Move Over Darling (22 page)

‘Given that the object of this painting was to raise funds for a project in Penmorfa, some of us were anticipating a work more reflective of village life,’ another reporter was shouting, waving a recorder at her. ‘Can you explain to everyone what the link is?’

‘The link,’ sneered Mair, puffing up, ‘is that Gethin Lewis has just unveiled another of his mistresses.’

‘Not that she looks very happy about it,’ Delyth agreed. ‘But then I suppose she had to wait until Alys decided she’d finished with him.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Alys protested. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

‘Ridiculous, is it?’ said Mair.

‘Shut your big fat gob!’ Kitty shouted, practically in tears as she pushed through the crowd to stand by Alys’s side. Jamie, in his buggy, started bawling. Poor thing, Alys registered miserably. ‘My mother has worked harder for this village than the rest of you put together. How dare you tell such filthy lies about her!’

Alys felt sick as Delyth and Mair exchanged glances.

‘I expect you’ve been too busy producing fatherless children to know about your mother’s weakness for younger men,’ Mair said, smugly.

‘You complete bitch!’ howled Kitty. ‘Take that back!’

‘Ask your mother why that nice couple who used to run the Summerhouse Café left so suddenly then. Ask her about young Jerzy,’ Delyth purred.

‘You seem to know what’s going on ladies,’ said a reporter, eagerly. ‘Perhaps you know who the woman is in Gethin Lewis’s portrait?’

‘Another floozy,’ Mair said, airily. ‘Just like the one in that
Samba
nonsense.’

Alys’s legs were shaking, but the words she was so desperate to find were eluding her. Then everyone took a step back. The Vicar calmly stilled the troubled gaggle with a wave of her pale hands.

‘I think you’re both letting your imaginations get away with you,’ she rebuked Delyth and Mair gently. ‘Your view of the artist as some sort of debaucher of women is quite mistaken. I can assure you that the model for
Samba
was categorically
not
involved with the artist.’

‘Charitable as ever, dear Vicar,’ Mair said, talking to the Vicar as if she were a newborn lamb with no knowledge of the world beyond a spring field.

‘No, not charitable,’ the Vicar insisted, firm but completely untroubled. She looked round the crowd making sure she had everyone’s full attention. ‘I know for a fact that the model for
Last Samba before Sunset
did not have sexual relations of any description with the artist.’ She paused to give a modest smile. ‘I know, because I
was
the model!’

Trembling with relief, Alys turned round smiling and grateful for the Vicar’s intervention, but the smile froze on her face as she caught sight of Kitty staring at her in disgust.

‘Kitty,’ she said quickly, as her daughter started pushing everyone out of the way. Everywhere was in chaos. No one was worried about Gethin’s painting anymore; all the cameras were trained on the Vicar, who was batting questions away with a promise of a full interview in due course. After a split second’s hesitation she decided to leave them to it and chased after her daughter.

‘Wait, Kitty,’ she said, catching up with her and clasping hold of her arm. ‘It’s not what you think!’

‘Isn’t it?’ Kitty tore her arm away furiously. ‘You tell me what it is then. Did you or did you not have a relationship with Jerzy?’

Alys shook her head, trying to find the right words.

‘How could you, Mam? You meant everything to me; you were the person I most looked up to in the whole world, the one I thought would keep me safe. No wonder poor Dad doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. Just don’t ever talk to me again, okay?’ Kitty pushed her away, crying. ‘You make me feel sick!’

Coralie took advantage of the tumult around her to take a few moments more to assimilate her feelings. So long as she never let her hair down ever again, there was a good chance no one would associate her with the pale-faced woman with her cascade of copper curls staring so trustingly from the painting. She lifted her gaze from her nude patent court shoes to take another quick squint at the portrait.

Maybe it wasn’t such a disaster; Gethin had summed her up in colour and emotion rather than a precise physical resemblance. Anyway, no one had come rushing up thrusting a mic under her nose yet. In fact, since someone had stuck their head out of the mob clustering round the Vicar shouting that the model in
Samba
had been uncovered, the members of the press had all been too busy trying to submit their stories to notice her.

And by the time he’s finished painting them, he’s sick of the sight of them.
Isn’t that what Ruby had told her?
It may be an intense relationship for a short time, but it’s only paint.
Was that a bad thing? She considered how she felt about that night. How her body had tingled and ached, as if, for once in a long, long time, she was truly alive and her pulse rate took off just remembering.

That intense relationship had resulted in a portrait that was neither chivalrous nor exploitative. It was tender but not sentimental. If she hadn’t known better she would have said that it revealed some pretty naked feelings for the sitter. She tried to steal a glance at the man who’d made her feel reborn, but he’d been engulfed in the crowd. Then someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

‘Hello, Coralie,’ he said. ‘You missed our last meeting so I thought I’d come to see you for a change. It looks like I picked a good time.’

‘Selfish as ever!’ Gethin heard Delyth declare as he pushed past them in pursuit of Coralie, who he’d lost sight of whilst he’d been surrounded by the baying crowd, screaming questions at him. ‘Turning the village into a peepshow once again! You always have to bring sex into it, don’t you? I suppose the beauty of this landscape isn’t good enough for you!’

‘Poor Alys,’ said Mair loudly. ‘If only she’d listened to us in the first place. However will the poor woman cope with such a very public humiliation? All that effort spent grooming the artist only to be traded in for a younger model!’

‘Hypocritical old bat,’ Gethin snarled to himself. He gritted his teeth and walked on, knowing that anything he said to defend Alys would be wilfully misinterpreted. Besides, anyone who knew Alys would never believe their lies. Instead, he concentrated on what he was going to say to Coralie. One minute more, he thought, walking towards her front door, and she’d be back in his arms and everything would be fine again. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry and every second apart from all the softness and heat of her made each footstep feel like a mile. All he needed was to be close to the woman who’d been driving him crazy ever since she’d set her cat on him.

He was looking round, waiting for Rock to leap out from behind a bush somewhere, doing his ‘feel sorry for me’ act, when Coralie opened the door. They stared at each other for a moment. From the look on her face he needed Rock to hurry up and appear to teach him a few tricks about winning her over.

‘Oh, Gethin,’ she said at last, her sad face pale and haunted. ‘I’m so sorry but this isn’t a good time.’

Gethin scratched his head; this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. One of his art teachers had once told him that he needed to face his feelings when emotions were running high rather than slamming the door on them. All right, it hadn’t been easy to admit what he felt for the woman in front of him, but he’d ripped open his chest and poured his heart all over that canvas for her.

‘Hey, Coralie,’ someone called from within, ‘tell whoever that is we’re busy here. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.’

‘Please tell me that’s your brother,’ he said, feeling sick. But Coralie just shook her head.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, dropping her voice, ‘but this isn’t the right time.’

‘Why not? Don’t you want me to meet your friend in there? Come on, why not invite me in so we can all have a nice chat?’

‘It’s Ned Wallace, Gethin, and he’s very vulnerable right now.’

What about me? He was about to say before he realised what she was telling him. ‘The guy who killed that girl? You felt so bad about him, you got involved with him? Coralie, let me tell you that rescuing stray cats is one thing, but you just crossed the line, baby. We’re done now.’

‘Gethin!’ She reached out to try to stop him, but if he stayed there any longer he was afraid that he might cry, so he shook her off and walked away.

Alys, crouched on a stool out of sight in the kitchenette, closed her eyes and waited until the hubbub of voices in the café subsided and all the reporters had hurried off in search of phone signals. Then, when she could be certain of escaping curious glances, she made her way home.

Gethin’s portrait of Coralie was far removed from the decadent sensuality of his usual oeuvre; it was a weighty, sober reflection of a man who was either very clever or very much in love. But what did this radical new direction mean for the charity auction? Would the collectors who were still interested in his previous paintings want to buy something so untried, so raw?

But worse than her worries about what money might be raised for the village she loved, was the fear of what this spelled for her family. With Delyth and Mair spreading their poison, was there anyone left who would believe her side of the story? Hers wasn’t such a very big crime, but even if she got the chance to explain, would her daughter, fragile, flooded with hormones and struggling with a new baby, understand? Now she was afraid of what else she might lose.

There was no sign of Huw when she got in but, since he frequently took himself off to read, Alys saw no point in disturbing him. She took the stairs quietly, avoiding the squeakier treads and only felt able to relax once she’d closed her bedroom door.

She wiped off her makeup carefully, clinging to the comfort of an old routine, put away the purple silk dress bought for the occasion in a spirit of such optimism and, sinking gratefully on to her bed, thanked her lucky stars that she could escape Huw’s scrutiny, at least until morning. Given Kitty’s very real preoccupation when she’d first arrived back home, it had been easy enough to fob her off with the excuse that Huw had moved to a spare room because he was having trouble sleeping. Now, instead of feeling embarrassed by their separate beds, she was relieved.

Pulling up the covers, she closed her eyes, even though sleep seemed unlikely. Then the door opened and Huw appeared, lit by the landing light, his warm brown eyes creased into a smile.

‘Alys,’ he chided gently. ‘Fancy keeping me in suspense! Aren’t you going to tell me how it went?’

‘I didn’t think you were that interested,’ she mumbled through a fake yawn.

‘This place doesn’t run itself, you know,’ he said, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘Someone’s had to do the paperwork whilst you’ve been gallivanting at these meetings.’

When he reached across and smoothed a lock of hair off from her face, she was unable to stop the guilty tear that slid down her face.

‘Oh, Huw,’ she said, sitting up and reaching for him.

‘Don’t you want to tell me all about it?’ he asked, gently.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Coralie forced herself to put away her own pain to do what she could for the young man sitting across the room from her. Ned Wallace, driving without due care and attention, had been found guilty of killing an innocent pedestrian, but she felt responsible for the blood on his hands.

‘Give me a moment, will you?’ he said, closing his eyes.

Was this some kind of karmic justice that he’d picked this moment to turn up on her doorstep? Just when she was beginning to think that being happy again was a real possibility? She brushed aside her thoughts; the least she owed Ned after everything he’d endured was her time.

‘Regaining my freedom was a big high – but now it’s beginning to sink in that I’ll never get my old life back.’

Coralie watched him with a heavy heart. If only she’d listened to her inner voice, none of this would have happened. She’d gradually become aware of a sense of unease about her career at the consultancy. The content hadn’t changed, so she realised something had shifted within herself. Work that had once appealed to her strong sense of order began to feel unjust and she started to wonder if some companies were simply hiring her as a face-saving means to cover ruthless cuts.

If only she’d resigned, she might have prevented all the misery for countless unseen victims instead of swelling corporation coffers. If only she hadn’t struck Ned Wallace from the payroll, Hayley Butterfield might be a qualified teacher, enjoying her pupils, her friends and her family. But if she could save Ned, convince him that he had a future worth living for, then perhaps she could help salve her own conscience?

‘So,
Girl in a Coral Dress
, how does it feel to have all eyes on you?’ he asked, softly. ‘I wonder if there’s any money in it for me if I go to the papers with some juicy snippets about the model?’

Rock ducked out of his way as Ned reached out and tried to stroke him.

‘If you need money,’ Coralie said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her sudden alarm, ‘I’m sure I can help.’

He smiled and she was conscious once again of what a pleasant face he had, something that had struck her when they were first introduced, although the soft brown hair with its natural highlights was much shorter now. There were shadows, too, under the grey eyes.

‘Oh, Coralie,’ he said, softly, ‘what do you take me for, a blackmailer?’ He shook his head. ‘You gave me hope. You stood by me when everyone walked away.’

Coralie looked away, sparing him further humiliation as he lifted his hand to his eyes to rub fiercely at the tears welling there. Horribly aware that his old self would have been mortified by the thin shirt, stiff supermarket jeans and fake Timberlands he was wearing, she let pity overcome her reservations and resolved to do whatever she could to support him on the long road ahead.

‘You gave me some dignity, made me feel different to the rest of them,’ he continued.

‘Well, you were different. It’s not like you were a murderer or an armed robber …’

‘Or a nonce?’ he said. ‘I just killed a young woman, right?’

‘You didn’t set out to harm anyone,’ she replied, at a loss again, knowing that she was unable to make it better. ‘But you’ve served your sentence now.’

He nodded. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, being out,’ he said, looking calmer. ‘It’s the choice, you see. In there, once you’ve answered all the questions, filled in all the forms, handed over your property to be bagged and tagged, part of you doesn’t exist anymore. Right now, I’m not even capable of choosing my own toiletries.’

She felt another wave of pity for him. ‘If I’d have known you were about to be released, I could have met you.’

He leaned towards her. ‘If you hadn’t missed your last visit, you would have known, but it looks as if you’ve had other stuff on your mind.’

Unable to stop herself, she shrunk further back in her chair. He noticed, and buried his face in his hands before returning his gaze to her, pupils like black pin-pricks in his pale face. Rock yowled and jumped up on her lap.

‘I haven’t come to make trouble, Coralie. I think I’ve got a job lined up in a hotel kitchen in North Wales, but you were sort of on the way. In so far that anywhere’s on the way when you haven’t got a car. I only want to get my head down somewhere safe for the night – this sofa’s fine – and a lift to the station tomorrow and then I’ll be out of your hair for good.’ He gave a short laugh, ‘I don’t think there’s much of a future in this relationship, do you?’

Her throat constricted and her chest felt tight, squeezing her lungs and making her heart pound in protest. It wasn’t just their relationship that was about to end. Not once the word got out that he was there. But everyone else had turned their backs on Ned Wallace; she owed it to him to make amends.

What the fuck? In the old cottage’s bare bathroom the next morning, no amount of cold water splashed over Gethin’s shivering body could turn Coralie’s words into anything that made sense. Thinking that he might have overreacted, he’d returned to her house much later the previous evening, for what? To prove to himself that he’d been mistaken? That Coralie wasn’t really inside with another man? But the welcoming hall light that usually spilled through the glass door panel across the front path had been extinguished, whilst the living-room lamps still shone brightly behind the closed curtains. The longer he’d stood in the dark lane with his imagination driving him insane, the worse he felt.

Now, hurriedly drying himself on the beach towel he’d purchased in his whirlwind shopping spree along the journey, he dragged on some clothes and rolled up his sleeping bag, along with all those romantic notions he’d been nursing. Huh! To think that he’d rejected the idea of booking a room at The Cabin at Abersaith for the duration of his stay because he liked the thought of being closer to Coralie.

With his rosy glow to keep him warm, he’d fantasised about entertaining Coralie there. Imagined the two of them, sitting in a ring of tea lights whilst they chinked glasses and drank a toast to each other, having feasted on something clever he’d rustled up for her. Going out to watch the stars, or wind their way down to Penmorfa cove to taste each other’s kisses against the backdrop of the wild sea. So much for that! Might as well book himself into a hotel in London, before catching his flight home, and enjoy the nightlife there instead.

Gethin surveyed the fragments of his dreams: two glasses, two plates, a box of candles. He thought about gathering the lot up in the fleecy blanket he had bought, too, and kicking it over the nearest cliff. Since it wouldn’t help him or the environment he left everything where it was. Whoever turned up at the cottage next could have a romantic tête-à-tête instead. Closing the chalky blue door behind him for the last time, Gethin couldn’t help but catch his breath at the beauty of the landscape in the early morning light.