Flood Tide

by Stella Whitelaw

  The aroma of coffee from the rough sacks propped against each other reminded Reah that she had not had breakfast.

  Supper with Ewart had been an oasis of order in a chaotic day. He guided her through the menu, talking pleasantries. The meal had been delicious…veal escalope cooked in cream and wine, then Ewart recommended the torta della nonna—a light cream flan with almonds.

  They took their coffee onto the garden terrace, the night air folding them into intimacy, still full of the day’s heat but without its stifling oppression.

  Reah, still feeling a different person in her shimmering dress, found herself drawn to Ewart against her will. His face was thrown starkly into a gauntness under the shadows of the overhead vine and his eyes glittered. He had the look of a medieval knight lean from war and famine but with the fierce strength of his heritage. There was a remoteness about him that was unfathomable.

  “Miss Hardcastle will be pleased,” said Reah, accepting a second cup of coffee from the waiter.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The way you are keeping an eye on me. You’ll be able to report back that you rescued me from the streets, put a roof over my head, fed me, even put a suitable dress on my back. Not bad for one day’s work. Miss Hardcastle should be impressed.”

  “Do I detect a note of scorn? I take it you are not similarly impressed, or in the slightest way grateful,” he said with infuriating accuracy.

  Reah took a deep breath and hardened her resolve. She was aware that he had delivered her from a possibly uncomfortable experience in a dormitory in a crowded hostel.

  Delivered was an apt word. She was beginning to feel like a parcel.

  “I am grateful,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I appreciate that the Palazzo Excelsior is a far cry from a bed for one night in an unknown youth hostel on the outskirts of Florence, but I do object to the high-handed way you arranged it. You didn’t even bother to ask me what I thought.”

  “Would you have agreed to staying here if I had asked you? Of course not, you would have gone charging off to your crash pad, full of indignation and probably got lost on the way. The only way of dealing with you is to go ahead, and tell you afterwards.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said crisply. “Now I know what to expect. I’ll remove myself from the Palazzo Excelsior as soon as I can find alternative accommodation.”

  “Please yourself,” he said, draining his coffee.

  He stood up. “I’ve notes to go over for tomorrow. A day is wasted if I don’t write something.”

  “I understand. But there are times when it’s impossible to work. If there’s a complete block.”

  “An emotional block?”

  Reah nodded, hating the huskiness in her voice. “An artist gets an emotional block as if part of you had died and withered away. It’s impossible to be creative. Perhaps it’s different for writers.”

  She had lost all inspiration to paint since her father’s death; part of her had drowned with him in the sea. Anguish slashed across her heart as she thought of her father. Stanford Lawrence, tall, bearded, with a great, deep laugh and big, strong hands that had nursed her so gently through childhood illnesses.

  She shut her eyes tightly against the memories.

  “There’s no easy way,” she heard Ewart saying. “The only answer is to pick up a pen and work.”

  As Reah roamed Florence that morning, that lost feeling stirred within her. Her fingers were longing to hold a pencil, to feel smooth paper beneath the palm of her hand, to have the lightning message between eye and brain move down her arm and translate itself onto paper.

  There was so much to see. Reah wandered through alleyways, courtyards, cloisters, not wanting to miss any glory or splendour. She began to feel dizzy with so much to take in; her pad started to fill with little sketches.

  She came into the Piazzale degli Uffizi, outside the famous Uffizi Gallery, and found herself ankle deep in broken flowers and leaves. The early flower market was over and the stall holders were sweeping up the debris. The scent of fresh flowers was heavenly.

  She bent and picked up a yellow rose, its stem crushed but the bud still perfect. She marvelled at the curves of its fragile velvet petals. The stall holder paused to lean on his broom and threw her a kiss.

  “Grazie.” She smiled, and that seemed payment enough for the man, for he put his hand on his heart and sighed dramatically.

  “I said you should smile more often. You’ve made his day, and no, I am not following you.”

  Ewart was regarding her mockingly with a glimmer of amusement. He was wearing a cool pilot-style shirt, open necked of course, and belted, dark jeans.

  She was momentarily disconcerted when he turned to look at her sketch pad and his arm brushed against her.

  There were soft dark hairs on his arm growing almost down to his wrist; the open buttons of his shirt revealed the beginning of hair on his chest, not swarthy but brown and virile. Reah knew, with a tightening of her nerves that it would be as fine and soft as a baby’s hair to touch.

  “You are always turning up,” said Reah.

  “I have an elusive nature,” he said solemnly. “I like creating surprises. These are quite good,” he added, indicating her sketches.

  “You don’t have to patronise me,” she said, snatching them away. “They’re not finished.”

  “Surely you know by now that I never say anything I don’t mean. If I say your sketches are quite good, then accept my opinion without getting touchy.”

  “Sorry,” said Reah. “Yes, I am touchy about my work, especially before it’s finished. If anyone says something too soon, the feeling can go and the picture is spoilt.”

  He nodded. “It can happen with my work.”

  He looked at the yellow rose bud in her hand and then at her outfit.

  “I presume the gear is a Miss Hardcastle special,” he said, lazily admiring her long, bare legs.

  Reah had not known what to wear that morning. The luxury of the palazzo was a little overpowering. She decided that reverse thinking would be her salvation. She had taken scissors to her second-best jeans and chopped the legs off above the knee.

  She had tied the ends of a faded, well-washed blue shirt high under her breasts, leaving a cool bare midriff. She was determined to beat the heat today. The result was stunning: the pale blue against her hair, her slim figure so feminine and enticing.

  His eyes ran over her with a disturbing intimacy.

  But she was unconscious of her allure. She did not see herself as a beauty; she saw only her flaws.

  “Oh, yes,” she said flippantly. “I wear this at prize-givings. Can I buy you a coffee? I noticed a pretty little cafe facing the river.”

  “Okay, thanks,” he said after the briefest pause. It was a long time since anyone had bought him anything. Because he was successful and rich from his success, it always seemed expected that he would pay. Now this long-legged, red-haired girl in shorn jeans was treating him to coffee, demonstrating their equality. He liked it. “Lead on.”

  They sat with big steaming cups of frothy coffee and freshly baked rolls. The riverside cafe was quiet, the tables still damp from scrubbing, the air clean and invigorating. They sat watching people on their way to work. There were few tourists about.

  She found herself watching his face closely. That inner camera was working again. The lines of strength in his jaw would endure, eyes become darker, hair greyer…he would grow more and more attractive with the years.

  He did not offer to pay. He rose, thanked her and said he had to go and see a man about a hero.

  “Remember to stop and drink,” he warned. “Don’t get dehydrated. Just to make sure, I’ll meet you at the ‘Perché no?’ at noon and treat you to the best ice cream in Florence.”

  “All right,” said Reah, trying to sound off-hand. They were parting, going their separate ways, free spirits, individuals, and yet…something indefinable existed even if it was only conflict, a strange, exhilarating feeli
ng.

  After a morning crammed with sight-seeing, she discovered Florence’s famous ice cream mecca in Via dei Ravolini. Her mind was staggering under the richness of treasures in every street, at every corner.

  “Would you like an ice cream?” he asked, appearing out of the crowd. The stifling heat, noise and crowds had ruffled his hair and his shirt was damp with perspiration.

  “Why not?” she murmured.

  He chuckled and she wondered what was funny. He nodded towards the name of the shop. “’Perché no means why not. Come inside and choose your flavour.”

  The choice was bewildering. Oxborough offered little more than vanilla, strawberry and chocolate. It had been a great day when mint arrived. She took so long deciding that Ewart became impatient and ordered a triple sundae. It arrived—three scoops of mocca, orange and almond, topped with whipped cream. It was his favourite.

  “Quite delicious,” said Reah, savouring the taste of each flavour. “I hereby resolve to try three different flavours every day and who cares about becoming fat.”

  Reah had momentarily forgotten that she had sworn to hate the name Ewart Morgan for the rest of her life. The magic of Florence had her in its grip, binding her with invisible threads.

  It was surprising that he did not seem to connect her with Stanford. “I’ve been to the Tourist Office in the station and they are making enquiries for me. I’m sure they’ll find somewhere.”

  “I think you’re being very foolish. Why don’t you simply stay at the Excelsior? It would save a lot of time and trouble.”

  “Because I don’t wish to,” said Reah defiantly. “Firstly, I can’t really afford to squander money recklessly on such an expensive place. We are not all over-paid for our talents.”

  “And secondly?” he enquired with a slight lift of his brows, ignoring the jibe at the financial success of his plays.

  “Secondly, I have no intention of remaining in the same hotel as you. I came to Florence to enjoy myself, and being organised by you is not my idea of enjoyment.”

  “Nor mine, incidentally. At least we agree on that point. I’ve wasted enough time.”

  “You need not waste a minute more. I can manage perfectly well now.”

  His hand slipped round her waist in an insolent manner. Reah flinched. She could feel his fingers prodding her bare skin.

  “There’s room for a bit of flab,” he suggested flippantly. “You’re far too skinny.”

  Reah removed his hand firmly.

  “Funny how men think they can put their hands on a woman as if they have a right,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of touching you in such a familiar way.”

  “Why not?” he asked. She knew he was mocking her. It was infuriating. “I might even like it, but then I probably wouldn’t…you are hardly a sophisticated woman and the experience might be rather tame.”

  If the cafe had not been crowded and the ice cream too good to waste, Reah would have been tempted to tip the lot in his face.

  “Then again, it might not,” she retorted. “Fortunately you are never likely to find out.”

  Ewart stood up. “If you are still around, I’ll see you at supper,” he said. It was more of a command than a casual word of parting.

  The Tourist Office was closed. It was the hottest part of the day and Reah’s shorn jeans were clinging to her legs. With a heavy heart she went back to the hotel, realising that she dare not check out without an alternative reservation. She changed into a simple cotton skirt and blouse, and sponged her face. For all her brave words, she was worried.

  The streets of Florence were stifling, but Reah made herself go out again. She was going to be first in the queue outside the Tourist Office when it opened. She was dismayed to find a scattering of people already waiting.

  “But we made a reservation for you last night, Miss Lawrence, and you did not turn up,” said the woman behind the counter when it was Reah’s turn.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry,” said Reah. “I met an acquaintance…someone from England. I was given a room at—er—this person’s hotel.”

  It sounded so unconvincing and illicit that Reah found herself colouring.

  “You were very lucky to get a room. Can’t you continue at your friend’s hotel?”

  “But he’s not a friend and I’ve no wish to stay there,” Reah went on, determined to correct the implied situation but somehow making it sound worse. “I want to stay somewhere else.”

  “I’m afraid that may not be possible,” said the woman, obviously feeling less helpful than yesterday. “A lot of people would have been grateful for that bed last night.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve nothing to offer you if you don’t like hostel accommodation.”

  “I didn’t say that …”

  “Come back tomorrow. We may have something suitable for you then.”

  “Grazie.”

  Reah made her voice sound humble, but her feelings were outraged. It was Ewart’s fault. If he had not been so high-handed, she would be on her way to some little pensione by now.

  She realised she would have to stay at the Palazzo Excelsior now. But that did not mean she need see Ewart, though he seemed to think she would be having supper with him.

  Reah had no intention of doing any such thing. She would stand him up. It would be a small gesture of defiance at the way he simply took it for granted that she would be there.

  She would appear…looking absolutely ravishing, then calmly tell him that she had made other plans for the evening.

  Reah realised that if she was going to appear looking marvellous then she would have to buy something to wear. She had no intention of wearing the silvery silk chiffon dress again. She would have to get another stunning dress.

  The dress shops of Florence were superb and very expensive. She would be digging deep into her savings again.

  Reah had a fascinating hour wandering round the fashion boutiques. She was looking for something special but low key. When she found it, she knew instantly she need look no further.

  It was a simple dress in eau de nil silk, full skirted with a tiny tie belt, the scooped neck edged with plaited material. It was the long sleeves that drew Reah’s justification for the price. They were slashed dramatically so that her bare arms showed with every movement.

  It fitted perfectly. The astute shop assistant hurried away and returned with a pair of ankle strap sandals in soft, pale green leather. Reah could not resist them. She paid without a qualm.

  She spent what was left of the afternoon sketching the frescos in the great Duomo Cathedral, which she could appreciate now that she was more refreshed. She began to plan a course for her pupils on Florentine art. She returned to the Palazzo Excelsior looking forward to a leisurely bath and dressing for dinner.

  She soaked in the warm, scented bath water wishing she had a glass of champagne to complete the decadent feeling. She washed her hair and brushed it till it shone like fire. Her make-up was applied with the subtle, steady hand of an artist.

  The pale eau de nil silk dress draped softly over her slender figure, the colour a perfect foil for the highlights in her bright hair.

  Her heart was racing as she went downstairs. He might make one of his sarcastic remarks but it would not matter. No man could fail to see that she could look like a woman if she wanted to…that was all she wanted to prove.

  Reah hesitated at the entrance to the bar. She was not used to going into a bar alone. Ewart was already there, immaculate in a light-weight grey suit, very Italian, cream silk shirt open-necked, the collar casually turned up.

  He came over with a glass of wine which he handed to her. She smiled cool thanks. Now she would tell him she had a date.

  “I have to go out,” he said immediately. “You’ll have to eat on your own.”

  “Oh.” Reah was stunned. The announcement was so unexpected. “Do you have to see another man about a hero?”

  “No, this time it’s a lady. The Contessa Bianca Berni
ni. I thought it would be more polite if I took her to dinner.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Reah, her face stiff with disappointment and annoyance that she had not made her announcement first.

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I’m used to looking after myself. Anyway, I had already made other arrangements for the evening. I’ve got a date.”

  There was a bitter tone to her voice. Ewart noticed but did not comment.

  He did not want to be late. He had been all day tracking down the elusive Contessa and it was a fifteen-minute drive to her villa outside Florence. His work came first.

  He left Reah holding the compensatory glass of wine. She drank it in one minute as if it were water. She dare not order another in case she did not have enough lire to pay for it. It would be better if she ate out at a cheaper trattoria.

  She found a small place nearby, clean and unpretentious and ordered cannelloni from the chalked menu board. But she kept imagining Ewart wining and dining the Contessa and her appetite fled. She sat in the gathering twilight watching the couples strolling, arms entwined, and she felt very alone.

  There had never been a special young man in her life because there had always been her father. A few boyfriends had come and gone while she was at Art College, but she had never fallen in love.

  The only man she had loved was her father. Even now she could not believe that her father had died. How could someone be sharing breakfast with her one moment, and then a few hours later he had gone forever.

  Reah pushed away the plate. She would go back to the hotel and put colour washes on some of the ink drawings she had made that day.

  She hurried upstairs to her room and took off the pale silk dress. Ewart had not even noticed it. She wrapped her cotton robe round her, took out her paints and was soon absorbed.

  When her eyes began to tire with the close work, she knew it was time to stop before she made mistakes.