And he recalled other fruit, spilling out of a dragon box; and a little boy in distress; and a pale, haunting face …
He stared at the face next to him, bright with amusement and admiration. Yes, admiration. This girl fancied the pants off him and all he had to do was give her a word of encouragement. Oh, he was tempted; he could do with someone warm and willing in his bed tonight. But he’d never cheat on Shelley.
So he calmly put out one hand and retrieved the orange as quickly as possible, much to the girl’s disappointment. In an effort to console her, he tucked it back under her chin, grabbed her by the shoulders and expertly transferred it – without using his hands – to her sister, who was waiting on his other side.
Later, after he’d left the party, he stood at the back door of Sophie’s cottage, staring into the whispering darkness of the garden. For the first time since he’d arrived in England, he allowed himself to think long and hard about Shelley. On his part, the relationship was pretty sterile: hardly a word of affection, let alone commitment. He knew she wanted – and deserved – more.
When he returned to Australia, it would be different. He’d open up, tell her about the past, make plans for a long, leisurely holiday together. It would make her happy. As for himself …
But why wait another few weeks? He’d start tomorrow, with the phone call.
Chapter Twelve
Rick woke with a start. It took him a few seconds to realise that the insistent buzz from the bedside table was his mobile. He fumbled for the light switch. Six-thirty; and it was Shelley’s number showing on the display.
‘Hi,’ he said, smiling into the phone.
‘Hi, I hoped you’d pick up.’ She sounded nervous.
‘Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you.’ His smile broadened. ‘Especially last night.’
A pause. ‘Why last night?’
‘Because that was when I knew just how much you mean to me.’
Silence.
‘Shell?’
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to say–’
‘Whatever you wanted to say, it’s too late.’
He must be doing this all wrong; her voice was like ice cracking.
‘Too late for what?’
‘Us.’ Before he could speak, she went on, rushing the words out as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of them, ‘I wanted to tell you before it – well, it’s probably in all the papers already. I’ve met someone else and I’m going to move in with him. You and me – that’s over, so don’t even think about trying to change my mind. And you know what? Maybe it was over as soon as you went back to England.’
Then she hung up.
The call had lasted barely a minute, but he lay in bed for a long time afterwards. It was as if he’d been floored by a single punch, all the more lethal because he’d never seen it coming.
He wondered who she was with, and when, and where – but not why. That was the easy bit. It wasn’t just about his failings and her needs and the demands of both their careers. They were the context, not the cause.
The cause was only a few hundred yards away, visiting her spoilt brat of a sister at Uppercross Manor.
Harry crept into Anna’s bed shortly after eight o’clock. He lay still for precisely five seconds, then whispered in her ear ‘Tee-Anna up’ and started his wriggling routine. This had been perfected over many mornings and was carefully designed to wear down the strongest resolve. Anna lasted less than half a minute.
She got up, struggled into a faded pink dressing gown – one of Mona’s cast-offs that she used whenever she was here – and wondered why her head felt like cotton wool. Ah yes, Ollie had called for her several times in the night. She looked for her slippers but couldn’t find them, checked on Ollie – who was sleeping peacefully – and went down to the kitchen with Harry.
Charles was already up and dressed. He took one look at the dark circles under her eyes and apologised profusely for her broken night. Then he made a fresh pot of tea and insisted on getting Harry’s breakfast ready before he went up to the lake.
He paused at the back door, rod and tackle in his hand. ‘Need anything from the shop?’ He’d be calling for the paper on his way, as usual.
Anna took a sip of tea. ‘Don’t think so, unless – what about lunch?’
‘We’re all invited up to the Great House.’
‘All?’
‘Just the family – which includes you, of course. See you later.’ And off he went.
So Rick hadn’t been invited; she didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She’d make herself presentable, though, in case their paths crossed in the village. Wash her hair – it felt as lifeless as the rest of her. Find that newish jumper she’d left here last weekend. Put on a brave face with the help of Mona’s make-up bag.
Which meant that, when Harry smeared the remains of his soft-boiled egg in her hair, it didn’t really matter. And when she spilt tea down the front of her dressing gown, she simply made a mental note to pop it in the washing machine later; there was probably enough in the laundry basket to make up a full load. And when Harry sat astride her outstretched leg and counted her bare toes in a language known only to himself, she couldn’t resist chanting ‘One, two, buckle my shoe’ in its entirety.
Which meant she hardly noticed the back door opening; and Charles rushing through into the utility room; and a tall figure coming in behind him, then stopping abruptly.
‘Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty!’ She finished with a triumphant wiggle of her toes and glanced across at the newcomer.
Their eyes locked. It was Rick.
As she looked away in shock and confusion, she had the strange, random thought that his stony gaze fitted the last three words of the nursery rhyme to a T.
Chapter Thirteen
Rick hadn’t felt like telling Sophie and Ed about Shelley. Not yet.
He’d refused breakfast, claiming a bad head and saying he was going for a long walk to clear it. Then he’d made straight for the village shop and its piles of Sunday newspapers.
He found what he was looking for in the first tabloid he opened, The Sunday Reporter. ‘Sex-in-the-Sea Rick’s Shell Shock!’ screamed the headline on page two; if he’d been in a better frame of mind, he might have appreciated the wit. There were two photos – one of Shelley and a dark-haired man, both wearing sunglasses and guilty expressions, and one of him at a recent book signing, looking sullen. He discovered who – someone called Andy Stuart; he didn’t recognise the name. And when – they’d ‘grown close’ over the last ten days; that was how long he’d been away from Melbourne. And where – she’d been seen leaving his ‘millionaire’s mansion’ in Toorak; some distance – geographically and socially – from Rick’s house by one of the more remote beaches. And why – according to the Reporter, at any rate. Apparently Andy Stuart had not just the money but also the time for Shelley McCourt. They were inseparable and there was already talk of marriage, and children, and Shelley giving up her career to devote herself to domesticity. Or whatever passed for domesticity in a millionaire’s household.
And Rick learned that he himself was ‘devastated’ by the break-up. Apparently this was fantastic news for the female population of Britain, because he’d be looking to them for consolation. The Reporter wanted feedback on their progress.
There were only two copies of this particular newspaper left in the shop; out of spite or panic – he wasn’t sure which – he bought them both, along with a Sunday Times and a Sunday Telegraph. He’d need plenty of reading material for the next couple of days; he had no plans to go out and throw himself into the arms of a passing Reporter reader.
The guy at the counter gave him a plastic carrier bag and a look of pity; but whether the pity was for the amount of newsprint or the state of his love life, Rick couldn’t tell. Just as he was pocketing his change, he heard a man behind him say cheerfully, ‘’Morning, Iain. Sunday Times, as usual. ’Morning, Rick.’ It was Charles.
Rick tur
ned round and forced a smile. ‘You’re out and about early.’
‘Always am on a Sunday, I go fishing.’ Charles hesitated, then went on, ‘Why don’t you come up and check out the lake? Rainbow and brown trout mainly, I’d really appreciate your opinion on what improvements we could make.’
For crying out loud, did marine biology make him an expert on trout fishing? Rick almost cut him dead, then thought better of it. Why not while away an hour or so in the sunshine? It might prolong this feeling of numbness, delay the black mood that he suspected was inevitable.
He made a huge effort to sound enthusiastic. ‘Thanks, I’d really like that.’
As they left the shop together, Charles said, ‘There’s a spare rod at home that you could use, we’ll call for it on the way. And I’ve got a paper, so you could park all those –’ he indicated Rick’s carrier bag – ‘and pick them up later.’ He chuckled. ‘Anna – that’s my sister-in-law – finds it rather amusing that I take my Sunday Times with me to the lake. She says the fishing’s obviously just a cover for reading the paper in peace and quiet, especially as I hardly ever catch anything.’
So, Anna Elliot still had a sense of humour; that was more than could be said for him at this precise moment. He heard himself mutter, ‘Typical woman, never satisfied.’
‘Believe me, Anna’s not your typical woman.’
Something in his voice made Rick look at him sharply, but Charles’s face gave nothing away. They walked on in silence and Rick felt his state of mind slip from its current limbo into an older, bigger emptiness. No, Anna was not ‘your typical woman’ …
But Charles couldn’t possibly know her as Rick had once known her; otherwise how could he have ended up with someone like Mona?
And then his thoughts took a different turn. Last night hadn’t it been Charles, not Mona, who popped home – supposedly to check on the kids? And didn’t Mona say that it was Anna and Charles who’d persuaded her to go out for the evening? What if they were having an affair behind her back?
He knew he was jumping to conclusions, but … ‘Believe me, Anna’s not your typical woman.’ He’d detected a quiet conviction in this remark, the sort of conviction that grew from a special knowledge of someone, from intimacy, and love …
Charles took a little turning off the lane, beside a large sign saying ‘Uppercross Manor’, and Rick followed him blindly. Down a side path, into a sudden fragrance of lavender, across a wide sunny terrace strewn with kids’ toys. Then through a door and–
Two worlds collided. The one he inhabited now, with its ship-like order and restraint; and the one he’d glimpsed ten years ago. With a girl who’d once wiggled her toes at him until he’d caught hold of her small, perfect foot and covered it in kisses.
This girl. Those toes. That foot.
He dragged his gaze to her face. She was too busy with the little boy to notice him, so he had several long seconds to study her haggard, unkempt appearance. He felt oddly pleased that she’d lost her looks; especially since she wouldn’t see much change in his.
At last, she glanced up and their eyes met. He watched her smile fade and her face go rigid with disbelief; then she flushed and looked away.
The boy broke the strained silence. ‘Who dat man?’
Charles breezed in – Rick hadn’t even realised that he’d gone out of the room – and said, ‘That’s Rick, he’s coming up to see our lake. Sorry, Rick, haven’t introduced you. This is Anna, Mona’s sister, and my son, Harry. By the way, Anna, have you seen my spare rod?’
She gave him a stunned look, but said nothing.
Charles’s voice softened noticeably. ‘Don’t worry, you’re obviously on another planet, I’ll check the shed.’ He turned to Rick and added, ‘She’s whacked – my other son sprained his ankle yesterday and he’s had a bit of a restless night. Poor Anna bore the brunt, she’s wonderful with the children, always happy to come and help us out.’
Quite the little ménage à trois, Rick thought sourly. He cleared his throat, muttered ‘Hi’ and followed Charles outside.
It was over. He’d met her again and he’d felt nothing. Nothing at all.
It was over. And it was just beginning, all over again.
Anna remembered the first time she’d seen him. The sailing club in La Baule had been running courses throughout the school holidays and Natasha had wanted to enrol her children, then aged ten and eight. On the day the beginners’ lessons had started, Natasha had taken the reluctant pair along, satisfied herself that everything was done properly and signed them up for a full month.
That evening, all Katya and Alyosha could talk about was their sailing instructor. They called him ‘Rique’ and Anna imagined a swarthy Frenchman, or even a Spaniard. He was apparently the bravest, strongest, funniest man they’d ever met.
So, when Anna took them to the club the next day as part of her au pair duties, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see ‘Rique’ walking towards them on the water. Instead, however, he came on dry land, a mere human, and welcomed the children by name. And, although his skin was tanned to a healthy copper-bronze, he didn’t have the dark colouring she’d expected. Not surprising, since he was actually ‘Rick’, from England.
At first glance, his hair was as blond as the sand; yet, on closer inspection, it was far more intriguing – sun-bleached at the front and tawny-gold round the sides and back. He fixed his deep-set, deep-brown eyes on her, while replying to the children’s questions in monosyllabic French. But it was his smile that she fell in love with first: warm and caressing, like the summer breeze.
It took them a week of eyeing each other up before he asked her out. One day, Alyosha stayed at home with an upset stomach; which meant that Katya hung back instead of competing with her brother for attention.
Rick seized his chance in the most surprising way. ‘Ty ochen krasiva,’ he said, looking straight at Anna.
She blushed at his words; then, to cover her embarrassment, she said, ‘I didn’t know you spoke Russian.’ So far, they’d all been talking to each other in French, as she was doing now. Alyosha and Katya went to school in Paris and were fluent, although they usually lapsed into Russian at home. It was after all their heritage, a source of family pride. As Natasha never ceased to remind them, they were descended from the St Petersburg Petrovs; and so was Anna, whose mother had been Natasha’s aunt.
Katya grinned at Rick. ‘Not bad, considering you only started practising yesterday. At first it felt weird me teaching you stuff, but I got used to it.’
He laughed, then looked again at Anna. ‘Did you understand what I said?’
‘Yes.’ Another blush. Shit, he’d think no one had ever told her she was beautiful. Which they hadn’t.
‘I take it you don’t believe me?’
And he smiled that incredible smile. When he did that, he could say there were fairies at the bottom of the garden and she’d believe him, from here to eternity.
But all she said was, ‘It makes me think you want something.’
‘Oh, I do.’ His eyes danced. ‘I want you to come out with me tonight.’
Katya giggled, but Anna’s heart began to pound; he couldn’t possibly mean it, this was some sort of trick.
‘Sorry, no,’ she said shyly.
‘Why ever not? You can’t be staying in to wash your hair, or whatever the usual excuse is.’ He reached out and brushed one or two tendrils back from her face. ‘As I thought, like silk.’
At his touch she flinched, though not with distaste; far from it.
‘It’s nothing to do with her hair,’ Katya put in, helpfully. ‘She’s taking Alyosha and me to Le Moulin à Vent for crêpes because Mum and Dad won’t be home for dinner.’ She cocked her head on one side and looked at Rick, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘So if she comes out with you tonight, she’ll have to bring us as well.’
Rick raised one eyebrow. ‘Crêpes? That should be interesting, with Alyosha’s upset stomach.’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine, you wait and see,’
Katya said. ‘He never stops eating for long.’
So they’d gone to the Le Moulin à Vent together and, over the meal, Anna and Rick exchanged some basic information. She discovered that he came from northern mining stock, a far cry from the sort of lineage that would impress her father. He was twenty-two, four years older than her, and had just done his MSc in marine biology at Bangor University, reckoning that the extra year of student debt would be worth it in the long term. After the summer, he planned to start his PhD and, although he didn’t say where, she got the impression that he was staying on at Bangor. She told him she’d be going up to Lady Margaret Hall to study Russian, and that led to a discussion about her mother, a loss still raw after only eighteen months. He said he wished he was as close to his mother, and then made her laugh with tales of a childhood that seemed to have been devoted to disappointing every parental hope.
He was easy to be with, even easier to fall in love with. She found herself secretly wondering how many miles Bangor was from Oxford; but that was looking too far ahead, wasn’t it?
When he kissed her, it was the perfect end to a perfect evening. He’d walked them home – even though it was still light, and not far, and the streets were perfectly safe. Katya and Alyosha rushed indoors to watch something on TV, but she and Rick lingered outside. And there, under the pine trees, he took her in his arms, bent his head and teased her lips apart. He was so obviously experienced, and she wasn’t. But, after a while, that didn’t matter at all …
‘Aunty An-na!’
Ollie, from upstairs. She looked wildly round for Harry; she hadn’t noticed him wander off. To her relief, he was under the table playing with his toy dinosaur.
Stupid, stupid to let herself be so – so distracted at seeing Rick again. But she hadn’t wanted it to be quite so soon, and certainly not when she looked – and felt – a total wreck! Lucky for her, though, that Charles had put her state of confusion down to lack of sleep. Because, with none of the Musgroves – including Mona – aware of their history, maybe it was best to keep it that way. And, after that faux pas with Charles about knowing his wife, she hoped that Rick too was in no hurry to tell anyone about the past.
Persuade Me Page 7