The Shell Seekers

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  She said, “I think perhaps it’s time we ate.”

  He got to his feet, collected their empty glasses, and followed her into the little dining room. She switched on the low lights, and the charmingly ordered table was revealed, laid with crystal and shining silver and a centre-piece of early lilies. The lights, though soft, were bright enough for him to spy instantly her single cobalt-blue wall, covered from floor to ceiling with framed photographs, and he was at once diverted.

  “Hey, look at all this. What a great idea.”

  “Family photographs always seem to me such a problem. I never know where to put them, so I solved the puzzle by simply papering the wall with them.”

  She went behind the counter of the small kitchen, collecting pâté and brown bread, while he stood with his back to her and inspected the photographs with the interest and attention of a man at an art gallery.

  “Who’s this pretty girl here?”

  “That’s my sister Nancy.”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “She was,” Olivia agreed. “But she’s let herself go, as they say. You know, put on weight and generally become very middle-aged. But she was lovely when she was a girl. That was taken just before she was married.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Gloucestershire. She’s got two horrible children and a boring husband and her idea of heaven is to trail round a point-to-point with two Labradors on leads, hooting greetings at all her friends.” He turned to frown in a perplexed fashion and Olivia laughed. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “No. But I get the gist.” He went back to the photographs. “And who’s this handsome lady?”

  “That’s my mother.”

  “Have you got one of your father?”

  “No, my father’s dead. But that’s my brother Noel. The good-looking man with the blue eyes.”

  “He certainly is good-looking. Is he married?”

  “No. He’s almost thirty now and he still isn’t married.”

  “Has he got a girl-friend?”

  “Not a resident one. He never has a resident girl-friend. He spends his whole life being terrified of committing himself. You know, the sort of man who never accepts an invitation to a party in case a better one turns up.”

  Hank’s shoulders shook with amusement. “You’re not very kindly about your family.”

  “I know. But what’s the point in clinging to sentimental illusions, especially when you’ve reached my age?”

  She came out from behind the counter and laid the pâté and the butter and the crusty brown bread out on the table. She found matches and lit the candles.

  “And who’s this?”

  “Which one are you looking at?”

  “This guy, with the young girl.”

  “Oh.” She moved to stand beside him. “That’s a man called Cosmo Hamilton. And the girl is his daughter Antonia.”

  “What a pretty kid.”

  “I took that five years ago. She must be eighteen now.”

  “Are they related to you?”

  “No. He’s a friend. He was a friend. A lover, actually. He has a house in Ibiza, and five years ago I took a year off work … a sabbatical; and spent it there, living with him.”

  Hank raised his eyebrows. “A year. That’s a long time to live with a man.”

  “It passed very quickly.”

  She felt his eyes upon her face. “Were you fond of him?”

  “Yes. Fonder than I’ve ever been of any person.”

  “Why didn’t you marry him … or perhaps he already had a wife?”

  “No, he didn’t have a wife. But I didn’t want to marry him because I didn’t want to marry anybody. I still don’t.”

  “Do you still see him?”

  “No. I said goodbye to him, and that was the end of the affair.”

  “And the daughter, Antonia?”

  “I don’t know what’s happened to her.”

  “Do you write?”

  Olivia shrugged. “I send him Christmas cards. That was what we agreed. A Christmas card every year, with a robin on it.”

  “That doesn’t sound very generous.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it? And it’s probably impossible for you to understand. But the important thing is that Cosmo does.” She smiled. “Now, if you’ve finished with my friends and relations, how about pouring the wine and we’ll have something to eat?”

  * * *

  He said, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. What do you usually do with your Saturdays?”

  “Sometimes I go away for the weekend. Sometimes I just stay here. Unwind, relax, ask a few friends round for a drink.”

  “Have you got anything planned for tomorrow?”

  “Why?”

  “I have no meetings fixed. I thought we might take a car and go off somewhere together … you could show me some of this famous countryside I’m always hearing about but never have time to go and inspect.”

  Dinner was finished, the dishes abandoned, the dining room lights switched off. With brandy and coffee, they had returned to the fireside, only now they were both on the sofa, sitting at either end, half turned towards each other. Olivia’s dark head rested on an Indian pink cushion, her legs curled beneath her. One of her patent-leather slippers had dropped off and lay on the carpet at her feet.

  She said, “Tomorrow, I’d planned to go and see my mother in Gloucestershire.”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No. But I was going to call her before I went to bed.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  Olivia considered this, She had meant to go, had decided to go, and had felt better for making the decision. But now …

  “No, I don’t have to go,” she told him. “But she’s been unwell and I haven’t seen her for too long, and I ought to.”

  “How much persuading would it take to make you change your mind?”

  Olivia smiled. She took another mouthful of the strong dark coffee and replaced the little cup, with much care, exactly in the centre of its saucer.

  “How would you persuade me?”

  “I could tempt you with the promise of a four-star meal. Or a ride on the river. Or a country walk. Whatever pleases you most.”

  Olivia considered this lure.

  “I suppose I could put her off for a week. It’s not as though she were expecting me, and so she won’t be disappointed.”

  “You’ll come, then.”

  She made up her mind. “Yes, I’ll come.”

  “Shall I hire a car?”

  “I have a perfectly good car of my own.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  Olivia shrugged and laid down her coffee-cup. “Wherever you want. The New Forest; up the river to Henley. We could go to Kent and look at the gardens at Sissinghurst.”

  “Shall we decide tomorrow?”

  “If you want.”

  “What time shall we start?”

  “Early, I think. Then we’ll get out of London before the worst of the traffic.”

  “In that case, perhaps I should start making tracks back to my hotel.”

  “Yes,” said Olivia. “Perhaps you should.”

  But neither of them moved. Down the length of the huge white sofa, their eyes met and held. It was very quiet. The stereo was silent, the tapes long finished, and outside the rain streamed against the window panes. A car went down the road, and the little carriage clock on Olivia’s mantelpiece ticked away the passing moments. It was nearly one o’clock.

  He moved towards her, as she had known he would, and put an arm around her shoulders and drew her towards him so that her head no longer rested on the pink cushion but lay against the warm bulk of his chest. With his other hand, he smoothed her hair from her cheek, then, placing his fingers beneath her chin to turn up her face, bent and kissed her mouth. His hand moved from her chin to her throat, and down to the curve of her tiny breasts. He said, at last, “I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.”


  “I think I’ve been wanting you to do it.”

  “If we’re starting off so early in the morning, isn’t it pretty silly, my going all the way to the Ritz just to get four hours sleep and then come back for you?”

  “Dreadfully silly.”

  “May I stay?”

  “Why not?”

  He drew back, gazing down at her upturned face, and his eyes were filled with a curious mixture of desire and amusement.

  “There is only one snag,” he told her. “I have no razor nor toothbrush.”

  “I have both. Brand new. For emergencies.”

  He began to laugh. “You are an amazing woman,” he told her.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  * * *

  Olivia awoke, as she always did, early. Seven-thirty in the morning. The curtains were drawn, but not completely, and through the gap between them the air flowed in, fresh and cold. It was just light and the sky was clear. Perhaps it was going to be a fine day.

  For a little she lay, drowsy and relaxed, smiling with content, remembering last night and anticipating with pleasure the day that lay ahead. She turned her head on the pillow and gazed with deep satisfaction at the sleeping man who occupied the other side of her vast bed. One arm was tucked beneath his head, the other lay across the thick white blanket. This was deeply tanned, as was the whole of his healthy, youthful body, and softly furred with tiny golden hairs. She put out her hand and touched his forearm, as she would have touched some piece of porcelain or sculpture, just for the sheer animal pleasure of feeling its shape and curve beneath her fingertips. The light touch did not disturb him, and when she drew her hand away, he still slept.

  Her drowsiness had gone, to be replaced by the usual restless energy. She was fully awake now and raring to go. Cautiously she sat up, turned back the covers, got out of the bed. She pushed her bare feet into slippers and reached for her pale pink woollen gown, pulled it on, and tied the sash around her narrow waist. She went out of the room, closing the door behind her, and down the stairs.

  She drew back the curtains and saw that, indeed, it promised to be a perfect day. There had been a light frost in the night, but the pale sky was cloudless and the first low rays of wintry sun were already penetrating the deserted street. She opened the front door and took in the milk, carried this to the kitchen, and stowed the bottles away in the fridge. She cleared the dinner dishes from the previous evening and stacked them in the dishwasher, and then laid the table for breakfast. She put coffee on to perk, found bacon and eggs, a packet of cereal. She returned to the sitting room to straighten cushions, remove glasses and coffeecups, light the fire. The roses he had brought her had started to open, the petals curling back from the tight inner buds, like hands opening in supplication. She paused to smell them, but, poor things, they still had no scent. Never mind, she told them, you’re beautiful. You’ll just have to be content with your good looks.

  The post, with a rattle of the letter-box, fell upon the mat inside the front door. She was just about to go and collect this, and was already half-way across the room, when the telephone rang, and she made a dive for the receiver, not wishing the shrill bell to disturb the man who still slept upstairs.

  “Hello.”

  In the mirror over the mantelpiece she was face to face with her own reflection, morning-bare, her dark hair falling across one cheek. She pushed it back, and then, because there had been no response, said, “Hello?” again.

  There was a click and a buzz and then a feminine voice spoke. “Olivia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Olivia, it’s Antonia.”

  “Antonia?”

  “Antonia Hamilton. Cosmo’s Antonia.”

  “Antonia!” Olivia sank into the corner of the sofa, tucking up her feet, cradling the receiver to her ear. “Where are you speaking from?”

  “Ibiza.”

  “You sound as though you’re just next door.”

  “I know. It’s a good line, thank God.” Something in the young voice caught at Olivia’s attention. She felt the smile on her face fade, her fingers tightened around the smooth white surface of the receiver.

  “Why are you calling?”

  “Olivia. I had to let you know. I’m afraid it’s rather sad. My father’s dead.”

  Dead. Cosmo dead. “Dead.” She said the word, whispered it, but did not know that she was saying it.

  “He died late on Thursday night. In hospital … the funeral was yesterday.”

  “But…” Cosmo, dead. It was not believable. “But … how? Why?”

  “I … I can’t tell you—not over the telephone.”

  Antonia, without Cosmo in Ibiza. “Where are you ringing from?”

  “From Pedro’s.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “At Ca’n D’alt.”

  “Are you alone there?”

  “No. Tomeu and Maria moved in to keep me company. They’ve been marvellous.”

  “But…”

  “Olivia, I have to come to London. I can’t stay here, because the house doesn’t belong to me and … oh, a thousand other reasons. Anyway, I’ll have to get some sort of a job. If I came … could I stay with you for a few days, just until I get myself settled? I wouldn’t ask you such a favour, only there isn’t anyone else.”

  Olivia hesitated, hating herself for hesitating, but only too aware that every instinct in her being was reacting violently against the thought of any person, even Antonia, invading the precious privacy of her house and her life.

  “What … what about your mother?”

  “She’s married again. She lives in the North now, near Huddersfield. And I don’t want to go there … I’ll explain that later, too.”

  “When do you want to come?”

  “Next week. Maybe Tuesday, if I can get a flight. Olivia, it would only be for a few days, just until I get myself organized.”

  Her pleading voice, over the miles of telephone cable, sounded young and vulnerable, as it had when she was a child. Suddenly, Olivia remembered Antonia as she had first seen her, running across the polished floor of the Ibiza airport, to fling herself into Cosmo’s arms. And she was filled with disgust at herself. This is Antonia, you selfish cow, appealing for help. This is Cosmo’s Antonia and Cosmo is dead, and the fact that she’s turning to you is the greatest compliment she could pay you. For once in your life, stop thinking of yourself.

  As though Antonia could see her, she smiled, comforting, reassuring. She said, making her voice warm and strong, “Of course you can come. Let me know when your flight is due, and I’ll meet you at Heathrow. You can tell me everything then.”

  “Oh, you are a saint. I won’t be any trouble.”

  “Of course you won’t.” Her practical, well-trained mind moved on to other possible difficulties. “Are you all right for money?”

  “Oh.” Antonia sounded surprised, as though she had not even considered such details, which she probably hadn’t. “Yes. I think so.”

  “You’ve got enough to pay for the air ticket?”

  “Yes, I think so. Just.”

  “Be in touch, then, and I’ll expect you.”

  “Thank you so much. And … I’m sorry to tell you about Daddy.…”

  “I’m sorry too.” It was the understatement of her life. She closed her eyes, shutting away the pain of a loss that she had not yet fully absorbed. “He was a very special person.”

  “Yes.” Antonia was crying. She could hear, see, almost feel the tears. “Yes … goodbye, Olivia.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Antonia rang off.

  After a little, clumsily, Olivia replaced her own receiver. She felt, all at once, immensely cold. Curled in the corner of the sofa, she wrapped her arms around herself, staring at her neat and shining sitting room where nothing had changed, nothing had moved, and yet everything was different. For Cosmo had gone. Cosmo was dead. For the rest of her life Olivia would have to live in a world in which there was no Cosmo. She thought of that
warm evening outside Pedro’s where they had sat and listened to the boy playing the Rodrigo concerto on his guitar, and filling the night with the music of Spain. Why that occasion in particular, when there was a whole cornucopia of memories from her months with Cosmo?

  A step on the stair made her look up. She saw Hank Spots-wood coming down towards her. He wore her white towelling bathrobe, and he did not look ridiculous in this because it was a man’s one anyway and fitted him easily. She was pleased that he did not look ridiculous. She could not have borne him, at that moment, to have appeared looking ridiculous. And this was crazy, too, for what did it matter how he looked, when Cosmo was dead?

  She watched him, saying nothing. He said, “I heard the telephone.”

  “I hoped it wouldn’t wake you.”

  She did not know that her face was ashen, her dark eyes like two holes in her face.

  He said, “What’s wrong?”

  He had a stubble of beard and his hair was tousled. She thought of last night and was glad it was him.

  “Cosmo has died. The man I told you about last night. The man in Ibiza.”

  “Oh, dear God.”

  He was down the stairs, across the floor, sitting beside her; gathering her wordlessly into his arms as though she were a hurt child in need of comfort. With her face pressed against the rough white towelling of her own bathrobe, she wished, violently, that she were able to cry. Longed for tears to come, for grief to spill over in some physical way that would ease the tight pain of misery that held her in its grip. But this did not happen. She had never been much good at crying.

  “Who was that on the telephone?” he asked.

  “Cosmo’s daughter, Antonia. Poor child. He died on Thursday night. The funeral was yesterday. I don’t know any more.”

  “What age a man was he?”

  “I suppose … about sixty. But so young.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t want to talk about it over the telephone. She just said he died in hospital. She … she wants to come to London. She’s coming next week. She’s going to stay with me for a few days.”