CHAPTER 13
Nicholas
Cornwall
Nicholas Tresillion was cooking a Thai curry.
He relished cooking now that he lived alone, now that he didn’t have to adapt the recipe for family members who happened not to like porcini mushrooms, garlic or lashings of hot chilli.
He also relished living here in Godrevy where it was wild, bleak and, yes, sometimes lonely.
He’d always enjoyed solitude – that feeling of being at one with the sea, the sky, the Cornish cliffs.
Everyone needed space sometimes. Time to reflect.
Only now he had more space and solitude than he’d bargained for.
And even after all this time, the cottage still reminded him of Rachel. Didn’t everything?
He had no idea how to get Rachel from under his skin. Perhaps they’d been together too many years. Or perhaps he was just that sort of a man. He went out into the back garden to pick the basil from the greenhouse – the purply Thai basil that tasted of aniseed and hot summer nights.
But it wasn’t only their twenty-year-long marriage or Celie, their daughter, nineteen and with a life of her own .
. . He clipped the stem of the plant, crushed it into his hand and sniffed deeply.
It took him back to those aniseed gobstoppers of his childhood bought from the post office after school.
No. It was something more nebulous that held him to Rachel, something more uncertain.
He stomped back through the small garden whose sandy soil refused to sustain anything much other than tamarisk, grasses and sea campion.
It felt almost as though he’d failed. Not at marriage, but at prising something out of Rachel, something that he felt was there, inaccessible, and therefore so damned infuriating.
In the kitchen he washed the leaves. Through the window he could see the length of his sea garden and the dry-stone wall that separated it from the field beyond.
Beyond that rose the grass-capped dunes and beyond them was the sea – the wild Atlantic coastline that he loved, the cliff, and the lighthouse at Godrevy.
Rachel had been a holiday visitor. Girls like Rachel didn’t grow up in Cornwall.
They came from Sussex or Surrey; they were elegant, sleek, well polished.
They had upper-class accents and had attended private schools, which gave them this terrible confidence, this apparent ability to deal with anything or anyone.
Nicholas put the steak on the chopping board and began to pound it with a wooden mallet. It was from the local butcher and good quality; it gave in gracefully. He sliced it into thin strips and pushed it to one side of the board.
He had been drinking in the Sloop Inn at St Ives when he first saw her.
Part of the building dated from the fourteenth century and Nicholas loved the sea-feel of it – the low black treacly beams and flagstone floor, the ancient lanterns, and sketches of the pub’s old-timers hanging on the walls.
Plus, it did a good pint. He usually sat at one of the long wooden tables in the Public Bar with the local fishermen and artists – a way of keeping in touch with his roots perhaps – but that day, he was relaxing in the Lounge.
Outside, only a cobbled forecourt and a narrow road separated the pub from the harbour beach.
Rachel was sitting at the polished mahogany bar talking to an older, Mediterranean-looking man.
Her skin had the faintest of olive sheens, her hair was smooth and long, and he almost knew already the scent of her shampoo.
Her eyes were clear – green and translucent.
She had a look about her; as if she always knew exactly where she was going.
Nicholas dried his hands and started working on the Thai paste.
Red, he decided. He remembered thinking, How do men like that get women like her?
Then another woman joined them and he realised his mistake.
She was less complicated-looking than Rachel, and she linked arms with the Mediterranean-looking man in the way a wife does – unthinking; a casual gesture of intimacy.
Rachel got to her feet then – Nicholas realised that she was even taller than he’d guessed – and disappeared off into the other bar. She came back waving a menu. ‘It can’t be too bad. They’ve got fresh flowers on the tables.’ She glanced down. ‘And a half-decent wine list.’
She hadn’t bothered to lower her voice and her accent made Nicholas raise an eyebrow.
He heated the paste up slowly, adding small amounts of coconut milk, blending it in with a wooden spoon.
The pungent scent began to fill his small white-walled kitchen – lemongrass and chilli, ginger and saffron . . .
The only empty table happened to be close to the threesome. Nicholas unfolded his napkin, looked into the middle distance and homed in on the conversation.
‘St Ives is sweet,’ Rachel was saying. She was the type who would describe an ardent admirer that way, he guessed, thus destroying his manhood forever. ‘But who would want to live here?’
‘I’d love it,’ the other woman said.
Nicholas liked her passion. And over the years, as he’d got to know Rachel’s sister better, he had continued to like her, which was why he was still working with her and Giuseppe, why he would never lose touch.
Nicholas swirled the thick paste around in the wok (Rachel had always said he cooked like a drama queen, but then Rachel had said lots of things, including, I’ll always love you, Nicholas). He added the beef, browning it quickly on a high heat. Some things were best forgotten.
‘But it’s a bit of a cultural backwater, don’t you think?’ And Rachel had looked around her and frowned.
The other woman laughed. ‘It’s charming,’ she said. ‘And very creative.’
‘They’re just local artists, though.’ Rachel’s tone was scathing. But Nicholas could see the hollow inside her collarbone. It was exquisite. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his tongue along its curve. ‘After a week,’ Rachel continued, ‘I’d be bored to death.’
And the Mediterranean man seemed to agree with her because he launched into an accolade to Milan – Italian then.
‘Of course,’ said Rachel, re-crossing her legs. ‘The Italians have unquestionable style.’
And so had she, Nicholas couldn’t help thinking. So had she.
After the meat had sizzled for a while, he added the rest of the coconut milk.
Nicholas had always been fond of St Ives and he hadn’t much liked Rachel’s tone, so he hadn’t been too sorry when the three of them left the pub, leaving him to reflect into what remained of his cod and chips and his beer on what might have been.
But he saw Rachel again the following day, quite unexpectedly, in one of those galleries she had been so disparaging about. He was about to walk straight past, but she was alone and, well, it seemed a bit like fate. What harm could it do?
Nicholas moved away from the stove and began to wipe the mushrooms clean. What harm indeed?
He had stood behind her in the cream-coloured gallery. Light flooded through the front windows, streaking her hair with dark amber. Her body shifted slightly, showing him she was aware of his presence.
‘Only a local artist,’ he murmured. ‘But perhaps he has promise?’
She didn’t turn round. Perhaps random people started conversations with her every time she looked at a painting in a gallery. ‘Perhaps,’ she said doubtfully.
It was an abstract of sea and sky with pleasing shades of blue. ‘But you could do better,’ he suggested, in a moment of inspiration.
She turned around then. Her eyes were so bright it was almost shocking. ‘How do you know I paint?’ She folded her arms. ‘Who are you?’
Nicholas shrugged. What, had he forgotten who he was?
It had almost seemed like it, he recalled now. He sliced the peppers and tipped them in, their red strips splashing into the curry like blood.
‘I guessed,’ he said. ‘So many people who come here do. Or would like to.’
She laughed. ‘I suppose so.’ Then she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
‘I saw you yesterday in the pub.’ She was stunning, even more so with less make-up on and close up. He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth.
‘Are you stalking me?’ But she was smiling.
‘Yeah.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I was hoping you’d join me for a coffee.’
She looked him up and down then – no one but Rachel had ever done that, at least not in such an obvious way; it was male in its arrogance.
Thinking about it now, Nicholas realised that she had picked him up just as much as the other way about, only she hadn’t let him know it at the time.
He added the mushrooms and threw in the basil.
The aniseed fragrance hit the hot spices almost immediately.
Nicholas felt his stomach growl. Time to put on the rice.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
He stuck out his hand. ‘Nicholas Tresillion.’
‘Rachel Pascoe.’ She put her hand in his – briefly. ‘Are you an artist?’
‘I’m not, no.’ He led the way out of the gallery.
He would take her to the hotel up the road, perched on the water’s edge.
That would impress her; it impressed everyone, especially on a day like this when the sea was so wild.
‘I’m an accountant.’ In heels they were the same height, he realised. And he was six two.
He was used to a certain reaction – most people thought numbers were boring. But she gave him that appraising look again. A smile hovered around her mouth. ‘Nicholas Tresillion,’ she said, as if she were trying it on for size.
And suddenly it was too late to go back. He had sunk without trace.
Perhaps it was appropriate that now, all these years later, he was back in Cornwall, trying to forget her and the life they had shared.
Nicholas dished out the curry and took it over to the table by the window in the sitting room.
Celie had visited last weekend and she had picked some late-flowering honeysuckle from the garden, put it in a small vase that she’d bought in a second-hand shop in Penzance.
The sweet-smelling honeysuckle was drooping now, but Nicholas was reluctant to throw it away – when it was gone it would feel as if Celie was gone, even more than it did already.
She lived in London now; she had a new job and a steady boyfriend; she didn’t visit Cornwall often these days.
And Nicholas was pleased for her – he was glad that she’d apparently taken the divorce in her stride, that she was happy and independent. Even so . . . he missed her.
The curry was good. He looked out of the window as he ate.
It was the end of September and the light had already faded as he cooked, dusk moving into twilight, into darkness now.
The church was lit up – its tower and four spires shone golden against the night sky, and this was comforting.
Not that Nicholas was religious; but he liked the building and the sense of continuity it had always given him, its four spires a landmark for the village from afar, as if it wanted to remind him where he should be.
He had tried very hard to get over Rachel.
He had changed the furniture she’d chosen for the cottage – he’d never liked steel and chrome; it had no depth or memory, it was all surface and reflection; Rachel could keep her minimalism in the flat in Rome.
He had sometimes drunk too much and even had a few brief affairs that had left him feeling vaguely ashamed.
He looked out to where the trees in the churchyard were stirring in the wind. How many times had he looked into Rachel’s eyes and seen something so distant, so elusive that he longed for it all the more?
Now, sitting here as the sky grew darker still, the moon hanging limpid and almost full in the sky, he wondered if that depth, that elusiveness, was all an illusion.
Even something he had projected onto her because he wanted it so much to be that way.
Really, she was quite simple in her desires and her dreams.
When he’d finished eating, he took his plate back to the kitchen, rinsed it and put it on the draining board.
Outside, his garden had absorbed the darkness.
He opened the back door. He could smell the dry sandy earth and the scent of the sea, edgy and compelling in the air.
The sky was clear tonight and the stars seemed brighter than usual.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the waves in the distance, high tide, crashing onto the rocks. He loved that sound.
There was no doubt about it. He had to focus on getting Rachel out from under his skin. But he needed to find a different way.
When had it been right between them? Not here, but somewhere else. A place they had found together and shared. A special place.
Nicholas found he was gripping the door handle. He didn’t seem capable of moving forward from the position he was in right now. What if he went back to when they were happy? Would that do it? His fists clenched. Or would it finish him? Make or break . . . Softly, he closed the door.
He switched on his laptop to check the flights.
Half an hour later he had booked a flight to Fuerteventura. He would go to El Cotillo for a holiday, stay in a house they’d always loved and coveted, which might not be such a bright idea, come to think about it.
Nicholas switched off his laptop. He felt as if he was saying to Rachel, Look, I can have that dream. It’s mine, not yours. Watch me.
And in the meantime . . . Next month he would be in Venice for work, visiting retailers who stocked their jewellery. There was plenty to do, surely plenty of things to take his mind off Rachel. All he had to do was find them.