by Jill Mansell
Matt’s beloved family portrait made her cry. Too clearly, she recalled his words when it had been painted: “We have the rest of our lives together, sweetheart. And when we’re gone, there will still be the portrait to remind everyone that we were here. We’ll be immortal.”
But the rest of their lives together had been less than five months, and the unfairness of it all was so heartbreaking that Camilla had eventually taken the portrait down from the wall, packed it carefully in a box, and put it away in the loft.
Matt was still there in the room—framed photographs of him stood on every table and on the mantelpiece—but the sight of the portrait and the particular memories it evoked was more than she could cope with at the moment.
Now, as Rocky rose to his feet and padded toward her, tail wagging in anticipation of a walk, she realized that she was at last beginning to come to terms with her grief. She no longer panicked, thinking that she would forget Matt, because she knew that that would never happen. The guilt, too, had faded. It had been a natural reaction, according to her doctor in whom she had eventually confided, but one that was entirely illogical. Gradually, she had come to see that he was right.
Rocky bounced off the steps leading down to the path and set off toward the beach at a frantic pace. Camilla smiled at his incredible enthusiasm; he had been such a comfort to her in the past year. At first, his puppy helplessness had required her attention, then as he grew and his ebullient personality became even more forceful, she found herself panting to keep up with him. He adored her unreservedly, showering her with affection and sloppy kisses at every opportunity and diverting her constantly with his antics. During those moments, Camilla forgot her unhappiness and was able to laugh, to feel normal again.
Lazily enjoying the afternoon sun, she followed Rocky along the beach, throwing sticks into the water and watching him hurl himself after them as if they were the crown jewels. Emerging from the waves with the stick in his mouth, shaking himself so violently that the air was filled with spirals of salty spray, he would drop the prize at her feet and gaze up at her, poised for flight until she threw the stick once more.
When they reached the sleepy town of Drumlachan, he assumed a more sedate, adult role and waited with a show of obedience outside shops while Camilla replenished the stocks. There wasn’t much to buy since she made this trip each day, but it was pleasant to chat with the locals who had unbent considerably since realizing that she wasn’t just a short-term summer visitor. Knowing nothing of her past, they treated her normally and spoiled the children, particularly Marty, “the laughing wee laddie,” with bars of chocolate and wickedly fattening doughnuts whenever they came to stay.
It was five o’clock by the time Camilla and Rocky began to make their way back to Squirrel’s Gate, and since the tide had receded further and there was now more beach for Rocky to explore, the walk took almost two hours. Tiny crabs scrambled at his approach; haughty seagulls taunted him, waiting until he was only feet away before squawking and rising into the air; and long, wet ribbons of dark-brown seaweed wrapped themselves like serpents around his paws.
It wasn’t until she was climbing the steps to the cottage that Camilla spotted the sleek, metallic-gray nose of a car parked on the grassy verge behind it.
Surely not tourists, she thought with faint surprise. The beach was deserted, the heather- and bracken-covered hills rising up behind the cottage silent and still.
Whistling for Rocky, who was loitering on the water’s edge engaging in perilously unarmed combat with a sea urchin, she paused on the top step and waited for him to join her. Although if it were burglars, she thought with a tiny smile, their make of car indicated that they would be sadly disappointed by the contents of her modest second home.
Inside the cottage, Nico had been waiting for over an hour for Camilla to return, assuming that she had not gone far since neither the front nor the back doors had been locked when he arrived. After some hesitation, he had let himself in and made himself a cup of tea in the tiny, but well-equipped kitchen. Then, nerves getting the better of him, he had emptied the tea down the sink and poured a scotch from the slightly dusty bottle standing on the oak sideboard in the sitting room.
Stretching out on the soft leather sofa, he had settled down to wait, resisting the urge to explore the rest of the cottage that had become Camilla’s isolated retreat from the world. This sitting room, however, contained items that reminded him of her so strongly that the last two years seemed to slide away: six or seven bowls of wildflowers filled the room with their sweet scent, open books lay on the floor beside the right-hand corner of the settee, and a jar of the almond-scented hand cream she always used stood on the coffee table. The photographs of Toby and Charlotte that had taken pride of place in her room at Nico’s house were here now, together with new ones in plain silver frames of Toby playing cricket, the little boy Marty, and a more grown-up Charlotte wearing a white jumpsuit, braids, and a beaming smile. There was also a photograph of Loulou looking angelic with Lili in her arms, and another of all four children together, rolling around on a sunlit lawn. There were no photographs, he observed, of Matt.
It wasn’t until he heard Camilla’s whistle that he realized she was back. Instantly, he leaped to his feet, spilling droplets of scotch on the crimson rug. His heart pounding, wondering if he had been right to come here and hoping that he wasn’t about to scare the living daylights out of her when she realized there was someone in the house, he waited uneasily for the door to open. For such a long time, he had wanted to see her again. Now he was about to and he didn’t have a clue how she would react.
And he didn’t get a chance to see her initial reaction either, for before he could move out of the way a dripping wet, chestnut-brown animal leaped up at him, writhing and whining with delight, its whiplash tail going like a propeller blade, spraying salty water in every direction.
“Bloody hell,” spluttered Nico, struggling to remain on his feet as the creature ricocheted off his chest and crouched, pink tongue lolling, on the rug in front of him. Only then, in that moment of respite, did he have the opportunity to look over toward the doorway and gauge Camilla’s reaction to his unexpected appearance. And when he saw her, she was doubled up with laughter.
“I have to tell you,” Nico said as Rocky licked his hand, searching it for treats, “that you have one lousy guard dog.”
Camilla, struggling to contain her laughter, shooed Rocky out through the door. “I saw the car outside. I thought I might have extremely wealthy burglars. The expression on your face when Rocky launched himself at you… Oh, your trousers are soaking…”
“I was so scared I probably wet myself,” he said, grinning, and suddenly Camilla was right in front of him, her arms hovering, tears brimming in her eyes.
“Oh, Nico, it’s lovely to see you. I’m so very glad you’re here.”
The emotion in her voice, the unexpected tears, hollowed his stomach with love and he held out his own arms, taking a step forward so that they came together in one fluid movement. Camilla hugged him tightly, and he stroked her dark-blond hair, which smelled of shampoo and sea salt, and held her against him in silence for several seconds.
The awkwardness that had hovered between them for so long might never have existed. Holding Camilla as he had longed to for so long seemed so natural and right that Nico didn’t want it to end.
Finally, unwillingly, Camilla stepped back and smiled up at him, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Sorry about all this. I seem to cry for the most ridiculous reasons these days. Now your shirt’s wet too. What with Rocky’s antics and mine you could drown.”
Nico silently blessed the crazy dog who had defused such a potentially awkward meeting. Glancing down at his white cotton shirt and pale-green trousers splattered with salty water and sandy paw prints, he shook his head and brushed at the sand. “They’ll dry. Sit down and stop apol
ogizing. And I just happen to have brought with me a couple of bottles of your favorite wine, so if you could just point me in the direction of the nearest corkscrew…”
* * *
They sprawled at opposite ends of the settee, barefoot and facing each other, and demolished the first bottle of satin-smooth St. Emilion within half an hour while Rocky slept, intermittently twitching in his dreams, upon the rug beside them. Outside the sun was setting, turning the sky first apricot pink, then violet. Camilla rose to switch on two rose-shaded lamps and fetched the second bottle of wine from the kitchen.
Listening to her talking, her soft voice just as he remembered, Nico realized afresh how much she meant to him. Steady, he warned himself. He had to take great care, remain firmly in control of his emotions. This wasn’t Caroline, or Roz, or any of the other now faceless women with whom he had temporarily abolished the interminable loneliness. This was Camilla, whom he loved and who thought of him as nothing more than a good friend.
She was also a widow who had adored and worshipped her husband and who evidently still worshipped his memory. Which meant he was going to have to tread very carefully indeed if their fragile relationship was to remain unspoiled and intact.
“So what made you trek all the way up to Drumlachan?” asked Camilla, refilling his glass and pushing a lock of streaky blond hair away from her face with her little finger, a gesture he remembered so well. “I do travel down to London every other week you know.”
“I had to come up to Edinburgh to see a record producer.” Nico shrugged and winked. “Practically on your doorstep. Loulou suggested I pay you a visit. She’s convinced you’re living in a cave, existing on acorns and seaweed.”
“Food!” she exclaimed, glancing at the willow basket in the corner by the door where she had dropped it. “You must be starving. Shall I cook you something? How long can you stay?”
As long as possible, thought Nico, but aloud he said, “I’m in no hurry. We could go out to a restaurant if you’d prefer.”
Camilla shook her head with the overemphasis of someone unused to four glasses of wine in quick succession. Taking Nico’s drink from him and placing it on the table beside her own, she caught his hand and rose, slightly unsteadily, to her feet.
“Come on, you can chop the garlic and keep me company in the kitchen. I haven’t had spaghetti carbonara for so long I’ve probably forgotten how to make it.”
* * *
“You’re far too thin,” Nico scolded her as he dropped the slivers of garlic into the pan of melted butter and turned up the heat. In the steamy, fragrant warmth of the tiny kitchen, he felt he could say almost anything now. Camilla turned to him and grinned.
“So my daughter informed me not so long ago. She said that if Matt was watching from heaven he’d be shouting at me to put some weight on.”
It reassured him that she could speak so easily of Matt. “Well, I’m watching you too,” he said with mock severity, eyeing her narrow hips and slender thighs in their faded Levis and observing the white leather belt pulled in to the last notch to hold them up. “And I agree. A few more curves are definitely in order. They suit you. You aren’t the same without them.”
The garlic was golden brown now. Camilla stirred in half a pint of double cream and added the strips of cured ham.
“I’m not the same anyway,” she said quietly. “I thought I was devastated when Jack and I split up; it seemed the worst thing in the world that could possibly have happened. Oh, but losing Matt was so very much worse. I really didn’t know if I could carry on without him.”
“And now?” asked Nico, taking the motionless wooden spatula from her hand and stirring the sauce in the pan.
She sighed. “And now…I’ve begun to realize that I can. Life isn’t much fun at the moment; everything seems such hard work. And when something interesting or funny does happen, I keep wishing that Matt could be here to share it, to make it more fun. Like now, for instance,” she added with a weak smile. “It’s so lovely to see you. If Matt was here as well, the three of us could have such a great evening…”
“I’m having a great evening,” interrupted Nico firmly, reaching for her fingers and giving them a squeeze. “You mustn’t feel as if you’re only half a person, Cami. The two of us are having a great evening together and I’m very, very glad I came here. I shall be even more glad,” he went on, “when you drain that spaghetti, hand me those eggs, and pour me another glass of wine.”
“Slave driver,” she complained, laughing. “Really, some ex-employers never change.”
* * *
Together they demolished the creamy, garlicky carbonara and the second bottle of St. Emilion. Nico enthralled Camilla with wickedly exaggerated tales of his show-business friends’ antics, agreed with her that Loulou could do far better for herself than Simon, whom she was still seeing, and brought her up to date on Mac’s relationship with Cecilia. They still had not married, but although their arguments were legendary—last week at the Hard Rock Cafe she had thrown a bowl of green salad over Mac and flounced out on the arm of a celebrated actor—they were still living together. Camilla and Nico were both of the opinion that Mac and Loulou were crazy about each other, but that both of them were too stubborn and proud to admit it. It was quite infuriating to know it, yet be unable to do anything about it.
Camilla talked about the children and marveled at their resilience. She avoided mentioning Matt as much as possible, since she always felt she was in danger of boring people when she spoke of him, but Nico brought his name into the conversation from time to time so naturally that eventually she stopped worrying.
“I don’t think I ever thanked you for the flowers you sent to the funeral,” she said suddenly, remembering and covering her mouth with dismay. Nico had written her a letter of condolence, she now recalled, and sent a beautiful wreath of white lilies. “And your letter. It was so nice of you to take the trouble to write.”
“I am nice,” teased Nico, to lighten her mood, but tears were welling in her eyes once more at the memory of the funeral. They were sitting close together now and he slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder. Camilla produced a handkerchief and wiped her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, here I go again. This is what I’m like. It just happens…”
“Don’t worry about it. I think you’re very brave,” he assured her, breathing in her subtle scent and telling himself he was a complete animal because, despite everything, her closeness was arousing him. “I haven’t any idea how you must have felt. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you.”
Turning her head and gazing up at him, Camilla said, “Just think how you’d feel if you lost Caroline. If suddenly you were on your own, knowing that you’d never see her again.”
She watched those famous slanting green eyes of his grow cloudy, like jade. His fingers absently rubbed the soft skin on the inside of her elbow as he considered her words, and she realized belatedly with something close to shock that although they had talked nonstop since his arrival, Caroline had scarcely been mentioned all evening.
“I think,” said Nico finally, his voice low and toneless, “that what I would feel in those circumstances would be far less than you felt. You and Matt were happily married. You loved each other. Caroline and I are just…married. Unfortunately, not all marriages are happy ones.”
“Oh, Nico,” whispered Camilla, appalled. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
He allowed himself a half smile. “There you go, apologizing again. It’s my fault, not yours.”
“But it’s so sad,” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with dismay. “And here I’ve been whinging on about my own problems when you’ve got enough of your own to worry about. When did things start to go wrong? Maybe if you tell me about it we could find a way to sort everything out for you. If you want to talk about it, of course,” she concluded with an apologetic gesture. “If it’
s too personal and you don’t want to, I’ll understand.”
Nico laughed and lit a cigarette. Camilla was sounding exactly like her old self now, using the same ploys and mannerisms to get him to talk as she had always done when they had shared the house and he had come home with a problem. Whether that problem had been Monty Barton or a persistent female, a recording contract or disagreements over how a new album should be produced, Camilla had urged him to talk it through, and even if she didn’t always understand the technicalities, she came up with enough new ideas to make the talking worthwhile.
She had always been the best listener he had ever known, and never having discussed the problem of his marriage with another living soul, Nico felt a great wave of relief wash over him. If anyone could understand, it would be Camilla. So long, he added carefully, as he left out her unwitting involvement in the whole sad affair.
Outside, the soft breaking of waves on the beach could just be heard. The sky, inky black now, was dotted with bright stars. The curtains at the windows remained open because there was no need to close them. They were completely and utterly alone together, and Nico felt more at peace than he had for years.
He regretted now having allowed such a length of time to elapse before coming to see Camilla. She was definitely good for him, he decided, on any terms. And if he couldn’t have her as a lover then he would accept her as a true friend. It was, after all, far better than nothing at all.
“When did it begin to go wrong?” Idly he repeated her question. “Probably the moment I met her. I was homesick in Vegas and she took my mind off it. When Roz hassled me, Caroline simply suggested that we get married. I had a free day, so we did.”
“An impulsive gesture,” observed Camilla, nodding wisely, “but some impulsive gestures have happy endings, so what went wrong after that?”
