Seascape

by Anne Weale

  ‘It was one of the things I wanted to be. This isn’t quite finished. How about making some tea while I finish it off?’

  ‘Of course. Indian or China?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer.’

  While she was in the kitchen, he tapped on the window. When she opened it, he said, ‘If you’ll give me the key to the shed, I’ll get out a couple of deckchairs.’

  After passing him the key, she watched him walking away. With some very tall men their height was mostly in the length of their legs. Others had overlong bodies. She had seen few as well-proportioned as Xan. She found herself wondering what he looked like without clothes and how he kept himself fit. She couldn’t visualise him pumping iron in one of the expensive health clubs where City men went to work out. Perhaps regular swimming gave him those limber movements, or he might run in one of the parks or when he was at his country place.

  Disappearing into the creeper-covered shed at one side of the garden, he emerged a few moments later carrying two ancient deckchairs in one hand as easily as if they were a couple of lightweight drawing-boards.

  Not wishing to be caught watching him, Kate turned away to pour boiling water into the Chinese teapot which was one of her treasures.

  Xan, when he tasted the tea, said, ‘What is this? It tastes of peaches.’

  ‘Do you like it? If you don’t, I can make you some ordinary.’

  ‘No, it’s good. Is it herbal?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s Formosa oolong from Taiwan. When I was about twelve or thirteen, on Saturday mornings I used to run errands for an old man who was housebound. He’d been born and lived in the East. His house was full of things he’d brought back. He drank this tea from cups so fine you could see your fingers through them. He told me oolong comes from the Chinese wu lung, meaning black dragon. If I hadn’t known him, I’d probably have gone through life using supermarket teabags and not realising there were all kinds of interesting alternatives.’

  ‘Oh, yes, life is full of interesting alternatives. The problem is finding the time to try them all out,’ said Xan. Talking of problems, last night and this morning I made exhaustive efforts to find a substitute tutor. But no joy, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I was never very hopeful. Oh, well, I’ll have to ring round the Crete group and tell them it’s had to be called off.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ll come,’ he said.

  She stared at him. Surely he couldn’t mean ...?

  ‘It so happens that I don’t have any cast-iron commitments between those dates,’ he went on. ‘And Chaniá sounds an interesting place.’

  Kate’s eyes widened disbelievingly. Could he be serious? Although the idea had crossed her mind, she had instantly dismissed it as untenable.

  There were many professional painters who shared their skills with pupils, but usually they were in the second rank of artists, not major names like Xan. In view of his apparent indifference to his grandmother, his proposal was astounding. Unless, at heart, he was a nicer person than Kate’s first impression of him, and Nerina’s illness had revived some vestiges of affection for her.

  ‘Well...that’s marvellous. That’s a huge weight off my mind,’ she said eventually.

  But even as she spoke she was aware that underlying her relief on behalf of thirteen Palette clients lay a curious sense of dismay. As if somehow their peace of mind, which now would remain undisturbed, had been bought at the cost of her own. Although being responsible for their welfare didn’t worry her, the thought of two weeks abroad in the company of Xan Walcott was not a relaxing prospect.

  ‘Do I detect some reservations?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘Do you doubt my ability to do the job?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all,’ she said hastily. ‘I—I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll do it brilliantly. I just hope you won’t find it ... boring.’

  ‘Then you must make sure I don’t, mustn’t you?’ he answered, with a rather enigmatic smile. ‘May I use your telephone?’

  ‘Of course.’

  While he telephoned, she washed up the tea things, pondering his last remark and what he might have meant by it. She was peeling off the rubber gloves she wore for all household chores when Xan joined her in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the Angel. We have a lot to discuss. I said we’d be there at seven which gives you plenty of time to bath and change while I stretch my legs. See you later.’

  Ducking his head to avoid a lintel built to clear the heads of most men but not someone of his height, he disappeared out of the back door.

  The Angel, ten miles away, had once been an ordinary pub but now featured in most of the guides to good eating places. Kate had never been there. It was expensive, a place where people celebrated birthdays and wedding anniversaries, but where only the rich and extravagant would eat on ordinary occasions. Fortunately for the couple who had built up the Angel’s reputation, their ‘special occasion’ trade was enough to keep them solvent when many of the lavish spenders had to cut back.

  While Xan went for a walk, Kate debated disinterring one of her London outfits from the suitcases in the loft. In the end she decided not to bother. She knew local people dressed up to go to the Angel, but sophisticated weekenders wouldn’t. Good as the food was, it was still a country pub. Clean jeans and a new mail-ordered needlecord shirt would be perfectly suitable.

  The shirt was the colour of chamois leather, chosen to set off her hair. She cinched her jeans with a silver-tipped belt, tied a silk kerchief round her throat and added silver hoop earrings.

  It was ridiculous, she told herself, to be keyed up because she was going out to supper with Xan Walcott. She ought to be thinking about Robert and whether she wanted to continue on the way their relationship was heading.

  If she had been dining with him tonight, it was possible he would have asked her to marry him. She could see that coming as clearly as she could see the sun sinking behind the woods to the west of the cottage. A proposal was now as inevitable as tonight’s dusk and tomorrow’s daybreak.

  Robert was past the age for impulsive or trial loveaffairs. He was in settling-down mode, ready to start the large family doctors always seemed to have. She wanted that too: a home, children, but most of all one special man to love and be loved by. But was Robert the man for her? Could she be happy with him for the rest of her life? Because when she married she wanted it to be forever.

  So did everyone, probably. But some people made crazy choices. She had friends in London whose breakups had been predictable from the start. They had been in love but they hadn’t been friends with their partners. Or they had been compatible, but lacking that extra spark that kept love alive for a lifetime. That was what she was looking for: the special fusion of passion and friendship which was indestructible.

  She was sitting on the end of her bed, lost in thought, when she heard Xan calling her from below. She checked the contents of her shoulder-bag and went down to join him.

  ‘I shall go to Chaniá a few days ahead of the rest of you to get the feel of the place and select the most paintable subjects,’ he said, an hour later, leaning back in his chair on the opposite side of their table in a secluded corner of the Angel’s dining-room.

  They had finished their main course and were waiting for the pudding trolley to be brought to her and the cheeseboard to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s much too late to change the flight arrangements,’ said Kate. ‘By booking ahead we get a favourable price. I can’t cancel Miss Walcott’s ticket at this stage.’

  ‘Whether you can or can’t, I shan’t be using it,’ he said decisively. ‘I never fly tourist now. They don’t allow enough leg-room for people of my size. When I was young and hard up, I had no option but to sit with my knees rammed against the seat in front. Not any more. But don’t worry: I don’t expect Palette to fund any extra expenses. I’ll pay for my comforts out of my own pocket.’

  Although he had told her earlier they had a lot to discuss, this was the first time the
trip to Crete had come up.

  Since their arrival at the Angel, Xan had steered the conversation in other directions and Kate had found herself enjoying his company as much as the excellence of the food.

  He had started his meal with a spicy mango soup followed by lamb cooked in a crunchy crust of yogurt. She had begun with smoked trout mousse followed by artichoke hearts parcelled in filo pastry and served with broccoli and red peppers.

  The wine had been his choice: a full-bodied golden Gewürztraminer she had assumed came from Germany but which Xan had discovered while painting in the Vosges foothills. It smelt sweet, but tasted dry and was, she noticed, extremely potent. The label said fourteen per cent alcohol.

  When the Angel’s proprietor would have replenished his glass while Xan was choosing his cheese, he shook his head. ‘I’m driving.’

  He had had three glasses of wine to Kate’s two and her glass was not yet empty. Although she liked wine and this one had been a particularly good partner to her fish, she wanted to keep a clear head. To prevent her glass being topped up, she held her fingers above it.

  Both men seemed surprised by her gesture.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ Xan asked her.

  ‘It’s delicious, but quite strong. You have to drive back to London and I have some accounts to go through.’ As the pudding trolley arrived, she added, ‘Tempting as they are, I don’t think I can manage any of these after all.’

  ‘But you will have coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Are you always so disciplined?’ he asked, when they were by themselves again. ‘Is that what keeps your skin clear and your waist slim ... an iron self-control?’

  ‘Eating and drinking aren’t my vices,’ she said lightly. ‘I binge in second-hand bookshops. I’ve been known to devour a novel in one non-stop night-long rave-read ... knowing it will make me look like a zombie the next day.’

  ‘There are better things to do in bed. What about them?’ he asked.

  She was taken aback and, for the first time in years, found herself blushing. After a pause, she lobbed the question back at him. ‘What about them?’

  His eyes were amused. ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘You may not mind your private life being made public. I’m more reserved,’ she said crisply.

  ‘Your reserve wouldn’t safeguard your privacy if your work attracted attention,’ he answered drily before the cafetière came, with a dish of chocolates and sugared almonds.

  Xan took from the pocket of his blazer a small book and the same type of fine-pointed pen Miss Walcott used for sketching. He began discreetly to draw a couple at another table.

  Kate helped herself to a chocolate. Neither she nor Nerina was a sweet-eater and it was a long time since chocolate had melted on her tongue. But not as long as the gap between Robert’s recent kiss and the one before it.

  Having rebuffed Xan’s curiosity about her love-life, she found herself wondering about his. She doubted if it was long since his last experience of sex. He exuded animal vitality and Kate had no doubt that, with his powerful body and long shapely artist’s hands, he would be an exciting lover. But would there be any tenderness in his caresses?

  The coffee was good, but after one cup he said, ‘I’ll take you home,’ and signalled his wish for the bill.

  There was a hint of impatience in the way he dealt with it, as if he wished himself elsewhere. She didn’t know why they had come. Certainly not for the purpose he had stated earlier. That had scarcely been mentioned.

  On the drive back to the cottage, she said, ‘It’s a great relief that the trip doesn’t have to be cancelled. I’m very grateful to you... as Miss Walcott will be, when she’s well enough to think ahead. As soon as she asks I’ll tell her. What would be even better would be for you to tell her yourself.’

  His answer was clipped. ‘Forget it. I’ve already made it clear she and I have nothing to say to each other. Don’t push it, Kate. You could make me change my mind.’

  Having snubbed him for trespassing on a no-go area of her own life, she couldn’t take umbrage at his snub. For the rest of the way she sat silent, the height of the Range Rover’s seats enabling her to look over the hedgerows at the moonlit fields.

  At the cottage she expected him to drive slightly past the gateway and reverse into it, ready to return to the main road as soon as they had exchanged the courtesies of guest and host. Instead he swung into the drive, parking alongside the cottage. While she fumbled to open an unfamiliar door, he got out and strode round the bonnet to open it from the outside.

  ‘Thank you.’ She slid to the ground, thinking it wouldn’t be an ideal vehicle for women with short legs or high heels. Fortunately her legs were long and she was wearing loafers.

  As he had already demonstrated his punctilious manners, Kate wasn’t surprised when he followed her round to the porch and held out his hand for her latchkey. Or when he entered the small hall to press an awkwardly placed switch whose position he hadn’t forgotten.

  The surprise came when she started to thank him for a pleasant evening and found herself in his arms, her voice fading as she realised she was about to be kissed for the second time that day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE difference between Robert’s kisses and Xan’s was too complex to grasp while she was still in his arms. Kate felt her mind switching off, abandoning her to her senses.

  She could smell the male tang of his skin, hear the throb of her heart, savour the taste of his lips and feel the strength of his arms locking her to him.

  With her eyes closed she couldn’t see, but that only served to sharpen her other reactions. Excitement coursed through her bloodstream, as potent as the wine at dinner. She shivered, her body yielding, her mouth softening under his, her hands obeying a blind instinct to reach up towards his neck and feel the hard breadth of his shoulders, the texture of his dark hair.

  And then, in the subconscious struggle between reason and powerful emotion, common sense came to the surface with a message as swiftly effective as a hosepipe of water aimed at amorous cats.

  She struggled to free herself, but only for a few seconds. He didn’t try to restrain her.

  More angry with herself than with him, Kate said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry if you’ve wasted an evening, but in these backwoods it takes more than an expensive dinner to achieve what you have in mind. When I said I had work to do I meant it.’

  She expected his face to darken with the natural resentment of a man unaccustomed to rebuffs being put down by a woman he had thought would succumb to his charm as easily as plucking a pear from the tree in Miss Walcott’s garden.

  To her surprise he looked amused. ‘It was only a goodnight kiss, Kate, not an attempted seduction. If and when that’s on the agenda, I’ll give you plenty of warning. In the meantime don’t let your fluster make you forget to lock and chain the door. I’ll keep in touch. Goodnight.’

  Smiling, he disappeared into the night. Moments later she heard the expensive deep-throated growl of the Range Rover’s engine as he set off for London.

  It was the consultant in charge of Miss Walcott’s recovery who, a few days later, told Kate that, on the instructions of Alexander Walcott, his patient was to convalesce in one of the best private nursing homes in southern England.

  ‘You need have no qualms about leaving her, Miss Poole,’ he said kindly. ‘Clearly you feel a deep concern for Miss Walcott’s welfare. I can assure you she’ll receive the best possible attention in your absence. At the appropriate time she’ll be moved by ambulance to a very nice private room overlooking the gardens and everything will be done to make her comfortable. Naturally she will miss your visits, but I hope by the time you come back she’ll be sketching again. My wife and I have one of her paintings, you know. A delightful study of poppies in a silver jug. Everyone who sees it admires it.’

  Kate went home relieved and pleased by Xan’s generous gesture, perhaps the first step on the road to a full reconciliation between two
people who had so much in common.

  She was reading in bed when the phone rang. The clock on the night table showed half-past eleven, an unusual time for anyone to ring the cottage. Unless her employer had had an unexpected relapse.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Kate. How’s it going?’ Xan took it for granted she would recognise his voice.

  ‘I thought you were flying to Crete today. What went wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m calling from Chaniá. Where else would I be?’

  ‘It’s such a good line I thought you must still be in London. From the other end of the Mediterranean I would have expected “crackle”, or that echo chamber effect one gets on some long-distance calls.’

  ‘It’s clear from this end as well. What are you doing? Grappling with your computer?’

  ‘I was earlier. Now I’m in bed.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly.

  ‘You answered too quickly for me to have woken you up. What are you reading?’

  ‘A book about Cretan folklore.’

  ‘That won’t keep you awake until dawn,’ he said, reminding her of their dinner at the Angel and what had followed. Her insides churned at the memory of his kiss.

  Trying to sound businesslike, she answered, ‘Is the hotel to your liking?’

  ‘It’s fine, and the food is excellent. I’ve just come in from a stroll on the waterfront.’ Without pausing, he asked, ‘Why are there no men in your life?’

  ‘I have several men friends,’ she said, thinking of former colleagues in London with whom she was still in contact, although not in the way he meant.

  ‘But no one special?’

  ‘This call must be quite expensive. I imagine you rang for a progress report on your grandmother. She’s getting on well. They expect to move her to the nursing home you’ve organised for her any day now.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ His tone was suddenly curt. ‘I’ve rented a car to look round the country near here. If you need to contact me between now and your arrival, send a fax and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Goodnight, Kate.’ He rang off.