He watched her struggle, but resisted the temptation to get out and open her door. It was clearly important to her to do it herself. Instead, he leaned across and pulled at the stiff catch.
Rosie tutted. ‘I could have managed.’
‘Alex found it too stiff to open last night.’
‘Oh.’
She got out and straightened in the stiff breeze. ‘Goodbye, then, sweetheart. Be careful.’
‘What about tonight?’ Nick asked. ‘What time shall I pick you up?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ll ring if I need a lift. I’ll probably be able to get one of my friends to drop me off.’
She lifted a hand to bid him goodbye, and was turning away when he called, ‘Rosie!’
She wheeled round.
‘You forgot this.’ He was holding her walking-stick. He could see she was about to snap that she didn’t need it when a strong gust caught her and propelled her towards the car. Rather than admit she had lost her footing, she tripped forward and took the stick from him. She reminded him of a cat who, having just fallen off a wall, completes the exercise with a jump into the air that implies ‘I meant to do that all along.’
‘Hmph,’ she said, and waved it at him, then walked off to the academy.
He slumped back in his seat and heaved a sigh. He hoped to God they wouldn’t take her out on the water on a day like this.
‘“I do not attempt to deny,” said she, “that I think very highly of him – that I greatly esteem, that I like him.” Marianne here burst forth with indignation – “Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room this moment.”’ Alex paused and looked out of the window thoughtfully.
‘Go on!’ pleaded Victoria.
‘Mmm?’ Alex answered, distracted.
‘Carry on with the story.’
Alex turned to her. ‘Do you mind if we don’t? Could we have a break for a minute?’
‘But I want to know what Elinor says. If she really loves Edward or just likes him.’
‘Yes.’ Alex was already gazing out of the window again.
‘Please!’
Alex turned back to the book: ‘“Excuse me,” said she, “and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.”’
‘What’s partiality?’
‘Mmm?’
‘What does partiality mean?’
‘It means . . . fondness.’
‘You mean she fancies him?’
‘Probably. Now, shall we go out and get a breath of air? I think the wind is dropping.’
The man at the bank took the package with little ceremony and assured Nick that he could have it back whenever he wanted. It was a weight off his mind to know that the diamond was somewhere safe, but he still worried about Rosie – not just because she might now be one of those in peril on the sea, but also because of her mental stability. He was not sure that converting money into diamonds was a particularly sensible course of action. From what he had read, the diamond and gold markets were more volatile than bank interest rates, not less so, as Rosie had suggested. But what worried him even more was the possibility that his father was involving his own mother in some kind of scam. If only he would answer his bloody phone. Where the hell was he?
Henry was moving pictures. The last few days had seen quite a run on stock, and he was filling the gaps between the original works with a few signed prints of J-class yachts in full sail, creaming their way across the Solent. He didn’t care for them much: when you’d seen one depiction of Velsheda edging ahead of Shamrock against a pale blue sky and fluffy clouds, or Endeavour chasing Britannia off the Royal Yacht Squadron, you’d seen them all. But the public had a voracious appetite for them. Thankfully.
He was humming to himself as he positioned the paintings, reminding himself that the only reason he had to do so was because he had had a good week. When the doorbell pinged and Nick walked in he was well disposed enough to offer him a glass of claret.
‘God, no! Not at this time of day.’
Henry looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost lunchtime.’
Nick checked. ‘Eleven thirty is not lunchtime.’
‘Elevenses, then.’
‘A coffee would be good.’
‘Suit yourself, dear boy.’ Henry shrugged and disappeared into the stock room to put the kettle on.
Nick eyed the walls and saw the preponderance of prints. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting some more?’
‘Dead right I will,’ replied Henry, to the sound of running water.
‘Is there any chance of a cheque as well?’ enquired Nick, the merest hint of irony in his voice.
‘Ah. Will tomorrow do?’
‘Henry!’
Henry reappeared. ‘Cash-flow.’
‘Yours might be difficult but mine’s non-existent.’ Then he thought of the diamond.
‘Why you artists have to eat is beyond me. You can’t understand that your work is so much more attractive if you’re starving and look emaciated. Couldn’t you lose a few pounds and forget to shave for a day or two? I’d get more for your paintings.’
‘But nobody who buys them knows what I look like.’
‘Don’t split hairs.’
The kettle whistled. As Henry went to make the coffee he offered an olive branch. ‘How about five hundred? I can give you some more next week.’
‘Oh, all right, then. As long as you do.’
‘Trouble is, I’ve got another mouth to feed now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Alex’s have sold well. I shall have to ask her to up her output.’
‘She’ll be pleased.’
‘Oh, she is.’
‘You’ve seen her, then?’
‘Left just before you arrived. With the kiddie in tow. Sweet little girl. Asked if I’d like her to do some paintings, too. She brought me one as a sample.’ He came through from the back room with a sheet of A4 paper on which were stuck shells, sand and feathers. ‘To Henry from Victoria,’ it said.
‘Might become a cult,’ said Nick.
‘Might win the Turner prize,’ countered Henry.
‘No,’ argued Nick. ‘You can see what it’s meant to be.’
Henry grinned. ‘You’re in a good mood, in spite of a lack of funds.’ He pulled his cheque book out of his desk drawer and scribbled. ‘Here you are. Don’t –’
‘– spend it all at once.’
Henry went back for the coffee, and Nick shouted after him, trying to sound offhand. ‘Alex OK?’
‘Well, you should know.’ He came back with two mugs.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were with her last night, she said.’
‘Well . . . yes . . . but I just wondered if she was OK today.’
‘Shouldn’t she be?’
Henry was winding him up, and Nick knew it.
Henry relented. ‘She was fine.’ And then, with a glint in his eye, ‘If a bit subdued.’
Nick sipped his coffee calmly. ‘Probably because of the weather – not good for painting.’
‘Very likely.’ Then he went in for the kill: ‘Are you two . . . er . . . I think the expression is “an item”?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve only known each other a week.’
‘Is that all? God, doesn’t time fly when you’re selling a lot of paintings?’
‘Henry!’
‘Sorry. Only a friendly enquiry.’ And then, under his breath, ‘I’ve known people to marry quicker than that.’
‘Yes, and how long did it last?’
‘In my parents’ case, it was forty-three years before my dad decided he’d had enough.’
&nb
sp; ‘He ran off?’
‘Ran out of breath. Died of a heart-attack.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘No, no. Too long ago for that. My mum married again in her seventies. She’s still going strong. Seen off the second husband, though. Reckons that men today have no stamina. Tough, these old birds, aren’t they?’
‘You can say that again.’
Henry looked reflective. ‘Your granny’s an amazing old girl.’
‘Don’t let her hear you say that.’
‘Doesn’t she like being called an old girl, then?’
‘She wouldn’t like the “old” bit. I don’t think it’s a word she includes in her vocabulary.’
‘Well, I have to tell you, young Nick, that I reckon she’s a bit of a star, and if she was ten years younger I’d be making a play for her.’
‘Ten years?’ Nick looked at him with incredulity. ‘How old do you think she is, then?’
‘Getting on for seventy?’
‘Ha!’
‘Late sixties?’
Nick shook his head. ‘Wrong way.’
‘Older?’
‘Much. Eighty-seven.’
Henry sat down at his desk with a thump. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Nope. Born in 1917.’
‘Well, bugger me.’
Nick grinned. ‘I’ll take that as an expletive rather than an invitation.’
‘She’s amazing for her age.’
‘I know. Refuses to lie down. Mind you, I do wonder . . . if she had the opportunity . . .’ Then he looked serious. ‘Look, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell her I told you her age, will you? She’d skin me alive.’
Henry came out of his reverie. ‘Of course not. Well, I’m blowed. Eighty-seven! Old enough to be my mother.’ His face bore a look that quite clearly indicated his disappointment. The sort of disappointment that comes when dreams are overtaken by reality.
16
Schoolgirl
In my opinion, rather overrated.
Victoria was unsure of her mother’s mood, and when you’re trying to persuade a parent to buy you something, you need to be certain that your strategy is going to work. She had decided that she, too, was an artist, but rather than accepting the box of poster paints her mother was prepared to buy her, she had set her heart on a watercolour outfit in a varnished wooden box. She knew that now was not the moment to admit this, and declined what she considered the childish compromise. She settled instead for a guidebook to the Isle of Wight so that she could get to know it better. And, hopefully, find somewhere to live.
Alex, knowing that her daughter’s intransigence could be epic when she put her mind to it, bought the modestly priced guidebook without demur and resigned herself to the fact that something was clearly brewing.
‘Where are we?’ Victoria asked, as she pored over the map of the lozenge-shaped island.
Alex peered over her shoulder. ‘Here.’ She pointed to the bottom right-hand corner.
‘And where is Nick?’
‘Here.’ Alex indicated the northernmost tip.
‘How far away is that?’
‘Well, look at the scale. There you are – that line. Five miles is about as long as . . . your finger. How many fingers between here and there?’
Victoria stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, the better to concentrate, and measured the map with her finger. ‘Three.’
‘Which means we are how many miles away?’
‘I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘Well?’
‘Fifteen miles. Is that close?’
‘Fairly.’
‘What about you and Nick?’ she asked casually, as she folded up the map. ‘Are you close?’
Her mother decided attack was the best form of defence. ‘Don’t be so nosy.’
‘I’m not nosy, just curious.’
‘I think he’s a very nice man, that’s all. And I’ve only just met him.’
Victoria folded her arms. ‘Honestly, you’re like Elinor Dashwood.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. That story was written nearly two hundred years ago and this is the twenty-first century.’
Victoria gave her a quizzical look. ‘It’s funny how some things don’t change, isn’t it?’
The Red Duster was unusually busy, but Henry, having forewarned his friend the landlord of their arrival, had secured a table in the far corner of the bar, albeit with only one chair. He squeezed round it, lowered himself and the bottle of St Émilion into place, then motioned to Nick that he should grab the chair that had just been vacated by a boat-builder.
With a pint of hand-pulled in one fist and a piece of bentwood furniture in the other, Nick elbowed his way through a Gore-Tex clad group of yachties and eased himself opposite his patron.
They had barely begun to converse when a voice cut through the crowd. ‘Sorry! Thank you so much. Yes – thank you. Excuse me!’ And there she was, standing before them, with a gin and tonic.
Rosie smiled at Henry, who attempted unsuccessfully to stand up. He bowed over the claret and indicated the chair that Nick was putting down. ‘Dear lady!’ he exclaimed, with a half-excited, half-wistful expression on his face. ‘What are you doing here? Afternoon off?’
‘Oh, no. Just a lunch-break. Too lumpy out on the water. Bit of a swell. We might capsize. They’ve brought us to see some special boats that they make here.’
Having given away his seat, Nick had been swept aside by a tide of mariners fresh from a morning’s sail and desperate for a pint.
‘Everything OK, then?’ he asked, temporarily becalmed in the centre of the room.
‘Fine, dear. Henry will take care of me, won’t you, Henry?’
‘Of course. My pleasure.’ Henry laid a large hand over hers. ‘So, what’s it to be? Lamb hot-pot or red snapper?’
‘Oh, the snapper, I think. Sounds so much more sparky, doesn’t it?’
‘A bit like you,’ offered Henry, with a roguish tilt of his head.
Nick raised his eyes heavenward and drained his glass.
Nick sat at his mitre block, finishing off a couple of frames for a pair of watercolours he had completed, and listened to Rosie drying the dishes and humming.
She seemed calmer now, almost like the old Rosie. Then she put her head through the doorway of the tiny room and asked, ‘Coffee?’
He turned to answer her, and saw that, although she was smiling, her eyes were filled with tears. ‘Hey!’ He got up, and enfolded her in his arms. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that . . . Oh, I’m so silly . . .’ She pulled a tissue from the pocket of the pink sailing trousers she had taken to wearing in the evenings.
Nick released her and stood back to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s just that I don’t remember being so happy in a long time.’
‘That’s not silly, that’s lovely.’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘What do you mean you suppose? Of course it is.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Is it to do with Henry?’
‘Oh, no, not really. Well, maybe a bit. He’s very attentive.’
Nick grinned. ‘Yes.’
‘Only he believes I’m younger than I really am.’
‘You think so?’ Warning bells rang.
‘Oh, I know so.’
Nick tried to sound casual. ‘How can you be sure?’
Rosie looked away. ‘Because I told him I was sixty-nine.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, I know it was silly of me but . . . he was so nice, and I didn’t want him to think I was some senile old woman.’
‘But sixty-nine!’
‘That would make me only eleven years older than him, and it’s not too much of an age gap, is it?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
She seemed anxious now, and met his gaze. ‘You won’t tell him the truth, will you?’
Nick was cornered. ‘Is it important?’
‘It is to me.’
<
br /> ‘And you think Henry’s interested?’
‘I know he is. He’s asked me out on Friday night.’
‘Oh?’
‘But I can’t go. It’s the final evening at the sailing academy. We’re all going out for a drink.’
‘I see.’ Nick was trying to keep a straight face. ‘Couldn’t you go out for a meal afterwards?’
‘Well, yes, I am. But not with Henry.’
Just for a moment, Nick felt like the father of a teenage daughter who was enquiring after her movements. ‘Who with, then?’
‘There’s another man at the sailing academy. He’s single, too. In his sixties.’
‘And have you told him how old you are?’
‘I said I was sixty-six,’ Rosie said sheepishly.
At ten o’clock Nick tapped on her bedroom door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’
He opened the door and peeped in. She was tucked up under her duvet, with just her head visible; her hair was encased in a swathe of pink net. ‘You’re not to laugh at me but it keeps my hair tidy – I haven’t been to the hairdresser’s in a week.’
‘And you can’t let your men down,’ teased Nick.
‘Of course not.’ She pushed herself up a little, and Nick spotted the lace on her nightie. She was elegant even in bed. ‘I’m sorry about tonight,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘For being all those things that I try not to be.’
‘Such as?’
‘A stupid old woman. Mutton done up as lamb.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He sat on the edge of her bed. ‘And, anyway, they don’t sell mutton any more.’
‘No. Maybe that’s why the market for lamb has increased.’ She winked at him.
Nick shook his head. ‘You know, I still don’t understand you. You’re supposed to be out of touch and helpless, and here you are on a sailing course with people half your age . . .’
‘Be careful!’ she admonished him.
‘. . . but you hold your own in conversation with anyone and line up dinner dates like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘Well, there might not be.’ Rosie laughed. ‘You are funny.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You. You’re thirty-nine and far more staid than I am.’
‘I’m not staid, just cautious.’
‘There’s a difference?’
Rosie Page 11
