Put like that, he sounded just the lousy bum Romily Devereux-Temple would wholeheartedly despise. Come to think of it, there were definitely times when he despised himself.
He poured the drinks into the cocktail glasses, placed them on a tray along with the plate containing the steaks and went back outside.
She was where he’d left her, sitting in the shade, her sunglasses off, her eyes closed in a tableau of perfect repose. She was so still he wondered if she were asleep. He wondered too what it would feel like to kiss those slightly parted lips of hers. No sooner had he thought this than she opened her eyes and for a guilty moment he could have sworn she’d read his mind and was about to rebuke him.
But she didn’t. Her voice, silky smooth, she said, ‘It’s so peaceful and relaxing here. I was close to nodding off.’
‘I’m glad you feel able to relax,’ he said, lowering the tray onto the roughly hewn table he’d made himself, and which he was rather proud of. He liked nothing better than to take a hunk of discarded timber and turn it into something useful. ‘How do you like your steak, rare or well done?’
‘Nothing in between?’ she asked, getting up to come and stand next to him.
‘Nope, not with me there isn’t,’ he said, ‘it’s all or nothing.’
‘Funnily enough I guessed that might be the case.’
‘Yes ma’am, what you see is what you get.’ He tone was upbeat and jokey.
‘But that’s not true, is it?’ she said, after a meaningful pause.
Her question took him unawares. ‘I assure you it is,’ he replied.
She took a long sip of her drink, her gaze on his. ‘It’s not true of anyone,’ she said at length. ‘We all play a role we wish to convey, or believe others want of us. Seldom do we lower our guard and be our real selves.’
‘Is that true of you also?’
‘What? You think I’m exempt from normal behaviour?’
‘I think most people regard themselves as the exception to the rule.’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘You betcha. I’m so shallow I’ve barely advanced from the amoeba stage.’
‘And that’s precisely the role you like to portray of yourself, isn’t it? Which couldn’t be further from the truth.’
He smiled. ‘If you say so.’
For the next few minutes he busied himself with keeping an eye on the steaks. When he was satisfied they were ready, he arranged everything on their plates and sat down with her. He watched her take her first bite of her steak. ‘Is it okay?’ he asked.
‘It’s more than okay; it’s delicious. You said you were a dab hand and you weren’t exaggerating.’
‘Oh, shucks, now you’re embarrassing me.’
‘As if!’
‘You can never take anything I say at face value, can you?’
‘When you say something I can take at face value, I’ll let you know.’
Like he said, she could see right through him. ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘in return for me cooking lunch, how about you continue with the story of your bell’ Italiano who so touchingly brought you flowers?’
She shook her head. ‘Not before you’ve talked some more about yourself. I want to know more about you.’
He tensed, his mouth suddenly dry. To moisten it, he reached for his glass and drained it in one long swallow. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked as casually as he could.
‘Has there ever been a Mrs St Clair?’
‘Now why would you want to know a thing like that? Are you volunteering for the job?’
‘You view the role of a wife as doing a job, do you?’
‘It would be for any woman stupid enough to apply for the post of wife to me. It would be a pretty tough job at that.’
She tutted and gave him one of her dubious stares. ‘Come on, Red, you can do better than that. What makes you so different from other men that you can’t be husband material, even a poor husband?’
‘Gee, you know how to make me feel special, don’t you?’
‘I suspect far too many women have thought you exceedingly special.’
‘But you don’t?’
She raised her chin and stared directly at him. ‘I might do so if I could get to know the real you. The man behind the smart one-liners and self-effacing humour. Show me the genuine Red St Clair.’ She leaned across the table and tapped his forehead with an elegant finger. ‘Who’s hiding in there.’
‘But kiddo, take it from me,’ he said, forcing himself not to rear back from the table so he was beyond her reach, ‘that fella’s not worth a dime.’
‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’
‘Why not drop the subject?’ he said, slamming the brakes on the conversation. He felt she had a whip in one hand and a chair in the other and was backing him into a corner from which there was no escape.
She must have heard the terse warning in his voice and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Forget it,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I’ve been insulted by better people than you.’
‘I really didn’t mean anything I said as an insult.’
‘Accusing me of not being authentic, sounds pretty much like a put-down from where I’m sitting. You might go in for a lot of hokum self-analysis, but you can count me out. Just accept that I fall well short of your expectations.’
She sat perfectly still just staring at him until, and with great precision, she placed her knife and fork on the plate in front of her. ‘Seeing as I’ve offended you so greatly, perhaps it would be better if I went.’
‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Ralph
On arriving at Meadow Lodge for the party, the last thing Ralph wanted was to get stuck with his father and stepmother for the evening. He’d had enough of their company, in particular his father who had spent most of the day lecturing him about taking responsibility for himself.
‘Good God, Ralph!’ Arthur had spluttered into his kedgeree at breakfast that morning when Ralph had broached the subject of his father increasing his allowance. ‘Can you never come home without asking for money?’
Ralph had done his best to assure the old man that he’d soon be gainfully employed.