the cliff.’
‘Right.’ She drew the syllable out, as she examined his face, looking for hints of his artistic temperament perhaps. ‘And the beachcombing, where does that fit into this?’
He breathed a sigh of relief that they were back on safer conversational ground. That she’d listened to his painful story, offered support, but moved on when he needed to. And his work he could talk about for hours. ‘It’s one of my favourite ways to find inspiration for my work and materials for the house. I’ve incorporated a lot of driftwood in the build. It’s an ecologically sound way of working.’
‘But doesn’t it leave you at the mercy of the tides, or the water gods, or whatever force it is that throws up driftwood onto beaches? Wouldn’t it just be easy to order the whole lot at once? I’m sure that there are suppliers with good green credentials.’
‘I could do, I suppose, but I’m happy just taking opportunities as they arise. You never know what you’re going to find. Like the floorboards for the living room. They just turned up in a reclamation yard. I could have bought brand-new timber last week and would have missed out on all that gorgeous character.’
‘Yes, but you would have had a floor for a week by now.’
He threw her a grin and nudged her with his shoulder. ‘What is it, princess? Upset that the place wasn’t perfect for you?’
‘Oh, don’t give me “princess”. I just think that while your way of doing things sounds lovely, in theory, when you have no real responsibilities, sometimes practical matters have to take a higher priority. Like a roof that doesn’t leak. And a floor beyond the front door.’ Not in the mood to joke about the house, then, he surmised.
‘Well, then, I count myself lucky that you don’t get a say in how I renovate my house.’
He stared her down, daring her to argue with him, so that he could remind her again that he would not be tied down by her. She might be carrying his baby, but that didn’t mean that she could come down here and start telling him how to live his life, any more than he would dream of going up to London and telling her how to live hers.
She didn’t take the bait. Instead she stood and started brushing sand from her jeans, and then walked back to the cliff path. He watched her for a few moments; then jogged to catch her up.
‘Wait, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. If you still want to, I’d like to show you the studio.’
She paused and glanced up at the house. Then looked back at him and softened. ‘I’d like to see it. I can’t believe I didn’t know you’re an artist. You didn’t finish telling me how that happened.’
He started down the twisting path that led along the bottom of the cliff to his studio and workshop, wondering whether he could talk about his introduction to the world of art without reliving more of the pain he’d suffered at that time. He’d try, for her, for them.
‘I told you I used to hide out in the art studio... None of the other boys seemed too keen to follow me there. Perhaps something to do with the belligerent old teacher who rarely left the room, Mr Henderson. I found it peaceful—it had these huge windows that let in the light, and you could see the sea in the distance. I’d spend lunchtimes hiding out in there and playing around with whatever materials the professor had in that week. One week, when I arrived, this huge hunk of driftwood was sitting on one of the tables. When I walked in the room, Mr Henderson looked at me, then at the wood, and then walked into the store room and left me there with it. Does that sound weird?’
She raised her eyebrow slightly. He’d take that as a yes.
‘Okay, so it sounds kind of weird. I’ll warn you, it might get weirder. I just wanted to touch the wood. It was as if I could see, no, feel, something beneath the surface. So I got some tools and started carving. It was as if the wood came to life under my fingers, and I found something beneath the surface that no one else could see until I revealed it.’
‘You’re right. Weird.’
He laughed.
‘In a good way,’ Rachel clarified, bumping Leo with her hip as they walked along. ‘Weird, but cool. And there’s a market for this? Secrets lurking in driftwood.’
‘I know, it surprised me, too.’ Leo smiled, thrilling at the energy Rachel’s smile and teasing could create in him. ‘But there is. A bigger one than I’d imagined, actually. Enough for me to put down a deposit on a shell of a house and to keep me in tarpaulin until I stumble upon some roof tiles. Anyway, we’re here,’ he declared as they rounded a corner and the studio came into view.
* * *
She ran a hand along the workbench, and enjoyed the sensation of the wood—warm, dry and gritty on the soft pads of her fingers. It was like meeting Leo afresh, seeing this room, and for the first time she was aware of how much she’d underestimated him. One glance at his beach-ready hair and surfers’ tan and she’d written him off as a beach-bum trust-fund kid.
But this room showed her how wrong she’d been. It wasn’t just the evidence of how much work had gone into the place—hours to fit out the studio: floor-to-ceiling window panels, cupboards and work surfaces. It was the art itself, each piece like a little peephole into Leo’s character. Almost every surface carried pieces in various states of completion. The centre of the room was dominated by an enormous piece of wood. It must have been three feet across, and was nearly as tall as she was. And it seemed to be moving. It wasn’t, she saw as she moved closer. It was just light playing over the wave-like carvings that made it seem that way. Constantly changing; constantly keeping her guessing. As she took another step closer she realised that it wasn’t just one piece of wood, it was many, woven and flowing together. She wanted to glance across at Leo, to tell him she thought it was beautiful—more than that, it was astonishing—but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. At last she reached out, wanting to feel the waves and light beneath her fingers, but Leo gently grabbed her wrist and stopped her.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just—’
‘Normally I’d say touch away. But I treated the wood this morning. So, what do you think?’
She finally managed to pull her eyes away from the piece and flicked her gaze up to his face. He looked a little anxious, she realised, as he waited for her verdict on his work.
‘Leo, it’s beautiful. I had no idea.’
‘Ah, well, you know, I only come down here when the waves are rubbish.’
He was still standing close, his fingers still wrapped around her palm, and she pushed him lightly with her other hand. ‘If I remember rightly, you told me you “sort of” had a job. I’m sorry, but this isn’t sort of anything. You are an artist.’
He nodded. ‘Like I said back on the beach. This is worth the scavenging, then?’
She nodded, her gaze fixed back on the waves, trying to see what it was that made the solid wood seem to shift before her eyes. Leo finally nudged her with his hip—‘Earth to Rachel. I’m glad you like it. Really, I am.’
Suddenly she was aware how close he’d stepped to stop her touching the sculpture. How his hand still gripped hers, although it must be minutes—longer—since she’d dropped it away from the driftwood.
Though she’d felt hypnotised by the piece, it slowly filtered through to her that it and Leo couldn’t be separated. The beauty of his work was part of who he was. And something about that made her feel as if she didn’t know him at all. Didn’t understand him. As if she no longer understood the situation they found themselves in.
She turned her face up to his, and tried to see the Leo she thought she knew in the features of this talented, passionate artist. She thought back to how quickly she’d written him off as spoiled and undisciplined when he’d told her he “sort of” had a job, and could have kicked herself for that lazy assumption. If she’d taken the time and care to actually ask him more about himself, she wouldn’t