The Wall (19 page)

the shade of her blusher, then sat back to stare at her reflection

critically. It would do; it would definitely do. Then she contemplated

her hair, hanging like a straight waterfall. It would go up tonight. Her

fingers moved swiftly and soon her hair was lying in a heavy

complicated coil on her slender neck, emphasising the graceful curve

of her nape and the slight curve of her cheek.

The outfit she slipped on was black, a deceptively simple black skirt

that foamed into a rather wide fall around the mid-calf, and fitted

tightly at her slim waist. The blouse was filmy and transparent,

needing the delicate black chemise underneath for decency, and it

complemented both the skirt and her white skin perfectly. It was

long-sleeved, allowing the white glimpses of her arms and upper

chest to gleam through the gauzy black. Lastly the shoes were slipped

on. They were a black leather pump style, with low heels and a small

silver bow on top. She continued the silver motif with a slim silver

belt that clipped in front, and silver chunky earrings at her ears.

Greg knocked on her door quickly, and she called out, 'Yes?'

'I was just checking to see where you were,' the deep voice

reverberated through the wood. 'Supper smells delicious!'

'Thank you. I hope it is delicious. I need to go and see about it,' Sara

returned, stepping back and looking at herself. A slender vision of

delicate beauty looked back, eyes huge, expression doubtful. How

would Greg see her? Would he like what he saw?

'I'll be right down. I want to clean up and change,' he told her, voice

fading away. She heard his bedroom door slam, and decided to go

right down so that he wouldn't see her until he was downstairs.

She slipped ice into water glasses and set a chilled bottle of wine in a

bucket of ice on the buffet cabinet by the table. Then she put out the

biscuits and served up the lettuce salad in side bowls. She had just

carried in the bubbling, steaming casserole dish and had set it

carefully on the hot pad ready for it, when a noise from the doorway

had her turning gracefully. The skirt flared slightly as she moved.

Greg was at the doorway in a position that indicated he had been

there for some time. He had changed into a dark pair of well-fitting

slacks and a white shirt with a cream pullover sweater over it, and his

hair was still damp from the shower he had just taken. The sleekly

brushed hair that lay so close to his well-formed bone structure

emphasised the rugged, slightly irregular quality of his facial

features. She found herself fascinated by his firm, unsmiling mouth.

He exuded masculinity, and she was as sensitive to the fact as if she

had been a receptive radar.

He looked brooding, intent. His eyes travelled over her as if he

couldn't see enough. She simply stood still, waiting for his perusal to

end, waiting for some kind of reaction. He came away from the door

with a slow, sensuous grace, his eyes never leaving her face. When

he stopped, he was very near, his head bent to her. She could have

leaned slightly forward and been fully against his chest, but she

didn't. She just stood as if she were stone, only her living eyes

moving, watching him.

'You're beautiful,' Greg said huskily, deeply. That was all, a simple

straightforward statement. Sara was used to fulsome flattery,

extravagant utterances from all types of people, and she didn't credit

any of those kind of remarks with the truth, but Greg's elementary

statement sounded as if it had come right from the heart, and it

pierced her to the quick. She reacted instinctively, immediately, by

putting one hand against the side of his face. His own covered it. A

smile grew in his eyes and he told her, 'It's a good thing I looked in

here before I went upstairs to change for dinner. I was able to get the

idea from the table setting that I should dress. You, of course, weren't

going to say a word.'

She laughed up at him and shook her head. 'I was getting back for

that remark you made about being "just a distraction" and I was

going to hit you for all I was worth! A total surprise was the only

way.'

'It worked,' he said, smiling. 'You've floored me. Go ahead, walk all

over my poor devastated body!'

'Don't be silly. As long as you've got my point, the matter is finished,'

she replied flippantly, and sat down in the chair he held for her. Deep

down, though, she knew that it wasn't finished. Something had

started outside, in that chilly October wind. Things had just begun.

Greg was flatteringly appreciative of the meal, and he made huge

inroads in the casserole dish before him. She watched with a smile.

Her own appetite seemed to have diminished, and she contented

herself with a small helping and a few bites of salad. She nursed her

glass of wine, for the most part just content to keep him company.

They talked, and found that they had a great deal in common. They

both loved outdoor sports, and were conscious of their own body's

fitness and health. Both seemed to like the same kind of movies.

Both expressed an interest in their environment, and a deep concern

for the gluttony and wastefulness of the general public. Sara found

that she could converse well with Greg, and she didn't hesitate to

state her thoughts and feelings with a frankness and an intelligence

that earned her a gleam of respect and admiration from him.

She in turn was astounded at the depth of perception and keen

understanding of the human mind that Greg possessed. His thought

processes, she found, were clear and well organised, with a neatness

of precision and a definite logical pattern to them. He was extremely

well educated and informed on many issues of the day, and he tended

to be hotly argumentative on the subject of politics. He would never

let her make a careless or thoughtless remark without some kind of

proof or explanation to back it up. He was quick to respond to her

remarks, even getting to the point of anticipating some of them as he

became familiar with the way her mind worked. He became uncanny

at this, until she protested finally that he must be a mind-reader, to

anticipate her reactions so well.

His reply to this was amused. 'No, I'm not telepathic. I can just sense

the direction of your thoughts when you're thinking logically and

unemotionally. Anyone can do it when a certain knowledge of a

person's likes and dislikes, interests and prejudices, is acquired. I'm

beginning to have that kind of working knowledge of you, and so I

can anticipate your reactions to certain subjects at times. You've got

to realise, though, that when you're dealing in the realm of human

emotion, reactions and responses are infinitely varied and

unpredictable. I could no more predict you than I could a total

stranger. Oh, I don't mean straightforward subjects. I'm fairly sure

that if you were confronted with the sight of an animal being

physically abused in public, you'd raise all hell, but the reason I know

that is because I've seen the kind of gentleness and consideration that

you treat Beowulf with. Therefore, I know that you harbour some

love for animals in general, for dogs in particular. The kind of

unpredictability I'm speaking of is the type of emotion that springs

from associations with one's past, dealings with relationships, and

things of that sort. No one tells another person every single thing

about himself or herself—it's impossible. Thus, to some extent, we

are all strangers to one another.'

The wall, she thought, resting her chin on her laced fingers and

staring off into nothing. It's that damned wall every time. Even now,

when he's being open, intelligent, and as honest as he can be, that

wall rears its ugly head. He'll retreat behind it whenever he's tired of

me, or whenever he's hurt.

I have the same kind of wall, though, don't I? Sara asked herself

candidly. Haven't I been hiding behind my image for six years, being,

with the few friends that I have, the Sara Bertelli in private that I am

in public? And aren't I even right now playing out a certain role,

hiding from Greg who I really am, afraid that he won't understand

that other part of me? That's what it is: I'm afraid that Sara Bertelli

will scare away the chance of a real relationship. She's blocked so

many before. She's isolated the plain and simple Sara Carmichael in

me until that part of me nearly died away. But they're both a part of

me, both the public and the private. They both express in different

ways who I am inside. The one can't die without the other. And Greg

is only seeing a part of me now, but at least he's seeing the truth. He

just isn't seeing the whole.

'I don't agree with you,' she said quietly. He had been watching

intently the expressions that had flitted across her face, and hadn't

been able to interpret them. 'I don't believe we're all strangers from

each other. For the most part, yes, I'd have to say that I've closed off

my personality from much of the world, letting them see the package

on the outside,' and she gestured down at herself, 'but not the person

on the inside, and I think you have too. But I also believe that there

comes a time when one can say, "Yes, I will be totally honest and

completely open with this person, because I want this person to

accept me for what I am, all the faults and feelings, all the quirks and

qualities that make up what I am." It's hard, though, and some people

never really make it. The reason why is that they don't open up

completely, and so they aren't giving themselves totally to the

relationship. I can understand that. Total honesty leaves one totally

vulnerable. It leaves one open to rejection, because there are no

guarantees. The other person can back away for whatever reason is

considered valid, and it would leave a scar so open and raw in the

one that it could virtually cripple the emotions for life. It's

frightening, isn't it? But, you see, the little unpredictable starts in a

person, and the mistakes, and the inconsistencies that you're talking

about, they don't really matter in the long run, if the core of the

person is known and loved.'

Her voice was melodious in the suddenly silent room. She felt Greg's

silence and utter stillness from where she was. She felt his tenseness,

and his complete concentration on what she was saying. She felt the

urgency, and the inexplicability of it struck her, but she didn't

question him. She merely finished what she had to say and calmly

stood up to clear away the plates for dessert. How Greg took her

words was lip to him. She had communicated herself as best she

could.

In the kitchen, she stacked the dishes in the sink and went about the

motions of starting coffee. The silence in the other room was

beginning to bother her. She wished he would say something,

anything. She wished he would open up, tell her about himself—not

the mundane everyday occurrences and events, but tell her why he

was so closed off. She wanted . . . she didn't want to think about what

she really wanted.

The coffeemaker was burbling and she started to dish up the fruit

salad. A noise from the doorway had her turning, turning very

slowly, because she wasn't sure she wanted to see what was there.

Greg stood immobile in the doorway, and he looked at her briefly,

rigidly.

There was a light jacket clenched in his hands. Sara had just enough

time to register shock, then he was saying, 'I need to take a walk.

Hold my coffee for me.'

That was all, as simple and unadorned as his other statements. He

was gone, out of the back door and into the darkness, before she had

time to react. She sat down slowly on one of the stools by the butcher

block table. It was, she suspected, going to be a long evening.

Beowulf came and leaned against her knee, whining softly, his large

eyes anxious. Sara smiled at this and patted him on the head. She

worked from the front to the back area behind his ears, scratching in

the places he especially liked, easing his troubled doggy mind. He

sighed, sniffed a bit at the floor by her feet, and settled down for a