Little pools contained stranded clumps of kelp, and the occasional darting fish no longer than his finger, which were almost translucent. Another pool held a crab the size of his palm, with wicked-looking pincers. And everywhere there were barnacles or whelks clinging to the damp rocks. And seaweed. Lots of seaweed.
‘Found anything interesting?’ Giselle’s voice startled him, and he looked up from his rockpool gazing to find her regarding him quizzically.
‘A crab,’ he said. ‘And little fish.’
‘There’s a starfish in that one.’ She pointed, and he noticed a five-fingered (legged? tentacled?) starfish, coral-coloured against the dark rock.
‘Oh, wow.’ The small boy that he’d once been longed for a bucket and a net. Rock pooling, that’s what it was called, and he remembered the excitement and anticipation of turning over a pebble and seeing what wonders hid beneath.
‘Look.’ She held out a hand. A piece of dull blue glass sat in her palm. It didn’t look particularly exciting, but from the shine on Giselle’s face she was thrilled. ‘It’s probably from an old Milk of Magnesia bottle or Vicks VapoRub, or even from an old poison bottle.’
‘Poison?’
She nodded. ‘At the start of the twentieth century it became law to sell poisonous substances in easily recognisable bottles, and because so many people were unable to read, the bottles had ridges or were hexagonal in shape, so they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, not even in a dark cupboard. Some even had things like a skull or crossbones on them. And the most popular colour for a poison bottle was blue.’
He studied her face as she spoke, the spark in her eyes stirring something within that he didn’t have a name for. Envy, maybe? Or lust? It was more likely lust.
‘You found your passion.’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw your pictures.’ She said nothing, so he added, ‘The one in the gift shop, the big one of the loch, is impressive.’
‘Just the one?’
‘They all are. You have a talent.’
‘Thank you. What’s yours?’
‘Making money,’ he replied, without thinking.
‘It sounds like a curse.’
‘It is if you don’t have any,’ he retorted.
‘I doubt whether you know what that’s like.’
She had a point; he didn’t. But his father had worked bloody hard to make his asset management business a success, and so had his mother, who’d had to take over the reins after his father died. They hadn’t had it as easy as Giselle assumed. Yes, they were relatively well off, but it hadn’t always been the case. And Rocco hadn’t had everything handed to him on a silver platter, either. Apart from this castle, which had been a totally unexpected windfall.
‘Money makes the world go round,’ he countered.
‘Wrong. Love does.’
‘Love doesn’t put food on the table or a roof over your head.’
‘Money doesn’t buy you happiness.’
‘Maybe not, but you’ll be a damned sight more miserable without it.’
‘When is enough money enough? Or do you just keep making it, ad infinitum?’
‘I don’t make it for me. I make it for my clients.’
‘Is that what asset managers do?’
‘You remembered?’ He was surprised.
‘You said you had a job to go to in January.’
