‘It’s terrific. Perfect for me.’
‘I hope you approve of the kettle I bought.’
She smiled to herself. When she had thanked Jean-Paul for his thoughtfulness in providing a kettle, he had given the mildest of Gallic shrugs and murmured, ‘Mais, bien sure, chérie.’
Now she was looking at the provider of the kettle. Deliberately, Helene changed the subject.
‘I like your portrait of Megan.’
‘Not finished yet, of course.’
‘She told me how you chose her name for stage school.’
He laughed. ‘Well she thought Megan Martin was boring. Wanted something more racy. So I came up with Ritz Versace.’
‘I was wondering if you’d do a portrait for me.’ She took from her bag the photograph of Marc and Jean-Paul.
Rory studied it.‘Nice looking guys,’ he said. ‘Do I do both?’
‘No. Just Marc. The young one.’ She didn’t need a portrait of Jean-Paul. Every moment of their time together was imprinted right through her body, like a pictorial stick of seaside rock.
‘Okay. Marc.’ Rory was looking curious. Ask Valerie Laverie, Helene thought. Ask her why she no longer has to iron Marc’s pyjamas.
They took their drinks out onto the deck. ‘Do you paint the beach, Rory?’
‘No. There’s an artist called Roy Rodgers does it much better than I could.’
‘Still, with the season over, must be good to have the beach back to yourself.’
He stretched his long legs towards her. Why did some men do that, Helene wondered – assume that the person sitting opposite had retractable limbs.
He said, ‘I think the ones who are really relieved are the ladies of Southwold. Now they can go home.’
‘From holiday?’
He grinned, ‘No, what they do, start of the season, they rent out their cottages. Get a whacking price, of course. Southwold’s popular. But they don’t go on holiday. They shack up in someone’s garden shed and slink off to the ladies’ at the Swan for a wash.’
Rory’s phone was ringing. Helene stood up. ‘Thanks for your hospitality.’
‘Not at all. Keep in touch.’
‘I will.’
She hurried back along the beach, pulling her Gucci jacket close around her. The east coast wind was getting up and the sky was now a lowering melange of mauvey greys.
And he was there. He was sitting on a red upturned fishing boat, waiting for her. He had driven over this morning in his new BMW. She broke into a run, straight into his outstretched arms.
‘Helene, should you be doing that? I mean, running?’
She kissed him. ‘ Marc, nothing’s happened yet. It’s too soon.’ Her voice softened. ‘But it will. I know it will. I want it to.’ She touched his face, ‘And how’s the best man?’
Pete’s wedding was on again, to be celebrated down the road at the bride’s local church in Blythburgh. The Ripping Velcro contingent were due at the Swan this evening. Helene wondered if Southwold was ready for this.
Marc left off kissing her, and whirled her round. ‘Hey, you look fantastic. Is it Italian? And look at the detail on that suit, the way the chevrons move round your waist…’
Oh yes, smiled Helene. Now I know I’m back in France.
‘…And the colours. Milk chocolate and bitter dark chocolate. Perfect.’
‘Marc, didn’t you have any breakfast?’
‘No. I just wanted to get here. And listen, things being as they are, does this mean I finally get to meet your family?’
‘Later,’ Helene said. She took his hand, ‘First, my lover, let’s go find some fish and chips.’
As they walked down the beach she thought, I am thirty seven. I have a past. You are twenty three. You have a future. Helene had no idea how it was all going to play. But she was willing to give it her very best shot.
The Price of Love Page 22