by Nina Milne
‘So even that was a sort of working holiday?’ Gabby asked. ‘What about family holidays when you were young?’
‘We used to go down to Cornwall and Devon and camp mostly. Money was tight, but we still had a wonderful time. I spent loads of time swimming in the sea and trying to make surfboards out of driftwood.’
It was a long time since he had thought back to those holidays, those hours of happiness away from school, away from the scent of failure and humiliation. Free to be himself, free to swim and run and think and plan how one day, somehow, he would prove to the world that he wasn’t stupid.
‘Then I have the perfect thing for you to do. You can go surfing! Why not have a lesson? On a real surfboard?’
For a moment he was tempted, but then he shook his head. ‘No point. I haven’t the time or the inclination to take it up as a hobby, so why bother?’
‘Because it might be fun! No one is going to demand a commitment from you to take it up as a lifestyle. Plus, if you enjoy it, why not take it up as a hobby? You surely can’t work all the time, every weekend.’
‘Surfing sounds like a time-consuming hobby and I don’t have the time.’ Right or wrong, his entire focus was on his business and that was the way he liked it.
‘OK. But one afternoon surfing won’t impact your company, will it?’
Put like that, he realised how absurd he sounded, and wondered at his own reluctance to kick back and enjoy something other than work. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Then that’s decided. I’ll call them and book you in.’
‘What about you?’
‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘No way. Not my thing at all. I wish it was—I mean, the idea of mastering the waves is obviously incredible—but I can’t imagine doing it. I wish I was that sort of person but I’m not. I’ll sit on the sand and watch.’
He frowned. When he’d first met her hadn’t she said the same?
I wish I was the sort of woman who would jump at this, but I’m not.
‘How do you know? Have you tried it before?’
‘No. I don’t need to. The whole idea leaves me cold—or rather shaking with terror.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Yes. In a pool I’m pretty competent, but the thought of swimming in the sea doesn’t appeal. Too scary.’
‘But you might be a natural—you might love it.’
‘Or I might drown.’
‘Unlikely on a summer day, on a safe beach with an instructor and me there. I think you should give it a try.’
‘Well, I appreciate your thought, but I don’t want to.’
‘But if you try it and find it too frightening, you can always stop.’ Perhaps he should stop, but he sensed that deep down she did want to do this.
‘I’m already finding it too frightening and I’m on dry land, miles away from the sea.’
‘But—’
‘Stop with the buts. The idea of falling in, of the waves sucking me in, pulling me away, of drowning, of choking, not being able to breathe, not coming back... That is too frightening.’
Her knuckles had tightened white against the brown enamel of the coffee mug and he reached out and gently took it from her clasp.
‘Back off, OK?’
‘OK. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was such a deep-rooted fear.’
‘And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’ She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, then reopened them. ‘It’s OK. To be honest, I hadn’t realised myself how much it would still affect me. It’s silly, really. I just have a vividly overactive imagination. My grandfather loved swimming in the sea. Really loved it. But it terrified me. We’d often go to the coast on weekends and I’d watch him go out further and further, getting smaller and smaller, and I’d get more and more scared. Because I realised that the sea didn’t understand or care that he was one of only two people I had in the world to look after me. I would imagine the sea as the enemy, luring him away from me, away from the shore until he wouldn’t be able to get back.’
Her arms wrapped defensively over her stomach, as if she could feel the same twist of hollow dread now.
The image hit his brain with shocking clarity. A young Gabby sitting on a beach, watching, dreading, hoping... And, given the loss of her parents, her fear would have had a horrible validity—her reliance on her grandparents must have been absolute.
‘But he came back,’ he said gently.
‘Yes, he did. Every time. It should have made the anxiety lessen, but it didn’t. Each time I figured the probability had increased that this time would be the one when it all went tragic. I’d make so many bargains in my head. If he comes back, I’ll give up chocolate...make straight As... I never told him how scared I was because I knew how much he loved swimming in the sea and I didn’t want to spoil it for him.’ She reached for her cup. ‘I’d changed his life enough.’
The last words had been said so softly he suspected she wasn’t even aware she’d spoken the thought aloud.
‘Anyway—lesson learnt. The sea is not for me.’
‘Maybe.’ Zander leant forward. ‘But perhaps your fear was that you would lose your grandfather, not a fear of the sea per se.’
‘Perhaps. But the bottom line is I can live without surfing quite happily. My life won’t be blighted if I don’t book myself in for a lesson.’
‘I understand that, but your life might well be enhanced if you do.’
‘Why does this matter to you?’
‘Because fear is debilitating. I spent my whole childhood afraid that I was stupid, scared of books and of being found out. For years I devised strategies so that people would think I could read. If I hadn’t been so scared I think I would have asked for help. If there is one thing I’ve learnt it’s that I don’t like being scared and that fear can change you. Facing fear can change your life. I’m not saying surfing will change your life, but in some ways not being afraid of the sea will make your life better.’
‘How?’
‘Let’s say you’ve met Mr Right and one day you’re on the beach with him and your two kids. Do you want to pass your fear on, or do you want to swim with your family in the sea?’
Gabby narrowed her eyes. ‘No fair.’
‘The end justifies the means. Come on, Gabby. Book us both a surfing lesson for later today. Then let’s go down to the beach and have a go at swimming in the sea.’
‘Now?’
‘Yup. There’s no time like the present.’
Panic widened her eyes and she shook her head. ‘Hang on. If I have to move out of my comfort zone, so do you.’
‘OK. Name it. What do you want me to do?’ Even as he spoke the words he had a vague inkling of their stupidity.
‘You take a real holiday. No more work.’
The tables had turned so fast he hadn’t seen the edges coming for him. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not? Would your whole business collapse if you took a break?’
Again, put like that it sounded absurd, and yet the idea of no work... It scared him.
Her lips tipped in the tiniest of smirks. ‘If the idea scares you, you should face up to that fear. Or we can give up on the whole idea. You work—I stay clear of the sea. Deal?’
Zander hesitated. Work kept him sane, gave him purpose, satisfied his need for success. It was his drive. But it was nuts that the idea of a break scared him. Time to put his money where his mouth was and face the fear down.
‘No. No way. I’ll take a break and you’ll swim in the sea and then we are going to surf. Deal?’
Silence and then she nodded. ‘Deal.’
‘And...’ Whilst he was at it he would face down the fear of spending time with Gabby, too—the fear that he couldn’t control the attraction factor. ‘If I’m taking a break, then maybe we could spend some time together. As friends.’
‘Friends?’
He could hear the doubt, and an echoing inner voice questioned the sanity of the suggestion. It appeared that he was launching from stupidity to stupidity in an ever-increasing circle.
‘Yes, friends. Why not? We both accept that physical attraction exists and can’t be acted on, but that doesn’t mean we have to be afraid of it. We should face it down.’
‘Combat it with friendship? I guess it’s worth a try...’
‘Friends it is.’ He held out his hand. ‘Deal?’
‘Deal,’ she echoed and placed her hand in his.
The simple touch called the whole pact into question, causing a temptation to hold on, to circle his thumb round the tender pad of her palm. Instead he shook it and dropped it.
‘I’ll call the office.’
‘I’ll call the surf school.’
* * *
Gabby tried and failed to subdue the odd buzz of anticipation that laced her veins as they left the house and headed for Sintra and the tram station. True, there was a knot of anxiety in the pit of her tummy at the thought of the forthcoming swim, sea and surf experience, but her nerves were overlaid by the reassurance offered in the sheer bulk of Zander at her side. Perhaps they were also helped by the drops of herbal remedy she’d hastily taken whilst changing.
The idea of the next few days caused a fizz inside her she knew she should subdue. Three days with Mr Wrong—remember, Gabby? But the reminder did nothing to dispel the bubble of happiness. And why not? It was OK to enjoy the company of a friend. And friendship was a good thing. Plus, maybe getting to know each other better would help dilute their physical attraction.
Inside her that little voice of reality dissolved into hysterical laughter. Yeah, right, it jeered, but Gabby refused to acknowledge it. This would work.
And so she revelled in the sunshine as it soaked her skin, and in the feel of the streets under her sandals—as if she could absorb the historic beauty of Sintra through its cobbles.
Central to the town, the Gothic National Palace was a monument to history, with its whitewashed rambling walls and the iconic coned chimneys that reached for the unending blue of the sky.
‘Apparently Hans Christian Andersen said they looked like champagne bottles,’ she told Zander, suddenly happy that she could talk to him as if to a friend, no longer using the words as small talk.
He glanced down at her and suddenly he smiled—a smile that scorched her and sent all thoughts of friendship rushing into the shadows.
‘More research?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely. The history of the palace is fascinating. I’ve always loved history. I nearly did it at uni.’
‘What stopped you?’
‘Not vocational enough. I wasn’t really sure what I would do with a history degree—and I really didn’t want to come out of university with a massive student loan.’ Gabby had always known that her priority was her grandparents—ensuring she could care for them. ‘So I decided to skip uni—go a different route. I worked in a library and studied for a diploma in librarianship at the same time, and luckily I love it. And I get to keep history as a hobby.’
‘So tell me about the palace.’
She frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m interested and because I like the way your face lights up when you talk about things that interest you.’
They were words a friend might use, but it didn’t feel like that. His eyes held warmth and his gaze caressed her skin.
‘OK. Um...’ For a moment all her research deserted her, but then finally memory kicked in. ‘The palace was built on the site of a Moorish fortress way back in medieval times, and Portuguese royals used it as their home. Some of them were born and died here. One of the best stories about it is that in 1582 four ambassadors from Japan visited Europe and came to Sintra—how brilliant is that? Wherever they went they were treated with respect; they were seen as a living letter from Japan. I think that’s wonderful—that centuries ago people showed respect to other cultures...cultures that must have been so different.’
Gabby came to a stop, aware that her voice had quickened into a torrent of words.
‘Sorry. Too much information.’
‘Nope. I’m genuinely interested.’
And still his gaze rested on her with a glint that quickened her pulse.
‘The tram station is this way.’
They walked onwards, and, as luck would have it, within minutes of their arrival a bright-coloured, old-fashioned tram trundled in. They joined the throng of people and squashed on to a wooden seat, but it was no matter that the carriage was crowded. In fact her body almost whooped at the chance to be legitimately pressed up close to Zander, to breathe in his scent, to feel his hard, muscular thigh against hers as they undertook the slow, noisy journey from town to coastline.
Three-quarters of an hour later they alighted at the beach, and suddenly she began to question the wisdom of her decision. A glance at the sea with its calm majesty should have reassured her, but somehow its vast expanse triggered anxiety and her footsteps slowed, her tummy churned.
And there was another issue to contend with. Like it or not, she had to take off her blue-and-white floral summer dress and reveal the swimsuit underneath. A completely serviceable plain black swimsuit, chosen for its simplicity. Yet self-consciousness engulfed her as she pulled out the changing towel from her bag and began some complicated manoeuvring.
Zander observed her for a moment and then, without a shred of embarrassment, tugged his T-shirt over his head, leaving him standing on the sand patiently in his board shorts.
A deep breath and her dress dropped in a silky puddle to the sand, leaving her with the towel still covering her. Right. She wriggled out of it with as much nonchalance as possible, feeling the heat of the sun’s rays warm her skin, trying not to feel exposed as she stared at the waves.
He held out his hand. ‘Let’s paddle to start.’
A moment of hesitation and then she placed her hand in his, told herself that friends held hands, that it was a gesture of reassurance. Nothing more.
Yet as they walked towards the gently lapping waves it felt like more. Skin against skin was a safe anchor, for sure, but it held an added overtone of awareness, made more acute by her sideways glimpses at his muscular chest, the smooth sculpture of his shoulders, and heightened by the fear of the water ahead of her and the crunch of the sand underfoot as each step took her closer.
Then cool waves washed over her feet, snaked around her calves, and she halted.
‘Standing here, all my fears seem groundless,’ she said. ‘The sea seems so innocent. But when I look out there I remember that in fact all I have to do is go out of my depth and I could drown.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess it’s a pretty apt life analogy, isn’t it?’
‘No. Because it is possible to go out of your depth and not drown. Some people swim the Channel. Or you can go by boat.’
‘At greater risk. It’s safer to stick to paddling.’
‘But then you never get to leave the shore.’
Sensing that there was something more in his words, something deeper than the superficial, she turned to him, studied his expression. ‘Some people are happy on the shore.’
‘Yes. They are.’
Now his eyes were definitely clouded, and the words held an unhappiness that was palpable—almost a self-reproach that she didn’t understand.
‘Are you?’ he asked.
‘I...’ She looked out to sea, unsure how to answer. There were so many times when she yearned to be a different person, someone willing to take risks, someone braver, more extroverted, more... Just more. But she was who she was. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And there is nothing wrong with that.’
‘No,’ he agreed quietly. ‘There isn’t. If you don’t want to swim in the sea you don’t have to. You’ve kept your part of the barga
in. You’re here. In the water.’ Zander ran a hand over his face. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have made you, and if you don’t feel comfortable, then don’t do it.’
His tone of voice was so at odds with the Zander of earlier that it jolted her out of her funk and she turned to face him, studying his face and noting the shadow that crossed his eyes.
It was he who now faced the waves, his body shifting away from hers. ‘I have a bad habit of bulldozing people into doing what suits me. And I have no right to do that.’
‘You didn’t bulldoze me. I agreed to do this. But there’s no point fibbing. I am terrified.’
Gabby caught her bottom lip between her teeth and glared at the sea, wishing she could will it into submission. Life didn’t work like that, though. Zander hadn’t been able to will his dyslexia into submission—he’d had to face the fear and work at it, learn to live with it.
Now she had a choice to make: she could take the easy option—turn away from this, tell herself there was no need to swim in the sea. Or she could try. She could swim away from the shore. And come back.
‘I am going to try. Show me. You swim out. But not too far.’
‘Sure.’
There was no hesitation, not even a sliver of the anxiety that instantly consumed her as he strode forward into the water, increasing his pace. And then he was swimming with strong, sure strokes, cleaving through the water until he flipped over on to his back, then floating for a moment and treading water to face her and wave.
The panic began to swirl. That urge to call him back rose, and she swallowed it down. The sea was calm. There were no rip tides or currents; they had checked. It was safe. But she wanted him to come back.
As if he knew that Zander reversed course, and minutes later he was beside her again. Water dripped from his dark blonde hair, glinted in the sunlight. His features were relaxed; he looked younger, happier...exhilarated. Gorgeous. A man who didn’t live on the metaphorical shore.