‘Morning ladies,’ Adam said, breezing in, his strong arms wrapped round a stack of chairs. ‘I gather the Boy Wonder’s going to grace us with his presence tonight. Good of him to condescend to join us.’
Kitty shook her head. ‘You’ve lived here so long, Adam, you’re even sounding like one of the gossips.’
‘Whatever,’ Adam said, setting down the chairs. ‘He did all right for himself though, didn’t he? Made a shed-load of money painting beautiful girls. Can’t be a bad way of earning a living, can it? Maybe I should have a go?’
‘I think it takes some talent to be as successful as Gethin Lewis,’ Kitty said, setting the silver bangles on her wrists jingling as she folded her arms. ‘Still, given your penchant for drifting, I suppose you could always become a professional surfer.’
‘He always did have an eye for the ladies, didn’t he?’ Adam went on, ignoring her. ‘I mean look at the girl in that Samba picture – she was a bit of a babe, wasn’t she? I wonder where she is now?’
‘Not in Penmorfa, that’s for sure,’ Kitty said, thinking of the life she’d left behind in Cardiff.
‘Well, just watch yourself, ladies, if he offers to paint either of you. You never know what it might lead to, eh, Coralie? Coralie?’
But somewhere during the discussion, Coralie had quietly left the room.
Chapter Eight
Gethin got fed up of listening to fiddle music on the night air and reached for his leather jacket. It sounded as if some people were having fun, but it must have been some latent masochistic streak that had made him agree to join them. Why else had he allowed Alys to cajole him into drawing the winner of the Valentine’s raffle?
Alys was one of the few villagers he had time for, he thought, standing in the crowded Summerhouse Café, as she gave him a wave and made her way through the throng towards him. Not least because she was one of the handful of people who’d bothered to make the long journey to the crematorium for his father’s service.
Talking to her earlier, when he’d called in to discuss timings for the evening, in the kitchen of the farmhouse where he’d grown up, he’d felt unexpectedly moved by how different the atmosphere in the old place was now. As soon as he walked in he’d felt a homely warmth that just hadn’t been there when he was a child. All the little details his mother never had time to add, like a pretty collection of blue-and-white china, the jug of early daffodils on the windowsill, and handmade gingham curtains, transformed the room into the beating heart of the home. Some of his old anger returned too, when he saw a new red Aga and thought about his mother struggling with the temperamental old range that had once coughed in the alcove. All his success had come too late to save her.
He kissed Alys’s cheek and felt the tension fizzling from her, as if she were guarding her secret self with an invisible electric wire.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
‘Red tape again!’ Alys shook her head. ‘The Gambling Act this time – we can only sell tickets here at the event, so we don’t fall foul of it. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll make any money for the church hall.’
‘Well, never mind, I’ve brought this, if it helps,’ he said. He’d been surprised to find the unsigned pastel sketch of the farmhouse, one of many he’d painted whilst still living at home, framed and hanging in his father’s cottage. A cheap box of twenty-four crayons, a can of fixative and a sketchbook had enabled him to work fast, making the most of every valuable break from farm work, teaching him about colour and composition. This little sketch probably wasn’t quite what Coralie had hoped for, but it ought to help shift a few more raffle tickets.
‘Oh,’ Alys said, looking both touched and saddened, ‘that’s beautiful. Are you sure you want to part with it?’
‘I doubt very much that my father kept it for sentimental reasons so I have no reason to, either.’
Alys gave a small frown, but maybe it was because she had caught sight of her daughter. Kitty, pretty as a picture in a sweet little frock that did something low and tight around her breasts, was doing a pretty good job of selling tickets. The cocky guy from the garden centre was certainly interested in something; he’d draped his arm round her shoulder and was twisting a lock of her hair round his finger. In contrast to Alys, who was thinner these days than he remembered, Kitty was positively blooming. In Manhattan she’d be regarded as outsize, but she was proof that you didn’t have to be rake-thin to be beautiful.
‘Well, if you’re quite sure, then thank you. I’ll put it on the table with the other donations but I’m going to make it our star prize,’ said Alys. ‘Now, why don’t you go and help yourself to a drink?’
Gethin decided that was a very good idea; a couple of beers would also stop him wondering where his next-door neighbour was. So would a distance of three thousand miles; that would certainly help to put her out of his mind. Then he spotted her. Her sherry-coloured curls swinging in a fifties-style ponytail secured with an orange silk bow that matched the peaches printed on her crazy yellow cocktail frock. Despite his best intentions to keep away, it cheered him up just to look at her.
Kitty, leaving her admirer casting longing looks at her, swept over with her raffle tickets to Coralie, who had her arms full with a hamper of Sweet Cleans products. The sight of the two women provoked a palpable surge in male hormones all around him, but he was quicker off the mark.
‘Here, let me,’ he told Coralie, taking the hamper. ‘And Kitty, I’m coming back for some raffle tickets.’
He carried it to the prize table where Alys received it gratefully and Coralie gave him a ‘your work is done now’ look. But he was just beginning to enjoy himself.
‘If anyone asks you to dance, you’re taken.’ He laughed. ‘I’m coming back the minute I’ve bought my raffle tickets.’
‘Think of the danger,’ she reminded him, when he returned. ‘I have no co-ordination and your feet will be sorry. You’d be a lot safer dancing with someone who knows the steps. Ffion’s looking for a partner.’ She pointed to a young woman, with hair bleached and straightened to within an inch of its life, standing awkwardly by the bar.
‘Maybe,’ he said, stepping close enough to catch the floral scent of Coralie’s distinctive perfume. ‘But I remember her when she used to follow me along the beach with a nappy full of wet sand hanging round her knees and now she’s heading this way!’
‘I think she’s outgrown the nappy,’ said Coralie still hell-bent on getting away from him.
Was he losing his touch? He took both of her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Yes, but has she forgiven me for dating her sister? You’re the only one who can help me, Coralie, everyone else’s memories are way too long and I don’t know who’s going to accuse me of what next!’
She sucked in her bottom lip as if trying to frame a tactful refusal, so he could have cheered when the caller shouted out for everyone to take their partner for the next dance. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,’ he said close to her ear, grinning as she threw him a suspicious look. ‘And, no, I don’t say that to all the girls.’ Well, only the pretty ones.
Maybe she’d been a bit quick to congratulate herself for staying out of trouble, thought Coralie. For all his cheeky comments, Adam hadn’t been so hard to handle. After a couple of dances which revealed them to be entirely out of step with each other, she’d excused herself in order to collect her contribution to the raffle prizes and watched him head towards an over-excited cluster of teenage girls like a little boy in a sweet shop. Gethin Lewis, as her body urgently reminded her, seeing the challenge in his animated blue eyes, was all man.
Having trodden all over Adam’s toes, she also found herself a bit reluctant to let Gethin partner her for another reason. The woman in a backless wisp of a red dress, all long legs and flicky dark hair dancing towards her partner in his most famous painting, was depicted with the passion and tenderness of a lover’s eye. What might he read into her own limited dancing skills measured against that?
She looked around for someone else to take her place, but Kitty, in a breathtaking about-turn, had withdrawn her claws and agreed to partner Adam. Willow, looking like a cut-price Florence Welch in a purple tie-dye maxi dress that clashed with her hair, was swaying provocatively in front of an embarrassed-looking Rhys and Alys had finally persuaded Huw to take to the floor.
‘Farmers’ Fancy – Ffansi Fermwyr!’ instructed the caller and, before she could do anything about it, they were off.
Gethin took her hand and placed the other round her waist, his fingers warm and firm through the thin fabric of her dress. Bad idea, she thought, as her skin tingled and every atom in her body whispered, ‘Yes!’
‘You owe me this one!’ he told her in his low, lilting voice, bending close to make himself heard over the music before spinning her away.
‘Oh?’ Concentrate, she instructed her legs, as she raised her head and met his eyes.
‘That authentic Welsh landscape,’ his palm scorched against hers, ‘you asked me to donate for the good of the village?’
‘Yes?’ Just one dance, her brain was ordering, despite every cell in her being getting interested and calling out for more.
‘It’s over there on the prize table,’ he murmured as he circled round her. ‘You might win it, if your number comes up.’
They turned to face one another before linking hands again.
‘So,’ he said, watching her face closely. ‘Do you feel lucky?’
The mischievous look in his eyes sent a jolt through her that was so shocking she missed a step and was forced to think about what her feet were doing until she’d recovered herself. He’d been standing beside her when she’d bought her raffle tickets; but surely he couldn’t fix the result?
‘Right hand turn!’ the caller shouted, compelling her to focus on what her body was doing rather than his beside her, moving in beautiful synchronicity.
‘Left hand turn!’
Kitty was smiling up at Adam, looking genuinely relaxed for once.
‘Both hands turn!’
Alys and Huw were dancing self-consciously, like two people who’d forgotten the steps they’d once known so well.
‘And do-si-dos!’
Poor Rhys was trapped.
‘And swing!’
Coralie’s head was spinning even before the rest of her joined in. Gethin Lewis had listened to her. Maybe the little unsigned picture wasn’t exactly what she had in mind to engage the village in its famous son’s success, but she’d asked him to give something back to Penmorfa and he had. And now he was hinting it could be hers if she wanted it. What did that mean? A little voice was whispering that such a small, apparently insignificant, picture would make a wonderful souvenir of Penmorfa if she was ever forced to leave, but she made herself ignore it. A sketch of the farmhouse, a significant landmark in the village, and, however humble, a Gethin Lewis original, deserved to stay where it could, she hoped, be admired and appreciated.
It occurred to her that whilst the picture might be staying, the artist was about to leave, which was probably just as well given how her feelings had changed in a few weeks. From actively resenting having someone next door, she couldn’t help but check her appearance in the hall mirror if she heard movement in the adjoining property, just in case he happened to be leaving at the same time. She’d grown accustomed to her own thoughts and company, but now she came home disappointed on the days when her path hadn’t crossed with Gethin’s or if they hadn’t swapped a few neighbourly words.
Coralie was afraid of losing her grip, and not just because of the rising temperature. She hoped Gethin was holding on tight because staying cool in the heat of that smouldering glance was quite a challenge. Her hands felt as if they’d been greased as she clung on to him. The tempo of the music gathered pace, becoming more frenzied and creating a contagious sense of wild exhilaration. Reverberating in the background, like the high note of a plucked string, was the matter of the raffle draw, as she wondered whether to be flattered or worried by what Gethin might do. She was beginning to see just how seductive that kind of attention could be. Gethin, it struck her, as he shot her another burning glance, was quite like his art, really: decorative, sexy and probably found in lots of bedrooms.
‘Now make your final promenade and prepare to take a new partner,’ the caller instructed. ‘Gentlemen you may kiss your girl farewell!’
Out of breath and laughing, Coralie forgot herself and leaned into Gethin, resting her hand on his chest as she lifted her face to his dark gaze. Something about them getting sweaty and breathless together fooled her brain into thinking that something far more intimate had taken place. Just as she was about to stand on tiptoes and stretch up to him, she became aware of people watching and quickly pulled away so that his lips missed her mouth and brushed her cheek instead. He raised an eyebrow to show that he knew she’d just chickened out, making her grateful for the heat in the room that hid her embarrassment.
But, along the line, another couple did seem to have forgotten that they were in a public place. The man who was supposed to be her new partner had taken the caller’s final instruction to extremes. From the way Adam’s mouth was locked against Kitty’s he seemed to be anticipating not a temporary split but a lengthy separation. More of a French Fancy than a farmer’s fancy, thought Coralie.
‘Looks as if you’re with me again,’ said Gethin. But just as she decided that dancing with Gethin was a burden she could bear, Alys tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Sorry to break in,’ she said, ‘but I think this would be a good time to draw the raffle.’
Coralie took it as a sign that it was also a good time for her to head home.
‘Don’t even think about going anywhere,’ said Gethin, winking. ‘We’re only just getting started.’
‘And now a special prize …’ Gethin glanced at the prize table. From the lower-value prizes, the bottles of wine and spirits had been picked first, the craft prizes had gone in dribs and drabs and a delighted Wilfie had won a voucher for a massage from Willow. Just his pastel sketch, which Alys had kept aside as the star prize, to go.
Scanning the room, he saw Coralie clutching a blue ticket. He smiled. Here was his chance to ensure that his painting went to someone who appreciated it. ‘John Singer Sargent meets Jack Vettriano’ a critic had once said of his recent work: flattering, sexed-up portraits of Manhattan’s most beautiful and wealthy. Not in a good way.
‘But first a few words,’ he said. ‘I’m sure everyone would like to join me in thanking Alys and Huw for hosting this evening and I know the funds raised tonight will be going to a very worthwhile cause.’ Community hall fund, Alys had confirmed. Well, good luck with that. ‘With that in mind, I would like to present this,’ he held the picture aloft, ‘to Alys as a gesture of thanks for all her hard work.’
Alys looked at him questioningly but there were tears in her eyes as she accepted the work, almost too choked to speak. As she reached up to kiss him, he could see Delyth and Mair exchanging sour looks.
‘And to tell you about this evening’s top prize.’
Mair was glaring at him, which he took as a sign that no love was lost there. Well, never mind, the feeling was entirely mutual. For as long as he could remember, Mair had done her utmost to make his life miserable. As a very small boy, he’d once sunk his teeth into her arm, retaliating in the only way he could for all the times she’d laid into him with a ruler behind his mother’s back for reasons he was too young to understand. Although sticking her – or someone very like her – together with someone who looked a lot like Delyth behind the windbreak in Samba probably hadn’t helped the situation. The look she had given him when he’d walked into the room suggested that given half a chance and a metal ruler, she’d probably like to have another go at him. Except they both knew that now he had the means to fight back.
‘Many years ago, as a keen amateur artist, I won the prize of a short art course. This, as you know, gave me the opportunity to turn my hobby into a pro
fession.’ He saw Delyth curl her lip at Mair. ‘That profession has taken me far away from Penmorfa, and maybe one or two of you think that I’ve forgotten where I come from, so tonight I’d like to say a small thank you in the best way I can.’
The room grew quiet and he could feel everyone waiting.
‘I’d like to make a contribution to the renovation of a hall for the village by donating one of my works for auction, with all the proceeds going to the community hall fund.’
There were low murmurs from some quarters of the room and he paused to see if anyone was bold enough to put up a protest, but Coralie, bless her, was beaming at him and had just clapped her hands together when he resumed his speech.
‘This will be a new piece, especially created for the sale. My reputation, as some of you will know, rests on a painting inspired by …’ he lingered whilst Mair gave him a furious stare, ‘an image I set on the beautiful cove at Penmorfa, so it’s Penmorfa I’d like to pay tribute to now by taking, as the subject of my painting, the winner of the Valentine’s raffle.’
There were more murmurs as people in the room cast nervous glances at each other.
‘And that winner is …’ He picked out a blue ticket and pretended to read it. ‘Number eleven!’
Mair screwed up her ticket. He saw Coralie suck her peach-stained lip and felt like sucking it for her, although he’d definitely get another rulering from Mair if he did. He watched the emotions flicker across Coralie’s face as she studied her ticket and seemed to be on the point of shoving it back in her bag. Then Rhys, the chair maker, looked over her shoulder at it and cheered, starting a ripple of applause that gradually got louder as everyone showed their approval. As the noise started to die down, smiling faces started to turn to Coralie expectantly, except for the corner of the room where Kitty and the guy from the garden centre – Adam? – were having a discussion that was becoming increasingly heated.
Move Over Darling Page 8
