For His Eyes Only

by Liz Fielding

  ‘You are such a star!’

  ‘We’ll be there at about six.’

  ‘Great.’ She was halfway around the corner when Patsy called, ‘Natasha…’ She half turned. ‘Your skirt is caught up in your knickers.’

  NINE

  The first thing Tash did when she arrived at Hadley Chase was hunt down the stopcock in the scullery and turn the water on. It was, of course, stuck fast, so her next task was to brave the cobwebs and spiders in the toolshed to find a wrench so that she could shift it.

  Someone had left all the taps open, which was obviously the right thing to do, but meant that once the tank had filled and the water was flowing she had to tour the house, turning them all off, mopping up leaks and making a note of where they were so that they could be fixed. A job for her dad, and she fired off a text to him, asking him to bring some plumber’s mait.

  She paused on the first floor landing, aware that something had changed but for a moment unable to think what it was. Then she realised that it was the window.

  Despite working day and night to finish his sculpture, Darius had remembered his promise to get it fixed and for a moment she leaned her forehead against the cool surface of the glass. She had wanted him to trust her with the darkness that lay at his heart but she’d been so quick to leap to the conclusion that he was about as deep as an August puddle. And if he was, wasn’t that what she’d expected? Gone into with her eyes wide open? Except he’d been angry, because… Well, because didn’t matter.

  Without trust there was nothing. And that was what she had. Nothing.

  With a throat full of dust and desperate for a cup of tea, she plugged in the electric kettle. It blew a fuse. She mended it with the wire and screwdriver she’d brought with her. Next job, lighting the ancient solid fuel range cooker…

  By the time she’d got it going, she was coated in smoke and black dust and more cobwebs from the fuel store, her knuckles were sore and she was seriously considering her mother’s suggestion of an alternative career in the confectionery business.

  Unfortunately, having spent the previous night emailing individual invitations to the open house and afternoon tea—spiced with the painting of the house and extracts from the history as attachments—to everyone she could think of, partners and children included since it was the weekend, any career change would have to be put on hold until she’d shifted two years’ worth of dust.

  The first job was the fridge. She washed it down, then switched it on. Another fuse blew, tripping all the electrics for the second time.

  This time she went through them all, changing the wire in three that looked a bit dodgy. That done, she toured the house again, checking every light switch. The last thing she needed was to have them go pop when it was dark.

  It was dark by the time she’d wiped down the last surface in the scullery. She picked up the bowl of water to tip down the sink and then screamed as she caught sight of a face in the window, slopping water down her filthy jeans and over her shoes in the process. Belatedly realising that it was her own face, smudged with coal dust, she laughed a little shakily. Then a second face appeared beside it.

  This time the scream wouldn’t come.

  She opened her mouth, but her throat was stuffed with rocks and no sound emerged, even when the back door opened and a black-clad figure put his head around the door.

  ‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  It was the security guard who’d tried to move them on.

  ‘Mr Hadley called the office to tell us you’d be here and asked if I would look in on you and check that you were all right. He thought you’d be easier if it was someone you knew by sight.’

  Since the rocks were taking their time to budge, she tipped the remaining water down the sink.

  He shrugged awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry about the other day.’

  ‘No problem… Just doing your job… I’m fine,’ she said, sounding unconvincing even to herself. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she offered, peeling off her rubber gloves and squelching her way into the now gleaming kitchen.

  ‘I can do better than that,’ he said, placing a carrier on the table from which emerged the mouth-watering scent of hot fried food and the sharpness of vinegar.

  Until that moment she hadn’t thought of food but, suddenly assailed by sharp pangs of hunger, she said, ‘Please tell me that’s fish and chips.’

  He grinned. ‘Mr Hadley thought you might be glad of something hot to eat.’

  Darius… Her heart, just about back to normal, missed a beat. She’d said she didn’t know him, but it seemed that he knew her.

  ‘There appear to be two lots,’ she said, peering into the carrier.

  ‘Well, I haven’t had my supper yet. I was going to have it in the van, but why don’t I put the kettle on while you dry off?’

  *

  It was barely light when Darius woke, fully aroused—he’d been dreaming about Natasha. One moment she’d been a vision in something floaty, looking and smelling like a summer garden, the next she’d been pressed up against him, naked, soapy wet, her fingers kneading his scalp, her breasts against his back. And when he’d turned round and she’d taken him in her hand…

  He closed his eyes, wanting that moment back. Wanting her to be there with him. He’d asked her to stay, but then…

  Then he’d done what he always did with any woman who got too close, who he wanted too much; he’d used the first excuse that offered itself to make it impossible for her to stay.

  She was so easy to read. Every thought, every idea was right there in her lovely face and she knew it. The fact that she’d buried her face in his chest was enough to warn him that she was hiding something and damn it, of course he was mad that she could think such a thing of him. But why wouldn’t she?

  She’d just been betrayed in the worst possible way. Her confidence had to be shaky. And he’d made all kinds of excuses not to wake her because she could read him, too. Would have seen what he could not hide. That it had been a panic run.

  What he’d felt, what he’d drawn, had terrified him. He’d had to leave her a note so that she knew about the Land Rover and keys, but it had been bare of emotion. He’d left mixed messages and she’d interpreted them just as he’d hoped she would. Until he’d walked around that truck and his heart had practically leapt out of his chest with joy.

  He knew what he felt was senseless. And he’d acted senselessly.

  He took a cup of coffee out into the tiny yard he shared with a couple of randy pigeons and a pot of dead daffodils, watching the sun turn the sky from a pale grey to blue, stirring only when there was a long peal on the doorbell.

  It was Patsy with a large cardboard envelope. It was addressed to him c/o Patsy and when he turned it over, saw it was from Natasha, he didn’t have to open it to know what it was.

  ‘I don’t know you…’

  Of course she didn’t. He’d never let anyone close enough to know him. He didn’t know himself.

  ‘Why did she send it to you?’ he asked. ‘How did she know your address?’

  ‘I don’t keep it a secret,’ she said, looking pointedly at his door. The cottage, like the studio, bore no number. ‘She’s a nice woman, Darius.’

  ‘No…’ There were a dozen words rushing into his head to describe Natasha, but ‘nice’ wasn’t one of them. Vivid, fun, kind, thoughtful, vulnerable, hot, glorious, spicy sweet… He realised that Patsy was looking at him a little oddly. ‘Sorry, yes, of course you’re right.’

  ‘I’m going to Hadley Chase as soon as school is out this afternoon. When will you be coming down?’

  ‘I have to go to the foundry today,’ he said. ‘Take the horse apart so that they can start making the moulds.’ Dozens of intricate parts, every one of which had to be checked for imperfections through each stage of the process.

  ‘And tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s going to take weeks,’ he said, but she knew that. That wasn’t what she was asking.

/>   She didn’t press it. ‘Any message?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, wait.’ He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. ‘Pay for the food. And whatever’s needed for the open house party. Tell them to help themselves to whatever wine is left in the cellar.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Michael will find it very different,’ he said, reluctant to let her go, disapproval in every line. She knew how he was. That he never got involved.

  ‘That’s the point of a holiday,’ she said and—for the first time since he’d known her—she refused the opportunity to talk at length about her son, about anything and left him standing on his doorstep.

  He closed the door, opened the envelope, took out the drawing and traced every line of Natasha’s spicy sweet sleeping body with his finger.

  Sated, replete, every desire satisfied…

  ‘Not just you, Sugarlips,’ he murmured. ‘Not just you.’

  *

  Natasha opened her eyes and lay quite still, not sure for a moment where she was. Then, as everything came into focus and she saw the distant hills through a tall window, she remembered. She was at Hadley Chase, lying in the bed that Darius Hadley had slept in as a boy.

  She’d crawled into it some time after midnight, every limb aching, too exhausted to bother with the curtains—nothing but a passing owl would see her—and curled into his pillow, wishing he was there with her.

  No chance.

  For a while she’d been warmed by the fact that he’d asked the security people to check on her, bring her something hot to eat—he must have known that the old range cooker wouldn’t deliver on day one—and she had sent a text, thanking him. Nothing fancy.

  Thanks for supper. Most welcome. T

  No more, no less than any well brought-up woman would do.

  There was no response. Of course not. You didn’t expect a reply to a bread-and-butter thank-you note. The food, she reminded herself, had been no more than a courtesy. She might have mortally offended his sense of honour, but she had organised a freebie clean-up of his house: noblesse oblige and all that.

  She reached for her phone, kidding herself she was checking the time—hoping that he might have unbent sufficiently to ask if she was okay in the empty silence of the night.

  Nothing. No texts. No missed calls.

  She sighed, rolled out of bed, winced a little as she stood up. Her knees creaked and her shoulder hurt from all the stretching and bending and scrubbing, but at least there was hot water for a shower.

  She stoked up the oven, took a cup of tea out into the garden and sat on a bench beneath a climbing rose massed with creamy buds. A small muntjac doe with a tiny fawn wandered across the lawn within feet of her. She took a photograph with her phone and Tweeted it—there was nothing like cute animals to get a response—not forgetting to add the website URL.

  Her mother and sisters-in-law would arrive with a ton of food, she knew, but ten adults and eight children were going to take a lot of feeding so she headed to the village to make the day of the butcher and the couple who ran the village store and farm shop. Orders placed, she treated herself to coffee and a muffin at the pub while she took advantage of their free Wi-Fi to check her Facebook and Twitter pages.

  There were a couple of messages on Facebook asking her to get in touch, one from a publisher, the other from the features editor of a magazine, both asking her to ring them.

  They were both interested in Emma Hadley’s history of Hadley Chase so she invited them to the open house on Saturday. Maybe she should invite Freddie, the art dealer, too. If she could sell the book, the paintings and the house in one day she would become a legend.

  Meanwhile, acceptances to the open house were coming in; even the regional television news magazine were hoping to send a team. No response yet from the Country Chronicle despite personal notes to both the editor and the advertising manager who, in her opinion, owed Darius a two-page feature at the very least.

  She checked a missed call from her mother, a response to the text to her Dad. She’d left a voicemail expressing disbelief that her daughter had spent the night alone in a house that was miles from anywhere. If she’d known, if she’d told her, she stressed, she would have come on ahead of her father.

  Normally the suggestion that she couldn’t cope would have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself in total agreement. Last night, she would have totally welcomed her mother’s company. She was smiling at that thought when she realised that someone was standing on the far side of the table.

  Expecting it to be the girl wanting to clear her coffee, she said, ‘I’m done.’ Then, when she didn’t begin to clear she looked up and her heart stopped.

  ‘Darius…’ Her vocal cords seemed to be in some disarray, too. ‘I…um… How did you get here?’

  ‘I took a train to Swindon,’ he said, ‘and then caught the bus. Piece of cake.’

  He should have smiled then, but he didn’t.

  ‘You’ve still got Gary’s car,’ she said as her brain, buffering the emotion dump, the rush of sensations, images of him racing through her memory like a speeded-up film, finally caught up.

  ‘It needed servicing.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘you’re not just Darius Hadley, sculptor. You moonlight as Mike, the man who repairs cars while you wait.’

  Smile now. Smile, pull out a chair, sit down, tell me why you’re here. Please…

  ‘I spotted the Land Rover as I drove through the village.’ No smile. Still standing.

  ‘I’ve been organising supplies for the week and stopped to use the Wi-Fi.’ She gestured vaguely at the open laptop. ‘If you’re stopping, will you sit down? I’m getting a crick in my neck.’

  He pulled out the chair opposite and one of his knees brushed against hers as he sat down but he moved it before she could catch her breath and shift hers.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Could this be any more awkward?

  ‘I’ve…um…got a publisher interested in your grandmother’s history,’ she said, her legs trembling with the strain as she tucked her feet back as far as they would go so that she didn’t accidentally touch him.

  ‘Then my troubles are over.’

  Sarcasm she could do without. This she could do without.

  ‘Why are you here, Darius?’

  ‘Why did you send the drawing back?’

  Oh, shoot. That was so complicated, so mixed up, such an emotional reaction…

  ‘Why didn’t you just tear it up?’ he insisted, looking straight into her eyes. ‘Throw it in the trash with the teabags and potato peelings.’

  She blew out her cheeks, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It was a beautiful drawing, Darius. There was no way I could have destroyed it.’

  The truth, plain and simple.

  ‘You could have taken it to your friendly art dealer,’ he said.

  ‘Unsigned?’

  ‘With a letter from you as provenance, he would have snatched your hand off.’

  ‘No!’ Her protest was instinctive. She could never share such an intimate moment with Freddie, or any other art dealer.

  ‘You could have simply kept it,’ he persisted.

  ‘Something to shock the grandchildren?’

  It was the second time she’d offered him a chance to smile at the memory of an earlier, happier moment. For the second time he did not take it, but simply waited, demanding total honesty, the exposure of feelings she’d been unwilling to even think because once you’d thought them…

  ‘You left me something of yourself, Darius. A memory to treasure.’ Explaining this was like tearing away layers of flesh. Total exposure of the inner depths he talked about. But infinitely safer than thoughts that even now were rushing in. ‘I lost the right to anything so precious when I destroyed that with my lack of trust.’

  ‘Trust is a two-way thing, Natasha.’

  ‘You took me on trust, no qu
estions asked.’

  ‘That was business. This…’

  She’d asked herself what it had taken to build that impenetrable façade. What it would take to shatter it. Suddenly, in that hesitation, she had a glimpse into the darkness. Trust. It was all about trust.

  ‘This?’

  He shook his head. ‘You shared your past with me, Natasha, offered me the chance to open up to you, but I didn’t have your courage.’

  ‘No…’ She instinctively reached out a hand to him, grasped his fingers. ‘It’s hard. It wasn’t the moment. I understood.’

  ‘And I understand about the drawing. If it hadn’t mattered, you’d have either kept it as a souvenir of a hot night, or you’d have been checking out the value with Freddie Glover.’

  ‘If it hadn’t mattered,’ she replied, ‘you wouldn’t have been so angry.’

  And for a moment they both just sat there, looking at each other, aware that they had just crossed some line. Then he turned his hand beneath hers so that their fingers were interlocked.

  ‘I’ve been walking away from people since I was seventeen years old,’ he said. ‘I keep trying to walk away from you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Is there anything in the Land Rover that will spoil if it’s left for an hour or two?’ he asked, ignoring the question. She shook her head. He stood up, closed up her laptop and took it across to the bar. ‘Will you look after this, Peter?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s been a while, Darius.’

  ‘Too long,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘We’ll catch up later.’

  ‘Darius…’ she protested. ‘My entire life depends on my laptop!’

  ‘It’ll be safer there than left in the car. I’ll come back for them both later.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I walked away from Hadley Chase. I have to walk back.’ He’d reached the doorway, looked back, held out his hand to her. ‘Will you walk with me?’

  ‘Why me, Darius?’ she asked, taking it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and finally there was the hint of a smile. ‘Only that no one else will do.’

  He said nothing more until they were through the open gates of Hadley Chase and walking down the path that led to the river.