Seascape

by Anne Weale

  ‘It might be better not to mention it to anyone else. It may have been a one-off and we don’t want the women on their own peering anxiously under the beds.’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you. But you don’t look the type to be panicked by spiders and mice.’

  ‘I like mice. I’m not crazy about spiders,’ Kate admitted.

  ‘Feel free to call my room if there’s anything you can’t handle.’

  Xan gave her a teasing look, his glance moving downwards to take in first the triangles of wet cotton covering her breasts and then the curlicue of her navel.

  Six years ago, at twenty, she would have pulled in her tummy. In her late teens she had been plump, a result of too much stodge in the orphanage diet and a weakness for choc bars. Now she weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds and could sin occasionally without losing her slim waist and taut thighs. She knew she had a good body, but Xan was a connoisseur and maybe she didn’t match up to some of the long-legged beauties who had holidayed with him in places even more beautiful than Chaniá.

  ‘I saw you before you saw me. You’re a good swimmer,’ he said. ‘And sensible to keep in your depth when you thought there was no one around. If I get rid of my flippers, would you like to swim further out?’

  ‘You don’t think they might be stolen if you leave them lying on the sand?’

  ‘Not at this time of day. There’s no one around but us ... Adam and Eve,’ he added, with another of his quizzical looks.

  Kate stayed where she was while he beaded for the beach to shed his gear. As he lifted an arm to pull off the mask, the movement sent a ripple of muscle down his back. She felt her insides turn over in a way they had never done with Robert. But physical attraction was a fever in the blood; not to be confused with love, although it was part of love.

  He was in shallow water now and the lines of his backside and long, darkly tanned thighs conjured up visions she didn’t want in her mind’s eye. Deliberately she turned her back on him, starting to swim towards the pearly horizon. He would soon catch her up even if she swam as fast as she could.

  She was almost at the limit of her energy when Xan’s shouted ‘Whoa!’ made her stop. He had been swimming alongside her for several minutes, easily keeping abreast while she flailed through the water, flat out.

  ‘That should have worked up a good appetite for breakfast,’ he said, as Kate trod water, panting. He was not out of breath at all. He could probably swim for two or three miles without tiring.

  On her own, she wouldn’t have liked being so far from the shore. With Xan’s broad brown shoulders close by, she felt curiously secure.

  Or did, until seconds later, he disappeared under the surface and came up close behind her, slipping his hands under her armpits and pulling her backwards until his chest was touching her shoulderblades.

  ‘Feeling puffed? Have a rest. Let me practise my lifesaving skills,’ he said, close to her ear, before starting to tow her shorewards.

  There was no way she could release his hold on her. All she could was keep her feet together, out of the way of his powerful leg strokes, and submit to his latest tease until he had had enough of it.

  ‘Nice out here, isn’t it? My favourite time of day... at least in summer which, in effect, this is.’

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ she agreed.

  And it was. A cloudless sky, still tinged with lingering traces of dawn, overhead. The sea like silk on her skin. Strong hands holding her firmly but lightly without hurting the tender flesh under her arms.

  ‘Your hair feels like fronds of fine sea-weed. When I was about twelve I used to dream of catching a mermaid...with a long silver tail and beautiful ripe-peach breasts like the gypsy girls in Russell Flint paintings:

  From the tone of his voice she could almost believe that it wasn’t just a line but that, as a young boy, he really had imagined catching a mermaid.

  Then his right hand left her arm and she felt the brush of his fingers at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Your bikini top spoils the illusion. If I were to untie it...’

  Kate felt an absurd thrust of panic but managed to control it. He didn’t mean it. He was only trying to take a rise out of her. Men who undid girls’ bras without some encouragement ran the risk of being sued for sexual harassment. Not that she would go to those lengths and probably he knew it. In her view, coping with passes and dealing with gropers was the inevitable downside of being a woman. Always had been. Always would be.

  ‘I’ve got my breath back now. I’ll swim the rest of the way.’

  At the same moment that she rolled sideways, his other hand loosened its hold, brushing her ribs and back as she turned over in the water and struck out for the beach.

  It was no longer empty. Striding towards the spot where Xan had left his fins propped in an inverted V was Oliver McCormick. He was wearing khaki shorts, with his shirt and one of the hotel’s beach towels slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Every inch the military type, isn’t he?’ said Xan, doing a leisurely side stroke.

  Kate murmured agreement. Presently, wading out of the sea, she said, ‘Good morning, Colonel. I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Splendidly, thank you. I generally do. Unlike Miss Whatsername, I find a tot of whisky last thing at night a most effective soporific: He turned to Xan. ‘When my duty-free bottle runs out, I’ll try your prescription—Greek brandy.’ Then, looking at Kate again, ‘By the way, I’d prefer you to call me Oliver.’

  Xan was towelling his head. His bathing slip was only marginally more concealing than a vine leaf on a nude statue. Kate averted her eyes from the lean hips and long brown legs but they remained in her mind’s eye as she left the two men chatting and walked back to where she had left her clothes. From there, Xan’s rucksack had merged with the rocks and she hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  By the time she was dry and dressed, Oliver was in the sea and Xan was sitting on the sea wall, still in his bathing slip, sketching. She waked back to the hotel alone, pepped up by her swim but also disturbed and unsettled by the strength of her desire for him.

  For the group’s first exploration of the waterfront and the colourful covered market, Kate dressed conservatively in sand-coloured cotton long shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt.

  The youngest member of the party, a seventeen-year-old called Kelly who was accompanying her mother, wore a mini-skirt and a clinging pale yellow top which drew stares from all the young men they passed.

  At the mid-morning break most people wanted coffee but Kate asked for a bottle of mineral water.

  Standing up and raising her hand to make an announcement, she said, ‘Some of you are far more experienced travellers than I. But I’d just like to remind those who aren’t that, in this climate, we all need to drink lots of water...at least a litre a day and preferably more.’

  Catching Xan’s eye, she wondered if she had sounded officious. But it would be her responsibility if anyone became unwell from dehydration.

  As she sat down, he took her place. ‘I want you all to draw the boat moored to the quay in front of us,’ he said, pointing to a small fishing vessel. ‘Do the first drawing without taking the point of your pencil or pen off the paper. Then draw it again, using dots and, finally, make a third drawing with a busy scribbly line like this.’ He gave a quick demonstration on the pad he was holding.

  It had been Kate’s intention, while the others were busy, to write cards to Robert and friends in London.

  ‘You as well, Kate,’ said Xan. ‘You can use this.’ He held out a sketch pad.

  ‘But I can’t draw for peanuts,’ she protested.

  ‘If you can write, you can draw. It’s a matter of trying. Don’t argue. Have a go.’

  It was an order she was unwilling to contest in public. But she would have something to say to him later in private.

  While the group were following his instructions, Xan himself sketched the passers-by, mostly wandering tourists but also some locals including sh
ort, sturdy fishermen with swarthy faces weathered by years in the sun.

  ‘Don’t forget to write your name on your drawing before you hand it in,’ he reminded everyone.

  When a waiter brought her order, Kate took a refreshing swallow of the cold sparkling water and surreptitiously compared her own continuous line drawing with those of the people near her. To her surprise she found hers was no worse than some of theirs.

  From the café, the party explored some more of the waterfront with Xan stopping to point out interesting subjects. His dark hair and already tanned skin made him look as at home in the sun as the Cretans, unlike some of the group who were visibly flagging in the heat. Only Juliet, her arms and legs hidden from the glare by thin linen trousers and a filmy voile shirt, her face shaded by her straw hat, still looked cool and elegant.

  Later, in her room, Kate had a cold shower. Her lunch consisted of two large ripe peaches, bought in the market, and a tub of yogurt from a shop near the hotel. Most of the shops in the town closed at half-past one and reopened from five until seven or eight.

  She was naked but for her micro-briefs, about to relax on her bed with a book, when there was a tap at the door. Expecting it to be one of the maids, she pulled on a long loose T-shirt and padded barefoot to answer it.

  In the corridor, Xan was carrying a tray with a coffee-pot and two cups on it.

  ‘This seems a good moment to discuss how it’s going.’

  ‘Oh ... yes ... all right,’ Kate agreed, standing back for him to come in. ‘Would you excuse me a moment? I was just going to brush my teeth.’

  Closing the door of the shower room, she ran the tap while she whipped off the T-shirt to put on the cotton bra she had washed out last night and left hanging over the towel rail.

  ‘You keep your room very neat,’ said Xan when she joined him.

  She had tidied the bedroom minutes before his knock. The staff in charge of the orphanage had been strict about cleanliness and neatness and that early training had left its mark. She had often been surprised by the mess some of her friends and former clients lived in.

  ‘Your flat looked very orderly from what I saw of it,’ she said. As he was already sitting on the bed she wasn’t using, with the tray beside him, she perched on the end of her bed.

  ‘A little milk but no sugar—yes?’ he said, picking up the coffee-pot.

  Kate nodded. Observant of him, she thought. But then observation was his stock-in-trade.

  ‘So what d’you think? Have we started off on the right foot?’ he asked. His mouth lifted at one corner. ‘I don’t mean you and me...we’ll get to that later. I mean myself and the others.’

  ‘Apart from the teetotal lady, they all like you very much. How do you feel about them?’

  ‘They’re pretty much what I expected. Oliver’s the best of the bunch, from my point of view.’

  ‘What about Juliet?’

  ‘What about Juliet?’

  ‘Don’t you think she’s attractive?’

  ‘I find you more attractive.’

  He was passing her cup to her as he spoke, with a look which made her hand shake as she took it from him.

  The cup rocked on the saucer but he hadn’t filled it too full and nothing was spilt.

  It wasn’t the first time Kate had been told she was attractive but it was the first time she had been targeted by a charmer of Xan’s calibre. All the previous men in her life had been nice but ordinary, even the one she had thought herself in love with. Xan was the first high-flyer she had known and also the first man to make her realise she was a lot more hot-blooded than she had previously recognised.

  ‘Is that an early warning?’ she asked.

  He cocked an interrogative eyebrow.

  Could he really have forgotten the kiss at his grandmother’s cottage and what he had said to her afterwards?

  ‘When I misunderstood your motives—so you said—the night we had dinner at the Angel, you promised you wouldn’t make a pass without warning,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ He poured coffee for himself. ‘But no, that wasn’t a warning. Just a statement of fact. What I’d like to do right now is not make a pass but paint you. How about coming along to my room and posing for me? On the balcony...where it’s much too public to make passes,’ he added drily.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘When we’ve finished our coffee.’

  To be sure what he had in mind, she said, ‘As I am now... with my clothes on?’

  ‘As you are now... plus plenty of suncream to make sure you don’t get burnt.’

  ‘All right. Why not?’ she agreed, secretly rather excited.

  There was no denying that, when he was behaving normally, she did enjoy his company. Sunbathing on his balcony, talking to him, was a better way to spend the afternoon break than lying here on her own with a not very gripping whodunnit.

  Xan’s room, she discovered presently, had been transformed into a studio. He had brought a lot more equipment with him than the others had. The spare bed, covered with a sheet of plastic, was in use as a working area. The side table was also protected and on it, in a tall container, stood his battery of brushes. But what caught her eye was a small sketch pinned to the top of a large wooden easel with a canvas fixed to it. The canvas was primed but otherwise blank. The sketch was a mermaid with peach-shaped breasts and Kate’s face.

  Xan was too busy getting ready to sketch to notice that she had seen it, and she thought it best not to make any comment.

  Half an hour later, reclining on one of the balcony’s two cushioned sunbeds, soaking up golden warmth, Kate almost fell asleep.

  ‘Do you want a break?’ Xan enquired, from behind the light metal easel he was using outside.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said lazily. ‘If I start getting cramped I’ll tell you, but this is an easy pose.’

  ‘Some people can’t bear keeping still, however easy the pose.’ Xan dabbled his brush in water and gave it a dexterous flick. ‘I’d like to paint you in oils. Preferably nude. Would you mind that?’

  ‘Yes, I should. Anyway, neither of us has the time.’

  ‘I didn’t mean here. When we get back to England.’

  ‘Surely there you can take your pick from all the professional models who feel comfortable with their clothes off?’

  ‘But who don’t have your skin or your...je ne sais quoi,’ he answered. ‘An artist, when he’s at work, looks at the human body with the same detachment as a doctor. He’s only amorous outside working hours. You don’t feel any embarrassment when you undress for your doctor, do you?’

  ‘My present doctor is a woman. So far I haven’t needed to consult her. If and when I do, I’ll feel more comfortable talking to someone of my own sex. Would you want a woman doctor if you could go to a man?’

  ‘I’d choose the most able doctor, regardless of sex.’

  ‘I think there are fewer incompetent women doctors because, from the outset, it’s harder for them to get started in medicine,’ said Kate. ‘Even parents aren’t always supportive. A girl who wants to be a surgeon has an uphill struggle all the way. If she makes it, she has to be good.’

  ‘You can also argue that, unless she’s chosen to stay single, part of her attention will be given to domestic and family matters. She’ll never be as single-minded as a man at the top of his tree,’ said Xan. ‘I’ve got to stop for five minutes to let this wash dry. Stand up and have a good stretch. Let’s have some wine.’

  He went into his room and came back with two glasses, each with a cube of ice floating in it.

  ‘I shall need another cold shower to wake me up after this,’ said Kate, sipping the retsina. ‘How many hours a day do you usually spend painting?’

  ‘Depends. On a bad day, when I have to attend to other things, maybe only three or four. On the best days, twelve or fifteen. When you’re engrossed in what you’re doing, hours pass like minutes. Most men only experience what I feel when I’m painting when they’re making love or e
ating wonderful food. For women a good comparison would be a spending spree on clothes.’ He took up his brush and resumed work.

  About fifteen minutes later he took two paces back from the easel, stared through narrowed eyes for some moments and then, apparently satisfied, detached the board to which the paper was taped.

  He brought it to where she was lying and turned it round. ‘What do you think?’

  Kate sat up, feeling a thrill of excitement, both at the consummate artistry of the quick, impressionistic study and at the way he had portrayed her. Could this really be how he saw her? Satin-skinned, lissom, alluring? Or was it a deliberate act of flattery?

  ‘Like it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘You make a lovely subject.’

  Her heart seemed to turn in her chest. She looked up to meet his eyes, trying to interpret their expression.

  The telephone rang in his bedroom.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He rose to answer it, leaving the painting with her.

  While he was gone she studied it more closely, unable to relate her own view of herself to this sunlit vision of long limbs and suggested curves. Was this part of his technique? To enhance women’s looks, but subtly and therefore more effectively than by obvious exaggeration.

  As soon as it became clear that he was taking a long-distance call which might be private, Kate put the board back on the easel, drained the last of her wine and stepped into the bedroom where he was sitting on the side of the bed.

  Although he signalled there was no need for her to go, she tapped the face of her watch, mimed taking a shower and waved goodbye.

  On the way back to her room, it struck her that she had been in Crete barely twenty-four hours but yesterday’s world seemed long ago and far away. Even Robert’s proposal of marriage seemed strangely unreal, like something in a dream.

  But the life he had offered her was far more real than anything here. This was merely a fleeting interlude... an escape from the everyday things which were the basis of any lasting happiness.