View from the Beach

by JH Fletcher

  Once she had tried to explain to Donald how she felt about the cottage.

  ‘Why don’t you use it more often? I don’t have to be here. I’ll have a word with Hugh but I’m sure it’ll be all right. He hardly ever uses the place. You’d be doing him a favour.’

  She knew she never would. The cottage was their world, not hers, part of a fantasy that came to life only when he was present and disappeared with him when he left. If she ever came here alone the special aura of the place would vanish, possibly forever. That she did not want.

  She went indoors and opened the windows to let the breeze blow through. It was the type of house that suited both her and its surroundings. Thick wooden walls provided a fortress against the armies of winter but there was no fortress feeling about the place. There were plenty of windows, walls and floor were of sanded pine, a variety of lamps cast a golden glow. The easy chairs arranged haphazardly around the large room were low and comfortable, the galley kitchen was bright with red fitments that mirrored the scatter cushions on the twin sofas. Their bedroom had an old-fashioned brass bedstead but there was nothing old-fashioned about the firm, modern mattress that both of them preferred. Through the open window came the voice of a cascade where a stream leapt downhill between ferns and black, glistening rocks. Adjoining the bedroom, a modern bathroom was fed by water piped from the stream.

  Taking her time, deliberately allowing herself to unwind now that she was here at last, Roberta poured herself a drink and sipped it as she unpacked her case and hung her clothes in one of the two wall cupboards. She made the bed with fresh sheets from the linen cupboard, went back outside and fetched the provisions from the boot of her car. She arranged the proteas in a large glass vase on the centre table. She put a CD on the player, Cat Stevens, and listened with half an ear as she mixed fresh herbs with the olive oil to make a dressing for the salad.

  She laid the table, arranged the trout and chicken on plates and put them in the fridge, put the chardonnay in with them, found the corkscrew and opened the shiraz. She stood back and studied the room with a critical eye. Everything seemed in order. She visualised Donald driving the highway she had recently left. She glanced at her watch. A quarter past six. Time for a bath.

  She ran the water, added oil, lay full length in the bath and relaxed, breathing in the scented steam. As critically as she had examined the room, she eyed her body. She had made it her business always to find time to keep herself in shape and she was reasonably satisfied with what she saw. Breasts a little lush, perhaps — she would have to watch them, later — but Donald had always sworn he loved her breasts. She hoped he meant it. At least they still pointed at the sky (more or less) and not at her feet, and her stomach was flat, thighs firm. Her backside was too big. It had always been her weakest point, but was still firm. And her legs, as always, were long and, she thought, reasonably shapely. She decided that all in all she could have looked a lot worse.

  She rubbed herself dry, stepped into her sexiest pair of panties, black lace; no bra (don’t let me down, tits, don’t let yourself down); a plain linen shift of the palest cream that she knew he liked, a line of contrasting buttons down the front. She didn’t bother with shoes. In Adelaide she would have seen herself dead in the street before she appeared anywhere dressed like this but the weekend had nothing to do with clothes, a great deal to do with what was underneath them.

  She frowned thoughtfully as, with great care, she made up her face (don’t let’s carry this nature business too far). Was that all their relationship meant? The mutual enjoyment of each others’ bodies? Hopefully not, but could not be sure.

  She was ready. The CD had finished. She checked through their collection, seeking a change of mood. The serene purity of one of Haydn’s string quartets, the No 35 in D minor, filled the room. She glanced around her once more. All in order. Checked her reflection in the mirror. Also in order. She looked at her watch, nailed in her moments of pleasure as in her working life to the cross of time. Ten to seven. Donald was always punctual; he would be here shortly.

  Sure enough, barely five minutes later she heard a car driving up the track from the road. She switched on the outside lights and stood on the porch to greet him. The car drew up with a crunch of gravel. A BMW. Roberta approved; even in circumstances like this image was important. Perhaps most of all in circumstances like this.

  Donald got out of the car. He was not a tall man but well-made, with good shoulders and an uncompromising chin. She felt like running to him but did not, waiting instead for him to come to her. He had obviously gone straight from his meeting to the airport; he was still wearing a charcoal grey business suit. It fitted him as smoothly as only a London-made suit could but smooth, Roberta thought, was a word that suited Donald Guthrie very well. She approved of that, too. He was accomplished in everything he did, as good a definition as any of what she meant by smoothness. He had huge power yet exercised it so effortlessly that people did not even realise he had any to exercise. He could be ruthless, as a man of power had to be, but ruthlessness was another quality that Roberta admired, having her fair share of it. He was a highly satisfactory lover. Above all, he would never compromise or embarrass her. Neither could afford sensational headlines in the scandal sheets. He walked across the gravel and kissed her chastely on the forehead. All their meetings began in the same low-key way. After months apart it took time to get the feel of each other and neither of them was inclined to hurry things. Waiting, letting old feelings re-emerge and build to the inevitable fusion, was an important part of the pleasure.

  ‘Lovely to see you.’

  Roberta permitted herself the trite greeting because it was true. Each time she met Donald Guthrie she experienced amazement as well as pleasure that here was someone, perhaps the only person in the world apart from her mother, for whom she genuinely cared. They were two of a kind; with him she could afford to be herself, to let slip the mask of subterfuge that she wore with everyone else. It was wonderful, a luxury without compare.

  ‘You’re looking good.’

  Donald, too, had his share of cliches but, who knew, perhaps the words were true for him, too.

  They went into the house. They turned and smiled at each other in the golden light and he kissed her again, this time on the lips.

  ‘I got this for you.’

  He held out a small package gift-wrapped in gold paper. She knew he would not have wrapped it but would have selected the gift himself. As he had told her once, anyone could buy a bunch of flowers. A gift chosen with consideration was worth a great deal more than flowers.

  He poured them both a drink while she unwrapped the parcel.

  ‘Oh, Donald …’

  It was lovely, a miniature icon painted on a small shield-shaped piece of wood.

  ‘Is it Russian?’

  He nodded. ‘I was in Saint Petersburg last month. I saw it and thought of you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And kissed him in turn. ‘I don’t have anything for you.’

  He smiled, eyes eloquent. ‘Yes, you have.’

  They sat facing each other, talking about the things that had happened to each of them since their last meeting. About what was going on in the world, the latest corruption scandal in Japan, next year’s American election.

  ‘When I was in Washington there was talk of a new boy they thought might give Bush a run for his money. A southerner called Clinton.’

  Roberta was unimpressed. ‘I hear there’s some scandal over draft-dodging. I don’t see him getting away with that.’

  ‘The smart money says you could be wrong.’

  But foreign affairs was a federal and not a state matter and Roberta was only casually interested. ‘We’ve got our own election coming up,’ she said.

  ‘So I believe.’

  His knowledge of what went on in the world had never ceased to amaze her.

  ‘Then you’ve probably also heard that we’re tipped to be chucked out.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

&nb
sp; ‘Could be. Gavin Cornish is doing his block about it. He won’t go easily, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Doing his block won’t help him.’

  ‘It might.’ She explained how he had set her up over the Maltby business.

  ‘So if your lot wins he keeps his job and if they don’t it’ll be your fault?’ He smiled ruefully. ‘And I used to think boardrooms were bear pits.’

  They ate, continuing to talk about the world that interested them, while the Haydn unwound its elegant thread in the background.

  ‘So you’re not going to be the next State Premier?’

  ‘The smart money, as you call it, doesn’t think so. Neither do I.’

  ‘The next but one.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But what about all those State government contracts I was planning to worm out of you?’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to Don Maltby about them.’

  ‘I doubt he can offer quite the same inducements.’

  ‘I should hope not.’ She wondered whether now was the time to raise with him the idea she’d had when Gavin Cornish had set her up. She decided to leave it until tomorrow; for the moment they had other things on their minds and she would allow nothing to spoil their first night together. She smiled at him. ‘Coffee?’

  They dumped the dishes in the sink, took coffee and brandy to the low table before one of the sofas, sat down side by side.

  Stage Two, Roberta thought, and for the first time felt a pulse of anticipatory pleasure.

  She had found some after dinner mints in the fridge. They shared them.

  ‘Think fat,’ she said.

  ‘That wasn’t quite what I was thinking about,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? What was it, then?’

  Carefully he drained his coffee, replaced the cup and saucer on the tray. ‘Would you like me to explain?’

  Their eyes snagged, held.

  ‘Please do …’

  ‘I find a demonstration is often the best way.’

  His arm was around her, his fingers were caressing the side of her face, he leant over her and for the first time they kissed properly. Senses swimming, she felt his hand mould her breast before moving to the line of buttons.

  ‘Convenient,’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  The shift lay open. His fingers moved, lingered. Deliciously.

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her.

  ‘I always forget how beautiful you are.’

  Roberta’s eyes closed. Her back arched as he lowered his lips to her breast.

  Over the years Roberta had trained herself to wake early. It was barely light when she opened her eyes. For several minutes she lay staring at the ceiling, enjoying the sense of well-being that came from total relaxation of body and mind. It was a rare luxury and all the more precious because of it.

  On his side of the bed Donald was still asleep but slept, as he did everything, with quiet competence. No snorts and upheavals from Donald Guthrie.

  Praise be, Roberta thought.

  She slid out from beneath the covers, moving cautiously so as not to disturb him, and went to the window. Rags of mist clung to the slopes of the hills but overhead the sky was clear. In the stillness she could hear the stream as it plunged down the slope beside the house. She put on a light wrap, fetched a thick towel from the bathroom and went out into the morning. The air was fresh, the ground cold beneath her feet. She climbed the path beside the stream until she came to a rock pool twenty metres above the house. The rocks were smooth, the plunging water clear. She watched the cataract for a minute, then took off her wrap. The air was cold on her naked body and she felt her skin pucker. She dived into the pool.

  The water was icy. She came to the surface and thrashed about, feeling the current dragging at her legs. It was quite safe; at its downhill end the lip of the pool lay only just below the surface. She scrubbed at her skin with her bare hands until she felt clean and glowing, clambered out and towelled herself dry before going back down the slope and into the house.

  She threw on a tee-shirt and shorts, brushed her hair vigorously, went and made coffee.

  In the bedroom Donald was just waking.

  ‘It’s a wonderful morning …’

  She sat on the side of the bed while they drank the coffee and chatted together. Their eyes smiled at each other as they both remembered the previous night. They thought of making love again but the brilliant morning beckoned.

  ‘I’ll take a shower,’ Donald said.

  ‘Swim in the pool. It makes you feel so alive.’

  ‘Too cold for me. I’ll stick to the shower.’

  ‘And you a Scotsman,’ she mocked him. ‘I thought you were used to the cold.’

  ‘It’s because I’m Scots that I’ve learned to value warmth.’

  They spent the morning exploring. They followed the course of a stream to a high ridge where they could look across a landscape of timber-clad hills to a high, jetting waterfall that carved a silver line through the air as it fell. Returning, they followed the lower reaches of the same stream through grottos of moss and fern. At one point they thought they heard a lyrebird and explored into the bush but found nothing.

  They ate lunch in a restaurant they knew from earlier weekends, a white-walled dining room overlooking a terraced garden bright with roses.

  She glanced cautiously about the almost-empty room, leant towards him across the table. ‘I’ve had an idea. I want to ask you about it.’ Now she had come to the point she felt unsure of the idea, of herself for thinking of divulging it to anyone, even of Donald himself. Her tension was reflected in her voice.

  His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I told you the Premier’s trying to set me up to take the blame if we lose the election. If that happens I may decide to pull out of politics altogether.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘I may not have any choice.’

  He did not take her fears seriously. ‘I can’t see you being given the run around by a pipsqueak like Gavin Cornish.’

  ‘He’s quite nifty with a knife, believe me. That’s why he’s survived as long as he has. I want some insurance in case I have to quit.’

  She explained about the entertainment complex the government was planning to sponsor on the peninsula. ‘It’s something the area needs and there should be quite a lot of votes in it, too.’

  ‘Have you chosen the site?’

  ‘There are several options but the best one is likely to be the cheapest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the owner’s going broke.’

  ‘What insurance are you thinking of?’

  ‘I thought of making an offer for the land myself. Through an intermediary.’

  There was release in having said it. This is what it must be like to lay your sins on a confessor, she thought. Yet still there were doubts. It was unethical, of course it was. An abuse of power that would drive her from public life if it ever came out. She visualised media headlines and for an instant panicked at what she had done. To discuss such a matter with anyone was to invite disaster. It was the one thing you never did, every political novice knew as much. Quickly she regained control. This is Donald, she reminded herself, Donald.

  ‘So you intend to buy the land and then sell it on to the State government when it announces its plans for the district.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Insurance, as I said.’

  ‘I take it you would like me to organise the intermediary.’

  ‘If possible.’

  ‘We can arrange for an offer to be made through one of our off-shore structures. That way no one will be able to trace it back.’

  The waiter came to remove their plates. They declined his offer of desserts, ordered coffee.

  ‘Then all I have to do is find the money,’ Roberta said after he had gone.

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘I understand he’ll accept three hundr
ed and fifty.’

  ‘Peanuts,’ Donald said. ‘I’ll lend it to you myself.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She knew she was unable to express it in a way that he would understand. Her fingers toyed with a spoon, hoping he would not pursue it.

  ‘We’d use an overseas company,’ he pointed out. ‘No way it could be traced back to you.’

  Which wasn’t the point. She had confided in him. That was all right, just. She would permit him to set up the smoke screen of overseas companies, trusts, whatever it took, to get things in motion. That was all right, too. Just. But for him to lend her the money on top of everything else … She was afraid that such an obligation might prove too great a weight for their relationship to bear. She was not prepared to risk that.

  ‘I’d sooner raise the money myself.’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘I know where I can get it.’ She was afraid he would be hurt and did not want that, for her own sake as well as his. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. I wouldn’t want you to think that.’

  It was and both of them knew it but Donald, if not judgmental, was always pragmatic. ‘Let me know if you change your mind …’

  They finished their coffee, drove back to the cottage in a companionable silence.

  They made love in the white-painted bedroom, the afternoon sunshine lying golden across the bed. It was like the coming together of two friends who had known each other for years and whose lovemaking was filled more with affection and tenderness than violence and passion. It was extraordinarily fulfilling. Roberta thought more in terms of ambitions still to be achieved than happiness attained yet their union left her closer to complete happiness than she would have believed possible.