The bleak, harsh winter months had
matched her mood.
When spring arrived
and the snows melted, however, she was appalled at first to realize that the
tender green new buds on the
trees and the
glittering sunlight on the water lifted her spirits.
This had sparked off a fresh round of guilt, since
she was by
now so accustomed to grief
that it seemed disloyal to Matt to
feel even an inkling of happiness.
She was betraying his memory
. . . he was
beginning to fade from her thoughts . . . Terrified
that she would forget him and castigating herself
for such
treachery she returned to
London and watched, for hours and
hours,
video tapes of the TV programmes in which he had
appeared, reassuring
herself that she hadn’t forgotten the timbre
of
his voice, his exuberant gestures, his wickedly beguiling
smile.
Matt’s beloved family portrait made her cry. Too clearly
she
recalled his words when it had been
painted: ‘We have the rest
of our
lives together, sweetheart. And when we’re gone, there
will still be the
portrait to remind everyone that we were here. We’ll be immortal.’
But the rest of their lives together
had been less than five
months and
the unfairness of it all was so heart-breaking that eventually Camilla had
taken the portrait down from the wall, Packed it carefully in a box and put it
away in the loft.
Matt was
still there in the room, framed photographs of him
stood on every table and on the mantelpiece, but the sight of the
portrait and the particular memories it evoked was more
than she could
cope with at the moment.
Now, as Rocky rose to his feet and padded towards her,
tail
wagging in anticipation of a walk, she
realized that she was at
last beginning to come to terms with her grief.
She no longer
panicked, thinking that she
would forget Matt, because she
knew that that would never happen. The
guilt, too, had faded. It
had been a natural
reaction, according to her doctor in whom
she had eventually confided, but one which was entirely
illogical.
Gradually she had come to see that he was right.
Rocky bounced off the steps leading
down to the path and
set off
towards the beach at a frantic pace. Camilla smiled at his incredible
enthusiasm; he had been such a comfort to her in the
past year. At first his puppy-helplessness had required her
attention,
then as he grew and his ebullient personality became
even more forceful, she found herself panting to keep up with
him.
He adored her unreservedly, showering her with affection and sloppy kisses at
every opportunity and diverting her con
stantly
with his antics. During those moments Camilla forgot
her unhappiness and
was able to laugh, to feel normal again.
Lazily, enjoying the afternoon sun, she followed Rocky
along the beach, throwing sticks into the water and watching him hurl himself
after them as if they were the crown jewels. Emerging from the waves with the
stick in his mouth, shaking himself so
violently
that the air was filled with spirals of salty spray, he would drop the prize at
her feet and leer up at her, poised for
flight until she threw the stick
once more.
When they reached the sleepy town of
Drumlachan he
assumed a more sedate,
adult role and waited with a show of obedience outside shops while Camilla
replenished the stocks.
There wasn’t much to buy since she made this trip each day, but
it was
pleasant to chat with the locals who had unbent consider
ably since realizing that she wasn’t just a short-term summer
visitor.
Knowing nothing of her past, they treated her normally and spoiled the
children, particularly Marty, ‘the laughing wee
laddie’, with bars of chocolate and wickedly fattening dough
nuts
whenever they came to stay.
It was five o’clock by the time Camilla and Rocky began to
make their way back to Squirrel’s Gate and since the tide had
receded further and there was now more beach for
Rocky to
explore, the walk took almost
two hours. Tiny crabs scrambled
at his approach, haughty seagulls
taunted him, waiting until he was only feet away before squawking and rising
into the air, and
long wet ribbons of dark
brown seaweed wrapped themselves
like serpents around his paws.
It wasn’t until she was climbing the steps to the cottage
that Camilla spotted the sleek, metallic grey nose of a car parked on the
grassy verge behind it.
Surely not tourists, she thought with faint surprise. The
beach was deserted, the heather and bracken-covered hills rising up behind the
cottage silent and still.
Whistling for Rocky, who was loitering on the water’s edge
engaging in perilously unarmed combat with a sea urchin, she
paused on the top step and waited for him to join
her. Although
if it were burglars,
she thought with a tiny smile, their make of
car indicated that they would be sadly disappointed by the
contents
of her modest second home.
Inside the cottage, Nico had been
waiting for over an
hour
for Camilla to return, assuming that she had not gone
far since neither the front nor the
back doors had been
locked when he
arrived. After some hesitation he had let himself in and made himself a cup of
tea in the tiny, but well-
equipped, kitchen.
Then, nerves getting the better of him, he had emptied the tea down the sink
and poured a Scotch from
the slightly dusty bottle standing on the oak
sideboard in the sitting-room.
Stretching out on the soft leather
sofa, he had settled down
to wait, resisting the urge to explore the rest of the cottage
which had become Camilla’s isolated
retreat from the world.
This sitting-room, however, contained items which reminded
him of her so strongly that the last
two years seemed to slide
away . . . six or seven bowls of wild flowers filled the room
with their sweet scent, opened books lay on the floor
beside the right-hand corner of the settee and a jar of the almond-scented hand
cream she always used stood on the coffee table. The
photographs of Toby and Charlotte which had taken pride of
place
in her room at Nico’s house were here now, together with
new ones in plain silver frames of Toby playing
cricket, the
little boy Marty, and a
more grown-up Charlotte wearing a
white jumpsuit, plaits and a beaming
smile. There was also a
photograph of Loulou
looking angelic with Lili in her arms,
and
another of all four children together, rolling around on a
sunlit lawn.
There were no photographs, he observed, of Matt.
It wasn’t until he heard Camilla’s
whistle that he realized
she was
back. Instantly he leapt to his feet, spilling droplets of
Scotch on the crimson rug. His heart pounding,
wondering if
he had been right to come
here and hoping that he wasn’t
about to scare the living daylights out
of her when she realized
there was someone
in the house, he waited uneasily for the
door to open. For such a long time he had wanted to see her
again . . . now he was about to and he didn’t have
a clue how
she would react.
And he didn’t get a chance to see her
initial reaction either,
for before
he could move out of the way a dripping wet, conker-brown animal leapt up at
him writhing and whining with delight,
its
whiplash tail going like a propeller blade, spraying salty
water in
every direction.
‘
Bloody hell,’
spluttered Nico, struggling to remain on his
feet as the creature
ricocheted off his chest and crouched, pink
tongue
lolling, on the rug in front of him. Only then, in that moment of respite, did
he have the opportunity to look over
towards the doorway and gauge
Camilla’s reaction to his unex
pected
appearance. And when he saw her she was doubled up
with laughter.
‘I have to tell you,’ said Nico, as Rocky licked his hand,
searching it for biscuits, ‘that you have one lousy guard dog.’
Camilla, struggling to contain her
laughter, shooed Rocky
out through the door. ‘I saw the car outside. I thought I might
have extremely wealthy burglars. The expression on your
face when Rocky launched himself at you . . . oh, your trousers are soaking . .
‘
I was so scared I
probably wet myself,’ he said, grinning,
and suddenly Camilla was right in front of him, her arms
hovering,
tears brimming in her eyes.
‘
Oh Nico, it’s lovely to
see you. I’m so very glad you’re
here.’
The emotion in her voice, the unexpected tears, hollowed
his stomach with love and he held out his own arms, taking a step
forward so that they came together in one fluid
movement.
Camilla hugged him tightly
and he stroked her dark blonde
hair,
which smelled of shampoo and sea salt, and held her
against him in
silence for several seconds.
The
awkwardness which had hovered between them for so
long might never
have existed. Holding Camilla as he had
longed
to for so long
seemed so natural and right that Nico
didn’t want
it to end.
Finally, unwillingly, Camilla stepped back and smiled up
at
him, wiping the tears from her cheeks
with the back of her
hand.
‘Sorry about all this. I seem to cry for the most
ridiculous reasons these days. Now your shirt’s wet too. What with Rocky’s
antics and mine you could drown.’
Nico silently blessed the crazy dog who had defused such a
potentially awkward meeting. Glancing down at his white cotton
shirt and pale green trousers splattered with
salty water and
sandy paw prints, he shook his head and brushed at the
sand.
‘They’ll dry. Sit down and stop
apologizing. And I just happen
to
have brought with me a couple of bottles of your favourite
wine, so if you could just point me in the
direction of the
nearest corkscrew . .
They sprawled at opposite ends of the
settee, barefoot and
facing each other, and demolished the first bottle of satin-
smooth St Emilion within half an hour whilst Rocky slept,
intermittently twitching in his dreams, upon the
rug beside
them. Outside the sun was setting, turning the sky first
apricot-
pink then violet. Camilla rose to
switch on two rose-shaded
lamps and fetched the second bottle of wine
from the kitchen. Listening to her talking, her soft voice just as he
remembered, Nico realized afresh how much she meant to him. Steady, he
warned himself He had to take great care, remain
firmly in
control of his emotions. This wasn’t Caroline, or Roz, or any
of the other now faceless women with whom he had temporarily abolished the
interminable loneliness. This was Camilla, whom he loved and who thought of him
as nothing more than a good friend.
She was also a widow who had adored and worshipped her
husband and who evidently still worshipped his memory. Which
meant he was going to have to tread very carefully
indeed if
their fragile relationship was to remain unspoiled and intact.
‘
So what made you trek
all the way up to Drumlachan?’
asked Camilla, refilling his glass and
pushing a lock of streaky
blonde hair away
from her face with her little finger, a gesture
he remembered so well. ‘I do travel down to London every
other
week you know.’
‘
I had to come up to
Edinburgh to see a record producer,’
Nico
shrugged and winked. ‘Practically on your doorstep.
Loulou suggested I pay you a visit. She’s
convinced you’re
living in a cave, existing on acorns and seaweed.’
‘Food!’ she exclaimed, glancing at the willow basket in
the
corner by the door where she had dropped
it. ‘You must be
starving. Shall I cook you something? How long can you
stay?’
As long as possible, thought Nico,
but aloud he said, ‘I’m in
no hurry.
We could go out to a restaurant if you’d prefer.’