by Anne Mather
‘Oh, I—no, that’s all right.’ Tobie shook her head. ‘You go ahead. I’ll sunbathe for a while.’
‘Very well.’
Mrs Newman disappeared again as swiftly as she had come, and Tobie felt her new-found euphoria disappearing just as quickly. It obviously hadn’t taken his mother long to persuade Mark where his duty lay, and while Tobie had no objections to his playing tennis with Cilla, she couldn’t help wishing he had told her what he planned to do.
Then she sighed. She was being unreasonable. She had told Mark she was going to rest, and he had probably hesitated to disturb her. How would she have felt if she had been fast asleep and he had come knocking at her door, just to tell her he was going to play tennis with someone else?
She straightened her spine and sauntered determinedly across to the pool. That was what had happened, she decided firmly. Mark had only been thinking of her. So why did she have this irritating feeling that once again he had taken the easy way out?
Pressing her lips together, she swung round on her heels and surveyed the poolside area. It was like a scene from a movie, she thought cynically. Cushioned loungers, a swing couch, changing cabañas, and the glinting green waters of the pool itself. But how quickly her isolation began to pall!
Taking a deep breath, she walked to the top of the steps overlooking the courtyard below. Vines and bougainvillaea grew along the wall that separated the two levels, and there was a small waterfall tumbling into a rocky basin, that provided the cooling sound of running water.
Tilting her head, she looked up at the arc of sky above her. No clouds marred the translucence of the atmosphere, and the brilliance of the light made her eyes ache. Nothing living moved, and without the yacht lying in the harbour below her she could almost believe she was alone on the island.
Dropping her head again, she turned back towards the house, intending to go indoors and get the paperback novel she had brought with her. But halfway across the patio she halted once more, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the path that ran round the side of the house. It was the way to Robert’s studio. He had told her yesterday, and Cilla had gone that way this morning.
On impulse she strolled towards the path, glancing at the house as she did so, as if to assure herself that she was not being observed. It sloped slightly downwards as it circled the jutting wing of the main building and then disappeared from view beyond a clump of rose bushes. A tantalising challenge, and one she was powerless to resist.
Why not? she asked herself impatiently, as she started along the path, which was wide enough to take Robert’s wheelchair. She needn’t go right along it. As soon as she saw Robert’s studio she would turn back, and if he saw her, what could he say? She could always pretend she had come along in all innocence, and he was unlikely to call her a liar.
She caught her dress on the rose bushes, and scratched her arm freeing herself, which didn’t please her. She thought, rather resentfully, that Robert might have had the decency to keep the way clear, and then grimaced at her own audacity. After all, he hadn’t invited her to come along here, and no doubt Cilla managed without accident. But then Cilla was small and slim and unlikely to wear something so unsuitable to come calling.
The path eventually opened out before a single-storied extension that was almost completely made of glass. Long, sloping panels had been let into the roof, and the walls from floor to ceiling were sheets of plate glass. It was completely private. There was no access, other than by the way she had come, and below the wide courtyard the ground fell away steeply to the rocks beneath.
Tobie hesitated. The place seemed deserted, and for the first time she wondered if Robert had gone with his half-brother and Cilla. It was possible—no, it was probable. After all, Cilla must have been with Robert when they got back after lunch, and Mrs Newman was unlikely to have been so tactless as to suggest that Cilla abandoned Robert to play tennis with the fitter man.
With a sigh of frustration Tobie crossed the flat stones to stare dispiritedly through the windows of the studio. It was like the studio Robert had had in London. Lots of canvases, finished and unfinished, were stacked against the walls. There were tubes of paint, tins of varnish, jars containing dozens of brushes and knives. An easel was propped in the middle of the floor, with a sheet draped over it, which seemed to indicate, as Cilla had said, that he wasn’t working on anything at the moment, and the stool he apparently used to sit on was standing forlornly before it. It reminded her poignantly of how close they had once been, of the times she had insisted on tidying up his studio, and of his mocking response to her spurts of housewifely zeal. They had usually ended in his making love to her, and her desire for industry had been replaced by her eager desire for him, and the demanding hunger of his possession …
The sound of someone coming aroused Tobie to an uneasy awareness of her surroundings. She guessed it must be Mrs Newman, who had observed her trespass, and she looked about her desperately, searching for somewhere to hide. She could imagine the other woman’s scathing comments if she found her peering in her son’s studio, and it would be doubly embarrassing if she confided as much to Robert himself.
But there was nowhere to hide, and she was standing there feeling ridiculously chastened, when a tall, jeanclad figure came around the comer. It was not Mrs Newman, it was Robert himself, propelling himself firmly with two sticks, and her face flamed at the thought of what he must be thinking.
He halted abruptly when he saw her by the studio windows, and she wished, ridiculously, that she was one of those helpless feminine women who could get away with anything by assuming innocence. If she could have pretended she had lost her way, or feigned ignorance of her whereabouts, she might have got away with it, even if they both knew that she was lying. But she wasn’t able to do that. Dissembling did not come easy to her, and she simply wasn’t the type to plead weakness.
So she straightened determinedly, and adopting a confident smile, said: ‘Hello there! I hope you don’t mind, but I was curious to see where you worked.’
Robert remained stationary for a few seconds longer, and then with an indifferent shrug he came towards her. Tobie suspected he would prefer her to avert her gaze from the inco-ordination of his movements, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away, and his mouth hardened as he covered the space between them. However, he didn’t stop to speak to her. He went past her, propping his sticks against the wall as he unlocked the studio, sliding the door aside before turning his head to look at her.
‘You’d better come in, hadn’t you?’ he suggested, his voice without expression, and with some misgivings she complied.
The smell was achingly familiar, that mingling of oils and resin, paint and canvas, that reminded her of the skill and effort he had always put into his work. She had always found it exciting that the hands which had held her and caressed her and aroused such wanton emotions inside her could create such inspirational masterpieces of art. Those long narrow-boned fingers possessed intelligence and sensitivity, and he had used both when he was making love to her.
‘I—I thought perhaps you’d gone with Mark and Cilla,’ Tobie ventured now, as Robert supported himself against a paint-smeared table, and his mouth took on a sardonic twist.
‘Unfortunately, as you can see, I’m not much good on a tennis court,’ he returned dryly, and Tobie felt her colour deepening.
‘I—I didn’t mean—’
‘I know.’ There was impatience in the response. ‘However, I find no pleasure in watching two people chase a ball around a court, and besides, like you, I preferred my own company.’
Tobie lifted her head. ‘Is that meant to be insulting?’
‘No.’ He shrugged his lean shoulders. ‘Just a statement of fact.’
‘You didn’t feel that way this morning,’ Tobie countered, allowing her fingers to pluck at the corner of a rolled canvas, and he gave her a searching look.
‘I wasn’t aware my activities were the focus of so much scrutiny,’ he commented pointedly. ‘How
ever, if you’re referring to Cilla Jennings, you’re right. She’s an undemanding little soul, and she has this desperate need to make herself indispensable to everyone.’
Not to everyone, thought Tobie tightly, but she couldn’t say so.
‘She seems a nice girl,’ she said instead, moving away from the door to examine a half-finished canvas, propped carelessly against the far wall. ‘This is good. Aren’t you going to finish it?’
‘It’s a mess,’ retorted Robert dispassionately. ‘I thought you said you knew about painting. The colouring has no depth, and the texture of the subject’s skin is all wrong.’
‘I didn’t say I knew about painting,’ Tobie contradicted hotly. ‘You said—’
‘Well, never mind.’ Robert pushed back an errant strand of his thick dark hair with an impatient hand. ‘And so far as Cilla is concerned, she is a nice girl. She has a lonely life at home, with only her father for company. She seems to enjoy coming here. No doubt even the companionship of a middle-aged paraplegic is better than nothing.’
‘You’re neither middle-aged nor a paraplegic!’ exclaimed Tobie, without thinking, scrambling to her feet to face him angrily. ‘And you don’t believe that any more than I do!’
‘No?’ Robert’s heavy-lidded eyes held hers fast. ‘And what would you know about it?’
Tobie endeavoured to repair the damage done by her impetuous tongue. ‘What I meant to say was—’
‘I think you’ve said quite enough,’ he interrupted her curtly. ‘Perhaps I ought to ask why you’re not keeping your fiancé company, instead of wasting my time!’
Tobie’s face burned. ‘Is that what you think?’ she exclaimed, shaken by his unexpected cruelty. ‘That—that I’m wasting your time?’ Her lips trembled and she struggled to control them. Almost blindly she turned towards the door. ‘Well, never let it be said that I—’
‘Wait! Tobie, wait!’ His exasperated use of her name arrested her, and he repeated it again as he dragged himself across the floor to where she was standing. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t true. You’re not wasting my time. I didn’t plan to work this afternoon anyway.’
‘Didn’t you?’ She turned to find him right behind her, and his nearness was an assault on her already disturbed senses. He was supporting himself without his sticks, and in spite of her heels he was still a couple of inches taller than she was, lean and dark and disruptively attractive, the opened neck of his shirt emitting an odour of warmth and cleanliness, and unmistakable maleness.
‘No, I didn’t,’ he agreed brusquely. ‘I was just being thoroughly objectionable. I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.’
Her feelings! Dear God, did he have any idea what he was doing to her feelings standing near her like this? she wondered faintly. His body was a mere handsbreadth from hers, and her hands itched to reach out and make contact. She had actually to clench them at her sides to prevent herself from doing so, and her breathing felt constricted as she fought frantically to remain calm. But it wasn’t easy when she was this close to him, and all the remembered intimacy they had shared enveloped her in its tenuous threads.
‘Look, let me make amends,’ he offered quietly. ‘Let me show you a little of my island, hmm? I doubt Mark’s had the time yet to take you to Lotus Point, has he?’
Tobie’s hands sought the sliding door behind her, pressing it aside so that she could step backward into the courtyard. ‘I really think I ought to go back to the house,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘M-Mark will be home soon. He may wonder where I am.’
‘Mark won’t be home before dark,’ retorted Robert flatly, reaching for his sticks. ‘I know the Jennings, and Harvey won’t let him go without offering some refreshment.’
‘Your—your mother said he’d be back before dinner,’ Tobie insisted.
‘Doubtless he will. But as dinner isn’t until eight o’clock, you’ll agree he has plenty of time.’
Tobie bent her head. ‘You really want me to come with you?’
Robert hesitated. ‘I invited you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes—’
‘If what you’re trying to say is that you’d rather not go, come right out and say it,’ he remarked dryly. ‘I won’t be offended. I promise.’
Tobie’s head jerked up. ‘You have no reason for thinking that,’ she protested, and he stepped out on to the square stones of the courtyard.
‘Haven’t I?’ His tone had hardened slightly, but as if he was determined not to have any further argument with her, he became persuasive once more. ‘Very well, then. The least I can do is entertain Mark’s girl-friend in his absence. Do you want to come or don’t you?’
Tobie drew an unsteady breath. ‘Does—does Henri drive you?’
‘No.’ Now Robert’s face darkened with colour. ‘I drive myself,’ he retorted tersely. ‘I’m normally quite reliable. The jeep is fitted with hand controis, and I usually manage to curb my desire for speed. Does that reassure you? Or does my present condition disprove that theory?’
Tobie moved her shoulders helplessly. ‘All right, I’ll come.’
‘Thank you.’
Robert’s lips twisted in self-mockery as she turned away, and she had the instinctive belief that she should not have given in to him.
She was half afraid she might meet his mother as she ran back to the house for her sunglasses. The last thing she wanted right now was that woman’s piercing regard penetrating her crumbling defences, exposing the sudden vulnerability of her emotions. She had never expected to find herself in a situation where she might actually feel sorry for Robert, and perhaps she owed him something for the good times they had shared. If they could be friends, and not enemies, she might conceivably find with Mark the happiness she knew he wanted to give her.
Happily, Mrs Newman’s rooms were in a different wing of the house, and no one but Monique was about when she came downstairs again. The black maid gave her her white-toothed grin, and then asked whether she would like tea.
‘Not right now, Monique, thank you,’ Tobie refused politely. ‘I’m going out with Mr Lang. Would you tell Mr Newman where I am if he comes back?’
‘Sure thing, Miss Kennedy.’ Monique’s Americanisms were indicative of the amount of television she watched. ‘Have a good day!’
‘Thank you.’
Tobie smiled, and hastened across the patio, and the fact that she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since breakfast didn’t occur to her.
The beach buggy that she and Mark had used the previous afternoon was parked at the foot of the steps with Robert behind the wheel. She guessed he found an immense difference in driving this small utility to the expensive sports cars he had once favoured, but he handled both with the same skill. Except on that one occasion, she thought regretfully, as he drove smoothly out on to the road.
The air was cooler as the heat of the day subsided, and it was deliciously refreshing, feeling the breeze tugging at her hair. They might have been any young couple out for a drive, she mused, as she speculated on the premise of how deceptive appearances could be. And instead of two ordinary people, enjoying an afternoon outing, they were protagonists in a lurid melodrama, with all the characters playing different roles, each of them knowing their own lines, but no one else’s. It was a kind of method play, governed by audience participation, with the outcome always in doubt.
‘You’re very quiet.’
Robert’s remark was accompanied by a swift sideways glance, and Tobie endeavoured to shed the disturbing melancholia that had gripped her.
‘I was just thinking,’ she murmured, pushing her dark glasses further up her nose. ‘Isn’t that the way to the cove Mark took me to this morning?’
‘That’s right.’ Robert barely glanced at the track, that wound around the thickly-wooded hillside and down to the tiny bay, before returning to his theme. ‘What were you thinking about? You seemed very solemn.’
‘Oh…’ Tobie put up a nervous hand to her hair, ‘nothing in
particular. I guess I was just dreaming. It’s so beautiful here. I envy you.’
‘Do you?’ Robert’s tone was sardonic. ‘I doubt you do.’ He ran a knowing hand over his thigh. ‘I can’t believe you’d want to give up your freedom for this.’
She sighed. ‘I meant I envied you the island, you know that. Besides,’ she licked her dry lips, ‘you’re obviously improving. You’ll probably be walking without sticks before long—’
No!’ His denial was harsh and abrupt. ‘No, that’s not possible.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, sure, I’ve learned to stand on my own two feet again, and no one has to carry me around like a baby any more. But there’s only so much one can do, so far one can go. And I guess I’ve reached my limit.’
‘So why don’t you want your mother and Mark to know?’ asked Tobie, before she could prevent herself. ‘I mean, they care about you, don’t they? Don’t you think they have a right to know?’
Robert’s long fingers curved around the wheel. ‘That’s my affair,’ he replied tautly, and she realised she had overstepped herself once more.
The wildness of the interior of the island gave way once again to sun-bleached rocks and coral sands, and Robert drove down a twisting track to a promontory of land that projected into the sea, like a horny finger pointing towards the reef. ‘Lotus Point,’ he observed, without expression, and brought the buggy to a standstill above a shelving, ragged coastline.
Tobie glanced at his set face, and then, feeling restless, she climbed out of the vehicle. The breeze was much stronger here, bending the twisted boles of a sprawling cypress, magnifying the cries of the gulls and the constant thunder of the surf on the reef. It was a lonely place, less civilised in appearance than those parts of the island she had seen so far, and yet as beautiful in its way as the calmer waters of the lagoon.
Robert had pulled out a pack of narrow cigars, and she heard the flick of his lighter as he applied the flame. She was reluctant to intrude upon his chosen isolation, and leaving the buggy, she walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down.
