‘Adore one.’

  ‘Me too. Let’s take it down to the pool.’

  Breakfast was a juicy orange and a cup of black coffee consumed in a shaded pavilion that served as a changing room for the pool. There were a number of brightly coloured chairs set around, and pots of scarlet geraniums, and at one end of the pool stood a charming stone statue of a boy, his head turned, playing a pipe.

  ‘Where did you get that statue?’ Liz asked, resettling into a chaise in the sun.

  ‘I found it in an antique shop in the village. I think he’s meant to be a sort of Cupid. When I saw him, I knew he was exactly what I needed out here.’

  ‘It’s a heavenly house. Do you own the orchard too?’

  ‘Yes, and the other house across the road. We rent it out.’

  ‘Is anyone there now?’

  ‘Yes. A rather nice young man. He arrived a couple of days ago. All on his own. I went down to introduce myself and made sure he had everything he wanted, and he seemed very content. In fact …’ Julie’s voice became deliberately casual. ‘We’ve asked our friends, the Hathaways, to dinner tonight. I want you to meet them. And I asked our lodger as well. I thought it might be more amusing for you.’

  Liz raised her eyebrows. ‘You aren’t matchmaking again?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Julie said, but her cheeks were rosy, and Liz knew that her cousin had already started to scheme.

  Julie was fifteen years older than Liz, in some ways more like an aunt than a cousin, and she took a proprietary interest in Liz’s love life. She was constantly producing suitable men, and constantly disappointed by Liz’s lack of interest in them. She seemed even more disappointed by Liz’s determined focus on her work. Julie herself was maternal and domestic, and so happy in her marriage that she found it hard to understand how Liz’s career could mean so much, despite the fact that she’d made such a success of it.

  Starting as a typist, Liz had slowly climbed the ladder at a glossy fashion magazine until she was now, at twenty-nine, the editor of the beauty section. As her responsibilities had grown, so had her salary, and she’d made her way from a rented room to a basement flat, and finally to her own small house. She had a car. She had her independence. She needed nothing more.

  Nothing more. Sometimes, when she was tired or depressed or another birthday loomed, she’d tell herself this, firmly, aloud: ‘I have it all. I need nothing more.’

  ‘It’s just …’ Julie persisted, ‘That I don’t like to think of you never marrying. It would be so lonely.’

  ‘I like being alone. I’m with people all day.’

  ‘But being with someone you love isn’t being with people. It’s like being with the other half of yourself.’

  ‘Not everyone’s as lucky as you.’ Liz tried diverting the conversation. ‘Where is Harry, by the way?’

  ‘He’s gone to the village on an errand. He’ll be back for lunch. And anyway …’ – Julie was not to be diverted – ‘you have to think about your old age.’

  ‘I’m not thirty yet. I don’t want to think about my old age.’

  ‘But you’re gorgeous … yes, you are. You always have been. I can’t believe that you’ve never been in love.’

  ‘What a romantic you are.’

  ‘Not even once?’

  Liz lay back in her chair; she observed through her dark glasses, the length of the rippling pool. The stone boy stood at its end, silhouetted against the sky. She said at last, ‘Yes. Once. But it’s over.’

  ‘Oh, Liz. Why?’

  ‘I suppose because I wasn’t prepared for the commitment … and if you give your heart to a man, you have to trust him not to break it.’

  ‘Didn’t you trust him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t trust myself. I couldn’t bear to be so jealous and suspicious.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘Because of his job. He was a photographer – always off on glamorous locations with a harem of gorgeous models. I know how that goes, Julie. I’ve been in the business for years. Far from home, off on shoots, people live by their own rules.’

  ‘Were you going to get married?’

  ‘We talked about it, but we never became officially engaged.’

  ‘Was he in love with you?’

  ‘Oh, Julie, I don’t know. I suppose so.’

  ‘And you?’

  In love. She remembered the excitement of those days – the sudden ecstasy of a phone call, the feeling that she wanted to run everywhere, laughing over nothing across candlelit tables, walking together on sunlit pavements, smelling lilac on a city street, driving in his car with the sunroof open to the sky and the sensation that there was nobody in the world but the two of them.

  Julie was waiting for an answer.

  Liz smiled, ruefully. ‘Again … I suppose so.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I can’t bear it. Did you finish it, or did he?’

  ‘I did. He went away on location for three weeks, and I was torn to pieces, not just missing him, but imagining every sort of intrigue. I knew one of the models who’d gone with him, and by the time they came back, I could have strangled her long, slender neck with my bare hands. And they probably hadn’t even looked at each other. I hated myself for feeling that way, and I knew I couldn’t live with that sort of distrust.’

  ‘Would it have been worse than losing him?’

  ‘It would have been worse for him.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A couple of years ago.’

  ‘Do you still see him?’

  ‘No. When it ended, he went off to work in America. He wrote to me, but I didn’t reply.’

  ‘Oh, Liz.’

  ‘Don’t sound so tragic. It’s just one of those things that didn’t work. He’s probably happily married by now. Don’t let’s talk about him any more.’ She pulled off her dark glasses and sat up. ‘I’m too hot to lie here another moment. Let’s swim.’

  * * *

  That evening, Liz was at her mirror, coiling her hair into a chignon, when she heard the Hathaways arrive. From the terrace below, voices floated up; then came the sound of chairs being drawn forward, the clink of glasses. She fastened the tiny button at the neck of her caftan, sprayed some scent, fixed her earrings, then turned from the mirror and went, sandal-footed, down the stairs.

  Outside, the terrace was an island of bright light surrounded by fragrant darkness. When Liz appeared in the doorway, the men got to their feet and Julie introduced her.

  ‘This is my cousin, Liz. Meet Ken Hathaway – he’s a sculptor – and his wife, Helen. Come sit down, darling.’

  ‘You’re looking marvellous,’ said Helen Hathaway. ‘Not burned at all. Just tanned. Usually visitors take too much sun the first day.’

  ‘I’m careful.’ Liz smiled and turned to take a tall iced drink from Harry.

  ‘Now we’re waiting for our final guest,’ Julie said. ‘He’s our lodger, Helen.’

  ‘Really?’ Helen said, arching her brows.

  ‘Don’t say really like that. He’s quite personable.’

  ‘All on his own?’

  ‘Yes, a very self-contained sort of person. Interesting, I thought. I hope he doesn’t forget to come.’

  ‘He hasn’t forgotten,’ Liz said, glimpsing the pale blur of a man’s white shirt approaching by way of the orchard and the pool. As he passed the stone boy and moved into the light from the terrace, his figure – slight, fair-haired – took shape. He climbed the steps to the terrace and, now stood in full light.

  Julie sprang to her feet. ‘Oh, how nice to have you with us. You know my husband, Harry … and this is Ken and Helen Hathaway. Meet John Lippiatt. And my cousin Liz Searley, who’s staying with us.’

  He shook hands all around, coming at last to Liz.

  ‘How do you do,’ she said quietly, and his hand closed around hers. This surprised her, because she had no recollection of putting it out to greet him.

  He said, ‘Liz Searley. How nice to meet you.’

  ‘And now, John,’ said Harry, ‘what would you like to drink?’

  * * *

  They ate indoors, sitting around the long, candlelit table. For the occasion, Julie had cooked her famous paella, and there was homemade bread and huge wooden bowls of salad.

  All through dinner, conversation bubbled, oiled perhaps by the copious amounts of local wine they were drinking, but Liz said little, content to listen.

  Afterward, drinking coffee on the terrace, she found herself sitting next to the fair-haired young man. At dinner he’d told them little beyond his immediate circumstances … he’d needed a holiday, liked being alone. Ken had accused him of having a wife and brood of children whom he’d abandoned, but John had assured them that this wasn’t the case.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Liz asked him now, stirring her coffee, not looking into his face.

  ‘Only a week. I can’t take more time.’

  ‘You must be a busy man. Where are you working?’

  ‘In Paris just now.’

  ‘Paris? That sounds exciting.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And what do you do all day?’

  ‘Swim. Sit around. Paint.’

  ‘Paint?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I started about a year ago. It’s wonderful therapy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What do you do with yourself in this marvellous place?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve only been here a day.’

  ‘The sun suits you. You should live in the sun.’

  For some reason, Liz could think of nothing to say to this.

  * * *

  At the end of the evening, the Hathaways said lengthy good-byes, then made their way home, escorted by Harry. Then John Lippiatt set down his empty coffee cup and said that he, too, must take himself off. He kissed Julie, formally, on the cheek, then turned to Liz. ‘Good night,’ he said. He did not kiss her. Smiling, he left the way he’d come, disappearing into the darkness beyond the stone boy.

  Julie turned and began to stack the coffee cups. ‘A nice man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Liz answered neutrally. ‘And a heavenly evening. Thank you so much.’

  Julie straightened, and her eyes met Liz’s. ‘I said, a nice man.’

  ‘Of course. Delightful. Now, if you don’t want me to do anything, I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Good night, darling.’

  ‘Good night. And thank you again.’

  * * *

  Cocks crowing and the clamour of goat bells awakened her early. Liz reached for her watch and saw that it was only a quarter past seven. I should go back to sleep, she told herself, but was instantly wide awake, knowing that she must be up and about, out of doors in the pearly cool of the new day.

  Five minutes later, she was standing beside the pool, undoing the sash of her robe. She poised and dived, shattering the surface of the water like broken glass. She swam a length and then another, back to the shallow end. She was standing, smoothing back her wet hair with her hands, when a voice said, ‘Good morning.’

  He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, to stand by the stone boy and observe her. He wore a pair of swimming trunks, and his feet were thrust into shabby leather sandals.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she told him.

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘The cocks crowing woke me.’

  ‘They make a din, don’t they?’ He kicked off his sandals, and dove in, swimming toward her. When he stood beside her, she saw the strength of his body, the hard muscles beneath his tan, the blueness of his eyes spiked with wet, black lashes.

  ‘Are the others up yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Come with me, and I’ll give you breakfast. Fresh melon and boiled eggs. The sun’s on my terrace, and everything’s smothered in bougainvillea.’ When she hesitated, he went on, coaxing.

  ‘Coffee, as much as you can drink. Fresh bread and orange-blossom honey. You can swim in the sea – that’ll make a nice change. Sunbathe on a bed of bougainvillea. No woman could want more.’

  ‘You don’t need to get carried away. You’re only asking me to breakfast.’

  ‘Then you’ll come?’

  She swam away from him. ‘Yes, I’ll come,’ she told him over her shoulder.

  * * *

  She followed him down the narrow path that wound beneath the almond trees, then across the road and through a gate into the tiny garden of the little house. The bougainvillea was indeed a sight, covering the terrace and clambering up on to the red tile roof.

  ‘Come inside.’

  The door was open, but hung with a brightly coloured curtain of beads that he held aside for her. Sunlight filled the place, and she saw that the house was, in fact, only a single room, with kitchen equipment at one end, and a bed, a table and two chairs.

  He said, ‘I’ll make coffee,’ and went to fill the kettle. He took down cups and saucers, and a jar of coffee, all his movements neat and economical. The simple room was starkly shipshape, and she saw that he had already made his bed. Next to it was a small table with a lamp and a pile of paperbacks, and a photograph in a leather frame. A photograph of a young woman with long dark hair, laughing, her eyes full of amusement and affection. A photograph of herself.

  * * *

  She felt, quite suddenly, shaken and shocked. She knew that he wasn’t married because he’d told them so last night, but she’d never expected that he would still keep her picture by his bed. Trembling, she went across the room, meaning perhaps to take the photograph from the table, to use it in some way as a weapon against him, but her legs suddenly felt wobbly and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Surely there was something to say, some crisp and amusing observation that would snap the tension of the moment and put everything into perspective. Perhaps there was, but she couldn’t think of it, and it was he who finally broke the silence.

  He said, ‘It goes everywhere with me. It has ever since you refused to see me again. I wanted you to know.’

  ‘I thought it was my charming company you were after.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘I thought you’d be married by now.’

  ‘I thought the same about you. Did you never find what you were after?’

  ‘I think I stopped looking.’ She looked up at him. ‘How long did you stay in America?’

  ‘About eighteen months. Then I got a contract with a French magazine.’

  ‘You’re happy?’ she asked. ‘I wanted you to be happy.’

  ‘Pity you weren’t prepared to take the responsibility yourself.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer my letter?’

  ‘I nearly did. I started to write, but I couldn’t think of the right words, so I tore it up and threw it away. It wasn’t any good, John. I wanted all of you for myself, and hated myself for feeling that way. Possessiveness smothers. I didn’t want to smother you.’

  ‘The truth is, you didn’t trust me.’

  ‘No.’ She looked down, ashamed. It was a horrible thing to have to say.

  He abandoned the kettle and crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed. ‘What didn’t you trust? Did you think every time I left you I’d start a new relationship? Or did you think I might not come back?’

  ‘I suppose I …’ She felt as though she were digging for the truth. ‘I couldn’t imagine any woman not wanting you the way I did.’

  He took this calmly. ‘Luckily we don’t inspire the same reactions in every new person we meet. Otherwise the world would be in a sorry mess.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, Liz,’ he told her, ‘we’d have made a great team.’

  ‘I would have made you miserable.’

  ‘I’d rather be miserable with you than without you.’

  Ridiculously, her eyes filled with tears. She half expected him to touch her, embrace her, even if only for comfort. And she realised then that this was what she wanted, more than anything in the world. Two years ago, she had turned her back on him, but he was still the most attractive, most compelling man she’d ever known. Nothing had changed, except, somehow, she was no longer so afraid.

  He said, ‘Did you tell your cousin about us?’

  Liz shook her head.

  He went on. ‘When I saw you last night, sitting there on the terrace with the light on your hair, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming. Coincidence is an extraordinary thing. Why do you think we met again? Was it just by chance or was it planned by some higher authority? Did the gods decide they’d had enough, and it was high time we had our thick heads knocked together?’

  ‘You never had a thick head. Mine was the thick one. I was quite stupid.’

  ‘But so beautiful.’ He shook his head. ‘I never stopped loving you.’

  A whistling sound came from the direction of the stove. They both ignored it. She said, ‘I know. I see that clearly now, I think I’d rather be miserable with you than without you too.’

  ‘We won’t be miserable. We’ll be blissful. It would be foolish to pass up this second chance. What do you say, Liz? Shall we grab it with both hands?’

  She considered this a moment, then faced him. ‘No commitments, no promises?’

  He nodded. ‘An open-ended agreement.’

  Solemnly, they shook hands. She said, ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘Yes.’ He put a hand on either side of her head, drew her face toward his, and began to kiss her. ‘The kettle’s boiling.’

  * * *

  The sun was high in the sky by the time they made their way back through the orchard to the big house. Here, it was shady, light filtering through the trees, but the pool basked in full sunlight. By the statue of the stone boy, they paused.

  ‘Julie said she thought he was a sort of Cupid. A little god of love,’ Liz said.

  John gave the little figure a pat on its stone bottom. ‘Whoever he is, he’s brought us luck.’

  Julie appeared on the terrace above them, wearing a huge straw hat and wielding a large red watering can. When she saw them, she paused in her labours. ‘There you are!’ she called down to them. ‘What have you been up to?’