Page 58 of The Christmas Retreat
‘I just thought …’ She hesitated and then laid a hand over mine on the table. ‘I hope you won’t mind my dropping a word of warning into your ear, Ginny, but Rhys, I’m afraid, is a bit of a womanizer. And he’s so very attractive, there are always one or two women in every house party who fall for him!’
I stared at her. ‘Really? Well, it’s kind of you to warn me,but there’s absolutely no need. I’ve just come out of one relationship and I’m not looking for another – brief or otherwise!’
‘Oh, I hope I haven’t offended you!’ she said anxiously. ‘I mean, he even made a pass at me once, his wife’s best friend. He can’t help himself. But when someone is so devastatingly attractive, combined with poetic brilliance, like Ted Hughes, we just have to forgive them, don’t we?’
‘No,’ I said tersely. ‘I don’t.’
‘Annie certainly did have a lot to put up with,’ she conceded. ‘And I’m afraid she found out about his making a pass at me, although, of course, I didn’t encourage him in any way.’
I wondered if Rhys really was that kind of man. It was what I’d assumed after that meeting at the publisher’s party, when he’d failed to tell me he was married, or ring me afterwards … but he’d explained the reasons for that well enough yesterday.
‘I can see you won’t lose your heart,’ Verity said.
‘Definitely not! I’m only here to fill up my creative well, do some work, and also enjoy the sort of big family Christmas I’ve never experienced before.’
‘Me too, as well as catching up with Cariad. I’m so fond of her,’ she said, then asked me about myself … and it was only when I got up to get ready to go out that I realized I’d somehow told her a lot more about my relationship with Will than I’d ever intended.
18
A Bit Fishy
I was glad I’d wrapped up warmly for the walk into St Melangell by the cliff path, because it was very exposed to the cold breeze in parts, between the clumps of gorse, hawthorn spinneys and tussocky hillocks.
I’d gone down through the garden to the cliff path and turned left along it, away from the hill and Mab’s Grave. I’d noticed as I passed a small car park at the bottom of the village, where the road ended, that it was quite full, with people making their way up the steep street, presumably to visit the pottery. But once I was beyond that, I met no one at all.
As I walked, I turned over what Verity had said to me about Rhys being a womanizer, but I was not, since meeting him again, completely convinced of this, even if I did still find him just as easy to talk to as I had all those years ago. Still, whether he was or not, I was determined to be on my guard and keep our relationship, if such it could be called, within the bounds of casual friendship.
That decided, my mind turned to Arwen, who had been almost half my age when she spent that summer here, a Londongirl unused to the country. As Rhys had pointed out, this must have been quite a remote spot then. Did she, too, fall straight away for its magic? Did she paint here during her stay, and if so, were there more paintings out there to find? I knew Evie had been scouring the internet in the hope of finding more of her paintings for sale, but she hadn’t mentioned having any success. However, we hadn’t had time for a good catch-up, other than our short conversation the night I’d arrived, when I had really been too tired to focus.
Once I turned away from the sea to where a road began by a little lodge at the rear entrance to Castle Newydd, the climate seemed to change. This was a more sheltered, larger valley and the village – more like a small town – filled it, other than the grounds of the big house on my left, which was only visible as a few chimney pots over the tops of tall trees. I’d driven past the main entrance on my way to Seren Bach on Tuesday, without taking much notice, because the light had been fading and I’d been tired, but I knew now that it led to the enterprising Prynne family’s many businesses: a garden centre, rare shrub nursery and the riding school.
And there was their famous quarry garden somewhere nearby too, which I’d love to see.
I followed the first small road leading downwards, past terraces of neat stone cottages, and found myself on what was clearly the main street.
At the bottom, there was a quay with boats tied up to it, and a curve of beach beyond, but I turned left up the gradual hill, finding an impressive array of individual shops of an almost Miss Marple-era diversity, with more of a nod to the tourist trade, as well as several cafes and tearooms.
Right at the top of the road I could see the imposing whitepainted inn, the Star and Stone, and wondered if Evie was still in there with Noel and the local historian, or whether she had already milked him dry.
I wandered contentedly in and out of the shops, not something I’d done for a very long time, so it had all the charm of novelty.
I had a brainwave for Cariad’s present in the ironmongery section of a small cookware shop: I would make her an archaeologist’s excavating kit! So I bought a small plastic toolbox of the kind with sections that opened out like wings and two trowels, a tiny one and a medium-size one. Then, in an art and craft shop a little further along, I added a couple of stiff hogs-hair brushes and some softer large ones, plus two shallow plastic photographic trays. I wouldn’t have thought there would be much demand for that sort of thing these days, but no, the proprietor said there was a thriving camera club in St Melangell with several members, devoted to their traditional cameras, who developed their own photographs.
In fact, there were some very striking framed black-and-white photographs for sale in the shop: rock formations and bleak mountain landscapes, like the one I had driven through on the way here.
One of the gift shops also had toys and books, and there I spotted a notebook and pen with a Gothic dragon design on them to add the final touch to the archaeologist’s kit, so Cariad could make her careful records of her finds at the rubbish pit.
I bought myself the latest cosy crime novel by a favourite author before I left. I hovered over the notebooks and pens myself – which author isn’t attracted to those? – and then, even though I’d known the other visitors and residents of Triskelionsuch a short time, the present-buying urge was upon me and it seemed mean not to givethemall something too.
The next shop along had tiny stained-glass hangings, rectangular and square, with loops to hang them by, enamelled with Christmas designs: Christmas puddings, holly, a cat wearing a Santa hat … all kinds of things. I bought two of the mistletoe one, I liked it so much, so I could keep one and give the other to … well, possiblynotRhys, because after the sprig he’d left on my worktable, he might read more into it than I meant to say!
Gift-buying frenzy over, I finally emerged on to the street heavily laden, only to add to my burdens by buying a little make-up in the chemist’s and then falling prey to the lure of a clothes shop.
I think I must have gone slightly mad that day. Maybe it was delirium at actually being out shopping, plus having all that money from the sale of the cottage, or that the shop just had the kind of quirky unusual clothes that suited me. I don’t know, but I had a major splurge on new black jeans, cleverly cut and ruched long jersey tunics, velvet leggings, a rainbow-striped cotton jumper and a few other delectable things.
I staggered out on to the pavement in the gathering dusk of the late December afternoon laden like a packhorse and suddenly wondering how I was going to get all my purchases home.
Perhaps I could buy an enormous beach bag from one of the more touristy shops and squeeze as much in as possible. But first, I needed a sit-down and a cup of coffee.
