His question had outraged her. How dare he presume her life lacked fun! He’d been in her company for no time at all and had the temerity to think he knew anything about her. In short measure she had informed him that she was perfectly happy with the quantity of fun in her life.
‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ he’d said. ‘Care to share with me the last thing that made you laugh out loud?’
To her great discomfort she had not been able to answer him. Not honestly.
It was that realisation that was causing her to pace like a caged panther on the terrace of the guest cottage at Casa Santa Rosa. When had she last laughed to the point her sides ached? Was that what age did? Stripped a person of the ability to laugh?
No! Age had nothing to do with it. Besides, fifty-five was not old. Jack had been older than she was now when they’d met and their brief time together had been full of laughter.
‘When I look into the mirror I see an ageing man with his best years long since past, but I look into your eyes and see myself still in my prime, young and invincible!’
Jack had said this on the eve of their wedding day, and just a few weeks before he’d died from a stroke. The age difference between them had never bothered Romily; all that mattered was that they loved each other and were happy together. And made each other laugh.
The ringing of a telephone from inside her guest accommodation interrupted her thoughts. She went to answer it.
‘Hey, Romily, is that you, honey?’
‘It is,’ she said cautiously, unsure who it was.
‘It’s me, Gabe. How’d it go today with Red? Did you get on like a house on fire, just as we said you would?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh?’
‘I might just as well be perfectly honest with you, Gabe, our writing together won’t work. We’re just not . . . we’re not simpatico.’
‘Simpatty what?’
‘Not compatible. We’re two very different people and I’m absolutely of the opinion we wouldn’t get the best out of each other.’
‘Now Romily, honey, are you sure you gave Red a chance to prove himself?’
‘I don’t think for one second Mr St Clair needs any encouragement to prove himself.’
Gabe guffawed. ‘Are you saying he tried it on with you, Romily?’
‘Certainly not! And had he done so I would most assuredly have put him in his place.’
Gabe let rip with another guffaw. ‘I don’t doubt that you would have! You’re one scary dame when you want to be.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Ah, c’mon, you know jolly well what I’m saying. Now look, get down from your uppity high-horse and give the guy a break; he’s a war hero, you know. He’s not some nobody with straw behind his ears. Sit down together and—’
‘We’ve already tried that over lunch today.’
‘So what the hell went wrong? Did he use the wrong cutlery or something?’
‘Gabe, are you trying to imply that I’m a shallow snob?’
‘Well, you Brits get pretty hung up on all that etiquette stuff, don’t you?’
‘I’d like to think I’m above such things.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Now do me a favour and meet with Red tomorrow. Loosen your stays and go have some fun together. And bear in mind the old cliché, Romily.’
Every ounce of her body fizzing with indignation, she said, ‘Which would be what exactly?’
‘Honey, even you, with your will of iron, must accept the most obvious goddamn cliché in the book, that opposites attract. Ciao for now!’
Very carefully Romily put down the receiver, resisting the urge to hurl the wretched device across the room.
Within seconds the telephone rang again. ‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘was there something else with which you wanted to harangue me?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Who is this?’ she asked, thrown off guard.
‘It’s me, Red. Have I caught you at a bad time? Or is it always a bad time for you?’
Romily inwardly groaned. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I thought you were somebody else.’
‘Whoever it was, I wish him luck when he does call you. Do you give all the men in your life a hard time?’
‘Why do you think I was expecting a man to be at the other end of the line?’
‘Just a wild guess on my part. So, do you?’
‘Do I what precisely?’
‘Give the men in your life a hard time?’
‘Only the ones who go the extra mile to annoy me.’
‘In that case, how am I doing?’
Recalling Gabe’s request for her to be nice, she said, ‘Barely registering.’
‘Gee, I’m hurt.’
‘Did you ring for something specific, or was this just a social call?’
‘I was wondering if you’d reached a decision about our working together.’
‘I’d like to sleep on it,’ she said. Another prevaricating lie. Why didn’t she just get it over with and flatly refuse to consider the project any further?
‘Look, I know I’m as pushy as hell and as subtle as a typhoon, but I have to tell you, I have a good feeling about a collaboration between us.’
She suddenly thought of his words at lunchtime – If in doubt, do it. It was exactly the kind of thing she would normally say. And hadn’t she always enjoyed the challenge of deliberately flouting convention and doing something for the sheer hell of it?
Just as she couldn’t recall the last occasion when she’d truly laughed and had disgraceful fun, she tried to remember when she had done anything for the sheer devil-may-care hell of it. Drawing a blank, she recoiled at the awful conclusion that somewhere along the line she had become an anathema to herself – boringly conventional. Where had her spirit of adventure gone?
‘Red,’ she said on impulse, ‘do you have plans for the rest of the evening?’
‘A whole ton of nothing. Why?’
‘I’d like to experience the desert at night while I’m here.’
‘With me?’
‘Yes. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all. I can’t think of anything I’d like better: you, me and the desert stars.’