SARA WOOD - Expectant Mistress

She gave him a pitying glance. He probably did all his walling on a machine in a gym. ‘Toddlers can do it. I think you’ll find it comes back to you after a while,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You can’t get lost. Up the hill, then down to the bay. Kelp Cottage is on the beach Come in the green door. The scarlet one with flowers painted on it is Gran’s. You won’t want to meet her till I’ve primed you about her funny ways.’

Before he could protest, she’d roared off, kicking up clouds of sand. She felt sure he’d miss the benefits of civilisation long before the end of the week He seemed uncomfortable, as if he knew he didn’t fit in. He was a fish out of water, just as she’d been in London, and he’d soon get bored and leave. Till then she’d have to cope with her reaction to having him around.

She’d treat him like a normal guest. Good food, loaves of home-made bread and a decent wine, plus a relaxed and friendly manner. Why should she swan about looking tragic, like Greta Garbo, just because she was struggling with some stupid infatuation?

Adam watched her go, his eyes full of affection, the corners of his mouth tight with regret. Emotions he’d never known he’d possessed were waging a war within him.

His sole purpose in coming was to rid himself of Trish for ever so that he could get on with his chosen path in life. Since meeting her at the party, he thought about making love to her all the time. What he needed was to be rejected so conclusively that his brain and his body got the message If he pushed her enough, perhaps made a pass, he reckoned she’d get snappy, bitchy and lose her temper.

So of necessity he was being devious. What he was about to do would hurt his pride like hell. Rejection had only figured once in his life and it had messed him up for years. But the alternative—launching into a relationship with Trish—would be worse.

Far better to be spared the disastrous outcome of any stupid behaviour. Like imagining she and he could be lovers. Or that he might fancy living with her on a small lump of granite in the Atlantic Ocean.

He grinned. The implications of falling in love with Trish were too appalling to contemplate!

The buggy vanished around a bend in the lane. He set off across the sand and began the gentle climb past the squat church, swallows swooping over his head, competing with the evocative cries of the gulls. And then they were gone.

A deep silence fell. Honeysuckle smothered the tumbled stone walls beside the track, scenting the warm air with dizzying perfume. He passed tiny fields, smaller than tennis courts, hedged to a height of ten feet and blazing with tall purple flowers. The distant thrum of an outboard engine joined the lazy drone of bees, the distant wash of waves on a shore.

His mobile phone burred softly. He’d left it on line after using it on Tresco Island. Out of habit, his hand strayed to the slim holster on his belt and then checked. The sound seemed sacrilegious out here. With a decisive gesture, he slid the phone from the holster, disabled it and replaced it again. Now no one could reach him. He might as well be adrift on a boat, or marooned on a desert island.

Adam let out a long-held breath. And with it went a good deal of the tension which had knotted his muscles for the past year or so and given him daily headaches. The air was crystal-clear like champagne and he felt like running, laughing, letting go of all the things that weighed him down.

‘Magic,’ he murmured, when he crested the hill.

He could see right across the island, the bay he’d just left on one side, a new one on the other. Glittering granite rocks littered the mouth of this sandy cove, giving it a film-set appearance. Beyond were dozens of small islands and above him wheeled elegant black and white birds, assailing his ears with a strange, piping call. This was Trish’s home. She’d described it often enough, but the reality left him breathless.

Invigorated, he strode towards the rose-covered cottage on the beach. He felt less depressed. And, given his self-inflicted task, couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

‘Enjoy your walk?’ asked Trish provocatively.

‘Very much,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘What are the tall purple flowers in those doll-sized fields called?’

‘Whistling Jacks—a kind of gladioli. They come up after the narcissi. We sell them on the mainland The hedges protect them from the gales.’

‘I see. And there were some black and white birds—’

‘With a red beak and eye? Oyster-catchers.’ She looked at him curiously. He seemed very interested for a city man.

Adam looked impressed. ‘It was fascinating, walking up that lane. I suppose you know the names of all those peculiar-looking plants. Those giant ones, for instance.’ He grinned. ‘Twelve feet tall with blue flowers?’

‘Echiums,’ she said promptly. ‘We can grow a lot of exotic plants because we rarely have frost or snow.’

Adam’s face was soft with pleasure ‘I haven’t been so close to wildlife for years. I envy your knowledge.’

She liked his admiration and basked in it for a moment before she said, ‘I know about my world, you know about yours. You think it’s clever to know the names of birds and plants I’ve lived with all my life. I goggle at anyone who knows computer-talk as well as plain English.’ Suddenly she felt that they were getting too cosy and decided to end their chat ‘I’ve taken your luggage upstairs,’ she said, mustering a more impersonal tone.

‘Trish! You shouldn’t have done that!’ he protested at once.

‘Don’t go all macho on me!’ She grinned, incapable of remaining aloof for long. ‘I’m as strong as Rambo,’ she told him, flexing her biceps like a body-builder. ‘I’m not fragile and feminine like Louise.’

He appeared to be about to contradict her, then changed his mind. ‘She’s tough in a different way,’ he said.

Hard as nails, thought Trish, uncharitably. She frowned at her tart jealousy and vowed to think well of his fiancée.

‘Anyway, you’re a guest here. My Job is to look after you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’d better show you around. That’s the sitting room in there..’

He peered at the cheerfully cluttered room with its comfortable chintz chairs, rows of bookcases and the incomparable view of jagged islands in the sapphire sea.

‘Sunny aspect. I’ll enjoy sitting in there with you,’ was his verdict.

‘I’m usually busy baking in the evenings,’ she said quickly ‘You’ll have to watch Coronation Street on your own.’

‘I rarely get to see any TV,’ he said, with a smile at her cheeky put-down. ‘I usually work in the evenings too.’

‘Poor Louise!’ she murmured sympathetically, leading him through to the conservatory at the back.

‘She works alongside me.’

Trish suppressed her involuntary flinch. ‘Great for intimacy.’

‘I’ll say,’ he replied enthusiastically.

Her lips compressed for a moment, then she remembered that he was a paying guest, nothing more.

‘I’ve laid on tea for you.’ On her best welcoming be-haviour, she pulled out the white wicker chair. ‘You have breakfast in here, squeezed in between the geraniums and petunias. Or outside, if it’s warm enough. Dinner ditto’

‘Wonderful,’ he said, when she’d expected him to turn his nose up at the cramped conditions.

‘I’ll go and make the tea and bring tonight’s menu,’ she continued pleasantly. ‘Help yourself to tea bread. The flapjacks and Dundee cake were made today Any preferred brand of tea?’

‘Earl Grey with lemon.’ He seemed to be fighting down laughter. ‘Join me, Trish. And stop being so damn formal!’

‘You’re getting the same treatment as anyone who comes here!’ she said indignantly. ‘I can’t deviate from the script—I’d forget something!’