by Jessica Hart
‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And did you sweep her off her feet? Were you romantic? Did you win her back from Paolo?’
Simon presumed she was joking. ‘We went out for a drink,’ he said. ‘Astrid seemed…concerned.’
‘Concerned? What about?’
‘About you.’
Clara’s feet stopped swinging and she turned to stare at him. ‘Me?’
Simon didn’t want to spoil the mood, but she probably ought to know. ‘Apparently Stella spread a few nasty rumours after she got back from Paris,’ he said, picking his way carefully.
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘I thought you might have heard.’
‘No.’ Clara fixed him with those bright brown eyes. ‘What did she say?’
‘Stupid things.’ Simon shifted uneasily. ‘How you had thrown yourself at me and we’d spent the entire time in bed and refused to turn up for filming or do any work at all.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘It’s all rubbish, of course,’ he said, ‘but I gather Stella was quite persuasive, and I’ve always been so straight-laced it was a story everyone enjoyed, so it’s been doing the rounds.’
‘You mean people really think that…you…and me…?’ She pointed at him and then at herself. ‘How ridiculous!’ she said unevenly when he nodded.
‘Quite.’
Her gaze slid away from his.
‘But Astrid can’t have been concerned about that?’ she said after a moment. ‘She must know you better than that!’
‘I think she was afraid I’d gone off the rails,’ said Simon.
There was a pause. Clara glanced at him, clearly thinking that it was impossible to imagine anyone more firmly on the rails and under control, and when she looked away he saw her bite her cheeks to hide a smile.
‘Go ahead,’ he said, resigned. ‘Laugh.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clara's peal of laughter rang out across the lagoon, and Simon felt an answering smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.
For some reason, that broke the intensity of the mood and lessened the constraint between them. Clara pulled one foot out of the water so that she could hug her knee and half turn towards him, amusement still dancing in her eyes.
‘I hope you were able to reassure her!’
‘I think so.’ Simon squinted out at the reef, remembering the conversation. ‘She was in a strange mood, though. She kept going on about you and how “vulnerable” I was.’
‘That’s because she’s jealous!’ Clara gave him a duh look. ‘I told you she would be. It’s a good sign.’ She flicked her hair back over her shoulder with her good hand. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. She’s still with Paolo.’ Simon had wondered whether Astrid might be jealous himself. She had been very conciliating, almost as if she were waiting for him to ask her to come back.
It would have been easy, and he had thought about it, but somehow the words hadn’t come. Simon still didn’t really know why he had held back. He had spent a lot of time since Paris reminding himself how perfectly he and Astrid were suited, but when she was right in front of him, he felt…nothing.
But after she had gone he had been exasperated with himself. That was Clara’s fault, he had decided. It would never have occurred to him to worry about feelings until he had met her.
‘You don’t want to play it too cool,’ Clara warned. ‘You could send her some flowers when you get home. Ask her to dinner and tell her you missed her. Or say you’d like to take her to Paris. If she really is jealous, she’ll want to come back, but you have to show her that you’ve changed and that you really want her.’
‘I’d forgotten that you were the great romance expert,’ said Simon, a faint edge to his voice. She seemed absolutely determined to get him back with Astrid, and the thought left him vaguely disgruntled.
Clara was leaning forward, her eyes intent. ‘If Astrid gets a glimpse of passion from you, she’ll drop Paolo like a shot,’ she told him. ‘You can have your nice comfortable life back. Surely that’s worth a romantic gesture or two?’
‘I suppose so.’ Simon could hear the doubt in his own voice.
‘That is what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ he said, but Clara had noticed that tiny hesitation, he could tell.
It was what he wanted, Simon insisted to himself. He’d had much the same conversation with his mother only the week before, and he’d been absolutely sure then.
Frances had wanted to know all about Paris, and how he had got on with Clara. Simon had told her everything—oh, not about the kiss, but everything else. She knew about the way Clara danced, about her exasperating habit of humming under her breath, and the leaps of logic that left Simon wanting to tear his hair out.
‘She sounds perfect for you,’ Frances had said and Simon had stared at her, convinced that she had finally taken leave of her senses.
‘Astrid is perfect for me,’ he’d corrected her, but his mother only looked at him pityingly.
‘For such a clever man, darling, you can be very stupid,’ she had said. Simon was still puzzling over that one.
Now he sat on the dock beside Clara and made himself remember everything he liked about Astrid. Her clear mind. Her poise and elegance. The way she had never pushed him. She understood his work, understood how he thought.
No, they were perfect for each other.
‘Of course that’s what I want,’ he said more firmly.
* * *
They were a smaller crew this time. Ted was acting as cameraman as well as director to save money, and Peter was doing sound again. Later that evening, Clara and Simon walked over to join them in the restaurant.
‘I’m surprised Roland isn’t here,’ said Simon, distracted by the way she looked, with her shoulders bare and a frangipani flower in her hair. A sarong patterned with hibiscus flowers was wrapped around her hips, and the night was so warm all she wore with it was a strappy top and spangled flip-flops.
‘He’s wheeling and dealing,’ said Clara. ‘That’s what he really likes doing. He calls himself executive producer, but he’s not really interested in the practicalities. He only came to Paris to make sure you and Stella were happy—and we know how well that turned out,’ she added ruefully.
‘Has he forgiven you yet?’
‘Just about.’ Clara made a face. ‘Ted seems to have convinced him that it’s going to work fine without Stella, but I’ve been keeping a low profile. I can’t afford to alienate Roland again. He promised me a chance at producing if this programme was a success, but I suspect I can wave goodbye to that for now. It’s a shame, as I’m not likely to get a better chance.’
Catching herself up on a sigh, she smiled at Simon. ‘Never mind. I’m not going to think about that now. I’m lucky I’ve still got a job at all, frankly.’
‘It’s not unreasonable to want financial security,’ said Simon, who was having some trouble keeping his attention on economic realities when those hibiscus-clad hips were swaying.
‘Simon, we’re on Paradise Island,’ said Clara as they climbed the steps to the restaura
nt. Candlelit tables were set out over a large covered deck area, decorated with plants and huge pots and open on all sides.
‘This is not the place to think about practicalities,’ she said. ‘This is the place to think about how warm the night is, how starry it is. Look at how many honeymooning couples there are here. This is a place made for romance, not reality.’
‘We’re not here for romance, though, are we?’ Simon heard himself say, and then regretted it when a guarded look flickered across her face before she pinned on a smile.
‘No, of course not,’ she said brightly, ‘but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the rest of it.’ She waved her good arm in an all-encompassing gesture. ‘The tropical night, the quiet…oh, and the food, of course.’ Catching sight of Ted and Peter on the far side of the restaurant, she waved and set off through the tables. ‘I can recommend the prawns,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘They were to die for last night.’
* * *
An uneasy feeling in her stomach woke Clara in the early hours. For a while she lay hoping it would go away, until unease became urgency, and then panic. She only just made it to the luxury bathroom in time.
When Simon knocked on her door that morning, she could barely lift her head off the pillow to croak, ‘Come in.’
‘Clara?’ He was barely through the door before she had to make another humiliating dash to the bathroom.
It was Simon who produced a bucket, Simon who broke the news to Ted and Peter that there was no way Clara could stand in front of a camera, Simon who made sure that she had fresh water to drink and then held her head as she threw it all up again.
Having disposed of the contents, he came back with a wet flannel so that she could wipe her face.
‘Is this when I start singing about your favourite things? Or what about a spoonful of sugar?’
Clara dragged the flannel over her face. Even that was an effort. Her hair was tangled and she strongly suspected that she was an unattractive shade somewhere between grey and green. That was how she felt, anyway.
‘I can’t believe you’re making fun of me when I’m dying.’
Simon smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as bad as that. You’ve obviously had a nasty little bout of food poisoning. One of those prawns you were raving about last night, probably.’
‘Uuurrrgghhh…’ Clara clapped one hand to her mouth, the other to her stomach at the very thought of prawns.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Simon soothingly. ‘It just needs to work its way through your system. Twenty-four hours and you’ll be right as rain.’
Twenty-four hours! She struggled up on her pillows. ‘I have to get up. We’ve only got today and tomorrow morning.’
The words were barely out of her mouth before the cramps hit her again. Obligingly, Simon passed the bucket.
‘Oh, God, Ted’s going to kill me,’ she moaned when she could.
‘He’s fine. I’m going to do a few pieces to camera about the economic exploitation of these islands and what happens to indigenous populations when tourism takes over.’
‘That sounds like fun,’ Clara managed, still hanging over the bucket.
‘We’ll fit you in later when you’re on your feet.’
Clara just groaned. ‘Go away and let me die in peace.’
Simon smiled and smoothed some stray strands of hair from her clammy forehead. ‘I’ll come back and check on you later.’
So Clara lay and, between vile episodes in the bathroom and hanging over the bucket, alternated between wanting to die and squirming with humiliation whenever she remembered how kind Simon had been. Ted, never the most stoical of friends, had only managed to blow a kiss from the doorway before blenching and departing hastily, but Simon had been infinitely reassuring. Clara was torn, partly longing for his visits, and partly horrified that he had seen her at her absolute worst.
‘I must look terrible,’ she said on his last visit. She hadn’t been sick for an hour and was hoping the worst was over.
‘You’re feeling better if you care what you look like,’ he pointed out. ‘Do you think you could manage a shower?’
Clara sat up cautiously. ‘Does Ted want me now?’
‘Don’t fret. It’s all decided. There’s time to do your bits tomorrow before the flight back.’
‘I can’t believe I’ve wasted half my time here throwing up!’ she said, slumping back against her pillows.
‘It’s all been terribly romantic, I know,’ said Simon, then ducked as she threw a pillow at him.
‘You’re definitely on the mend,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel even better if you have a shower.’
Clara did. She had a shower, washed her hair and brushed her teeth vigorously, but she was so weak she had to keep sitting down. Eventually, she managed to drag on a T-shirt and another sarong, and made her way on wobbly legs to the hut’s little verandah.
Simon was coming along the sandy path from the beach, silhouetted against the setting sun. He stopped at the bottom of her steps and looked up at her, the stern features relaxing into a smile.
‘You’re up.’
The hollow feeling in her stomach was entirely due to food poisoning, Clara told herself. That was the only reason her knees were so weak that she had to hold onto the door frame for support.
‘I couldn’t stay inside any longer.’
‘How are you feeling?’
She patted her stomach cautiously. ‘Empty. Thinner.’
‘Can you manage a little walk?’
In the end, she could only make it as far as the beach, which wasn’t very far at all, but it was worth it when she was sitting on the soft sand, still warm after a day under the tropical sun.
Clara dug her bare toes into it and sighed contentedly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Simon sat beside her and together they watched the sun set in a spectacular flush of orange and red. Further down the beach, a honeymoon couple wandered hand in hand along the edge of the lagoon. Clara remembered doing that with Matt on a beach in Greece. Funny how the memory didn’t hurt any more.
Her eyes followed the couple as she absently picked up handfuls of the fine sand and let it trickle through her fingers, enjoying its fineness. Beside her Simon was lying back on his elbows, his ankles crossed. He looked cool and contained, and her mouth dried with wanting him.
What would it be like if they were on their honeymoon, like the couple further down the beach? If they loved each other and were starting their life together? If she could reach out and touch him whenever she wanted, and know that he would smile and pull her down to him? If Simon had lowered his guard and let himself love?
A lot of ifs there, Clara realised with a sigh, and face it, none of them was going to happen.
And, anyway, some honeymoon it would have been with her chucking up all day.
She was getting as bad as Simon, she thought wryly, puncturing a lovely dream with reality.
The sky was crimson, fading to purple and then dark, and out of nowhere came the thought that romance was like the sunset, a flush of something amazing and wonderful that faded to mundane reality.
A tiny crease between her brows, Clara lay back beside Simon, who had stretched out flat and was looking up
at the fringed palm leaves that stirred and rustled in the warm breeze.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Simon.
‘Nothing.’
‘You keep sighing.’
Clara was ruffled. ‘I sighed once!’
‘Twice. You sighed just now when you lay down.’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘I’d have thought you’d have been in heaven.’
‘I am,’ she said with a shade of defiance. ‘This is about as romantic as it gets.’
The tropical night had fallen with dizzying suddenness. Clara was agonisingly aware of Simon’s dark, solid bulk next to her on the sand. It was as if the night had closed around them, sealing them in a tiny bubble that was slowly leaking oxygen. She found that she was breathing very carefully so as not to use it up too quickly.
Desperately, she made herself focus on the night, on the soft sigh of the lagoon and the whirr of the cicadas, on the silkiness of the sand under her toes and the scent of the frangipani drifting in the warm air. Closing her eyes, she began to hum softly.
‘What’s that?’ asked Simon lazily. ‘Another gem from The Sound of Music?’
Clara opened her eyes and stared at him in disbelief. ‘It’s from South Pacific. Even you must know Some Enchanted Evening!’
He made a non-committal sound, and she shook her head at the depths of his ignorance as she sang the first few lines.
‘It is an enchanted evening,’ she said, heaving a sigh. ‘Can’t you feel it? A deserted beach, a starry night, the only sound the hot wind soughing through the palm trees…’
‘I can hear a generator, too,’ Simon pointed out.
Clara clicked her tongue, provoked. ‘You’re just being difficult. I don’t believe you can’t understand how fabulously romantic this all is. It’s a perfect tropical night, and Paradise Island is exactly what I imagined a coral island to be like. I don’t see how you could possibly improve it.’
‘Oh, surely it can get better than this,’ he said.