On Friday morning Orla went down to Akaroa. It was a lovely day. The sea was a serene blue and the sky sported huge puffy white clouds, as pretty as whipped cream and as harmless as pillows. Orla loved those clouds. How she wished she was in the orchard doing her research rather than trying to walk through all these mindlessly milling tourists! Why were there so many? She glanced out to sea and saw not one but two big white cruise ships anchored in the harbour. ‘Oh shit,’ she said under her breath, ‘now everything will take twice as long.’
Unfortunately she was right. She had to queue in every shop she went to. By the time she’d bought everything, she was so hot and tired that she decided to shout herself a cold beer in the shade. She found herself a table on the covered deck of a cute little French bar she’d been admiring ever since she’d first laid eyes on it. Although she’d always promised herself a drink there, somehow time had slipped by and she’d never quite managed it. Well, this was the day. A reward for all the work she would have to do in hosting Rosa’s former squeeze. Not very charitable, she scolded herself. After all, you are getting free accommodation.
After deciding what to order, Orla looked up from the menu and saw a hand waving at her from the far end of the deck. Oh my God, it’s Henry Millard, she thought, a feeling of panic coming over her. But why the panic? He would hardly grab her in public. She waved back, and was glad to note that he was with a group of men dressed in suits. A business meeting? That was good. He wouldn’t ask her to join a business meeting.
Orla drank her beer as quickly as she could, but unfortunately not quickly enough. The group of men broke up before she’d swallowed the last mouthful and she saw Henry coming towards her.
‘I haven’t time to chat,’ he apologised, when he reached the table. ‘I have to go to another meeting. But I was wondering if you’d like to …’
‘Yes?’ Orla prompted when he drifted off.
‘Tomorrow night I’m going to a fundraising dinner in the city. My guest is ill and I wondered if you’d like to take her place. It’s very short notice, I realise, but —’
‘Take her place?’ Orla repeated. ‘You mean as second choice?’
Henry smiled wryly and said, ‘She’s my cousin.’
‘Don’t men ever fancy their cousins?’ Orla asked cheekily.
‘This one doesn’t.’
‘Good to know. But I’m afraid I’m already taken.’
‘Taken?’ he echoed, narrowing his eyes.
‘I should hope so.’
They both laughed, but when he left Orla couldn’t help but reflect uneasily on the sense of ownership he’d conveyed with his last comment. She’d kissed him precisely once and she hadn’t even been sober. What did that commit her to? In her world, nothing at all. But in his? Suddenly she was worried they would have quite different opinions on the matter.
Now that Henry had gone she took her time finishing her beer, and then she followed it up with a slow coffee.
Imagine if he found out that I’m seeing Eddie tomorrow night, she reflected as she stared out at the pretty, watercolour scene of sailing boats bobbing on the sea. A slight shiver went over her. He’d be furious, she was sure of that. Would he be justified or not? She quickly paid and left before she started down the long tunnel of everyone’s rights and wrongs in the situation.
Back at the cottage Orla had lunch and then did a whirlwind clean-up of all the clothing, books and coffee mugs she’d allowed to accumulate. She swept and mopped the wooden floors — she hadn’t been very fastidious about removing her shoes when she came in after her bouts of gardening — and the whole place was looking spic and span by the time she heard a car crunching along the driveway.
Orla suddenly felt nervous. She wasn’t in the mood for visitors, but she didn’t want to offend Rosa by not getting on with her ex-boyfriend. She grabbed a glass of water and a magazine and was sitting at the outdoor table trying to appear relaxed when Rosa and Michael came along the path.
Oh shit — Michael was Mr Sunglasses! Orla was so surprised she lost her tongue. Couldn’t even stammer out a ‘pleased to meet you’ when Rosa introduced them to each other. Instead she held out her hand and he shook it, a wry twist to his upper lip. Was it a smile? Orla didn’t know. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses.
‘Michael dropped into my place first,’ Rosa explained after she’d done the introductions and Michael had gone off to take his suitcase down to the barn.
‘Coffee?’ Orla asked Rosa.
‘That would be nice.’
‘Does Michael drink coffee, or does he prefer —’
‘He’s definitely a coffee man.’
Orla went inside to put the jug on. She put mugs on a tray and tumbled bought biscuits onto a plate. As she did so she had a vision of Michael only eating handcrafted delicacies made from organic nuts and Valrhona chocolate.
Rosa had fetched a third outdoor chair from somewhere in the garden and was sitting at the table. Orla put down the tray, now laden with everything required for a fairly civilised afternoon tea, and sat down. She and Rosa chatted amicably while waiting for Michael to return from the barn.
‘Will I be Mother?’ he asked, as soon as he’d taken his seat. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the coffee plunger and took charge.
Orla didn’t mind, although she saw Rosa wrinkle her brow in mild annoyance. Relationship baggage, Orla thought. There’s always something that still annoys you long after the relationship has ended.
In fact Orla was pleased she didn’t have to worry about who wanted milk, or how much of it to slosh in if they did, or whether anyone took sugar. She relaxed. Nonetheless, she hoped Michael would be considerate about their separate spheres and wouldn’t just barge in on her without knocking.
‘How long did you say you were staying?’ Rosa asked him.
‘Why is that always your first question?’ Michael replied.
‘Um, sorry. How’s Sophie?’
‘And there’s the second question,’ he said, with a dramatic sigh.
‘Who’s Sophie?’ Orla asked, reaching for a second biscuit.
‘His long-suffering fiancée,’ Rosa responded, laughing.
‘Wrong,’ Michael replied, good-humouredly.
‘What? She’s dumped you again?’
He appeared evasive for a moment or two, and then said forthrightly: ‘I ended it. I’ve sold up.’
Rosa sat upright in her seat. ‘What d’you mean, you’ve sold up?’
‘Sold my apartment in Auckland. Sold my rentals.’
‘Everything?’ Rosa was now looking startled.
Michael nodded.
Orla poured herself a second coffee. She was thoroughly enjoying this discussion, which was heating up at quite a perceptible rate.
‘Where are you going to live then?’ Rosa pressed, suspicious.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that —’
‘Talk to me?’ she repeated, cutting him off. ‘What have I got to do with it?’
‘I thought I might spend a bit of time down here.’
‘In my barn? You do realise that this is my property, don’t you, Michael Ashton? I hope you don’t think that just because you paid for the barn to be restored that —’
Michael held up his hands. ‘Hey, calm down.’
‘I don’t mind if he stays,’ Orla put in, in case Rosa was getting upset on her behalf.
‘And I can pay rent,’ Michael offered.
Orla looked from one of them to the other. Michael’s offer clearly put Rosa in an embarrassing position. After all, Orla herself didn’t pay any rent and Michael had paid for the barn.
Instead of answering, Rosa asked, ‘Why here and why now? And what on earth made you sell up in Auckland? Was the law after you?’
‘Ooh, nasty,’ Michael mocked, completely uncowed.
Orla couldn’t help but laugh, but she smothered it as best she could when she saw the expression on Rosa’s face. Jumping up, she grabbed the coffee pot and held it up in an interrogative fashion.
‘No more for me, thanks,’ Rosa said coolly.
Michael shook his head and threw Orla a rather mischievous grin.
Orla sat down again.
‘Look, I needed a change,’ Michael began, in a placating tone of voice.
‘Couldn’t you just go to Fiji like normal people?’ Rosa retorted.
‘A big change,’ Michael corrected himself. ‘A new beginning.’
The way he said ‘a new beginning’ made Orla wonder if he were mocking himself or mocking the whole idea.
‘So you’re just going to move in?’ Rosa’s eyes were wide with incredulity.
‘Of course not,’ he laughed. ‘I’m only staying a little while till all the sale money comes through, and then … who knows?’
Rosa looked somewhat appeased.
Orla suddenly felt pleased that Michael was staying. He was rather amusing, and obviously he liked to pretend to be a bit wicked, a habit that Rosa clearly took at face value and then overreacted to, but which Orla decided she enjoyed. In reality he couldn’t be half the shark that some leading actors were.
Rosa stood up abruptly. ‘Well, I have to be off now. Jack will be home soon.’
Michael squinted up at her. ‘Truce?’ he asked.
Rosa frowned at him, and then, gradually, a smile took over her face. She nodded and sighed.
‘So dinner at yours, is it?’ Michael pushed. ‘Tonight?’
Orla could hardly believe his cheek.
‘Tomorrow night,’ Rosa said firmly. ‘There’s not much in the house.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind —’
‘Yes, you do! If I put eggs on toast in front of you, you’d start asking if we were being affected by the rural downturn.’
Now Orla laughed loudly. Michael didn’t seem to mind, and his good-humoured expression didn’t change.
‘Would you like to come, too, Orla?’ Rosa asked.
‘Oh no, thanks,’ Orla said quickly. ‘I’m going to a party with —’
‘With who?’ Rosa pressed when Orla stopped herself in embarrassment.
‘Um, no-one you know,’ Orla concluded, feeling foolish.
‘I know everyone here. And anyone I don’t know is sure to be talked about as soon as they’re out in public.’
‘Eddie Millard,’ Orla admitted, giving in.
Rosa suddenly stopped laughing; she didn’t even smile.
‘Whoa,’ Michael said, clearly a man who’d never let sleeping dogs lie. ‘What’s up with this Eddie Millard?’
‘Oh, he rackets around the Peninsula getting himself stuck in every shit heap,’ Rosa retorted.
‘That’s a bit unfair,’ Orla protested. ‘He’s trying to start a goat farm.’
‘Orla here is enthralled with him,’ Rosa carried on. ‘Like every female within miles.’
‘Why? What’s so special about this Eddie Millard?’ Michael asked.
‘Heathcliff-like good looks,’ Rosa explained.
‘I always thought Heathcliff looked like a brute,’ Michael argued.
‘Depends who plays him,’ Orla said, now thoroughly annoyed.
‘Plays him?’ Michael echoed. ‘Isn’t Wuthering Heights a book?’
‘Heathcliff-like morals, then,’ Rosa said impatiently, as she turned to leave. ‘Goodbye, everyone. See you tomorrow night, Michael.’
When Rosa had gone, Orla and Michael sat in silence for a moment or two until Orla began to feel uncomfortable. She jumped up and started piling the cups onto the tray.
‘So what are you going to do tonight?’ Michael asked.
‘Tonight? Nothing much.’
‘Do you eat?’
‘Sort of. I mean, I eat but I don’t cook.’
‘You eat raw food?’
Orla knew he was teasing her, but didn’t mind. ‘No, I kind of have something casual and quickly fried while I continue with my work.’
‘And what is your work?’ Michael asked, appearing genuinely interested.
Orla, who had been moving her weight from one leg to the other while she stood in front of him with the tray, didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to admit to being an actor, currently unemployed — but who would call a few unpublished scribbles on a page work? ‘I’ll just take this stuff inside,’ she said, instead of answering his question.
Michael followed her into the cottage. He watched her fill the sink to wash the few dishes, and then he repeated his question about Orla’s work.
‘Don’t laugh, but I’m currently trying to take up a new career. Writing historical articles for magazines and such. Connie is getting me started.’
‘Why’s that laughable?’ he asked, putting his head on one side as if that might help him understand why she anticipated ridicule.
‘I don’t know. I just feel like maybe I’m being naïve. I haven’t even got the training for it.’
‘And what was your previous career?’
Orla could feel her face go warm. ‘I’m an actor. I’ve done a few movies. Bit parts. Not many lines. Lots of time standing around in a bikini, truth be told.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly got the figure for it,’ Michael responded brazenly.
Orla might have been annoyed at this forward comment, but somehow the compliment fitted in with his bold personality, and it seemed innocuous enough, devoid of hidden motives.
‘Just not sure about the arm,’ he added.
Orla looked down at her cast. It was skilfully balancing the left side of the tray that she was now unloading into the sink — she’d become quite adept at using the rigid casing as a tool — and she was mortified by its greyness and all the childish doodles she’d added.
‘So what do you do for a crust?’ she asked, to cover her embarrassment.
‘Me? Nothing. I only work for the whole loaf.’ With this he gave her a broad grin, and then turned and walked out of the cottage before she could think of any more questions.
Orla felt at a loss. It was quite a long time until she could throw some veggies in a pan and eat, not that she was even hungry, and she didn’t feel like settling down with her laptop and books. She was oddly stimulated, as though something fun ought to ensue from the afternoon’s sparring party. She went outside and surveyed the garden. Her eye followed the path down to the barn.
‘What the hell,’ she thought as she strode down the path. ‘He can always say no.’
She knocked on the huge barn doors, feeling rather silly. Did one knock on a barn door? She waited. Of course Michael was upstairs and couldn’t hear her knocking. Opening the door, she went up the stairs, walking as loudly as she could and calling out his name. She didn’t want to surprise him in his underwear, or lolling about in the nude after a shower. When she reached the top of the stairs, she could see that he was sitting in an armchair having a heated discussion on his cell phone.
‘Look, I have to go,’ he said into the phone. ‘Someone’s arrived. No, not Rosa. What? No! She’s married, remember, married and pregnant. You can think I’m that sort of guy if you want to, but I can assure you —’
Orla waited.
‘Sophie,’ Michael said with a sigh when he’d ended the call. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘Fancy a drink?’ she asked, cutting to the chase.
‘A drink and a proper meal,’ Michael replied. ‘Any ideas?’
‘It’s pretty early for dinner,’ Orla objected.
‘We can drink till it’s a suitable time to eat,’ Michael replied with enthusiasm.
Good grief, she found herself thinking, is he an alcoholic or what? Alcohol was yet another thing she always had to limit so she could continue to look good in front of the camera. She couldn’t imagine drinking just to fill in the time.
‘Look, why don’t we wait an hour or two and then pick up one of those gourmet pizzas from the pub?’ she suggested. ‘We can take it to one of the bays.’
‘Excellent idea. And I’m sure I’ve still got a nice bottle of something that I tucked away during my last visit.’
‘I’ll bring a couple of glasses.’
Michael rubbed his hands together. ‘Wine and pizza in the sunset —’
‘I don’t think the sun will be setting,’ Orla interrupted with a smile. ‘But hopefully the tourists will have gone home.’
Two hours later they were sitting in the pub on the hill, waiting for the chef to cook their pizza. Orla knew exactly where she wanted to take it. All over the Peninsula some thoughtful soul — most likely several thoughtful souls on the now-defunct county council — had provided public picnic tables in the most delightful settings. The one that Orla had in mind was on the very edge of the sea at Duvauchelle, yet snuggled into the privacy and shelter of a little grove of cabbage trees.
The trip from the pub to the table took all of five minutes.
‘I’m glad we like the same toppings,’ Michael declared, as he flipped open the lid of the pizza box.
‘I love spicy food,’ Orla said, her mouth watering at the sight of the salami studded with whole peppercorns, the sliced chillies and red peppers that formed the topping. ‘Can’t stand things like chicken breast and brie on pizza.’
‘Wine?’ Michael offered, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.
‘Scared of losing control, huh?’ Michael joked.
‘Scared of …’
‘What?’ Michael pressed when she trailed off.
‘Nothing,’ she lied, taking a gulp of wine. Why ruin the evening by listing all the things she was scared of: bags under eyes, skin breaking out, hair going limp, rolls of fat on her midriff, flabby arms. She wasn’t naturally obsessed with her looks, nor especially vain, but it was impossible not to become trapped in these worries when your looks were your living. Yet another reason to develop another side of herself, she thought as Michael topped up her glass.
The wine was good, the sun was warm, and the sea sparkled. She hadn’t felt so good in … well, years, if truth be told.
‘What are you grinning at?’ Michael asked.
‘Am I grinning? I didn’t realise.’
‘Like that cat that got the cream.’
‘Wasn’t it the Cheshire cat that grinned?’
‘Who cares?’
‘Yeah, not me,’ she laughed. ‘It’s just so great to forget about everything for a while.’
‘Everything like what?’
Orla hesitated. It wasn’t just her working life that was in a pickle — her private life also seemed way too complicated and weird. But the wine won out and loosened her tongue. ‘I’ve been seeing someone else besides Eddie …’
‘Two men?’ Michael echoed. ‘Take it from me, that’ll end in tears.’
‘Actually, Eddie’s father,’ Orla confided awkwardly.
‘Yikes! Not tears then. Probably murder.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping with either of them,’ Orla explained primly, and then rapidly wished she’d kept her mouth shut. That was the trouble with not drinking regularly: if you had a mere glass or so, it went straight to your head.
Michael started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’m the last person who deserves it, believe me.’
‘I wasn’t trying to justify myself. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘Okay — idea corrected. Now do you want any more of this wonderful pizza or will I finish the lot?’
Orla was relieved that Michael hadn’t been censorious about her love life, or whatever you called it when the ‘love’ component was missing. She relaxed and had a third slice of pizza. Looking out over the serene blue water, she noticed some beautiful herons picking their way through the mudflats. How she wished she could just stop time, right here, right now. No more choices, no more decisions.
‘So you’re choosing me?’ Michael teased when she described how she was feeling.
‘What? No!’ How had he come up with that idea?
‘You said no more choices and I’m the one you’re with,’ he explained, as if he could read her mind. Then he threw her one of his amusing, aren’t-I-being-wicked grins.
Orla liked Michael. She’d already ditched the impression she’d had of him from their exchange at the pub. And of course she didn’t have the baggage Rosa had, so she didn’t get worked up over his jokes. So she laughed obligingly and said she should be getting back.
‘What for?’ he asked.
Orla shrugged and felt a bit silly. It was just her habit to get a good night’s sleep as often as she could.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Michael carried on, ‘you’ve got your date with Heathcliff tomorrow.’
‘It isn’t really a date,’ she said, simultaneously wondering what it actually was.
‘It’d be a date if I were taking you out,’ Michael replied cheerily. ‘No doubt about it.’
In bed that night Orla kept returning to what Michael had said: it’d be a date if I were taking you out. What did he mean by that? That he couldn’t just be friends with a woman? That whenever he went anywhere with a woman he always had other motives? That he expected physical payment if he bought a woman dinner or a ticket to a show or a concert? Was he admitting to being that much of a pig? Or was he merely trying to compliment her?
He could compliment her all he wanted — she was looking forward to seeing Eddie, whether or not it was a proper date. Just thinking about his face gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She imagined reaching out to caress those wonderful cheekbones. In this fantasy he took her hand from his cheek and kissed it and they stood like that until —
Morning. The sun pouring in the skylights. Orla jumped out of bed and went downstairs in her nightie. She made a cup of coffee and opened the front door to drink it outside — and there was Michael lounging at the outdoor table, sunglasses on and his hand curled around a large orange juice. So much for thinking he’d respect her privacy. He turned to look at her and she slammed the door shut. She knew how thin the fabric of her nightie was.
‘Sorry,’ he said, when she came out in her robe. ‘I thought you’d already be up. I won’t do it again.’
‘It’s all right,’ she murmured, surprised that he’d apologised.
‘Rosa said I was always …’ he began, and stopped.
‘Always what?’ Orla was curious to hear what Rosa habitually accused him of.
‘Always too presumptuous,’ he finished. ‘I make plans for other people without consulting them. I impose myself on them. Believe me, I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’m trying to change. It’s just that I love organising little surprises for people.’
‘People?’
‘Women,’ he corrected himself. ‘I like to spoil them. But I always get carried away. Little surprises become big presumptions.’
Orla sipped her coffee and tried to recall when she’d recently heard that expression about spoiling. Oh yes, it was from Henry Millard at the restaurant. He liked to spoil women too. He’d spoil them and kiss them and then think he owned them. Maybe Eddie couldn’t afford anything more than ‘pies and chips’ — a very rude thing to say, now that she thought about it — but at least he couldn’t use money to get what he wanted.
Orla drained her cup. ‘So what were you presuming this morning? That I’d naturally want to have breakfast with you?’
‘That you might want to come sailing with me.’
‘Um — that would be no.’ Apart from a sailing boat having about as much attraction for her as Nick’s splendid horse, Orla didn’t want to get her hair full of style-destroying salt spray and wind before her outing with Eddie.
‘Well, what are you going to do all day?’ Michael shot back.
Orla felt like saying none of your business, but she was keen to keep the conversation pleasant, so she said, ‘I should do a bit of weeding. That’s the deal. I stay here for free and help with the garden.’ As soon as ‘for free’ was out of her mouth, she remembered that she’d decided not to let on about her arrangement with Rosa. But Michael simply nodded and stood up.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘Not go sailing by yourself, I hope?’ Nervous Mamabear had managed to instil in Orla the belief that anything involving the sea should be done in twos, preferably in groups with rescue helicopters hovering.
‘Might go down and see if Connie fancies a day on the water,’ he replied. ‘But you’re not worried I might sink and drown, are you? God, it’s a millpond out there.’ With that, he went off down the path, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
Orla didn’t see Michael for the rest of the day. She heard his SUV leave, and a few hours later she heard it return, but the barn had its own driveway, albeit very rough and overgrown, and he’d obviously decided to make use of it. She pottered about the garden in the sunshine, pulling out and cutting back as instructed, and she even enjoyed herself. She glowed with satisfaction when she managed to make a particular piece of garden look pretty and not just tidy. In her (rather too many) breaks, she sat down in various parts of the garden and appreciated her own work while enjoying a cold drink. Sometimes she wished she could stay at Lilyfields forever, sequestered in the cottage and protected from all her financial worries and career failures.
She went indoors late afternoon and had a bath. When it was time to get ready, she went straight to the wardrobe for her outfit. She’d had plenty of time while weeding to think about what she was going to wear. She knew plenty of women who spent hours trying on clothes before an important outing, but she wasn’t one of them. No doubt she was lucky — most things tended to look good on her, and she wasn’t often caught out by a nasty surprise.
Eddie was only twenty minutes late. He was scrubbed and shaved and combed, and dressed head-to-toe in black. He looked especially head-turning, and Orla suddenly wondered whether she measured up. Yes, Henry was good-looking enough to turn heads, too — but never with Eddie in the same room.
Is that what I’m most interested in? she asked herself, as she put her seatbelt on. The one who’s the best-looking? She pushed the question down firmly. Of course she wasn’t — she wasn’t that shallow.
Orla couldn’t get used to the idea that anyone would hold a proper party at the end of any of the treacherous gravel roads that were so prevalent on the Peninsula. She gripped the seat tightly as Eddie drove at breakneck speed up, around and then down half a dozen of them in a row.
First there were hills suddenly looming out of the darkness, then crashing waves on both sides, and finally she was hurtling into nothing but a wide expanse of stars. Eddie slammed on the brakes. Feeling nauseous, Orla could just make out some twinkling lights through a big stand of macrocarpas.
Eddie turned into the driveway and soon they were in front of a house, now appearing very brightly lit and pouring thumping rock music out of every open door and window. Orla tried to recall what she’d imagined the party would be like — more sedate than this, that’s for sure, and perhaps with wafting country music scarcely intruding on the romantic starlight.
Well, honey, she said to herself, welcome to Eddie’s world. Then she got out of the car in that determined, make-the-most-of-it mood she often forced herself to adopt at many actors’ parties.
Eddie disappeared into the house through the front door, which was held open by a large rock, while Orla lingered on the veranda. It wasn’t only the music that was bursting out of the place. Guests packed the hallway, and perched on the sills of open windows, and some, appearing scarcely conscious, were even spread-eagled on the lawn.
‘Drink?’ Eddie said, thrusting a brimming paper cup at her.
Orla accepted the cup, but when she brought it to her lips, expecting wine or perhaps beer, a strong smell of spirits assailed her nose. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.
Eddie shrugged. ‘There was an open bottle on the kitchen bench and I just helped myself.’
‘You didn’t even read the label?’ Orla was unimpressed enough that he’d taken someone else’s alcohol without asking, but she was horrified that he’d drink from a bottle without checking its contents.
‘Oh, come on, babe,’ he said. ‘We’re here to have fun.’
Orla hated being called ‘babe’ by anyone, but she let Eddie pull her by the arm into the house. He led her through the jam-packed hallway into a large, dimly lit living room, which was seething with young couples shuffling and groping to the beat of the hideously loud music. It was at that moment Orla realised that she couldn’t see another person over twenty-five, and that, most likely, the party was being held by some minor while his or her parents were away.
Elbowing other couples out of their path, Eddie dragged Orla into the middle of the room and started dancing. He was a good dancer, certainly not one of those men who jigged up and down as if their feet were nailed to the ground. Orla joined him and was just beginning to enjoy herself when Eddie’s expressive body movements caught the collective eye of three young things in minuscule skirts.
Before she knew it, Orla was sharing her dancing partner with the teenaged inebriates, who kept wiggling suggestively and hip-bumping Eddie accidentally-on-purpose. She suppressed an urge to push them away.
Orla broke away from the group and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. When she looked beyond the bodies, bottles, breakages and spillages, she saw that it was a lovely old house, well-maintained and tastefully decorated. She shuddered when she imagined the parents — probably quiet, middle-aged farmers — returning to the mess and destruction. She leaned against the kitchen bench and sipped her water. Having refused to drink what Eddie had brought her, she was still stone-cold sober, and she cast a gimlet eye over the inhabitants of the kitchen, most of whom were very young and very drunk.
Orla sighed. Why had she pictured a resplendent country supper and eaten nothing? Her mouth watered as she conjured up spring lamb cooked on a barbecue under the stars, and bustling rural matrons vying with each other over home-baked cakes and tarts. Here she’d be lucky to find a bowl of soggy potato chips.
‘What’s wrong?’ Eddie asked loudly, coming into the kitchen, followed by the gaggle of girls.
‘Nothing,’ Orla lied. Frankly, she just wanted to go home.
‘Well, we can’t go home,’ Eddie responded, seemingly reading her mind. ‘I’ve had waay too much to drink.’ As if to prove his point he wobbled theatrically and the sweet young things burst into raucous laughter.
‘I haven’t,’ Orla said. ‘I can drive.’
Eddie pouted, and the girls broke into a loud chorus of objections.
‘Give me the keys,’ Orla demanded.
‘What?’ Eddie exclaimed. ‘You can’t just leave me stranded here.’
‘I’ll come back and pick you up in the morning.’
While the three girls cheered, Eddie looked at Orla suspiciously, perhaps wondering if he’d been dumped. As far as Orla was concerned he had — at least for the evening.
‘Oh come on, babe,’ he wheedled. ‘Let’s have some fun.’
‘Don’t call me “babe”,’ Orla objected, rather more vociferously than she’d intended.
‘Ooooh!’ the girls cried in unison.
Orla took a deep breath and repeated, ‘Keys, please.’
Muttering under his breath, Eddie started searching his pockets. When he found the keys he threw them at her, and failing to catch them she had to grovel about on the floor. He followed her out to the car. Fortunately the young limpets remained in the kitchen where a large bottle of vodka had caught their attention.
‘I don’t know why you have to go,’ Eddie sulked. ‘We could go for a walk in the moonlight. Wouldn’t you like that?’
Without answering him she jumped in the driver’s seat and put her seatbelt on. She turned on the engine and then, with an unusual level of self-preserving foresight, thought to check the fuel gauge. ‘Eddie!’ she cried. ‘You’re nearly out of diesel.’
‘Am I?’ he asked, affecting innocence.
‘How on earth were we going to get home?’
‘Oh,’ he replied vaguely, ‘big farms like this always have some diesel lying around.’
‘You were going to steal their fuel?’ She was aghast at his cheek.
‘Borrow,’ he corrected her.
‘Well then, get borrowing,’ she ordered through gritted teeth. She didn’t want to aid and abet him, but if she wanted to get home what choice did she have?
‘What? Now? I can’t see a bloody thing. I can’t go stumbling all over the farm in the dark —’
‘Yet only a few moments ago you were ready to go on a moonlight walk,’ she reminded him.
‘I’ll see if I can find a torch,’ he replied petulantly and stumbled off.
Orla sat in the car and waited. She ignored the music as best she could and tried to enjoy the perfect night. She found herself wondering what she’d be doing with Henry if she were out with him on a night like this. He would have planned everything down to the last detail. He’d only have taken her to a party if it had been properly run and set the right mood; there’d be fuel in his car and torches if he’d anticipated a walk, and …
Eddie was taking rather a long time. Orla got out of the car so she had a better view of the stars as a backdrop to her fantasy date with Eddie’s father. She was still fantasising when it occurred to her that Eddie wasn’t going to return.
Crossly, she retraced her steps to the thrumming house. She marched into the living room and found Eddie in a group ‘dance’ with the three girls. They had their arms around each other and were jumping loudly on the floor in time to the drum beats.
She stood and watched them. For a moment she thought about breaking up the group and demanding that Eddie find the fuel. But then she was overcome by a great lethargy. She couldn’t be bothered berating Eddie. She couldn’t be bothered telling him to grow up and act his age: he was acting his age. That was the trouble.
Orla decided to go upstairs and see if she could find somewhere to sleep. Surely there’d be a guest room, a kids’ room, even just a quiet couch; she certainly had no intention of climbing into the marital bed of the house’s owners. But as she searched, she discovered that all of the bedrooms were occupied. She came back downstairs again and went out the back door, hoping to find a hay barn or some other farm building.
She was in luck. Nestled at the far end of the back lawn there was a darling little blue and white caravan. She all but ran towards it, fervently hoping it wouldn’t be locked. Fortunately, when she tried the handle, the door swung wide in welcome.
Orla woke up. Light was streaming in the windows. Surprisingly, she’d ended up having quite a good sleep. Either the music had been turned down, or, because she’d been so happily sequestered in the caravan, she’d been able to ignore it.
Someone banged loudly on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, sitting up quickly and grabbing her top.
Eddie opened the door and poked his head in. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked, holding up a steaming cup.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she replied. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I put in two sugars.’
Orla didn’t like that much sugar in her coffee, but her stomach was rumbling insistently, and for once she was glad it had been over-sweetened.
Eddie came in, handed her the cup and sat on the end of the bed. He looked surprisingly fresh and rested. He’d obviously had a shower or bath because his hair was wet — but still fetchingly combed and styled.
‘How did you know I was in here?’ Orla asked, as she sipped her coffee.
He smiled winningly and said, ‘It looked like something you’d be attracted to.’
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘In an old barn,’ he replied. ‘Nothing like Rosa’s.’
‘You’ve seen the barn at Lilyfields?’ Orla was surprised, given Rosa’s opinion of him. ‘Since it was done up I mean?’
Eddie nodded. ‘When Dad was still looking to buy the place, I went with him once or twice.’
Dad. The word sent a jolt through Orla’s body. If she continued going out with Henry Millard, Eddie might … might end up her stepson. The thought made her head spin. Surely nobody would expect her to parent Eddie in any way; surely she couldn’t be expected to guide or monitor this wild young man, whose handsome face she still wanted to slap one minute and caress the next.
‘What’s the matter?’ Eddie asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did you burn your tongue?’
Orla shook her head.
‘Hurry up and get dressed,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘There’s a wonderful place I want to take you to.’
‘Wonderful place?’ Orla repeated. ‘Aren’t we going home?’
‘Not yet. It’s a really beautiful day.’
‘But what about the diesel?’
‘All sorted. And I’ve got some food, too. I found the pantry — a whole room bursting with stuff.’ He leaned over and kissed her, quickly, lightly on the lips. Then he was gone. Orla put her finger up to her lips where Eddie’s kiss still lingered, and for a brief moment imagined she could overlook the ‘borrowed’ food and fuel.
Fifteen minutes or so later they were pulling out of the driveway and onto the road. There hadn’t been anyone up to say goodbye to. As they’d tiptoed through the house, every room had been full of slumped, slumbering bodies, some of them muttering or groaning in their sleep.
It was indeed a beautiful day. Orla began to feel better as Eddie sped in a cloud of dust towards the wide expanse of blue sky. Instead of turning right at the first crossroads and going back down to the village, Eddie turned left. Now they were on a metal road high above the turquoise sea of the harbour.
‘We’re going to the lighthouse,’ Eddie informed her with a pleased look on his face.
To the lighthouse, Orla repeated in her mind. Wasn’t that the title of some famous book?
‘Dunno,’ Eddie said when she mentioned it. ‘I’m not a reader.’
Eddie parked the car on a piece of grass at the end of the headland. He grabbed a backpack and started leading Orla down a slope to the place where the keeper’s house once stood. Of course it was in ruins, and the lighthouse itself had been removed. It had been taken in pieces back to the village and reassembled as a tourist attraction.
‘Wait till you see the original road down to the water,’ Eddie exclaimed. ‘It was blown out of the rock with dynamite.’ And he started running ahead of her like some excited, bounding dog that had finally been unleashed.
Orla followed more cautiously. The ‘road’ — more of an overgrown track — consisted of slippery broken rock, not at all a suitable surface for the shoes she’d selected for the party. It was quite steep in parts, and here and there streamlets flowed over the surface of the rocks. She could see the crashing waves of the sea far below.
Finally she reached Eddie, who was standing on a grassy knoll looking at a long, metal ladder.
‘In the old days, they used to bring the supply vessels in here,’ he said. ‘They’d unload and have to climb up this ladder with all the stuff.’
Orla craned her neck and felt giddy. It was a long way down to the rocks, and every wave boomed over them and sent up a huge, saturating spray. The whole wide sea seemed to be rushing into the tiny, finger-shaped bay all at once.
Eddie kneeled on the ground and opened the backpack. He took out bread, cheeses, meats and pickles.
‘There was a second storage fridge in the pantry,’ he announced. ‘Imagine — two fridges!’
‘Imagine,’ Orla echoed, and wondered what Eddie’s father would have made of his son’s excitement over a second fridge.
‘What are you going to swim in?’ Eddie asked as soon as they’d finished eating.
‘Swim?’ she repeated, and turned to stare at him. He was running his hands through his hair and staring at the sea with a kind of hunger.
‘I’m going in naked,’ he said, and his voice sounded strange: urgent, low and somehow mesmerised.
‘I’m not going in at all,’ Orla objected, gripping the rail of the ladder.
Eddie began tearing his clothes off, and before she knew what was happening he was stark naked and on his way down the ladder. He was nimble and lithe and soon reached the ground. Orla’s heart was in her mouth as he picked his way across the rocks to the water’s edge. She wasn’t quite sure what she expected him to do next — perhaps jump in feet-first and then hold fast to the rocks while the sea swirled around him — but he suddenly dived with great elegance and disappeared beneath the surface.
Orla was terrified. She scanned the churning water from the narrow neck of the tiny bay to the blowhole and back again. What would she do if he didn’t come up? What could she do? She could hardly swim, much less save a grown man, and he’d be gone, swept out to sea by the time she made it up the path and back to town —
‘Look!’ Eddie shouted, suddenly breaking the surface near some rocks to her right. Expertly treading water, he pointed to a big brown seal fast asleep beside a glistening rock pool. From where she was standing, Orla could see the clarity and purity of the water in the little pool and thought to herself: that’s the kind of swimming I like. Sitting warm and safe in a rock pool and letting waves occasionally break over me.
Eddie disappeared again. Orla felt too sick to watch and too scared not to. She could only think of those supply ships that, according to the nearby information panel, had to wait days to enter the bay and then had to unload and leave as soon as possible before winds or other bad weather whipped the sea into a maelstrom.
Eddie broke the surface near the ladder and climbed out on the rocks. Orla stared at his tanned, muscled body, but her strong feeling of attraction had to compete with the sick feeling that was still lodged in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to throw him a towel and say cover yourself up, just to put an end to the wildly conflicting feelings that were roiling inside her.
There was no towel.
Eddie climbed up the ladder, stood unashamedly in front of her and causally began trying to dry himself with his T-shirt.
‘That’ll be soaked when you’ve finished,’ she observed and immediately realised she sounded disapproving and prudish.
‘Give me yours then,’ he ordered.
Orla looked away.
‘No, come on,’ he carried on. ‘Off with it!’
‘Eddie!’ she objected as he made a lunge for her and grabbed her top.
He laughed irrepressibly as he tried to lift up her T-shirt. ‘What’s the matter? You’ve got a bra on, haven’t you?’
She pushed his hands away, all the while thinking: God, what’s the matter with me? I stand around in front of cameras and crew in next to nothing and now I’m acting like some weird old spinster aunt.
Before she’d answered her own question, Eddie had pulled his damp T-shirt over his head and was dragging his jeans on. He’d clearly lost interest in the game, if that’s what it had been. Of course she’d disappointed him, Orla realised. She’d abandoned his party, refused to swim, and finally refused to be seen in her bra, even while he stood in front of her stark naked.
As they went back up the rock track to the truck, she expected him to give her the cold shoulder. But incredibly, he was laughingly retelling some crazy story, accompanied by ebullient hand gestures and excitable leg work, before they were even five minutes up the path.
When Orla got back to the cottage, Michael was sitting at the outdoor table drinking coffee. He jumped up quickly when he saw her and began apologising.
‘No, stay there,’ Orla said. ‘I’ll get a cup, too.’ She suddenly felt like company — adult company.
‘I was a bit worried about you,’ Michael admitted when she sat down again. ‘Out all night.’
‘You knew I was out all night?’
‘I can see the lights from the barn. You didn’t come home and turn them off.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry if they annoyed you —’
‘No, no,’ he assured her, shaking his head. ‘They didn’t annoy me.’
‘I went to a party,’ Orla began.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ Michael said quickly.
‘I want to,’ Orla replied. And yes, she did want to, not because she owed him an explanation, but because she wanted to talk to someone about what had happened. No doubt Michael wasn’t a remotely suitable candidate, but who else did she have right now?
‘Everyone was drunk,’ Orla carried on. ‘Average age of sixteen.’
‘Surely not,’ Michael replied, smiling.
Orla nodded, even though she was deliberately stretching the truth to create an effect.
‘And so I decided to leave. But my … my escort hadn’t thought to fill his vehicle up.’
‘Escort?’ Michael repeated. ‘You mean Heathcliff?’
‘Okay, Eddie Millard,’ Orla corrected herself.
‘Perhaps the gorgeous Eddie wanted to force you to spend the night with him,’ Michael suggested.
‘I never thought of that,’ Orla admitted, and then added, ‘But that’s so juvenile. Why couldn’t he just ask?’
‘Is that all a man has to do?’ Michael joked, and burst into laughter.
Orla, non-blushing Orla, could feel herself pinking up.
‘Sorry,’ Michael said quickly, looking rather sheepish. ‘Rosa always said I was too …’
‘Too what?’ Orla asked when he trailed off.
He shrugged. And then muttered, ‘Too inclined to say things better left unsaid.’
Orla smiled. ‘Maybe I should have gone to Henry’s fundraising dinner instead.’
‘So which one do you prefer?’ Michael asked, looking at her keenly. ‘Senior or junior?’
‘Prefer?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, feeling awkward, she concluded, ‘I’m just kind of playing along till I figure it all out.’
‘Well, Rosa might call me presumptuous,’ Michael began, ‘but one thing I’ve learned is that nobody gets to make all the choices.’
‘Nobody? Do you mean me?’
‘Actually, I meant me. But it applies to everybody. You think you can play one person off against another, call all the shots —’
‘I’d say Eddie thought that more than I did,’ Orla retorted.
‘Really?’ Michael said, raising his eyebrows. ‘He’s not the one going out with two people at once.’
‘I don’t know that. He might be.’
‘Okay, then, he’s not the one going out with a parent-andchild combo.’
‘Parent-and-child combo!’ Orla exclaimed, just about choking on her coffee. ‘You make it sound like … like a meal deal.’
‘If the name fits.’
‘The name doesn’t fit,’ Orla objected vociferously.
‘Don’t make the mistakes I made,’ Michael said quietly, as she quickly set about clearing the table. ‘You might discover too late who was the one you really wanted.’
Orla went indoors and felt like slamming the door behind her. She didn’t. She knew Michael was right.