'I'm sorry,' he said when he brought the coffee-pot to the table and she still hadn't spoken. 'He's not used to being fondled. I'd hate you to get bitten.'
'I thought the English were supposed to be animal lovers?' she came back, still hurt.
'Loving something doesn't mean making it lose its dignity. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.' He glanced away, as if not wanting to pursue the matter, and Goldie wondered if he really did find her ignorance of his ways rather tedious, after all.
'Is this where my mother and Brendan used to meet?' she asked, looking round the cosy kitchen with a belligerent air.
'I expect so. That was a bit before my time. His studio's upstairs, more or less as it was. You can have a look, if you like.' He poured the coffee and offered her a biscuit from a tin with a picture of a cottage garden on the side. Picking up his cup and saucer, he said, 'Come on.'
She followed meekly upstairs. There were several doors leading off the landing, but he led her to one at the far end. It opened on to a large, light, north-facing studio in the eaves. An easel and several unfinished canvases lay scattered about, as if somebody had just gone out for a few minutes.
'These surely can't be Brendan's? Do you paint?'
Lucas laughed and shook his head. 'I only buy and sell. I don't do the stuff myself. This lot hasn't been used for years.' He picked up a tube of oil-paint and she saw that it was rock-hard. 'Somebody might get around to clearing out all his stuff some day. I don't know who. I'm only the lodger. It does no harm here, and until the room's needed for something more urgent it may as well stay.'
'I thought he died years ago,' Goldie said, confused.
'He did. Nine, actually.' Lucas watched her closely.
'That was after we left,' she said, more for something to say.
Lucas nodded. His expression was quite cold. 'I was fond of him. It was a bad business. I was in the Army by then, but I always felt somebody could have done something.'
'Why? What do you mean?'
'Don't you know how he died?'
She shook her head.
Lucas moved over to the window and stood looking out at the sky and the tops of the trees. 'I thought you did.'
When he turned back, he was frowning. 'Did Ravella never say anything?'
Again Goldie shook her head.
Lucas spread his hands. 'I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't have started on all this.'
'Tell me, Lucas. You must tell me, now. What happened?'
'He went missing. They found his body in the river two days later.'
'He slipped and drowned?'
'Not slipped. No. It was deliberate. That summer ten years ago was just too much for him. He'd been in love with your mother for years. I guess he just couldn't take any more.'
'But that was the summer you said she was involved with—oh, Lucas! Is it true?'
He shrugged. 'It was quite a summer.' He gave a short laugh. 'It wasn't her fault, for heaven's sake. But people have long memories round here. They rarely forget, and they never forgive. You're her daughter, Goldie. It's not your quarrel. But --'
'But what, Lucas?' She was puzzled and her face expressed it.
He turned away. 'But people will paint you in the same colours, of course.' He went to the door. 'Drink your coffee and let's go.' His glance skimmed over the T-shirt and tiny mini, but he didn't say anything, and when she went to walk past him to go downstairs again he stepped back so their bodies didn't touch.
CHAPTER FIVE
When they went out to the Land Rover Goldie felt she had to say something. Things seemed to have deteriorated between them for no good reason, with first the trivial incident with the dog, then the shattering revelation about Brendan. Now she felt she was somehow in Lucas's debt, being given a lift so she could do some shopping.
'You don't have to take me into town, you know,' she began, standing beside the driver's door as he unlocked it.
'I know. I offered.'
'You didn't have to --'
'There's not much I do have to do. Apart from occupy the slot allotted to me. Get in.' He swung up, but when she went on standing there he didn't close the door, but looked down at her and said, 'You don't intend to go around dressed like that much longer, do you?'
'Does it really bother you?' she demanded, feeling a rush of anger at the veiled insult, but he simply burst out laughing.
'Goldie, you can wear whatever pleases you. But you'll surely get your death of cold if you don't buy something warmer. Now, do you have anything better to do this morning?'
'No . . .' she began doubtfully.
'And neither have I. So get in and let's go.'
When she was sitting beside him he said, 'If it makes you feel any better, I'll probably have to have a word with my saddler to see how he's getting on with a job I gave him last week. Better?'
'Tons,' she remarked drily. It had been close enough to a genuine argument, unlike the bantering of their previous differences of opinion, for her to feel sphered by it. She thought, if we can't do the simplest thing without getting into an argument, then what hope, is there? But she already knew there was no hope anyway, so it really made little difference. She tried to remember advice she had heard at different times, like 'take one day at a time', or 'live in the present and let tomorrow take care of itself'. But still it made little difference. She wanted him now. And she was miserable now, because she knew she would never have him, neither today nor tomorrow.
The market town was busy with shoppers. Lucas managed to find a piece of wasteland on which to park the Land Rover, and then he walked her through a back alley until they came to the high street again. To Goldie's eyes there seemed to be a marked lack of boutiques. All she could see was a tiny shop with a couple of suits in the window which she wouldn't be seen dead in, and she wondered if Lucas imagined she would ever wear anything like that. She didn't say anything, waiting for him to make suggestions, as the idea that she could get something had come from him in the first place.
'You need something warm and practical for this afternoon, and something a bit smarter for—'
'This afternoon?'
'I've got to walk the estate. I do it every week. Don't you want to come with me?'
'Oh, yes,' she replied hurriedly. She didn't know what he meant, but she'd go for a short walk with him. It would make a change to be out.
'And you'll need something smarter for London,' he went on. He glanced at the two suits in the window as they slowed down, then glanced at Goldie. 'I think not,' he murmured. 'Even I would draw the line at those.'
'I don't think I'm going to get anything to suit me, Lucas. Not what you would call smart.' She gave him a sidelong glance. 'I feel I'm going to look all right in London like this.' She was conscious of the looks as they walked along, and knew that Lucas had registered them, too. 'It'll be different in a big city like London. Here, I admit I do make people stare. I'm sorry,' she added, wondering why she should be apologising.
He gave a short laugh. 'I'm not—sorry, I mean. You look fantastically sexy, that's why they're staring. You're like a creature from another planet.' He turned to her, and the expression she had thought was indifference she now saw as self-control. The expression in his eyes revealed exactly what he was feeling, and he was actually turned on by her!
For a second their bodies brushed and he put out an arm, pulling her against him. 'You seem to have some crazy idea I want to change you,' he murmured.
'I'm only remembering what you said to me when we first met,' she told him.
'What was that?'
'"You're not exactly my type",' she quoted.
'It's true.' He laughed. 'I'm not your type, either, if you're honest. It doesn't mean we're not going to respond to each other. Hell, I'd have to be dead from the neck down to be unmoved by you, by your . . .' Looking into her eyes he seemed to lose the thread. 'Look,' briskly, he stepped back, 'let's get you a pair of jeans, a good warm sweater and a pair of boots. You can't walk the fields in high he
els.'
He led her to the saddlers, and while she riffled among the waxed jackets and jodhpurs and crisp rows of jeans and oiled-wool sweaters he finished his business with the old man behind the counter, then came over to her.
'Found anything?'
She dragged out a pair of size eight jeans. 'These should fit. But I can't find any sweaters under a size thirty-six. I'll try the jeans, and one of these wool shirts. And I'll just slip a sweater on top to see if it's really too big.'
When she came out from behind the curtain that marked off a corner of the shop as a changing-room, he was standing with his hands in his pockets waiting for her. She burst into giggles when she saw his expression. 'All right, the sweater's too big.' She took it off. 'But the jeans and shirt are OK. What do you think?'
She glanced up and caught the look in his eyes. He turned away at once, a half-smile on his lips, knowing she had read what was in his mind. 'Here,' he said, pretending to be absorbed in choosing something else for her as an assistant came up. 'Try a waterproof, too.'
'I wondered when I'd finish up in one of these,' she murmured, taking it from him and slipping it on. The dark green colour suited her. She put the corduroy collar up and gazed, at herself in the full-length mirror. It was a total transformation, despite her blonde hair and Californian tan. She almost looked as if she belonged.
'And a pair of boots,' he suggested. 'You'll need thick socks as well.'
Fully kitted out, she went over to him. He was over by the cash desk, writing a cheque, and when she came up he said, 'I take it you're going to keep it all on?'
'I feel like somebody playing a part. Where are the cameras?' she joked, then when she saw what he was doing she protested. He shushed her and she had to wait until her old clothes were parcelled up and they were outside the shop.
'Don't insist on paying. I shall feel insulted,' he told her, in a tone implying he would brook no objections. 'Remember, thanks to you I made quite a handsome commission on Saturday.'
'How do you mean?' she asked.
'By the strange logic of these things, the more of my clients' money I spend, the bigger amount I receive. It's to do with the percentage,' he added.
She began to laugh. 'And you said I owed you.'
'I felt you did at the time. I'm always willing to have second thoughts.' He took her by the arm. 'I'm hungry after all that. And I think you're right. We'll give the Bond Street image a miss today. You can always pick something up when we're down there.'
'Lucas, how long are you intending to stay?'
'I thought a couple of days. How long do you think you can spare?'
Her lips tightened. 'A couple of days in London?' She didn't look at him.
'How long can you spare?' he insisted again.
'I can spare all the time in the world,' she told him icily, 'but that's hardly the point.' She couldn't believe what she had heard. 'When you offered to give me a lift to town, to the airport, I thought that's what it was going to be.' She could scarcely speak for anger. 'Now I see there are to be strings. Payment. I'm sorry, Lucas, I didn't realise that was your intention --'
'Hey, wait, you've lost me.'
'Have I?' she asked, giving him a bleak look full of barely concealed disdain.
He didn't reply, but instead hurried her into the entrance of the only hotel on the high street. An old coaching inn, it still retained some of the features from its former days when mail was its main trade. Lucas sat her down beside the good log fire and ordered a couple of drinks.
'Right, let's get this straight. You think I'm trying to lure you to London so I can have my wicked way?' He laughed mirthlessly. 'Really, Goldie, you've taken part in too many films. Real life isn't like that.'
'Isn't it?'
'I don't know,' his expression hardened, 'maybe it is for you. Certainly for me it isn't. I don't seduce helpless young girls by having to promise them a couple of days on the town.' He looked so annoyed, in fact insulted by the idea, she gazed at him with a sinking feeling, knowing that it had happened again. She'd somehow misread him, drawing attention to their differences once more.
He underlined this impression when he went on, 'You might give me credit for some style. Or do you see me as some kind of amateur lecher, fumbling around in hotel bedrooms?'
'I certainly don't see you as amateur, Lucas,' she said, in clipped tones to mask her dismay.
'A professional lecher sounds even worse,' he observed. 'I suppose that's the sort of world you're used to. With people jumping in and out of bed with each other all the time with no dignity, no depth of feeling, no real emotion. And because you're so hardened to it, you don't realise that there's a different world where people love honestly and truly, faithful unto death.' His dark eyes clouded and she knew the memory of Brendan had come into his mind, so that he hardly needed to mention Ravella and how she had lived, and the example—the bad one—she had given to her daughter.
Goldie was just about to say she knew all that, and that Ravella wasn't as bad as she was painted, and nor was it her style, either, to jump in and out of bed, when her attention was diverted by a burst of laughter from a group of people coming in through the door. They came up to Lucas, surrounding him and shaking his hand and greeting him in a generally effusive way, so that all possibility of continuing such a conversation was lost.
There were three men and a young woman, all obviously old friends of Lucas. They pulled up chairs and ordered drinks, and then turned briefly to Goldie when he mentioned her name, but were all far too interested in telling Lucas about some incident or other concerning people they all, except Goldie, knew. Lucas, still disdainful of her, made little effort to invite her into the conversation, so that she sat there, feeling out of place yet again, and wondering if she should just get up and walk away.
Eventually everybody ordered sandwiches, and Goldie had to endure the tedium of conversation about people she didn't know and cared less about. In five minutes I'm going to leave, she told herself. And when five minutes elapsed she gave them all another five minutes, and when the hand on the clock over the fireplace had moved on a further quarter of an hour she calmly got to her feet and went towards the door.
He'll think I'm going to the loo, she thought. Maybe I ought go back and say I'm leaving? But she felt too angry and disheartened, and simply wanted to get right away, as far as possible, and never see Lucas again.
The whole thing had been impossible from the first. It was one thing to say it, but quite another to have to experience it.
She went outside and stood for a minute looking up and down the high street. There seemed to be a bus-stop at one end, so she walked over to it in her new boots, feeling self-conscious until she realised that nobody was really looking at her any longer because she merged in so well with the rest of them. She scanned the bus timetable, but couldn't make any sense out of it.
'Excuse me,' she asked tentatively of a woman with a shopping basket who was standing close by, 'is there a bus to Little Skidby?'
The woman puckered her brow. 'I don't think it goes out there today.' She came over to the timetable and peered up at it. 'You could get one to the crossroads and then walk,' she suggested. 'It'll only be a couple of miles.'
Goldie nodded her thanks and set off down the street. She knew how far it was. It was at least three miles from the crossroads. But, if that was the only way of getting back, that's what she would have to do.
It wasn't until she was on the bus that she realised that she could probably have got a taxi. But by then it was too late. The bus was speeding along the country lanes with no sign that it was ever going to stop. She noticed after a minute or two that it was beginning to rain. And that, in her haste to get away, she'd left her parcel of clothes behind.
She only hoped Lucas would have the sense to bring them with him. They would meet briefly when he called with them this evening, and then they need never meet again. Or, alternatively, maybe he would be tactful enough to leave them in the porch where she would
see them. That would be the stylish thing to do, she guessed. It would certainly be the least painful.
When the bus dropped her off at the crossroads she stood for a moment, shaken by the desolation of the countryside in which she found herself. Bare hedgerows stretched on either side into the distance, and fields undulated as far as the eye could see without apparent pattern.
Already the rain was starting to fall quite heavily, and as she set off to walk it slanted inside the collar of her new waxed jacket until she thought to pull it up, fastening the storm-buttons, suddenly glad of it. Her feet felt quite snug and dry in the rubber boots and, thrusting her hands deep into her pockets, she trudged on, dry despite the weather, though none the more pleased because of it.
Every step took her further from the scene of what she was beginning to see as deliberate humiliation by Lucas in front of his friends. He was ashamed of her, that went without saying, hence the deliberately sketchy introductions and subsequent ignoring of her while they all got on with their own conversations. Obviously she had done the right thing in walking out, and she wondered how long it would be before he noticed she had gone.
She went on for about a mile, with the rain coming down harder every minute. Every time a car passed she had to step on to the grass verge, and it crossed her mind to try to thumb a lift, but on reflection she thought it safer in such an isolated spot to keep on walking as if she knew where she was going.
Soon her hair was plastered to her scalp and her cheeks were beginning to sting. It was almost impossible to see where she was going without taking a hand out of her pocket every so often and rubbing the back of it across her eyes. The worse it got, the more she hated Lucas for making her run out like that. She hoped he would bring her things round so she could give him a piece of her mind. But she thought so badly of him by now, she doubted whether he would even bother to carry her things out from beneath the table they had been sitting at, let alone bring them over to the house for her.
She was trudging along in this mood when she heard a car behind her and, half turning, stepped back on to the verge to let it pass as those before had. But it slowed and she heard an irritable hooting on the horn, making her lift her head with a scowl to peer back through the rain. Her heart thudded at the familiar sight of the Land Rover skidding to a halt behind her, half on the verge and half off.
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