| |
ISABEL WAS ON THE RECEIVING end of a lone wolf-whistle as she hurried down the Esplanade toward Sea Vistas. Its source was a lad hanging out a car window, sunglasses pushed up on top of his head as he and his pals cruised down the waterfront for something to do on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Hey, Katy.’ He called referencing Katy Perry on account of her pink hair. She wasn’t in the mood for that sort of carry-on, she thought, primly keeping her gaze focused on the footpath in front of her. Her mind was churning like the sea she was walking alongside, and had been since Rhodri had handed her Sally’s letter to read. She was desperate to talk over what his ex-fiancée had said in it with Constance.
She kept up her almost trotting pace until Sea Vistas, with its grand stone façade and soaring chimneys loomed into her line of sight. Risking a telling off from one of the gardeners, she cut across the sweep of manicured lawn, the grass soft and spongy beneath her feet, to the entrance. The automatic doors to the retirement home slid open and she strode through them, passing by Kristin the young receptionist with a wave and a hello. She’d normally pause for a quick chat and to marvel at how much makeup Kristin, a YouTube makeup tutorial devotee, could actually apply to her face. Today though she headed straight for the lift. It obliged by opening to reveal its empty chamber before she’d even pushed the button and, stepping in, she pressed her finger on number one.
A few seconds later, Isabel alighted into the familiar corridor and walking the few short steps to Constance’s door she tapped lightly on it. ‘Yes?’ bounced back at her from within and she turned the handle, opening the door a crack to call through it.
‘Constance, it’s me, can I come in?’
‘I hope you’ve got my Cyclax,’ came by way of reply.
Isabel pushed the door open and stepped inside the plush room. Constance was sitting by the window with the rich, rose drapes either side of it framing her. She was a colourful vision in pink and Isabel recognised the outfit as one she’d helped her choose from their favourite boutique in the Royal Victoria Arcade. They always did well there on their shopping trips. Constance trusted the judgement of young Tara who worked there. Nurse Jill, who was the only staff member at Sea Vistas Constance would allow to help her dress of a morning, always did her proud too, ensuring she was well turned out.
‘Of course I have. I wouldn’t dare show my face otherwise.’ She’d been under strict instructions from Constance to pick her up a bottle of Cyclax from Boots to bring with her the next time she popped into Sea Vistas. Constance had declared her face would be like a leather handbag if she were to run out of her favourite moisturising lotion. She swore by it, saying if it was good enough for Queen Elizabeth it was good enough for Constance Downer.
Constance made a humphing sound as Isabel placed her bag down on the bed. She searched through it and retrieved the bottle of moisturiser.
‘I’ll put it on your dressing table, shall I?’
Constance gave a nod. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be silly it’s an early going away present.’ Isabel deposited the bottle down and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked windblown but couldn’t be bothered attempting to smooth her hair down. There were bigger things than the state of her hair to be worrying about.
‘You’d think I was emigrating the way you’re carrying on wanting to hold a going-away party and whatnot. Are you trying to see me off for good?’
Isabel laughed and turned away, looking at her dear friend. ‘It’s all organised; there’s no getting out of it. Six weeks is a long time and Canada is a long way away, Constance. I’ll miss you.’
‘Not when you get to my age, it flies by in a flash you’ll see. Anyway, I haven’t gone yet.’
‘Your hair looks lovely by the way.’ Isabel noticed the gentle white curls dancing around her face becomingly. She pulled out the chair by Constance’s bedside so that she could sit opposite her and sat down.
‘I had it blow-dried and set yesterday downstairs in the salon.’ Constance preened at the compliment, every bit the grand dame presiding from her throne. It was her favourite place to while away time because she could see out to her beloved Solent—the same water vista she’d been gazing at the evening she met Henry. Of course, back then the water had been dotted with navy ships and was a very different scene to the peaceful rolling sea of today with nothing but ferries and white sails dipping up and down on it.
Isabel looked past her to where she could see what looked like a seal but realised it was a surfer being buffeted about on the waves. There was always something going on out there, she thought. Those surfers were hardy souls. It might be a glorious day but the water still held a spring chill.
‘Have you written your letter?’ Constance demanded, her attention now focused squarely on Isabel.
Isabel didn’t need to ask what she meant. Constance had urged her to write to her birth mother, batting away any arguments Isabel brought up, and she’d brought up many, countering back with, ‘The best thing that’s ever happened to me in all my ninety-one years is having Edward in my life, Isabel, and that wouldn’t have happened without your help. I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t keep pressing you into at least dipping a toe into the waters to see what she says. As a woman who’s been in Veronica’s shoes, I know what it is to have a part of yourself missing.’
She asked again. ‘Well, have you?’ Constance was not, and never had been, a patient woman. She acknowledged this trait by saying that when you got to ninety-one years of age you had every right to be impatient because there was a risk you might not hear the end of the story if you didn’t jog people along.
Isabel nodded and, opening her bag for a second time, she retrieved the envelope. ‘I wanted to run it by you.’ She’d half pulled it from the envelope when Constance waved her hand at her to stop.
‘I’ve never known such a procrastinator, Isabel. You don’t need to read it to me because you don’t need my opinion you just need to get it in the post. You’ve got to get over this fear of being rejected. I know you’re not one of life’s risk takers but in this case you must be. Promise me, you’ll send it.’
Isabel slid it back in the envelope and tucked it away in her bag once more. ‘I will, I promise.’
Constance gazed at her speculatively. ‘Don’t think I won’t check you’ve done so.’
‘I’ll do it on my way home today.’
‘Make sure you do.’ Constance clapped her hands in a manner suggesting that subject was now closed. She picked up the open packet of Maltesers from the occasional table next to her and shook it in Isabel’s direction.
Isabel helped herself to one and popped a chocolate covered malt ball in her mouth, moving it to her cheek before saying, ‘Something’s happened.’
‘Yes? Should I be worried?’
‘No, but I am. I’ve told you Rhodri was engaged before he came to the island?’
‘You mentioned it, yes. It wasn’t an amicable break up you said.’
‘No. Sally, that’s his ex, she took up with another man behind Rhodri’s back. It was his best friend, Darian, which was a double blow and when it all came out Sally and Darian moved away and Rhodri came here wanting to put it all behind him. The thing I didn’t tell you, because it didn’t seem relevant at the time, was Sally was pregnant when she and Darian left. Rhodri understandably had no further contact with either them but he heard through mutual friends she’d had a son. He was never sure if the baby was his or Darian’s but Darian had taken on the role of father which was the likeliest scenario anyway or so he thought. So far as he was concerned stomping in demanding to know whether the child was his wouldn’t have been in anyone’s best interest especially not the baby, Austin’s. It was easier to leave things be.’
Constance stayed silent, letting what Isabel was telling her settle in, she knew first-hand the pain of betrayal.
‘A letter came today from Sally. She’s broken up with Darian and decided now’s the right time to tell Rhodri the truth. He’s Austin’s biological father.’
‘Sounds rather like she’s hedging her bets to me,’ Constance said.
‘Doesn’t it, but if you’d seen the photo she enclosed with the letter, Constance, you’d know Austin’s Rhodri’s. He’s the spit of him.’ Isabel had teared up upon seeing the miniature version of the man she loved; she couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had made Rhodri feel. He’d closed the gallery early as she skimmed the letter and then when she’d finished he’d taken it from her along with the photograph and gone upstairs. She’d made to follow him but he’d asked if she minded him having a little time alone to absorb what he’d just learned. Part of her had desperately wanted to stay with him, a part of her that on some level understood things were about to change in their life together. Another part recognised his need for space inside his own head so she’d headed here to Constance. Her port of call in a storm.
‘It makes my blood boil that she’s decided to come clean now that things haven’t worked out for her. What’s that going to do to Austin’s sense of place in the world? I mean one day he has a father the next day he’s gone and by all accounts severed contact with him. Then the poor kid’s told he has a new daddy.’ She looked at Constance who reached over and patted her hand.
‘It does seem selfish, I agree. What is it she’s wanting?’
Isabel blinked back the hot tears that had sprung up at the gesture. ‘She says their son needs his father and she’d like for Austin and Rhodri to meet one another.’ She swallowed hard against the tide of emotion. ‘Constance, you’d think he’d have raged about her lying to him but he didn’t. He just went quiet. It’s going to change things between us.’ She thumped her chest. ‘I can feel it in here.’ She remembered how, when she’d first come to the Isle of Wight, she’d had blue hair. She’d only realised Rhodri, who technically back then was her landlord, had feelings for her when she’d found the painting he’d been working on. It had been of a girl with blue hair whipping about her face as she stood on the pier gazing out at the Solent, it was of her.
The painting hung on the wall of their living area in Pier View House now. It was called The Mermaid and they’d spent an age arguing as to where it should go. Rhodri wanted it nearer the window for the light but Isabel wanted it placed so whenever she looked up from her seat at the table it was there in her line of sight. She’d won.
She’d been unsure how to let him know she felt the same way initially and had gone to Constance for advice. ‘Do you remember what you said to me when I asked you how I should let Rhodri know I felt about him?’
‘I do. I told you to be brave. I said it’s the twenty-first century and you couldn’t expect a man to do all the running anymore. I stand by my words, Isabel.’
Isabel mustered a smile. She might be in her tenth decade but she was still sharp as a tack. ‘You did and then you told me not to dilly-dally over it all because life’s short and when something good comes our way we must grab it with both hands.’
‘Grabbing it with both hands sounds rather forward, Isabel, are you sure I said that.’
Isabel gave a small laugh. ‘I’m sure.’
‘I do recall suggesting you cook a nice meal, set the scene, that sort of thing and to use your imagination.’
‘Look how that worked out!’ Given Rhodri was the one in charge of cooking in their domestic arrangement she’d decided to surprise him by whipping up something special and setting the scene as Constance had suggested. So, she’d taken herself off to the Ryde Bookshop on High Street and nearly lost herself in the Aladdin’s cave of books. She’d taken her time meandering through the ten rooms overflowing with all manner of reading material until eventually she’d found exactly what she was looking for. A Julia Child book called Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Hugging the book to her chest with growing excitement she’d taken it to the counter and paid.
She’d poured over the recipes that evening in bed, acutely aware that it was only a wall separating her and Rhodri. She’d decided, as she tried to concentrate on what was in front of her instead of the man sleeping next door, on coq au vin mostly because the dish sounded vaguely familiar. The next day, after she’d left The Natural Way and without breathing a word to Delwyn of her seduction plan, she’d gone firstly to the butchers, then the supermarket to pick up wine before calling in on her old boss Brenda at The Rum Den to beg a quarter cup of cognac from her.
The recipe called for the cognac and she was blowed if she was going to buy a whole bottle for the sake of such a small amount. A deal had been struck in relation to Brenda’s ongoing issue with bunions. A packet of the turmeric powder she mixed with water to make a paste to soothe her feet in exchange for the cognac. Isabel had long since stopped telling her to wear flat shoes as it would help her poor feet. The pub landlady wearing flats would be akin to her running a pub that didn’t serve beer. Naturally, Brenda had grilled her as to what she was up to but she’d refused to divulge her reasons and they’d had a stand-off for five minutes until Brenda, deciding she wasn’t going to crack, had relinquished the alcohol.
Isabel had been pleased upon arriving back at Pier View House to see Rhodri in conversation with a customer and she’d been able to get her supplies up the stairs without him noticing. She’d decided she’d prepare the meal and set the table then go and change out of her customary jeans and T-shirt into her special occasions dress. It wasn’t the stuff of femme fatales but she knew the green suited her and its nipped-in waist and full skirt that finished just above her knees was flattering. She wasn’t a little black dress and killer heels sort of girl.
Things hadn’t gone quite to plan however.
Rhodri had raced up the stairs as the smoke alarm shrilled to find Isabel flapping her hand, ineffectually trying to clear the smoke in the kitchen. She’d gone upstairs to make herself pretty and had come back down half an hour later, opening the oven door to check on her casserole. The acrid smoke had billowed out as Rhodri deduced the oven wasn’t on fire and the cause of the drama was whatever she’d been cooking boiling over and smouldering until it ignited briefly on the oven tray. Isabel, whose eyes were watering and stinging had promptly burst into tears and babbled on about how all she’d wanted to do was impress him with a delicious dinner and now it was all ruined. Rhodri had looked at her then, seen her dress and noticed she’d put her hair up and had makeup on, and the penny had dropped it was for his benefit.
He’d wiped her tears away with his thumbs ever so gently and her skin had tingled at his touch. His eyes had furrowed trying to gauge whether he was reading her signs correctly and his hands cupped her face. She’d tilted her head to look at him, suddenly oblivious to the burnt smell as she became aware of the smell of him. It was a curious mix of the oil-based paints he favoured and the coconut shampoo in their bathroom. She’d thought she could smell something else too, something musky, almost earthy, but her breath caught as she’d seen something change in his eyes. Her lips parted slightly willing him to kiss her and he’d leaned down, his lips soft as they’d tentatively brushed hers. Her body relaxed as a feeling of languid bliss overtook her and she’d been grateful for his arms which had encircled her pulling her into him, holding her against his body and—
‘Earth to Isabel.’ Constance intruded on her reverie.
‘Sorry, I was just—'
‘Yes, I could tell by the look on your face what you were thinking and it wasn’t the fact you nearly burned my old kitchen down.’ Mirth twinkled in Constance’s wily eyes.
‘It was a small oven fire and it all worked out in the end.’
‘Exactly, Isabel, and this business with Rhodri and his ex-wife will too, you’ll see. It’s his son he cares about not her.’ Constance shook the Malteser packet at her once more.