as she woke. The early-morning light caught her dark hair and made it shine like polished jet. It can be difficult for those who have never been in love to think poetically, but Nick was an artist and it seemed as natural as breathing. He could not remember ever feeling so calm as he did at that moment. Lying next to her in his bed. Feeling her warm and naked body next to his.

She stirred, and opened her eyes, squinting at the rays of dawn. For a moment he thought she might not remember where she was. Might suddenly regret the impulse of the night before, jump out of his bed and throw on her clothes, but she didn’t. Instead, she smiled at him and snuggled closer. ‘Hello, you,’ she murmured.

‘Hello, you,’ he echoed.

They lay still for a few moments, silent except for their soft breathing. Then they made love again, and lay in each other’s arms, silently.

Soon, Alex rose from the bed and went to the bathroom. He watched her go, captivated by the sight of her. When she came back, she slid in beside him and laid her arm across his chest. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘About you.’

She raised herself up on one elbow and looked him in the eye. ‘You don’t think I was . . . well . . . a bit fast.’

He nodded. ‘Like lightning.’

‘Oh, God! I didn’t mean to be. I’m not usually, only . . .’

‘Hey!’ He squeezed her shoulders. ‘Just kidding.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s all right.’ She relaxed. ‘I wish I could stay.’

‘Can’t you?’ He looked at her, his eyes hopeful.

‘No. The neighbours will take Victoria to school – with their little girl – but I’ve got to get back. There’s shopping to do.’

‘What?’ Nick sat up and looked at her incredulously.

‘We have to eat,’ she said, and giggled.

‘You’re lying in bed with me and all you can think of is doing the shopping?’

‘It’s all right for you! You have no responsibilities but I have another mouth to feed.’ She got out of bed to search for her clothes.

Nick frowned at her. ‘So do I.’

‘Yes, but yours is being taken care of by the health service at the moment.’ She kissed him lightly on the forehead, slid out of bed and asked, ‘Can I have a shower?’

‘Only if I can join you.’

Henry sat by Rosie’s bed while the nurse arranged a large bunch of red roses in a vase on the bedside cabinet. ‘They’re beautiful,’ said Rosie, her eyes shining.

‘Cut them myself this morning,’ said Henry, with a wink.

‘Dreadful man. They must have cost a fortune.’

‘Worth it to see your face, dear lady. I’ve been a bit worried about you. Glad to see you’re on the mend.’

‘Slowly. Very slowly.’

‘So, what happens now?’ he asked.

‘Another week or so in here, and then I’ve got to go into a nursing home.’ She grimaced.

‘What?’ He looked horrified.

‘Oh, not permanently, just to convalesce. Nick’s going to arrange it. They’ll keep me until I’m back on my feet. It’ll be fine, I suppose.’

‘Here or on the north island?’ Henry still looked worried.

‘Here. I don’t want to go back there just yet.’

‘Oh, good.’ He reached out his hand and held hers. ‘I wouldn’t want to think you were going away.’

Rosie smiled. ‘You’re very kind, Henry.’

‘Not kind at all. Just, well . . .’

‘Whatever it is, I’m grateful.’

Henry gazed at her, sitting there. Somehow Rosie didn’t fit here. She was a doer, and doers are always up and about, not lying in bed. She caught his eye. ‘Not much fun is it?’ she asked. ‘Getting old, I mean.’

‘No,’ Henry agreed ruefully.

‘We’re no different, really, are we? No different from the way we’ve always been.’

‘Except that some bits don’t work as well as they used to,’ Henry said wistfully.

‘I just wish younger people would understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘That you never stop being you. That you still have feelings just as much as you did when you were younger.’ Rosie sighed.

‘Yes. Except that somehow . . .’

‘I know. They’re not quite so . . .’ She sought a word.

‘Raw?’

‘Yes. That’s it. Raw. I mean, I’m every bit as passionate, every bit as interested, it’s just that somehow it all gets . . . blunted.’

‘Is that how you feel now?’ he asked gently.

‘When I’m a bit down, yes. I just wish I could feel the joy in life that I felt when I was younger. It all seemed so straightforward then.’ She looked distant, distracted.

‘I think you should rest for a while. Try to get some sleep.’ Henry patted her hand.

‘What happened to pride, Henry?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘When I was younger we were all so proud. So confident. Not arrogant, just . . . sure. We were bombed by the Germans and there was no money, and not much food, but we still had our pride. We stuck up for ourselves. Believed in ourselves. Knew we had to. It wasn’t blindness, was it? Were we fooling ourselves?’

‘No. No, we weren’t fooling ourselves. It was just different then.’

Rosie looked as though she was searching for the right words. Then she asked, ‘Is it wrong to feel proud of what you are?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well, why aren’t we allowed to any more? I get so down, reading all this stuff in the papers, everyone at each other’s throats.’

Henry nodded understandingly. ‘There’s not much optimism, is there?’

‘Maybe I’m better off out of it. I just don’t seem to belong anywhere any more.’

‘Oh, I think that’s enough of that.’

‘Well, it makes me cross, Henry. So desperate. I look around and see a world I don’t recognize any more. I can cope with technology – some of it – but I can’t understand the attitudes. I stand in the middle of the pavement sometimes, quite still, while people mill around me, and I feel invisible. No – more than that, I feel non-existent. It’s as if I’m in a different world. I’m not . . . what does Nick call it? . . . attention-seeking, just trying to understand it. Trying to see how it works and I can’t. It’s as if everything I’ve ever lived for has begun to evaporate and leave me behind. I don’t want to be left behind. I want to keep up – to be a part of it. But somebody or something won’t let me.’

She stopped talking and gazed out of the window, eyes glistening with tears. Then she said softly, ‘I never used to cry, you know. Not much anyway. But now I seem to do it all the time.’

Henry touched her cheek with his finger, worried that her fighting spirit had been dented. It must be the medication. He convinced himself that was the case. Anything else was . . . well . . . just not worth thinking about. He stroked back a stray wisp of hair, and Rosie turned to look at him.

‘It’s only natural,’ he said. ‘Probably something to do with the anaesthetic. At the moment, I mean. It’s still wearing off. You’ll feel better soon, and the world will seem a nicer place.’

She leaned back on the plumped-up pillows. ‘I hope so. I’m sorry to be a pain – I didn’t mean to burden you with all this.’ She reached for a tissue, and wiped her eyes. ‘Bless you, Henry,’ she said.

‘Well, we’ve got to get you back on your feet as soon as we can and out of this place. Then, perhaps, you’ll let me take you out to dinner.’

Rosie looked anxious. ‘Henry, there’s something you should know.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Well, you remember when we were talking in the pub?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I was less than honest with you.’

‘Ah.’

‘I didn’t want you to think that I was a feeble old lady so . . .’

Henry cleared his throat. ‘If you’re about to say something about your age, then I should mention something before you do.’

Rosie looked apprehensive. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do know. I know that I’m not really fifty-eight.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I lied to you about my age. I’m actually sixty-three.’

For a moment Rosie’s face bore a look of surprise. Then she grinned at him. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes. Will you forgive me?’

She looked at him with mock admonishment, then melted. ‘Of course I will.’

‘You’re very kind. Very generous.’

Rosie squeezed his hand. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

Henry raised an eyebrow.

‘It means that you’re only six years younger than me.’

It was eight thirty that evening before Nick had a moment to phone Alex. After the mundanities of life – doing his own shopping, taking the car for an oil change, repairing a window at the Anchorage – and visiting Rosie in hospital, he dialled the number.

‘Hello?’

‘You got back, then? Shopping successful?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Yes, thank you!’ She was stifling a laugh. ‘And thank you for last night. It was very . . . special.’