“We’ll motor tonight since there’s not much light left.”
The engine is throaty, and the smell of diesel lingering at the dock gives way to fresher, salty air. Now the sun has gone down, the air is cool and damp, but feels wonderful after a week of hot weather in the city. As we motor across the water, I watch the colours of the sunset bleed into the night, the tones soft at first, then deepening to bright oranges, pinks and purples. I have a set of pencils and a sketch book with me, and before I know it, I have pages and pages of rough sketches and colour patches clamouring to be worked up into paintings.
While Nick manoeuvres us to the spot he has chosen to anchor for the night, I open a bottle of wine and pull out a beautifully laid cheese platter. My strange aversion to the taste of wine hasn’t gone away, so I pour a glass of the sparkling water I’ve become addicted to.
“I’m glad there’s plenty of food. I was scared you would make me fish for my supper.” I hand him a glass as he lets down the anchor.
“Not a fan of fishing, Ms MacLeod?” He sits on the broad cushioned bench and pulls me onto his lap.
“Ugh. No. Nasty smelly things. I even threw up a little in my mouth duringLord of the Ringswhen Gollum ate that fish.” I shudder in revulsion.
“What a shame. I had a whole afternoon planned out tomorrow.”
At my look of horror, Nick laughs long and loud, his grey eyes twinkling. I love that sound. Especially because it is so rare. “I have much more interesting ways to spend our time planned. Which reminds me.” And he starts making good on his promise to christen every flat surface of the boat. Who knew sex on the deck of a boat in the moonlight would be so delicious?
By the time we motor into the dock late on Sunday afternoon, we’re both a little tanned in places that have not seen the sun before and we’ve done a pretty good job of meeting Nick’s challenge. Stella was right—sleeping on a boat is fantastic. Waking up on a boat is even better. The water in the early morning is like glass under the mist, and the sound of the bird calls echoing off the cliffs is some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.
She was also right about it being inspiring. I have dozens of sketches my fingers are itching to turn into paintings, so many colours and shapes whirling in my head. As we come back into mobile phone range, Nick’s phone starts to chirp with a sound I now recognise as his email alert.
“Sounds like you’ll have some work to do tonight,” I say as we load the bags into the boot of his car.
He looks apologetic. “I’m afraid so. The price I pay for skiving off for the weekend.”
“That’s okay. I have work to do too. Those paintings aren’t going to create themselves, and I have so many ideas. I can’t wait to get them all on canvas.”
We’re both quiet on the first part of the trip back to the city. I can’t help but think about the last time we made this trip and, glancing over at Nick, I think he is too. He stops at a red light. Our eyes meet and we grin at each other.
“Do you recall …” he begins, at the same time as I say, “The last time …” and we crack up laughing. It’s strange to remember how humourless I thought Nick was when we first met. The Nick I know now—the one who sunbaked naked on the boat and danced with me in the moonlight—is not the same man I met in the lift. Or maybe not the man I’d thought I met.
Back at my place, Nick sets up his laptop on the dining table and I head to my studio corner. The only sounds are Nick’s furious typing and the faint scraping of my pencil on the canvas. We do this a lot in the evenings, both working on our own stuff and it feels so peaceful, yet, at the same time, the air seems charged with awareness of each other. Nick and I are so comfortable together, and if I’m honest with myself, I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want to jump his incredibly well-put-together bones. I need to take a step back and think about what we’re doing here, because every day is proving this is more than a purely physical thing.
I’ve always been a bit of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl when it comes to romance, or if I’m being honest, sex, since I don’t do romance or relationships. So far, those pants haven’t steered me wrong. But the voice that whispered quietly at the beginning of this adventure with Nick, the one I ignored, is now shouting at me to beware. As a matter of fact, she’s jumping up and down and waving her arms. I’m taking a big risk here. Because this is the first time flying by the seat of my pants has had the potential to include my heart as a passenger.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nick
I’vebeendodgingmum’scalls since I broke up with Eleanor. The voicemails she leaves have been becoming more and more strident, so I finally agree to have dinner with her. It feels odd not spending the evening with Lulu, which scares me. But I rationalise it away with the excuse I’ll miss the sex. I told her I’d probably stay at my place tonight, but I’m not even fooling myself, never mind Lulu.
My head says there’s no other option but for this to end, but I can’t seem to stay away. I know I’m being selfish, and I need to stop. But I keep thinking maybe I can have one more night? One night has turned into two. Two days to a week, a fortnight, a month. Every day I wake telling myself I should end it, and every day a selfish voice whispers,not today. Right now, I’m having trouble remembering why ending it is a good idea at all.
As I let myself into the house, the strong smell of beeswax and lemon remind me it was the maid’s day to polish the furniture. I pull down the emotional shutters Lulu has opened and prepare myself for Meddling Mary’s barbs.
Mum greets me with the usual tepid cheek kiss, despite not having seen me for weeks, which is such a contrast to the enthusiasm with which Lulu greets me, even though we are rarely apart for more than twelve hours.
The kiss might be tepid, but the look in her eyes is like dry ice. Hot and cold at the same time. She wastes no time getting to the point as we each sit down with a drink.
“I had lunch with Eleanor and Angela last weekend. She tells me you suggested calling it off last time you met.” And there goes the eyebrow.
“Yes. I did. Although it was more than a suggestion.” I find myself running a finger under my collar. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have no interest in pursuing a relationship with Eleanor. It was always more your idea than mine.” Being with Lulu has thrown the shortcomings of my relationship with Eleanor—and every other woman I’ve ever dated—into stark relief.
“Eleanor seems to suspect there might be someone else involved.” Disapproval drips from mum’s tone like acid.
I think back to the day a few weeks ago when Eleanor arrived unannounced in my office, ostensibly to return a couple of books I had loaned her. She was still operating under the assumption I would ‘come to my senses’, and there was a veiled threat she would not continue waiting for me to wake up to myself much longer. I dismissed the whole episode. But we did pass Lulu in the corridor as I was escorting Eleanor to the lift. Is it possible she picked up on something when Lulu caught my eye? Are we that transparent? We try and avoid each other at the office for this very reason. But surely a passing glance wouldn’t give us away?
“Perhaps Eleanor is looking for excuses. Someone, or something, to blame. When the reality is the relationship has run its course. It’s as simple as that.”
“She’s under the impression it’s some woman in your office. And I must say, she sounds highly inappropriate. Eleanor said she appeared to have a tattoo on her arm. And a stud in her nose.”
