Page 24 of The Christmas Retreat
Just then, I felt the other end of the long sofa I was sitting on sink and I looked sideways.
Rhys Tarn must have slipped silently into the room and was now sitting right next to me with only the width of one cushion dividing us. He was no longer blue-chinned and had the slightly startled air of someone who had just dipped his face in icy water to wake himself up. His black hair was damp around the front and trying to curl.
He stared at me with a strangely arrested look and said, in an undertone: ‘Why, you’re Ginny Spain!’
‘I know I am,’ I said coldly.
I made to turn away and he said quickly, in the same undertone, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at once, but the bottom of those stairs is so badly lit.’
‘Why should you remember me? As I told you, we only met once, very briefly, years ago.’
I literally gave him the cold shoulder then, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him reach out a long arm and firmly remove the depleted bowl of cheese straws from Cariad’s reach.
‘That’s enough guzzling,’ he told her, and at the sound of that deep, mellow and entirely distinctive voice, all heads swivelled in his direction.
‘Ah, Rhys,’ said Timon. ‘This is my nephew, Rhys Tarn, everyone, the poet and novelist. He and his daughter, Cariad, live at Triskelion, but he’s just got back from a lecture tour of the US.’
‘Lucrative but shattering,’ Evie commented sympathetically, from a wealth of experience.
‘True,’ Rhys said, sounding amused. ‘Lecture tours, both at home and abroad, form a large part of my income.’
‘And mine,’ agreed Evie. ‘Just as well I enjoy them.’
The large, lumpy and formidable woman with the wire-wool hair, ignoring this interchange, had been frowning heavily.
‘I’mKate Komodo and I hadn’t realized there would bechildrenhere!’ she stated, as if they were an alien subspecies. ‘I thought this was aseriousretreat.’
‘Oh, sweet Kate, kind Kate – not,’ muttered Rhys under his breath, and then, as I turned startled eyes on him, quirked up one black eyebrow and the corner of his mouth, so that, despite my intention to keep him at a distance to try and prevent a barrage of traumatic memories from overtaking me, I had to stifle a giggle.
I thought it would take a brave Petruchio to tame this shrew!
‘I’m notchildren, there’s only one of me,’ said Cariad, unimpressed and looking at Kate Komodo with acute disfavour.
‘It’s clearly stated on the website,andin the literature I sent you when you booked, that this retreat, with a limited number of guests livingen famille, is an opportunity to recharge your creative batteries and, if you want to, join in with all the seasonal celebrations and enjoy a family Christmas. But of course,’ Nerys added, ‘other than mealtimes guests can occupy themselves however they wish. You can work in your rooms, or in the library next door, and artists are also welcome to use my studio.’
‘This is Cariad’s home and of course, at Christmas, she will be at the heart of the family celebrations,’ Timon said with finality.
‘AndI’m allowed to stay up late for dinner in the school holidays,’ Cariad said, as if this was the clincher.
‘I have no objection. I’ve never found the presence of children in any way detrimental to my ability to work,’ announced Evie, which was quite true because she’d packed me off with Liv, or to boarding schools.
‘AndI’mmore than happy …’ stammered a young man who I hadn’t really noticed until then, since he seemed to be trying to hide in a dark corner.
‘It won’t matter to us, either,’ chorused two wispy, pale young women, leaning forward out of the shadows like twin wraiths.
They were small and very thin, with feathery, pixie-cut pale green hair that revealed the tips of their pointed ears. In fact, I suspected they were going for the whole elfin vibe, because they were wearing floaty, tunic-short green dresses and had painted their finger- and toenails, revealed by unseasonable silver sandals, a greenish shade, too.
In my opinion, the nail varnish was a step too far, becausecombined with their pallor and almost transparent thinness, it made them look as if they’d been dead for a week. They did, however, look vaguely familiar.
‘Well, let’s move on from the family to the guests,’ said Nerys more briskly. ‘Perhaps we can start with you, Verity?’
‘Really, after all these years, I feel more part of the family,’ said the sweet, plaintive voice of an angelically fair woman, seated on the sofa opposite. ‘I’m Verity Poole, an artist, working in watercolour and gouache. I’m looking forward to all the Christmas festivities, of course, but I’m also hoping to complete a lot of work while I’m here, because all the paintings on my website gallery have sold out! My work just seems to strike a chord with so many people.’
‘Yes, you see it in the garden centres, printed on everything from greetings cards to tea towels,’ Nerys agreed gravely.
‘One must make a living,’ Verity said, with that sweet, misty smile.
She looked a few years older than me, her wavy hair drawn back in two pale wings and her eyes a misty blue. With her thin hands clasped in front of her, she looked as if she might be posing for a depiction of the Madonna.
