A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  Her first reaction was to take umbrage and retire into dignified silence, but she remembered that he had started the whole thing by telling her she had a nice figure, so she thought better of it and asked:

  'How would I start?'

  'Well,' he said, 'you could get your hair styled. You have a small face, and all that hair hanging over it makes you look like a relative of Duvet's.'

  In spite of herself she smiled. 'Duvet's adorable,' she said.

  'You could be, too, if we could see you.' Flint leaned forward and pushed his fingers through her fringe of curls, holding the silky tangle off her forehead and staring at her intently. 'You have eyes the colour of tortoiseshell,' he murmured. 'It's a crime to hide them.'

  He was so close she could feel his breath warm on her cheek, see the texture of his lips. For a moment neither of them moved, then he released her hair and sat back.

  In an attempt to break the erotic tension that had risen she said lightly, 'Maybe I should shave my head?' But he answered her brusquely, 'There's a good hairdresser in the village if you're interested.' And then he started asking questions about his manuscript, as if they had never had a personal conversation in the whole of their acquaintance.

  She worked steadily until late afternoon. But by four o'clock the print started to swim before her eyes. She was putting the cover on the typewriter when Flint came out of his darkroom, and she offered to make them both a cup of tea.

  She rooted around in the kitchen for mugs and tea-bags while the kettle heated, and opened a box of cookies she found in a paper-sack of groceries that Sable had presumably dumped on the counter. A large ginger cat, who had been sleeping on a window-sill, woke up at the rattle of crockery and proceeded to wind himself around her bare legs, purring like a buzz-saw, so she gave him a saucer of milk before taking a tray of tea and cookies down to Flint.

  She took her mug of tea to her room where she unpacked her few clothes and toilet things. Her denim skirt and jeans looked lonely hanging in the enormous antique pine wardrobe.

  It was very quiet. All she could hear was the chinking sound of a trowel in the garden, and when she looked out of her window she saw the dungareed behind of the gardener bent over the rows of vegetables.

  Taking her sponge-bag, she went down the corridor to the bathroom she was to share with Sable, and Flint's housekeeper. A door to one of the bedrooms stood open and curiosity getting the better of her, she stepped inside. Flint's discarded jeans and shirt lay in a heap on the white pile carpet.

  This must be his room; the master-bedroom. A king-size brass bed, covered in a teal-blue bedspread, stood against the far wall. A scarlet and white striped chair occupied a corner near a bookcase that was crammed to bursting. She had a glimpse of an adjoining bathroom tiled in grey and white, and she could smell the faint, aromatic scent of his aftershave.

  Hastily, for she felt she was intruding, she backed out, and, tripping over her trailing bathrobe, she stumbled against the door opposite Flint's room.

  The latch gave and she was faced with a room that looked more like a women's boutique than a bedroom. Dresses hung over the cupboard door and were flung across the bed. Underwear festooned the dressing-table, and several pairs of high-heeled sandals lay negligently on the pastel pink rug. This must be Sable's domain. Closing the door hurriedly, Polly told herself that she had no reason to feel upset because it looked so permanently lived-in and was so close to Flint's room. For all she knew—or cared, she insisted to herself—Sable only used her bedroom as a dressing-room, and slept with her lover in that big brass bed.

  She found the bathroom without further mishap. It was a large room dominated by an old-fashioned bathtub that had feet like eagle's claws. Someone—Sable, maybe—had painted the nails with scarlet nail-varnish. There was a modern, glass-enclosed shower stall as well, and she decided to use that, since soaking in a tub was liable to send her to sleep after her long day's work.

  There was plenty of hot water, so she had an extended scrub and washed her hair. When she was drying herself on one of the thick blue bath towels, she noticed an antique wash-stand against one wall. It was covered with bottles and lotions, cotton-wool, eyebrown pencils, lipsticks, and the general paraphernalia of a girl who models for a living. More of Sable's territory!

  Polly reached for an electric hair-drier, and wondered why this further evidence of Sable's occupancy should cause her to feel a frisson of irritation.

  Instead of waking her up, her shower seemed to have made her sleepier, so she pulled the bedspread back and stretched out on the bed for just a minute or two…

  She dreamed that a large woodpecker, the size of the ginger cat downstairs, was pecking at her door trying to get into her room and take it over. In a panic she blinked her eyes open, but the pecking continued.

  'Polly!' Sable called, tapping harder. 'Polly, are you in there?'

  'Come in.' She sat up groggily as Sable poked her head round the door. 'Wha… what time is it?'

  'Nearly six. Flint and I are going to have a pre-dinner drink. Will you join us?'

  'Yes, sure—I'll just put something on,' Polly said, sitting up. Hurriedly she turned her back on Sable who had come into the room, for she was painfully aware that she was only wearing her bra and panties, and she felt that the contrast between her lush body and Sable's thinness was more than she could bear.

  'What lovely skin you've got,' Sable, remarked on her way to the dressing table to check her eye make-up in the mirror. 'What body lotion do you use?'

  'I d… don't use anything. Just soap and water.' Polly was so startled by this unlooked-for compliment that she forgot to be shy.

  'You lucky thing,' said Sable, delicately smoothing at her eye-shadow with her little finger, 'most girls would kill for skin like yours.' Satisfied that the shadow was now properly blended, she turned and gave Polly a stunning smile. 'And it's not just your face. You've got flawless skin all over.'

  Polly looked down at her creamy breasts that curved so voluptuously, at her smooth tummy and rounded thighs. She had always taken her pearly complexion for granted; it was a revelation to discover it was an asset that could be envied by other females. Especially females as glamorous as Sable.

  'Now get a wiggle on,' Sable chivvied her, 'I'm dying for a drink.'

  Since she didn't have much choice it only took Polly a few seconds to pull on her denim skirt and a crimson and brown check shirt. 'I'll just comb my hair,' she said, 'and I'll be with you.'

  This proved to be easier said than done. Sleeping on her damp hair had hopelessly tangled it. With her eyes full of tears of pain she tugged at the comb until finally she threw it on the dressing-table in disgust. 'Sorry, Sable,' she said, 'I'll have to tie it back and make the best of it.'

  'We can do better than that,' Sable replied. 'Is that the only brush you have?' She indicated Polly's worn soft bristle one and Polly nodded. 'Let's go to my room,' said the lissom model, leading the way. 'I have a steel comb that should deal with the problem.'

  She opened the door of her bedroom. It was the room opposite Flint's, Polly noted glumly. Sable wielded the comb and started combing, and in a surprisingly short time Polly's matted curls were free of tangles.

  'What have you done to the front of it?' Sable asked, fingering Polly's bangs critically.

  'I tried to cut it myself… with a pair of nail-scissors,' Polly admitted. 'I wanted a change.'

  'Well, you got that all right!' She pulled the thick fringe to one side and secured it away from Polly's face with a hairpin. 'Ever worn your hair up?' she asked. Polly shook her head. 'Let's try it, shall we? It won't take a minute, and I think it would suit you.'

  Without waiting for an answer she deftly lifted Polly's mane, and with a few quick movements pinned the weighty mass on top of her head. 'There! Take a look in the mirror and tell me what you think.'

  The mirror reflected back a Victorian maiden with a delicate face, topped by a wealth of shiny brown curls. 'Oh!' breathed Polly, as she smoothed the ups
weep of hair with her palms. 'Oh, it looks super!'

  'It's your style all right.' Sable sounded pleased with herself. 'You've got such strong hair, all you really need is a good haircut and a couple of combs, and you're in business. Now, let's go and get that drink—I'm gasping!'

  They joined Flint on the front patio where he was sitting with a tray of drinks in front of him. Polly kept catching glimpses of herself in the windows. Her new hairstyle made her face look thinner, and she had to discipline herself not to keep peeping at her reflection all the time in wonder. She waited for Flint to say something, but he didn't. Although he did give her a piercing glance when they first joined him.

  It was a beautiful evening, and after Flint had poured the girls a Dubonnet on ice they sat back in grey-painted cane chairs and silently watched a family of barn swallows give a brilliant display of aeronautical skill.

  No one spoke. Each of them was wrapped in his or her own thoughts. Sable's seemed to make her restless, for she fidgeted against the yellow cushions, and tapped her fingers on her glass.

  Polly sat still, enjoying the feel of the soft breeze playing with tendrils of hair that had pulled free and lay lightly on her neck. The swallows dipped and tumbled against the backdrop of evening-tinted sky, and the fragrance of grass, and earth, and flowers filled her with content.

  After some time spent in this silence Sable asked when dinner was likely to be ready. 'Because if it's going to be delayed I might just ring the city,' she said.

  Flint roused himself. 'Bad strategy,' he advised. 'As for dinner—the last time I asked, it was some time after eight.'

  Sable reached for his wrist to look at the watch strapped to it. For some reason this intimate gesture gave Polly a quick stab of… of what? Jealousy? But that was rubbish. Why on earth should she feel jealous of Sable and Flint?

  'Dinner's a whole hour away,' said Sable. 'I think I will ring,' and she got up and stood by the open door.

  Flint said, 'Suit yourself. But you'd be much better off coming for a walk instead.' But Sable merely smiled and went into the house. 'Well, I'm going for a walk,' he said. He rose and looked down at Polly. 'Do you want to come? Or would you rather sit here and listen to your stomach rumble?'

  'My stomach isn't rumbling,' Polly replied, 'but I wouldn't mind seeing a bit of the farm before it gets dark.'

  Flint scooped up a handful of peanuts and then held out the bowl. 'Better take a ration of those,' he advised. 'When Cakey says any time after eight, it could mean midnight.'

  She took a handful, saying, 'I'm not really hungry,' and followed him to the back of the house. Duvet, who had been lying on the back porch, got up shook herself, and then trotted behind Flint's heels.

  They passed a fence-enclosed garden, which was neatly weeded and smelt of freshly turned earth. Flint gave the plot of vegetables a look of intense indignation. 'My gardener hasn't been near the place for weeks,' he growled, without warning.

  'But I saw him… well, I saw someone, working in the garden this afternoon.'

  'You saw my housekeeper,' Flint replied bitterly. 'Cakey would rather garden than breathe—as I discovered to my cost after I'd hired her.'

  'Oh!' Polly grinned to herself. So that was what had been occupying him for the past half-hour—irritation with his housekeeper! 'Why don't you get someone else?' she asked.

  He glared at her in exasperation. 'Because—A, I don't have the time to interview people. And—B, it's not as easy as you might think to get someone to come out here, away from the discos and the bright lights. Crabtree Farm isn't the most desirable place to work, it seems.'

  'Really?' She was genuinely surprised. 'I think it's a heavenly place!'

  Some of the anger died in his blue eyes, and he said, 'I think so too. But it can be lonely. Especially since I'm away quite a bit of the time.'

  'But there's Duvet… and the cat…'

  'Ah, you've met Fellini, have you?'

  'Mmm! I love ginger cats.' She increased her pace to keep up with his long-legged stride. 'And I don't see how anybody can be really lonely in the country. Besides, it's less than an hour to Toronto, isn't it?'

  'Remind me to have you around for P.R. work when I interview a new housekeeper.' He smiled wearily. 'Because it's quite clear that Cakey will have to be replaced.' The smile vanished and he went on, as if to himself, 'And it couldn't come at a worse time. First the Nepal article to finish, and then the photo-story of Dexter.'

  With a twinge of something like conscience, Polly realised that, until Flint had mentioned his name, she had not given a thought to Dexter Grant all day. To make up for this oversight, she asked, 'Have you known Dexter long?'

  'Since we were kids. We were at boarding school together.'

  'Did he want to be an actor when he was at school?' She had a romantic image of Dexter, handsome even as a child, confiding his secret dream to his carrot-headed friend.

  'He didn't let on,' said Flint. 'Neither of us thought much about the future in those days. It was hard enough coping with the present.'

  This sounded very mysterious, and she said, 'I don't understand.'

  Flint's mouth set in a hard line. 'We were both very unhappy at boarding school,' he said tightly. 'It's not always the happiest place for little boys.'

  'That's awful,' she said, her maternal heart touched. 'Did your parents know you were unhappy?'

  'Dexter is the product of several sets of parents,' Flint explained dourly. 'I doubt they would have known.'

  'Poor Dexter!' She was wrung with pity. Then, in order to be polite, she added, 'And what about you? Do you come from a broken home, too?'

  He gave a bark of harsh laughter. 'Oh, no! My parents are very securely married—to each other and to their work.'

  'Their work?'

  'They're both doctors,' Flint said shortly. 'They work together in a teaching hospital.'

  'Your mother's a doctor, too?' Polly asked, impressed.

  'One of the best,' said Flint, taking two giant strides in order to get to the top of a small knoll.

  Polly trotted up after him. 'Do you mind not walking quite so fast?' she entreated. 'I have a hard time keeping up.'

  He didn't reply, but stood motionless on the top of the little mound, looking at the distant hills, with unseeing eyes. Polly stood beside him. She would have liked to have commented on the view, which was particularly lovely in the setting sun, but Flint's mood was so forbidding she thought it prudent to remain silent.

  Flint was twenty years away. Back in that school, a homesick nine-year-old, whose chief aim in life was to hide his misery, and never to be caught crying. Dexter, another neglected child, had come to the school a year after Flint, and their mutual loneliness had forged bonds of friendship that had withstood the years and differences of temperament.

  He had come to terms with his parents now, but the nine-year-old Flint had been bewildered by their lack of interest, and he still found it difficult to forgive the countless school sports days, and parents' days, when the headmaster had relayed the inevitable phone-call from one or the other of his busy parents, explaining that the pressure of work made it impossible for either of them to attend. He remembered all too vividly the school holidays spent alone in his parents' apartment, trying not to get in the way of yet another new housekeeper who clearly was irritated at having a small boy underfoot.

  He never spoke of those days. This was the first time in years he had allowed himself to dwell on them, and he was appalled that a casual question from this inquisitive girl had opened a wound he had thought was healed.

  All at once he spoke, breaking the oppressive silence. 'I want a wife who's willing to invest her life in our home, not a career. And if I can't find a wife like that I'll stay single.' He did not raise his voice, but this statement had the force of a shout in its concentrated fury.

  Polly stared up at him in total astonishment. She had no idea what could have provoked such an outburst. One moment they had been talking about his friendship with Dexter
, and the next he was bellowing out his requirements for a wife! She could only suppose that he had had some kind of falling-out with Sable. Maybe the affair— for she was sure by now that they were lovers—was drifting towards marriage and Sable was reluctant; or had refused to give up her career. Whatever it was, it had plunged him into a miserable mood. He stood on the knoll, the gold light of the setting sun making his hair flame, accentuating the harsh lines on his face, so that he seemed older and utterly remote. A lonely figure contemplating the horizon.

  He became aware of the scrutiny and turned away abruptly. 'Better be getting back. It'll be dark soon,' he said as he marched off towards the house.

  This time Polly made no attempt to keep up. She reasoned that, if he wasn't going to be sociable, to hell with him. If he wanted to indulge in an attack of the sulks, let him indulge by himself. She would walk at her own pace and admire the last trace of blood-red sun as it sank from view. It was only the idea that it might by bats, and not birds, swooping so close to her head, that finally made her quicken her steps.

  He was sitting on the back-porch, Duvet beside him. 'I thought you might have decided to walk back to Toronto,' he smiled as she drew near, and from the teasing note in his voice she knew that his black humour had passed. But she did not feel inclined to cater to his swift changes of mood, and she merely replied shortly, 'I wanted to admire the sunset.'

  She made for the door, but before she reached it he was on his feet beside her. 'Your hair looks very pretty like that, Pollyanna,' he said. He opened the back door and together they went into the kitchen. 'All you need now is some sort of soft dress, and you'll look perfect.'

  Trust him to spoil the compliment, she thought. Now she was painfully aware of how wrong her mannish blouse and skirt looked!

  Flint introduced her to his housekeeper who was slicing lettuce at the sink. Mrs. Cakebread, a raw-boned woman with a great deal of Flint's garden still under his finger-nails, nodded dourly to Polly, and then suggested they go and watch television until dinner time. 'It won't be long now,' she promised.

  'Want to bet?' Flint said, just loud enough for her to hear.