Move Over Darling (2 page)

A clean getaway, he reminded himself. No complications and certainly no local girls. Hell, if he’d let his father tell him what to do, he’d still be up to his knees in mud and cow muck and coming home every evening to the bitter face of the girl from the nearest farm slowly realising he’d only married her for her land. All that weight of expectation on a young couple; everyone in the village relying on them to work the land, fill the schools and keep the shops open. No pressure there then. So the local girls were strictly off-limits, he reminded himself, even if his cute next-door neighbour came round and offered to kiss every single part of him better.

More to the point, he’d promised Ruby that wild horses wouldn’t stop him making sure that everything would be in place for the show – including him. Whilst he had every confidence in her abilities, it wasn’t fair to leave the kid holding the fort all by herself. Especially not with Laura Schiffman, Pamala Gray’s chillingly efficient senior director, breathing down her neck.

‘Let Pamala down and it won’t just be your father’s cottage no one’s touching,’ Laura had warned. Pamala Gray was not the kind of art dealer anyone messed around, especially in a tightening market. Every exhibition in each of her three galleries had to repay its outlay. If he was a less successful artist, he’d be concerned, but his gold-plated sales record insulated him from any such fears. Not that he’d take advantage of his position; he’d play the game for Ruby’s sake so when the time came for her to strike out on her own, she’d be able to cash in from his patronage.

He hobbled upstairs, holding up his big toe stiffly so as not to mark the pristine beige carpet, and picked his phone up from the side of the bed, wondering if was too early to give Ruby a quick call just to reassure her. Great. No signal. Leaning out of the window to see if the reception was any better, he caught the sound of someone singing ‘Just Blew In From The Windy City’ in the kitchen below. Somehow it didn’t come as a surprise when he cracked his head ducking back in.

A little later, gazing round at the winter sun lighting up the whitewashed walls and gilding the oak A-framed rafters of her shop, Coralie felt restored by the sight of her neatly stacked shelves.
Sweet Cleans, Dream Body
for beauty and skincare on one side,
Sweet Cleans, Dream Home
for household and utility on the other. It was a comfort to see the battalions of gleaming bottles and tightly packed jars and imagine them all primed and ready to bring a little shine to so many neglected places. She shrugged off her red coat, smoothed out her pleated skirt with its fifties’ geometric print and switched on her music. ‘Secret Love’ filled the air and Coralie quickly forwarded it to something that didn’t make her think of anything messy, like half-naked strangers in the garden.

When Alys tapped at the door, she was glad of the diversion. Alys, who, with her husband, Huw, ran the Penmorfa Garden Centre, had inadvertently helped her to make up her mind when Coralie was still weighing up the pros and cons of moving to the area. Coralie had been exploring, following the winding road up and across the hill to where emerald fields sloped down to a turquoise sea, when she’d first come across the garden centre. It had been a gloriously hot day and noticing that there were signs for a café and something called the Craft Courtyard, she called in for a cool drink and the chance to nose around.

The converted stable buildings, clustering round the garden centre’s pretty Victorian cobbled courtyard, housed an eclectic variety of both crafts and craftspeople and seemed to be attracting a healthy flow of visitors. With hindsight, she’d probably let her heart rule her head when she’d noticed there were units to rent. The Craft Courtyard in winter was a much quieter affair, but the attraction of such a lovely setting and an instant ‘family’ of friendly faces so close to her prospective new home had been too strong to resist.

Coralie waved Alys in. Even in her garden uniform of old jeans and black polo-neck, covered today with a black pea-coat, Alys looked stylish and chic, a bit like Helen Mirren, with her silver bob and slim figure. Alys had a lot of oomph, too. Considering her daughter, Kitty, was quietly causing havoc, she was also managing to stay very calm.

‘I don’t suppose Kitty’s said anything to you about the baby yet,’ said Alys. ‘Not that I’m asking you to break any confidences.’

‘No, and I know,’ Coralie told her.

‘I just wish she’d open up to me,’ Alys sighed.

‘How’s Huw taking it?’

Alys fingered a bar of soap from the
Dream Body
range. ‘He’s having a late mid-life crisis. It doesn’t suit him to think that his little girl is all grown up; he hasn’t got the faintest idea what’s going on under those loose tops she’s wearing. He still thinks of
her
as a baby so he certainly doesn’t think she’s capable of being a mother.’ She stroked her hands across the label on the wrapper. ‘Mind you, I sometimes wonder what’s going on inside his head these days. I could stand in front of him stark naked and I swear Huw wouldn’t notice.’

Stark naked reminded her of her new neighbour again, so Coralie was relieved when Alys closed her eyes to raise the soap to her face and inhale the vanilla scent. It gave her a chance to rearrange her expression before Alys read the guilt there. She’d rather not have to own up to disfiguring one of her holiday tenants. ‘Ah, but that’s because you’re secure with each other,’ she said. ‘Huw’s just comfortable with you.’

Surely you couldn’t keep feeling the way she had when her neighbour had appeared over the fence? Excitement like that every day couldn’t be good for you, could it? And yet something in Alys’s expression as she replaced the soap and stood up suggested that comfortable wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Outside in the courtyard, Willow, who sold silver jewellery to the sounds of dolphin calls and rainforest music from her little shop, had arrived after everyone else as usual, but appeared to be having trouble with her door. Coralie and Alys watched as she drifted in to Rhys, the chair maker, as big and solid as one of his products.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Alys. ‘Seems like Rhys’s number has come up.’

Coralie did a double take; privately she thought that Willow, with her very faded pre-Raphaelite beauty, was well-named since she did an awful lot of drooping.

‘I hope she doesn’t frighten him away before the Valentine’s raffle,’ Alys said, folding her arms. ‘Rhys has promised to donate some hand-carved plant labels. We had a weaver here once – lovely man he was, beautiful work – but Willow would keep pestering him. I think he was all for the free massages she offered to start with. Quite happy to have his pressure points relieved and that, but once she cornered him with her Tarot cards, telling him they were meant for each other, it all got a bit heavy for him. Last I heard he’d changed his name and was working up at B&Q near Llandudno.’

‘Surely not?’ Coralie blinked.

‘Well, I might have misheard the bit about B&Q, but it was something like that,’ said Alys, her laugh sounding very like Kitty’s. ‘But Willow is very fond of men who are good with their hands. Blacksmiths, potters, sculptors, gardeners,’ she continued, sounding more serious. ‘Treats them all as if they’re superheroes. She forgets they’re just ordinary men and like ordinary men they’ll take what they’re offered and then they move on.’

The throaty gurgle of an engine alerted them to Huw, oblivious to them watching, trundling past on a quad bike with Edith, his wire-haired Jack Russell looking full of her own self-importance, perched at the back. Alys watched him disappear, her expression hard to read. Gardeners, she’d said. Not Huw? He was certainly good-looking in a rumpled, lived-in way, but why would anyone who had Alys waiting for him need to play away from home? Just as she was starting to feel quite glum, she noticed Alys smiling again. ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ she said admiringly, ‘Willow will certainly bite off more than she can chew if she has a go at this one.’

Coralie took one look over Alys’s shoulder and quickly turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’.

‘Oh, you’ve met your new neighbour, have you?’ said Alys, raising an eyebrow. ‘I knew he had something of a reputation, but I didn’t think it was that bad!’

The closed sign didn’t seem to be putting him off; he continued to bear down on them, although his progress did seem to be hampered by a barely perceptible limp.

‘It’s all right, Gethin,’ said Alys, switching the door sign over again and beckoning him in. ‘You don’t have to press your face against the glass, there are plenty of warm rolls in the oven.’

She looked rather pleased with her selective misquote from
Pillow Talk
. Coralie had lent her the DVD of the film in which Doris Day was cast as an independent interior designer forced to share a temporary telephone line with a philandering composer. As Alys stepped back, Coralie took a look at the man standing in her shop and decided that some of his pillow talk was probably quite lively, too. The late morning sun slanting through the windows caught the intense, blue-black of his hair, the twinkle of his dark eyes, a glint of white teeth as he smiled. No wonder he had a reputation. Going round looking like that, he only had himself to blame.

‘Little Red Riding Hood, it’s you again!’ He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at her. ‘Just keep your distance, will you?’

Coralie was starting to feel that simply being on the same planet as Gethin Lewis was too close. Seven months of immersing herself in the practicalities of Sweet Cleans meant she had almost blotted out the messy memories of undertaking gladiatorial combat in some very risky arenas on behalf of corporate emperors. All the whisking, heating and blending of simple, chemical-free ingredients was highly therapeutic; every batch of marigold and lavender foot balm or Squeaky Clean window cleaner gave her a sense of achievement and of brighter days ahead.

In some small way, the products she created were soothing the weary and banishing the dreary. Maiming the man next door on first meeting felt like a retrograde step. Towering over her now, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the door, he looked like a dark deed in her pure, pristine world. Shame she couldn’t just give him a quick squirt of something and pretend he hadn’t happened.

‘Have I missed something?’ asked Alys, looking from one to the other.

‘Apart from a suspected broken toe and hypothermia?’ responded Gethin mildly, picking up a bottle of Glow Surround, Coralie’s all-purpose kitchen cleaner from the
Dream Home
range. ‘I nearly cracked my skull open on the window too, thanks to your singing.’

‘My voice isn’t
that
bad,’ said Coralie, feeling slightly miffed.

‘Nothing wrong with it at all,’ he agreed, pleasantly. ‘You just took me by surprise when I was trying to pick up a phone signal. Although, if I was being picky, I’d say maybe stay away from the Doris Day numbers.’

For Alys’s sake, she was prepared to keep the peace and tone the singing down for a week or so. She was even prepared to compensate him for his injuries. She pointed to the bottle he was holding. ‘Please accept that, then, by way of an apology. It’s very good on hard surfaces.’

‘Oh, you
have
been getting to know each other,’ said Alys, sounding impressed. ‘Looks as if I can skip the introductions.’

‘I’m Gethin Lewis,’ he said, smiling and offering her his hand.

‘And this is Coralie Casey,’ said Alys for her, which was good because something had got her tongue.

‘Coralie?’ he said in a voice like brown sugar on a Welsh cake. ‘That’s unusual.’

The blue eyes turned on her speculatively. ‘It suits you,’ he nodded, ‘especially with your colouring.’

‘Gethin’s a successful artist,’ Alys explained, whilst Coralie stood dumbstruck, wondering if he would have felt so free to comment about the old Coralie in her sober black suits. ‘He came from Penmorfa originally.’

‘So, are you back here on holiday?’ asked Coralie, recovering her powers of speech.

‘Holidays are where you go to have fun, so I’m afraid that rules Penmorfa out for me,’ he said, looking reflective.

‘It depends on your idea of fun,’ said Coralie. Personally she got a lot of satisfaction from trying out ideas for new products, but he looked the sort who might have very different expectations about soapsuds and body lotions. ‘What about all the gorgeous coastal path walks? Surely you’ll want to remind yourself of all those glorious views?’

The corner of his mouth just lifted. ‘I appreciate the suggestion, but I’m very familiar with the local beauties.’

Beside her, Alys turned away to stifle a cough that sounded very much like a muffled laugh. Coralie narrowed her eyes at him. So why was he here? Decorative as he was, she hoped he wasn’t back for a prolonged period. She could just about handle the idea of having him as a neighbour for a couple of weeks, but now she’d got used to it, she liked the seclusion of her cottage. She relished being able to pop out to her workshop at the bottom of her garden whenever she liked and mix up an experimental batch of something when the idea struck. A neighbour who was a permanent fixture complaining about noise and smells would certainly cramp her style. Especially someone who wasn’t fond of Doris Day and little black cats.

Successful artist, Alys said. Coralie was beginning to think that anyone who could hold a paint brush in west Wales regarded themselves as a successful artist. Just as anyone who could string a sentence together was writing a novel or a collection of poetry. She thought she could be forgiven for not identifying Gethin Lewis as one of them since he’d managed to steer clear of the usual accessories like a ponytail or a loud, hairy jumper. Although a silver hooped earring – the perennial favourite with a certain type of west Wales artistic man, generally old enough to know better – would have rather suited him, giving those dark good looks a distinctly piratical edge.

‘So,’ she said, trying not to dwell on the dark good looks bit, ‘do you exhibit your work anywhere?’ Most would-be artists in the area had a sign outside pointing at a shed marked ‘Gallery’.

‘New York,’ he said, with a gleam in his deep blue eyes.

‘Ah,’ said Coralie. At least he wouldn’t be distracting her with any more half-naked appearances across the fence for very long. ‘I expect your girlfriend’s missing you.’

His dark eyebrows rose, making Coralie wish she’d thought more carefully before opening her mouth, but with looks like that he had to belong to someone. Despite the battered leather jacket, which gave his appearance a touch of louche edginess, he was quite different from most local artists; especially the ones who looked as if they dressed from a fancy-dress box. Carefully dishevelled hair, designer stubble, expensive jeans, black tee shirt under charcoal jumper; that understated style suggested he didn’t need any gimmicks to attract attention.

‘The only woman anxious to see me is the art dealer who’s about to show my work, but she’ll just have to learn to be patient,’ he said, amiably. He returned his attention to the bottle in his hand. ‘Sweet Cleans. Some kind of hobby?’

Coralie ground her teeth. Cath Kidston must have heard that one a few times, too. ‘Like painting you mean?’ she said, and heard him laugh. ‘I’m providing a complete range of natural, eco-friendly cleaning and beauty products because there’s a growing demand for them.’

‘From people who can afford to pay through the nose for bleach in a fancy bottle, you mean,’ he said, returning it to the shelf. ‘Good luck with finding many of those round here.’

‘Gethin!’ Alys chided gently before Coralie could protest about his quick dismissal of her environmentally sensitive ingredients. ‘A lot’s changed in recent years. You should go up to Abersaith and take a walk along the high street if you want to see what I’m talking about; there are individual shops selling handmade stationery, exclusive knitwear, coffee shops with a choice of pastel-coloured macaroons …’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen it all before, Alys. And been back enough times to watch all the false dawns; too many of those businesses are here and gone before you blink. They seem a good idea when the sun’s shining and the few holidaymakers that bother with this part of the world are about, but most of them don’t survive the winter.’