Move Over Darling (9 page)

‘Many years ago, as a keen amateur artist, I won the prize of a short art course. This, as you know, gave me the opportunity to turn my hobby into a profession.’ He saw Delyth curl her lip at Mair. ‘That profession has taken me far away from Penmorfa, and maybe one or two of you think that I’ve forgotten where I come from, so tonight I’d like to say a small thank you in the best way I can.’

The room grew quiet and he could feel everyone waiting.

‘I’d like to make a contribution to the renovation of a hall for the village by donating one of my works for auction, with all the proceeds going to the community hall fund
.
’

There were low murmurs from some quarters of the room and he paused to see if anyone was bold enough to put up a protest, but Coralie, bless her, was beaming at him and had just clapped her hands together when he resumed his speech.

‘This will be a new piece, especially created for the sale. My reputation, as some of you will know, rests on a painting inspired by …’ he lingered whilst Mair gave him a furious stare, ‘an image I set on the beautiful cove at Penmorfa, so it’s Penmorfa I’d like to pay tribute to now by taking, as the subject of my painting, the winner of the Valentine’s raffle.’

There were more murmurs as people in the room cast nervous glances at each other.

‘And that winner is …’ He picked out a blue ticket and pretended to read it. ‘Number eleven!’

Mair screwed up her ticket. He saw Coralie suck her peach-stained lip and felt like sucking it for her, although he’d definitely get another rulering from Mair if he did. He watched the emotions flicker across Coralie’s face as she studied her ticket and seemed to be on the point of shoving it back in her bag. Then Rhys, the chair maker, looked over her shoulder at it and cheered, starting a ripple of applause that gradually got louder as everyone showed their approval. As the noise started to die down, smiling faces started to turn to Coralie expectantly, except for the corner of the room where Kitty and the guy from the garden centre – Adam? – were having a discussion that was becoming increasingly heated.

‘So,’ roared the guy, standing up and sending his chair flying, ‘when did you think
would
be the right time to tell me what you’ve been up to!’

Alys quickly signalled for the music to start again, grabbing her husband to lead the next dance only, as Huw gave an exaggerated shake of his hips as he got up to join her, a jolt of pain creased his face and then he was clutching his back in agony. With all eyes on Huw – insisting that he didn’t need medical help – and Alys enlisting the help of a couple of burly bystanders to get him over to the farmhouse, he just caught sight of Coralie sidling towards the coat lobby and pushed through the crowd after her.

‘Not so fast,’ said a familiar voice behind her, just as Coralie thought she was safely outside. ‘I’m coming with you.’

She looked up at the bright constellations and congratulated herself for not being the type to be easily dazzled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You stay here and find someone else to paint.’

He gave a short laugh and stayed by her side anyway. ‘Have you any idea how much women pay me to immortalise them on canvas?’

‘I pay men for things that are useful to me. Like fixing my septic tank or re-pointing my chimney,’ she insisted. ‘Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but whatever issues you’ve got with this village, it’s not fair to involve me.’ She started to walk down the lane, picking her way carefully because it was slippery and her shoes didn’t feel as clever as when she had first put them on. He muttered something under his breath, then took hold of her arm, steering her away from a frozen pothole.

‘You asked me to be a little more philanthropic and I’ve obliged,’ he pointed out, still keeping her close. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to help with the fund-raising effort.’

She shook her head, trying to make sense of the swirling, contradictory thoughts that were so confusing. Part of her was beguiled by how far Penmorfa’s very own bad boy was prepared to put himself out for her, but the suspicious part questioned his motives. ‘You cheated!’ she accused, still relying on his support to stop her sliding on the thin ice. ‘I don’t know how or why you did it, but that prize belongs to the person who won it!’

Even in the dark, she knew he was smiling. ‘I just know what the paying public wants, that’s all. A portrait of Mair or Delyth won’t get you more than a tin shack for the village. Don’t worry about it,’ he said, patting her arm. ‘It’s just a raffle prize.’

But it wasn’t just any old raffle prize, was it? Only one of Gethin Lewis’s models had ever managed to remain anonymous. Despite intense speculation, no one had discovered the identity of the girl in
Last Samba
, but she couldn’t afford to take that risk. Being in the spotlight was something she’d much rather avoid.

‘You know,’ he went on, ‘I don’t usually have this trouble persuading someone to sit for me.’

She could believe it. That voice would make a lot of women do far more than just sit for him. A sudden shiver ran through her body at the thought.

‘You’re not scared of letting me paint your portrait, are you?’ he said, softly.

‘I’m cold,’ she said, which was a lot better than admitting she was shivering because she was out in the dark with the tall, dark, dangerous wolf who could gobble her up at any moment.

He unlinked his arm from hers and wrapped it firmly round her waist instead. ‘Better? I believe in making my potential models comfortable,’ he explained when she shot a surprised look at him. ‘I’m considerate, unlike some artists who bend their sitters into difficult positions and expect them to stay there for hours. My demands are entirely reasonable.’

For a moment, her libido got interested in his demands. What would it be like to listen to the soft caress of his voice as he told her how he wanted her? To have those midnight-blue eyes roam over every inch of her body? To be passive, helpless, whilst he did whatever he pleased? Just then a barn owl skimmed past them towards the silver fields, looking for small prey to seize. Coralie was reminded that if she didn’t take care, she’d be in the grip of something difficult to escape, too.

‘I promise you’ll be in good hands. I like to spend time with my model and get to know her, so I present a true picture.’

Just what she was afraid of. To become, once again, the object of pity, or curiosity, or even worse, blame – why risk putting herself through all that again? It was a good thing they were nearly back at the cottages where the window in her front door was casting a welcome square of light across the lane.

‘And how long does it take you to get to know your model?’ she asked, thinking, with some regret, of all the things she wasn’t going to let him do.

‘Six sittings; six sessions over six days.’

Six, six, six. The devil’s number. Which was only to be expected, since he was doing his best to tempt her. Go away, she told him silently. Was this how it would be for the rest of her life? Being crippled by guilt? Living in an emotional void, a bystander whilst Kitty had her baby, Alys and Huw celebrated their lives together and green shoots marked the passing seasons in the garden centre.

‘It’s not too late to go back to the dance and tell Alys there’s been a mistake,’ she said. They were outside her front door now and the light was just glancing off his cheekbones and the curve of his lips as he caressed her with the lovely lilt of his voice, which still betrayed his Welsh roots however hard he’d tried to escape them. It crossed her mind that she must have been a teenager the last time she’d stood on a doorstep whilst someone tried to tell her about all the good things he could do for her if only she would let him.

‘Finding the right winner doesn’t mean you’ll necessarily end up with Delyth or Mair. Find someone who’ll be pleased with the prize. Even in Penmorfa there are beautiful women who’ll fall over themselves to lie on your couch. What’s the problem?’

He laughed quietly and stretched one arm across the doorway before bending his head to hers. ‘The problem,’ he said, softly, ‘is that I don’t want any of those other women. I want you.’

The roar of the sea from the other side of the headland made her feel reckless. No one was guaranteed a happy ever after, but what was wrong with a happy for now? Tomorrow she’d be standing there alone, watching the jet stream of every plane that disappeared over the wide blue bay. Thinking about it crossing the ocean to where the long beaches and coves were sliced open by another waterway. Dipping down towards a city of glass towers shimmering into the air, buildings humming with thousands of people sleeping, eating, making love, laughing. And one of them would be Gethin Lewis, getting on with his life.

‘Someone’s going to find out that you deliberately called out the wrong number,’ she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth, naked and sexy against the black shadow of incipient stubble, filling her with thoughts of what it would it would be like to taste the tang of salt spray on his lips whilst the dark waves crashed on the night beach.

‘But I didn’t,’ he murmured, reaching into his pocket. He took out the square of folded blue paper and pressed it into her palm.

‘Number eleven. Just like yours.’

Coralie exhaled slowly. There it was; temptation in the palm of her hand. She stared down at the ticket, letting her imagination run riot for a few seconds, daring her to claim the prize that was rightfully hers.

But that would be a terrible idea,

‘There’s one detail you’ve overlooked,’ she said, ducking underneath his arm and putting her key in the lock. ‘You’ll be leaving soon, to return to America, and I’m staying in Penmorfa. We’ll never be in the same place again.’

She stepped away from him and from thoughts of what might have been, crossing the threshold to reality and her brightly lit hall. Then she turned to face him for the last time. ‘Since it’s clearly impossible for me to collect my prize, would it be too much to ask you to donate a different painting? Please don’t let your memories of the village get in the way of doing something good for the place. It may even help you come to terms with the past?’

His soft laughter made a mockery of her stiff little speech. How uptight did that sound? And who was she to give him advice?

‘Coralie,’ he said, straightening up and shaking his head at her. ‘You make it sound as if I’ve got spare paintings lying around. All my available work is tied up in the current exhibition, and I can assure you that there’s no shortage of interest. You’ll just have to come to my studio in New York.’

‘Very funny,’ she said, dryly. ‘I have a business to run, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘A week away won’t make any difference.’ He shrugged.

‘Oh?’ Coralie folded her arms. ‘Because it’s only a hobby, I suppose?’

‘An interest in art,’ he said, quietly, ‘was not exactly something my father encouraged. I’m not belittling your work; in fact, by doing my bit for Penmorfa, I’m helping your business, too. The air fare and board are included in the prize, so if you really want to do something for the village, you’ll do as I say. No portrait means no painting. Think about it.’

The next day Kitty woke up to a sky that was as blue as she felt and a crisp cold morning that was almost as brittle. The winter sunshine beamed onto the floral duvet warming the exact spot below which her baby somersaulted in its secret, watery world. At the beginning she’d almost convinced herself that nothing was happening; so what if her periods had stopped – she was busy at work, wasn’t she? And if her breasts were tender, that was because her period was due, wasn’t it? And with all that to worry about, well, no wonder she was off her food. Yes, it had been so easy to carry on as normal; even her body seemed to be colluding, her young, tight stomach muscles hugging the baby close. The neat bump and heavier breasts could, with careful clothing, be explained away as a bit of a weight gain.

But beneath it all the baby had bloomed from a blob with a heartbeat on an ultrasound scan, to someone who rolled and kicked inside her, making her back ache and her lungs feel cramped as it pushed for more space. And now she was scared: scared of giving birth, scared of the responsibility and scared of having to face the future on her own. Realising that her tears had soaked the pillow, Kitty levered herself up and groped around for a tissue. She gave her nose a good no-nonsense blow and went over to the window where, she noticed, the birds were having a fit of spring fever outside. The birds were right, of course; it was far too beautiful a morning to be moping around – especially when her days of freedom were numbered – so she had a quick shower and wrapped up to go down to Penmorfa Cove.

The inlet was enclosed by steep shale cliffs and accessed by narrow stone steps which deterred most couples lugging toddlers in buggies or grannies on scooters. Kitty was aware of her extra burden and felt as if she’d aged several decades as she picked her way down. In summer, especially on the rare hot days, the fine sandy beach could be bustling with holidaymakers, although most of them didn’t arrive until late morning and had cleared off again by early evening, pretty much guaranteeing you could always find some time to yourself there.

Except that this morning she wasn’t alone. She watched the solitary surfer in his winter wetsuit snake along the silver barrel of a wave before spilling into a crest of foam and considered slipping away before he noticed he had company. But, as Adam righted himself, he spotted her on the shore and started wading towards her, creamy water lapping at his thighs.

‘Hi, Mummy,’ he said, his tone matching the icy chill from his body.

She winced, but found herself huddling a bit closer anyway, longing for a glimpse of the old, easy-going Adam. ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it. All right?’

‘You should have thought about that last night, before you let me kiss you,’ he said, casting off his Neoprene gloves and striding towards his rucksack which was tucked into a rocky niche. ‘Did you think you could fool me like everyone else?’ He pulled at the collar of his wetsuit and reached round for the ripcord, tugging at it impatiently.

‘You’ll tear that if you’re not careful,’ she said, taking over so that she could watch his toned, tanned back appear as she released him. ‘I just—’ She took a deep breath because her throat was so tight it was difficult to get the words out. ‘I just needed a bit of time to get my head round it. Once I start telling people they’ll all be wanting to knit bootees, or buy little outfits, or they’ll be asking me if I know what I’m having and if I’ve thought of any names. I’m just not ready to deal with all that. I can’t believe that this,’ she waved her hand at her stomach, ‘is a real person waiting to happen.’

‘And what about the daddy?’ He turned to her at last, his green eyes glittering in a sudden shaft of sunlight. ‘Is
he
ready to deal with it?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I … The thing is …’ She shook her head at the damp sand whilst he unpeeled himself from the wet rubber. ‘We’re not together.’

‘That’s not what I asked,’ he snapped. ‘He does know, doesn’t he?’

Kitty folded her arms across herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, cringing, ‘he knows, but he’s not exactly the settling down type. Now can we just talk about something else?’

‘Sure,’ he said, draping a towel across his shoulders and rounding on her. ‘Let’s talk about what a busy time you’ve had in Cardiff. You know, there was a time last year when I thought that you and me might have something going for us. The way you followed me round the garden centre, pretending to be interested in what I was doing.’

‘I was interested!’ Kitty protested, turning her back as his hands moved to his trunks. ‘I was weighing up my mind wondering if I should stay here and help Mam and Dad with the business or if I should strike out on my own. I needed to find out more about what happened here and if it was for me.’

‘Yeah, well it’s quite apparent you found the big city a touch more exciting.’ He buckled up his jeans and pulled on his hoodie, before pushing his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. She followed him as he bent to pick up a pebble, throwing it viciously into the soaring spray.

‘Yes I did, in fact,’ she said, feeling the anger rise. ‘I worked in a great office, and I learned new skills and I had a great social life. And I met a wide range of interesting and exciting people who had more to talk about than the neighbours’ business and whether or not the weather was right for planting.’

‘Well, you don’t need to worry about the weather when you’re planting indoors, do you?’ he said, with a soft laugh. ‘You didn’t waste any time replacing me with Mr Casual Fling, did you? Was it because you were in such a hurry that you forgot all about contraception?’

Kitty spun away from him, stomping through the wet sand that made the going tough. Sheer anger took her up the first steps, even though she was finding it hard to catch her breath, but somehow she misplaced her foot and found herself falling heavily.