He’s back in Worcester. Multi-millionaire apparently. Bought up several local companies. We missed our chance there. He was gorgeous too!
Callie smiled. She knew Donna had liked Vivek. Along with Sunil, they’d often gone out as a four. Their happy, casual trips to gigs at the Student Union seemed long ago and so innocent. It was only when the hot water of the shower blasted into her face and she spluttered before adjusting it, she remembered Vivek Patel was Sunil’s cousin.
She dressed in her black jeans and silk top again. Had she known her holiday was going to be packed with social events she would have brought more clothes. Downstairs, she spotted Johnny sitting in the garden drinking wine. Pausing in the kitchen diner before going through, she luxuriated in studyinghim undetected. Long legs crossed at the ankle and clad in cream linen, a loose white shirt unbuttoned low revealing a tanned chest with a sprinkling of dark hair, sunglasses resting on a high-bridged nose. Unsmiling, his face bore a severe expression and she wondered what he was thinking. He’d caught the sun but, whereas she went pink and freckly, he’d acquired a bronzed glow and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbow revealing long brown forearms which she found impossibly sexy.
Going through the French doors, she was suddenly strangled with nerves. ‘Hi, Johnny. Haven’t seen you today.’
He raised his glass. ‘Wine before we go? Did you see my note about times?’
He’d left her a note on the kitchen noticeboard, in his usual thoughtful way. ‘I did. Thank you.’ Slipping into the deck chair next to him, she added, ‘And a glass of wine before we go would be very acceptable.’
He poured her one. Handing it over he asked, ‘Good day?’
‘Not bad. Painted in my spot in the gardens again. Only bothered by an elderly couple who were actually very sweet. We had a great discussion about Georgia O’Keeffe.’
‘Georgia O’Keeffe?’
‘One of my favourite painters. The print on the sitting room wall is one of hers.’ Callie got out her phone, skimmed through a few images and held one up to show him. ‘Here’s another.’
Johnny perched his sunglasses on top of his head and scrutinised it. ‘Oh. Of course. I knew I knew the name. American?’
‘Yes.’ Callie took the phone back and admired the image of the pink hibiscus before clicking it off. ‘So you do know a little about art then?’
‘I was in New York and remember seeing some of her paintings. Very sensual. Loved the vivid colours.’
Callie suppressed a sigh. ‘You’ve been to so many places.’
‘True. I’ve travelled the world but it’s not without its downsides. I don’t have a home of my own, or children. Being in Stratford is the closest I’ve been to settling anywhere.’
‘What I wouldn’t give to see her stuff in the flesh. I’d love to go to the Met or the MoMA. The only thing I use my passport for is for identification.’ Callie tried, and failed, to keep the sulkiness from her voice.
He observed her over his wine glass. ‘You okay? You seem a bit out of sorts.’
‘Just having a moody day, I think. Sorry.’ Shaking her head she held her glass up. ‘This, and the prospect ofTwelfth Nightis improving things.’
Johnny had somehow acquired seats on the front row so the view of the stage was perfect. Callie leafed through her programme absorbing the atmosphere and trying to shrug off her lingering fretful mood.
Live for the moment,she reminded herself. The actors were making their way into the audience, revving them up for the performance. Some were juggling, one was playing a lute and singing, another was fire-eating. It was going to be an interesting production.
‘What did you say?’ Johnny leaned nearer.
Inhaling his spicy aftershave she forced a smile. ‘Didn’t mean to say anything out loud. I was just reminding myself to live for the moment.’
‘Excellent advice. Something I stand behind.’ He reached over and took her hand. Squeezing it, he asked, ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She nodded, tears ridiculously near and closing her throat. ‘Absolutely fine,’ she said robustly. Turning her hand over underneath his, she squeezed back. How long had it been since she’d held a man’s hand? She yearned to tell him how she was beginning to feel but didn’t dare. She wanted to share how unsettled she suddenly felt, how rudderless and frustrated at what life had dealt her but was saved by the actors assuming their starting positions on stage and Count Orsino belting out the famous first lines.
‘If music be the food of love, play on…’
At the interval they wandered over to a long trestle table where their drinks order waited. Callie sipped her wine and looked about her. The castle green was a magnificent backdrop for the evening. What was left of the granite walls towered above them, jagged like teeth against the night sky. Gauzy white cloth was strung from roughly hewn wooden frames, lit from below so it seemed to come alive when it billowed in the breeze. Battered flags, representing Illyria, had been dotted about at intervals and swallows flitted to and from their shadows. Simple staging but effective and atmospheric. The evening was warm and sultry and a buzz of contented chat surrounded her. It had been a good night so far and her mood had lifted a little. The production was imaginative and the acting superb. It had been easy to lose herself in it for a while.
She was saved from further introspection by Johnny slinging a casual arm around her shoulders. ‘Enjoying it?’
Gazing up at him, she couldn’t help compare herself with Viola, just witnessed on stage, hopelessly in love with Orsino.
They were interrupted by Lucie bouncing up to them. ‘Hi, sandcastle peeps. Are you having a good time? Gotta say this beats a night down The Old Harbour drinking Claud’s horrible cider. I can’t wait to see Malvolio all yellow stockinged and cross-gartered.’ She held out the skirts of her sundress. ‘I wore my favourite yellow dress in tribute. Oh, and didn’t you love Viola as Cesario proclaiming love for Olivia on behalf of Orsino? I love how it gets all so muddled up before it unravels and sorts itself out.’ Without giving them a chance to answer, she went on, ‘Are you enjoying it?’
A tall man with black hair and dressed in a navy sweatshirt and jeans, loitered self-consciously behind her. Dragging him forward she explained, ‘This is Jamie my husband. Jamie, this is Johnny and Callie. Remember I told you about them and the humongous donation.’
