“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask twenty questions?”
He grinned, looking down at her and once again his forearm brushed hers. “I was thinking how to explain. I’m not like you. I’m not good with words.”
“You’re better with images, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” He went back to watching the horizon. “I’m not really sure what I mean. It’s not a fairy tale that we impose on a space, but the story the place itself wants to tell.”
“I’d love to see more of your pictures, if you don’t mind.” Then her heart hammered. She’d meant it literally but now the words sounded like an invitation.
He too seemed to have had the same thought because he drew a sharp breath, then turning to her, he took out the earphone and wrapped the lead with care before giving it back to her. Then he held out his hand. “Shall we sit?” He tipped his head towards the end of the harbour wall.
They went to the edge and dropped down to sit on the smooth stone. Pierre closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face, listening to the sound of waves crashing against the wall beneath them, the distant cries of seagulls, the faint shouts of kids playing on the beach behind them, along with the jingle of an ice cream van. “You know, as you’re talking about visual storytelling, I think sounds can tell a story too.”
“Like the sound of that ice cream van tells a story of summer and holidays and beaches?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “Exactly.”
“Would you like a 99?” He pushed himself up.
“Not for me. I think that lunch will see me through to next Tuesday.” She leaned back crossed her legs and patted her stomach. “But you go ahead of you want.”
In answer, he dropped back down, and this time he sat next to her.
His eyes travelled from where her hand had been patting her stomach down to her lap. The scarf had fallen open like a bad wrap skirt leaving her legs bare all the way down to her purple and red Wellies.
“You…” His voice roughened a little. “You have an eye for colour.”
This time there was no mistaking the tension between them.
She was suddenly aware of her exposed thigh. “Sorry.” She tried to pull the fabric over it.
He reached and took her hand in his. The scarf fell open again.
“Don’t ever apologise; you have lovely legs.” He held her gaze. Yes, golden honey eyes.
A moment passed.
What the hell was she doing? Flirting with a stranger when she had an important decision to make about her own relationship.
But she didn’t break the eye contact, and after a moment, he leaned towards her. Only then did she turn her face away.
He pulled back. “I’m sorry. I…”
“Don’t apologise,” she said, an echo of his own words earlier but not playful now.
Guilt or awkwardness – or something made her check her phone. She’d had it on silent all weekend because she didn’t want to spend the day listening out for a possible call from Martin. Now, she swiped the screen back to life, and went to her inbox. Several messages popped up.
MARTIN: Where are you, why aren’t you answering your phone?
MARTIN: I’m in the neighbourhood, I’ll pop in.
Yes, he always ‘popped in,’ always expected her to be there on standby for whenever he had time for her.
MARTIN: Your flatmate says you’ve gone to Wales on some walking tour. Baby, why didn’t you tell me?
The word ‘baby’ almost made her soften. He always whispered it in her ear when they made love.
MARTIN: I keep calling but you’re not answering. Are you OK? Left you a VM.
