Plotted in Cornwall (20 page)

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She fiddled with her knife whilst trying to feign a casual
interest. ‘What do I always have to know?’

‘In this instance, whether or not we made love.’

‘Well, did you?’ Oh, hell, damn and blast, she thought. She’d had no intention of asking him.

‘Almost. Once. But no.’

Relief flooded through her and she felt like cheering, but no way was she going to let Jack Pearce know that. Instead, she sniffed, got to her feet and began to clear the table.

Jack sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and watched her. When Rose finally turned to face him she saw the familiar laughter in his eyes although his firm lips were pressed together.

‘You’re a bastard, Jack Pearce, do you know that?’ she said as she cuffed him with the tea towel.

‘Maybe. But remember what we were saying the other week about loveable rogues and how much loyalty they could command?’

‘God, there’re times when I hate you.’

‘No, you don’t.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘You don’t really, do you?’

She looked down into his face. It was serious now. ‘No. No, Jack, I don’t.’

‘Good. Then you can pour me another
drop of wine, woman, before I go home. I can pick up the car tomorrow.’ It was too soon to push things. Jack knew that, but given a little time, the situation might improve.

Rose changed her mind about painting a scene on Bodmin Moor. It still evoked too many bad memories. But she had decided to go further afield than West Cornwall to work.

Barry had taken her out for dinner, over which they had discussed some watercolours for a new batch of greetings cards he wanted her to do. It was too soon to start on them, they would have to wait for the spring when the pastels of hedgerow flowers would be at their best.

She sat, partly sheltered by rocks, and studied the bleak countryside around her. Ahead was the Cheesewring, a pile of large, smooth, flat stones balanced in such a precarious way it seemed they would fall over at the slightest touch. East Cornwall for a change, she had decided, with its varying shades of browns and greens although it was bleak in winter. She had gone for starkness again, which suited her style and the medium of oils. The Minnack
work was finished, this would be the second in a series of six. Rose shivered. It was hard to believe what Geoff Carter had said. He had come to the house with a bottle of champagne and a broad smile on his face. ‘Rose, you’ll never guess,’ he’d said. ‘A gallery in Bristol wants to show twelve pieces of your work.’

Bristol. It wasn’t London, but it was still an honour, and it would be the first time she had shown outside the county. She still couldn’t believe her luck.

The wind was sharp and made strange noises amongst the stones but Rose was in her element. January was almost at an end. Her classes had resumed and it was still a pleasure to tutor Joel who continued to improve. He talked of Miranda who had settled down and found a job to keep her going until October.

Petra and Roger had telephoned. They had invited her for dinner the following week. Rose sensed they would become close friends.

And there was Jack. She was seeing him tonight. They were going to the cinema then sharing a take-away.

‘The New Year’s looking good,’ she said as she angled her head to study the canvas.
‘And so’s this painting.’

Only when the cold began to seep into her bones did Rose pack up. She drove home and had a bath, sprayed her wrists with perfume and waited for Jack Pearce to come and collect her.

J
ANIE
B
OLITHO
was born in Falmouth, Cornwall. She enjoyed a variety of careers – psychiatric nurse, debt collector, working for a tour operator, a book-maker’s clerk – before becoming a full-time writer. She passed away in 2002.