Persuade Me

by Juliet Archer

  A mobile trilled behind her and, as if she sensed his approach, she whirled round and saw him. She felt her heart start to race, just like it used to at the sailing club whenever she had that first glimpse of him and couldn’t believe her luck that he singled her out for his smile. Caught off guard, she looked straight at him, willing him to do the same.

  His gaze slid skilfully past her to Charles and Mona. ‘Hi there, was that you calling me? Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived – what would you like to drink?’

  ‘A glass of Shiraz for me,’ Mona put in; then, with a smirk, ‘Actually, make that a bottle – I’m sure Charles and Anna will help me drink it.’

  ‘I’d rather have a pint of bitter,’ Charles said heavily. ‘What about you, Anna?’

  ‘I’m fine with the Shiraz,’ Anna replied, resigning herself to her role as Mona’s minder. She’d have preferred a longer, more refreshing drink too; but that would leave Mona with the whole bottle to herself – the first of several, if she could get away with it.

  Rick fidgeted with the cuff of his sweater and still didn’t look at her. ‘On second thoughts, having seen the queue at the bar I’ll take you to meet Ben and James first.’

  He led them through the crush to a table in the far corner, where two men were sitting. One – short brown hair, tanned face – glanced up with a welcoming smile; the other – dark, shoulder-length hair and a smattering of stubble – stared fixedly into his pint.

  While Rick made the introductions, Anna took off her jacket, sat down and wondered how soon she could get away to the solitude of her hotel room.

  Then she heard him say, ‘And this is Annie.’

  Oh God, he’d only ever called her that in bed …

  He quickly covered up his mistake, his tone almost dismissive. ‘Anna, Mona’s sister.’

  From under lowered lashes she watched him hurry off to the bar. But she couldn’t escape. She had to sit there, praying that no one noticed the colour flooding her cheeks, and remembering … Remembering the last time they’d made love – not that they’d realised it was the last time – and how afterwards, after he’d said ‘Annie’ over and over in that breathless way that she loved, after their bodies had stilled, he’d kissed the damp skin at her throat and told her that he couldn’t live without her …

  He’d just called her Annie. Didn’t that mean he was remembering, too?

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Shit, the miserable-looking man had noticed. She’d thought she’d be fine tucked next to him; it was opposite Mona and well away from the other end of the table, where she reckoned Rick would sit. Charles and Ben were there, already deep in discussion about fishing, and Mona – predictably – wasn’t bothering to hide a yawn.

  Anna gave the man a bright smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘James Benwick. I’m staying with Ben for the weekend, I know him and Rick from university.’ A half-hearted shrug. ‘Didn’t mean to intrude, it’s just – well, you looked exactly how I feel.’

  Her smile froze. ‘Which is?’

  ‘And is this what you wanted, to live in a house that is haunted, by the ghost of you and me?’ He spoke the words with a curious lilting reverence that made her think it must be poetry. Too close for comfort, whatever it was.

  She stared at him, debating how to respond; in the end, all she could manage was, ‘Is that a quote from somewhere?’

  ‘It’s a Leonard Cohen song.’

  ‘That explains it. I don’t know any of his, apart from “Hallelujah”.’

  James’s eyes gleamed. ‘Want to listen to him on my iPod?’

  She was about to refuse, when Rick returned with a tray and distributed the drinks; his hands looked so strong and sure, yet she knew just how delicate their touch could be …

  Great, she thought, even listening to Leonard Cohen must be less depressing than this. She nodded at James; instantly he brought out an iPod, took one of the earphones and passed her the other. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d let her listen in peace, but he kept up a running commentary above the music. Something about him and Julie and how much he still loved her, how much he still hoped, even though almost five weeks had passed. She felt her fragile spirits spiral further and further down, until at last she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  ‘Have you got any other music on here?’ she said, more loudly than she’d intended, judging by the way everyone stared at her. It was only now that she noticed Rick sitting beside Mona, opposite her and James. And she saw that there were three glasses next to the bottle of Shiraz – hers full, his and Mona’s half-empty. And, amazingly, he was looking at her. She ventured a smile; he immediately looked away.

  James was saying, ‘Probably, but I prefer listening to stuff that matches my mood.’

  Anna waited until the other conversations had started up again – although what Rick was finding to talk to Mona about, she daren’t imagine – then took out her earphone. James did the same, with obvious reluctance.

  She smiled encouragingly at him, kept her voice low. ‘It’s so tempting to do that, isn’t it? But if you’re not careful you never move on.’ A pause. ‘We can’t change what’s happened – but we can accept it, and learn from it.’ That sounded awful – a cross between clichéd and self-righteous.

  He returned her smile, but only briefly; then it was back to his comfort blanket of gloom. ‘I’ve tried, of course I have, but what makes it worse is that I’m a poet, which means I’m always writing about my darkest moments. I’ve got my own website,’ in a burst of animation, he fished out a little card from his pocket, ‘so you can have a read and let me know what you think.’

  She studied the card: his name, website address and a few words about his latest collection, ‘Come Up and See My Retchings’. ‘I will,’ she said, fighting a sudden urge to giggle, ‘although I tend to read novels more than poems.’

  He gave her a pitying look. ‘If you fill yourself up with bread, there’s no room for cake.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ She slipped his card into her bag. ‘Call it an occupational hazard – I teach nineteenth-century Russian literature. Some poetry, Pushkin for example, and of course there’s Chekhov with his plays. But it’s mostly novels.’

  Another smile; this time it lingered and reached his eyes. ‘I teach too, English, in a boys’ school. And that’s all novels, apart from a few First World War poets and a bit of Shakespeare. I prefer poetry, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Not usually. Too much emotion, without any moving on. Whereas a good novel always has a resolution–’

  ‘A happy ending? How many of us believe in those any more?’ His hollow, ringing laugh cut the other conversations short.

  ‘You two OK?’ Ben said, casually.

  James rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t nursemaid me, I’m fine. Just beginning to enjoy myself, actually.’ He turned back to Anna. ‘Sorry, I interrupted you.’

  Apparently reassured, Ben continued talking to Charles; Rick and Mona, however, remained silent. Anna wondered if they were each contemplating their own chances of a happy ending.

  She took a deep breath and said, ‘Resolution doesn’t necessarily mean a happy ending – or, at least, not for everyone – but it is about moving on.’

  ‘That’s a very practical point of view. I’m more of a romantic, as you can probably tell. I write what I feel, and – believe me – I feel a lot.’ He moved closer, lowered his voice. ‘You see Rick over there? He writes about the sexual activity of little rubbery creatures lying around at the bottom of the sea, whereas I’m helping people understand human suffering. Funny thing is, he’s the celebrity, and I’m unknown! How does that happen?’

  Anna sipped her wine. Mona was busy texting; but she was pretty sure that Rick was listening. ‘Do you want to be a celebrity?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Not really, I just think it’s ironic – why are celebrities treated like bloody heroes when they can’t even cope with everyday li
fe?’

  Rick’s head jerked up. ‘The media haven’t exactly treated me like a hero in the last week. And, believe me, I’m quite able to cope with everyday life.’ But his tone suggested otherwise – stressed, almost angry.

  On impulse, Anna said, ‘Heroism comes in different forms, though, doesn’t it? Pechorin, for example–’ She interrupted herself with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Sorry, I almost launched into a lecture on the superfluous man in nineteenth-century Russian literature.’

  A broad grin from James. ‘I bet your lectures are fascinating. Who’s Pechorin?’

  She ignored the clumsy compliment and focused on the question. ‘Have you heard of A Hero of Our Time, by Lermontov? Pechorin’s very much in the Byronic tradition–’

  ‘Byron? That’s more familiar territory.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Pechorin’s a man of contradiction, then?’

  ‘Understatement of the year.’ She frowned slightly. ‘He’s cynical, but wants to believe in something. Intelligent and talented, yet can’t find personal fulfilment. So he becomes Action Man – seeking danger, taking risks, just for the hell of it–’

  ‘Sounds rather like Rick.’ A shout of laughter from James. ‘Fighting off sharks one minute, women the next – from what I read in the papers.’

  Anna glanced across; Rick was fidgeting with a beer mat, his face expressionless. She said softly, ‘I find Pechorin rather intriguing–’

  ‘But not good relationship material,’ James put in. ‘Who, out of all the heroes of Russian literature, would you most want to be with?’

  She took another sip of wine to collect her thoughts. If James would let her finish a sentence, she might be able to communicate directly with Rick, establish some sort of truce after Tuesday’s phone call. This blank, black mood of his worried her …

  ‘It would have to be a hybrid,’ she said at last. ‘Action Man Pechorin, because I’d never be bored, combined with the good qualities of Prince Myshkin–’

  ‘Where’s Prince What’s-his-name from?’ James again, when it was Rick she was really talking to.

  She forced a smile. ‘The Idiot – Dostoevsky. The Prince is thoughtful and kind, a man of honour and–’

  ‘An honourable Action Man.’ James gave a forlorn sigh. ‘Maybe I should get down the gym, I used to be–’

  ‘Why’s it called The Idiot?’ Rick said abruptly, his eyes drilling into hers.

  She stared back, trying to detect some warmth in his gaze; OK, maybe the truce idea was a non-starter. ‘It’s more a comment on society,’ she began; then noticed that Mona’s seat was empty, and so was the wine bottle. It didn’t take a genius to work out that she’d gone after more Shiraz; the question was – how much more?

  ‘Excuse me, I have to find my sister.’ With something like relief, she stumbled to her feet and made her way to the bar.

  Rick knew he’d drunk too much when he heard Anna implying he was her ideal man. Huh, how likely was that after all these years?

  He must have imagined it. Or, if he hadn’t, it was pure coincidence that she’d used the words ‘Action Man’, and ‘thoughtful’, and ‘kind’. Words she’d once written about him in the hot summer sand, during a game of ‘Guess Who?’ with Katya and Alyosha. Words she’d later turned into kisses …

  So, when she reappeared with Mona and another bottle of Shiraz, and they ordered the food, it irritated him that she chose salmon, like him. And, as he responded automatically to Mona’s chatter and shared out the wine, he was annoyed that it was her voice he listened to most. She and James were discussing American literature now, something about Edith Wharton. He had to admit that James was looking the better for it, like a dog who’d glimpsed the possibility of a walk.

  When their food was served, it was after nine o’clock; by the time they’d finished eating, it was nearly ten. Ben suggested calling back at his place for a coffee and, as it was just down the road, Charles left his car at the pub. At the small, tidy, terraced house with the green door, peace reigned; Megan’s friends had gone and the kids were in bed.

  Rick sipped his good – but extremely hot – black coffee and looked around the sitting room. Ben had managed to give Charles the slip and was talking to Anna; from his gestures, Rick guessed he was describing his next DIY project. Charles was enthusing about fishing to a silent James, while Megan seemed to be making equally slow progress with Mona on the subject of playgroups.

  It was only natural, then, that his gaze was drawn back to Ben and Anna; to the dark neatness of her hair, the contrasting pallor of her face and neck and hands, the large expressive eyes, the slightly parted lips. Only natural that he found the breath knocked out of him by an explosion of memories. Only natural that his heart slammed against the tight bands of his chest at the thought, however impossible, of making those memories real again …

  Later, in the back of Charles’s Range Rover, he was only inches from her – and yet separated by an emotional chasm. Throughout the short journey back to the hotel, he felt weighed down by ifs. If her family hadn’t interfered, if they hadn’t quarrelled, if he hadn’t stormed off, if he’d got her email … they might still be here, in this car. Except that it would be so different; right now they’d be holding hands, and in a few minutes he’d be taking her in his arms and–

  They turned into the Cobb View Hotel’s floodlit parking area. He got out of the car as soon as it stopped, flinging ‘Goodnight!’ at the others before they could even hint at a nightcap in the bar, taking the steps to the front entrance two at a time. No Pargeter lurking at Reception, thank God, just a far-too-cheerful young girl. He managed a smile in her direction, then made for the stairs and the sanctuary of his room.

  It wasn’t until he switched his mobile off ‘silent’ – and noticed the missed calls – that he realised he hadn’t given Lou a thought all evening.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fingers of sunlight crept into the room through tiny chinks above the heavy chintz curtains. Anna, already awake, watched them steal along the floral border at the top of the wall, then fade as clouds passed over. Rain was forecast for later – why not get up and enjoy the best of the day?

  She’d slept soundly; no doubt the wine had helped. And the sight of Charles and Mona heading for their room last night, arm in arm, had reassured her that they were at least making an effort. As the evening wore on, James too had rallied; once he’d weaned himself off Leonard Cohen and allowed her to finish her sentences, he’d proved surprisingly good company.

  She shut her mind to Rick’s behaviour. Time enough to analyse that when she’d got through this weekend.

  A quick shower, then on with jeans, a jade-green, long-sleeved T-shirt and a black jacket, and she was ready to blow the cobwebs away. No one at Reception; but, after all, it was only quarter to eight on a sleepy Saturday in October. Outside, not a soul about; and in the distance the sea, a gunmetal gleam on the horizon. She went down the hill towards it and felt her spirits lift at the sight of the Cobb, shimmering mirage-like in the pastel sun. The breeze ruffled her hair and stung her lips with salt.

  She remembered coming here as a child with her mother, usually on day trips; hunting for fossils, visiting the Philpot museum, watching the toings and froings on Victoria Pier. Once they’d stayed for a whole month, holidaying with Stephanie Elliot, the widow of one of Walter’s distant cousins, and her silent son, William. And now that Anna was here again, in the chill of an autumn morning, she felt the loss in her life all the more keenly. Her childhood, when fairy-tale endings were a given. Her mother, the woman she’d adored. And Rick …

  Through the park, past the row of pretty painted cottages – sugar-almond pink, cream and blue – and the little harbour was in front of her. It was bustling even at this time of year, so she made for the Cobb, curving emptily into the sea under the screaming gulls. Now she had a choice: walk along the top level, exposed to the elements, or take the more sheltered lower path that hugged one side. She chose the top level, daunted at first
by its sloping surface; as a child, hadn’t she skipped along here without a second thought? Smiling at the memory, she lifted her chin and stretched out her arms like a plane, feeling the full force of the wind.

  And then, some yards in front, the lone figure of a man appeared at the top of the steps leading from the lower path. She studied him with mounting resentment as he walked ahead of her. What right had he to be here, spoiling her view and her solitude? Begrudgingly, she lowered her arms, tucked her hands into her pockets and followed him in a more sedate fashion to the furthest point.

  When he turned, she was only a few steps away and ready with a brusque, Good morning. But the words died in her throat. This man – it was like looking at her father! Of course, he wasn’t her father; far too young, and with more interested eyes. She gave an embarrassed half-smile, averted her gaze and dodged past him to avoid speaking; then went as near to the end of the Cobb as she dared, keeping her back to him. When at last she risked a look round, she was relieved to see him walking briskly away.

  Silly to let the stranger unsettle her; but she waited a good ten minutes before returning. This time she opted for the lower path, before skirting round the beach with its gaily coloured huts and neatly demarcated areas of gravel and sand. As she climbed the road up through the town, she felt the first spots of rain.

  At the hotel, she went straight to the dining room – and immediately stopped in the doorway. The only person there – sitting in the deep bay of the window, reading a newspaper wedged between a portly silver teapot and an arc of pink orchids – was Rick.

  She wondered briefly what sort of mood she’d find him in today; then squared her shoulders, and made for the vacant chair at his table for two.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rick glanced up from his paper, thinking it was the waitress with his cooked breakfast. Saw instead a slim figure in tight-fitting jeans, hair tousled and face glowing from the morning breeze. Felt a jolt in his chest …