Seascape

by Anne Weale

  ‘If you ask me,’ Robert said slowly, ‘it’s not your genes sending signals. It’s your hormones acting up after two weeks of close contact with Macho Walcott.’

  She was about to deny it when she realised that, even if she didn’t like the way he expressed it, in essence he was right. The fundamental reason why she could never marry him was Xan and what he meant to her.

  ‘That guy has been making trouble as far back as I can remember,’ Robert went on. ‘One of the times he was roughed up at school was because he’d snaffled someone’s girl. He’s no good for you, Kate. He’ll only make you unhappy. You’re one of a long line of women he’s given a whirl... and you won’t be the last. If that’s in your mind, forget it.’

  He sprang to his feet and walked off along the waterfront.

  At lunchtime Kate returned to the hotel before the group, whom she had not joined after all. She ate some fruit and a rusk and wondered where Robert was. It was not impossible that he had packed and driven back to Iráklion. But would he do that without saying goodbye?

  She had taken a couple of paracetamols for a headache when there was a tap on her door. She opened it, half expecting to see Robert. But it was Juliet.

  ‘May I come in and talk to you?’

  ‘Of course. Is anything the matter?’ Kate asked, closing the door.

  ‘You could say that.’ Juliet replied, with a hollow laugh. ‘Nothing to do with the course, or only indirectly. Nothing you can put right for me. But I need to unbottle to someone and you’ll understand because you’re in the same boat.’

  She had walked to the window to look out at the sea, but now she swung round to face Kate. Leaning back against the wide sill, she said, ‘You’ve fallen for Xan, haven’t you?’

  Instinctively, Kate hedged. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Only intuition. You’re hiding it well. No one else would have guessed it... least of all Xan himself. For all his experience with women, I don’t think he knows what to make of you. I’ve seen him watching you...trying to deduce what lies behind that unflappably capable façade you present to the world. He isn’t sure how to deal with you and he’s not used to uncertainty. It bothers him. As for the man I fancy...he’d run a mile if he knew the way I feel about him. I’m definitely not his kind of woman.’

  Kate said in a puzzled tone, ‘Isn’t Xan the one you fancy? I would have thought you were exactly his kind of woman.’

  ‘Xan? Oh, God, no — not him!’ Juliet exclaimed emphatically. ‘I may have fancied him slightly, at the beginning... or at least pretended I did. I didn’t want to acknowledge what was really happening. One feels such a fool, falling in love like a schoolgirl... and especially with someone as inaccessible as Oliver.’

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Who else? Of course he’s much older than you are. Old enough to be your father. But surely you can see what a heart-throb he would have been at Xan’s age.’

  ‘Yes, I can... and he’s so nice too. I think he’s lovely,’ said Kate. ‘But I didn’t know you did. I thought you dislikes each other, except as artists. I know he admires your paintings.’

  ‘It’s the only thing about me he does admire. He disapproves of the way I dress and my make-up. I expect his wife was one of those intrepid women who don’t mind washing their hair in meltwater and cooking over a campfire. He makes it clear he thinks I’m appallingly decadent.’

  Since this was Kate’s own impression of Oliver’s attitude to Juliet, it was difficult to find anything positive to say to her. Indeed, Kate was still digesting Juliet’s statement that Xan had no idea she was in love with him and appeared to find her as inscrutable as she found him.

  ‘Are you sure it’s love, not just a passing attraction?’ she asked. ‘This is a very romantic place and when people are thrown together, spending days in each other’s company——’

  ‘Is the way you feel about Xan going to wear off when you get home?’ Juliet asked bluntly.

  It seemed pointless to deny the truth. ‘No, but I think Xan will forget me as soon as he’s back in his normal milieu. You don’t detect any signs that he’s seriously interested, do you?’

  ‘Xan isn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve,’ said Juliet.

  Kate knew a diplomatic evasion when she heard one. ‘If he has a heart,’ she said drily.

  ‘Oh, he has one,’ Juliet said, with conviction. ‘He couldn’t paint as he does if he didn’t have a soft centre. But don’t forget, he wasn’t always a devastatingly attractive thirtysomething. Maybe when he was younger and more vulnerable, something happened to make him wary of exposing his deeper feelings. Perhaps you’ve been keeping your cards too close to your chest. Why not give him a glimpse of your hand? What have you got to lose?’

  When Kate didn’t answer, she went on, ‘Last night I lay on my bed feeling lonely and randy—a deadly combination-and fantasised sashaying along to Oliver’s room and making a heavy pass at him. But I couldn’t muster the nerve to do it in real life.’

  ‘You’ve just asked me what I’ve got to lose,’ said Kate. ‘I might say the same thing to you.’

  ‘Yes, you might...and the answer is “face”. My impression of Oliver is that while his wife was alive he would have been totally loyal and, since her death, equally faithful to her memory. There are men like that. My guess is he’s one of them. It’s going to take more than a blatant proposition from a war-painted wanton — which is evidently how he sees me—to revive Oliver’s interest in a close relationship. Either he’ll soldier on alone, or he’ll meet a sympathetic widow who reminds him of his wife and offer her decorous companionship. It’s a shame because I’m sure he still needs and wants love. Who doesn’t?’ Juliet said, sighing.

  Strangely, now that Kate knew Juliet wasn’t interested in Xan, she felt quite differently towards her. Sympathetic. Concerned. Anxious to help in any way she could.

  ‘Perhaps you should revise your fantasy. I wonder what would happen if you left off the war-paint and went to Oliver’s room, not to make a heavy pass but to tell him how lonely you are? Not as baldly as that. You’d need a pretext. Perhaps a problem with a painting.’

  ‘He’d refer me to Xan,’ said Juliet. ‘And you don’t know what I look like without a careful maquillage—not good. My skin never was like yours and my eyes, in their natural state, look like raisins in a rock-cake.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they really do. Anyway it’s the expression in people’s eyes, not their size or colour or sparkle, which is important,’ said Kate. ‘If you let Oliver see you in rock-cake mode, it might change his attitude... break down his misconception that women who cut a dash dress-wise have to be hard-boiled bitches.’

  Juliet looked unconvinced.

  Later in the afternoon, a note was slipped under Kate’s door. Opening the envelope, she read the typed message.

  Ariana Drakakis requests the pleasure of your company in her private dining-room for dinner this evening. 8 p.m. Dress informal.

  Underneath was a hand-written postscript. ‘I have invited your friend Dr Murrett to join us and he has accepted. Also the Colonel and Ms Craig.’

  That Xan would be there went without saying.

  At a quarter to eight Maria, the receptionist, rang to say, ‘Your friend Dr Murrett is here, Miss Poole. He would like to speak to you grivatedy before you join Kyria Drakakis.’

  ‘I’ll come down right away.’

  There was no one else in the lobby but Robert. To her surprise and relief, he greeted her cheerfully, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had put up her hair and was wearing some cheap but effective dull gilt jewellery to give a bit more panache to a lemon-yellow cotton frock picked up in the summer sales.

  ‘Listen, Kate, I’ve had time to think things over. I’m not taking your answer as final. Let’s see how things go. I’m not giving up hope. I accept that you’re not in love with me, but being in love never lasts anyway. It’s friendship tha
t lasts. When my first love-affair went wrong, I was very upset. Now she means nothing to me. It was a fever in the blood ... not enough to sustain a permanent partnership. If, in time, you realise I’m right, I’ll still be there for you:

  He spoke so kindly and sincerely that she felt her eyes brim with tears and had to blink them away. Her voice unsteady, she said, ‘You’re being incredibly nice.’

  As she spoke Xan appeared round the bend of the staircase and went to speak to Maria. He was wearing a dark blue button-down cotton shirt and cotton gabardine trousers the colour of clotted cream. A dark plaited leather belt with a silver buckle and tongue was slotted through the loops on the waistband.

  Turfing to join Kate and Robert, he took in her dress, the upswept hairstyle and the imitation gold torque circling her throat. But, unlike Robert, he didn’t compliment her.

  ‘Good evening, Robert,’ he said pleasantly, holding out his hand.

  While the two men were making small talk, Kyria Drakakis appeared, majestic in flowing crimson voile printed with swirls of black. Skeins of black beads draped her generous bosom and black combs restrained the coils of her steel-grey hair.

  ‘You look magnificent, Kyria,’ said Xan, kissing her hand. ‘You realise that Dr Murrett is Nerina’s physician.’

  ‘Welcome to Chaniá, Doctor,’ said Kyria Drakakis. ‘I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you till tomorrow. Do tell me the latest news of my dear friend Nerina:

  While Robert was answering her questions, Xan turned to Kate. ‘I like the Roman torque.’

  His gaze moved down from her throat to the soft hollow revealed by the neckline of her dress. Her face flamed with colour at the memory of their last encounter. After a stilted, ‘Thank you,’ she could find nothing to say and pretended to be listening to the others, knowing that Xan was still watching her, amused by her discomfiture.

  She was thankful when Oliver came down the stairs, reaching the lobby just as Juliet stepped out of the lift. She was wearing a long, clinging slither of tobacco silk with slits in the narrow skirt and a great deal of bosom on show. As she went to leave her key on the desk, Kate watched the men’s reactions.

  Oliver was scowling slightly. Robert was looking uneasy, in the manner of many nice, conservative men when confronted with glamour laid on with a trowel. Xan’s expression was inscrutable.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ Juliet asked, as she joined them in a gust of expensive scent. She didn’t wait for an introduction.

  ‘Hello. I’m Juliet Craig. Who are you?’ she said, giving her hand to Robert.

  ‘I wish we had another week here,’ she remarked, during dinner. ‘I’m not looking forward to returning to grey skies and the onset of winter. This town teems with tempting subjects. Given more time, I’d like to paint that staircase supported by a half-arch behind the cafés looking out at the mouth of the harbour. When are you next taking off for foreign parts, Xan?’

  ‘I may spend Christmas in India,’ he answered. ‘An American travel company wants me to illustrate a lavish brochure advertising a holiday for the mega-rich staying in maharajahs’ palaces. Considering how many fine artists there are in the United States, I’m surprised and flattered to have been asked. By the way, have you found the tape of Cretan folk music you want to take back, Juliet?’

  It was they and Kyria Drakakis who kept the conversation flowing. Neither Robert nor Oliver had much to say, and Kate had completely lost her tongue. Emotionally, the past twenty-four hours had been very draining, and it was difficult to recover her equilibrium when every so often Xan would glance across the table at her with a look which left her self-possession in shreds.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE next day Robert attached himself to the group, and they naturally assumed he was Kate’s boyfriend. If anyone had witnessed the scene in the writing-room, which would have thrown doubt on that conclusion, they were keeping it quiet.

  During the lunch-break he moved his luggage to the Cydonia. In the evening, to Kate’s dismay, she found the Palette dinner table had been extended, giving everyone a little more elbow-room and enabling him to sit beside her.

  What with Robert dogging her footsteps, and Xan looking sardonically at them both, Kate was glad when the day was over. Although they had been within arm’s length of each other at various times, she and Xan had had no conversation. She felt he was deliberately cutting her.

  Since their inception, Palette painting holidays had always wound up with an exhibition of the students’ best work on the penultimate evening, followed by a celebratory dinner and prize-giving on the last night of the trip.

  The prizes were vouchers donated by manufacturers of art equipment and publishers of art books. Judging was done by the group, using a secret ballot system. When, as sometimes happened, two paintings tied for a prize. the tutor had the casting vote.

  The last but one day’s painting session ended earlier than usual to allow people extra time to tidy their rooms and arrange their exhibits on their beds. Not being involved in the ballot, Kate went round the exhibition with her camera, taking at least one snap of everyone’s work and, in some cases, several.

  Xan’s paintings were also on show in his room, although not for sale as Miss Walcott’s displays of pictures always were. On the trips to France they had sold well, but her- prices had been far below what Xan, or rather his London gallery, could charge.

  He had also put out a sketchbook containing many quick studies of members of the group. Leafing through it, Kate found herself caught unawares with a range of different expressions from laughter to deep thought.

  It happened that for a few minutes she was alone in the room, giving her a chance to photograph a page with two sketches of herself on it, and also to read the titles of the neat pile of books on his bedside table.

  Most of the group had brought thrillers and other current bestsellers with them. His night-time reading was a fifty-year-old classic The Colossus of Maroussi, and the Cretan journals of Edward Lear, an artist and traveller who had visited the island in the nineteenth century.

  There was still so much she didn’t know about Xan, she thought, as she left his bedroom. Most people in their thirties had developed as much as they ever would. But he was the kind of man who all his life would continue to widen his perspectives and become increasingly interesting. It was impossible to imagine being bored by him. But what kind of woman would it take to keep him interested?

  Before dinner, while the others were having complimentary drinks, she collected the ballot papers and took them upstairs to be totted up later. A quick flick through suggested the results would tally with her own judgement of who had won each of the several awards.

  Then she went back to the others, bracing herself for a difficult evening.

  Several hours later, when someone knocked on her door, Kate closed her book and put it on the night table, next to her small alarm clock. It was ten minutes past midnight ; not as late on a warm, starry night on an island at the eastern end of the Mediterranean as in an English village where, with the nights growing colder, people would be switching on electric blankets before going to bed.

  All the same, for anyone to disturb her at this time of night suggested trouble in some form. So far the trip had been remarkably trouble-free, at least in the ordinary sense. No one had been badly sunburnt, drunk too much wine or had a bad tummy upset.

  Slipping a cotton robe over her thin summer nightie, Kate wrapped it round her and tied the belt.

  When she unlocked and opened the door, she was taken aback to find Robert standing outside.

  ‘May I come in?’ he whispered.

  After a slight hesitation, she stood back for him to enter.

  Speaking in a low voice which wouldn’t be heard through the walls, he said, ‘I’ve been for a walk to the far end of the esplanade. I saw your light was still on as I was coming back.’

  She wondered if he had been drinking. She had a feeling he might have stopped off at a couple of bars during his walk.
Not that he gave any obvious sign of having drunk too much. But he looked on some kind of high.

  ‘It’s very late, Robert,’ she said. ‘I was just about to put my light out.’

  ‘You don’t look tired. You look lovely in this soft light. Good enough to eat. Oh, Kate, you’re driving me crazy. You’ve got me lying awake, dreaming about you like a schoolboy...wanting you...longing for you...’ The words came out in a rush as he moved towards her.

  Caught unprepared and unready to deal with the situation, she found herself pinioned, unwilling to be kissed and equally reluctant to repulse him with a vigour which would hurt his feelings.

  But as soon as his lips touched hers and began a passionate kiss, she found it deeply repellent to be kissed in this way by anyone. Anyone but Xan. Forgetting about wounding Robert’s pride, she attempted to push him away.

  He was strongly built and her push wasn’t vigorous enough to break his tightening embrace, or even to make him realise she wanted him to let her go. Rather than struggle with him, Kate opted for passive resistance. In a moment or two, her lack of response must get through to him.

  Unfortunately it didn’t seem to. Although her body didn’t yield to him, he appeared not to notice. To her dismay, she felt his excitement mounting and was anxiously conscious of how little she had on. Only two thin layers of cotton between her naked flesh and the heat of his hands. They hadn’t started roving yet, but she felt they might at any moment.

  She was bracing herself to give a more vigorous shove when there was a rap at the door and, seconds later, a voice said, ‘Did you realise you’d left your door unlatched?’

  Robert stopped kissing Kate to raise his head and glare angrily across the room.