Images Of Love. Anne Mather
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not to us, and it was he who offered the invitation.’
It was a body blow, but whether Mrs Newman was aware of its significance, Tobie could not be sure. After all, if Robert had not told her about their relationship, how could she know? And yet there was something here, some undercurrent that Tobie sensed but could not make contact with.
‘Well, we’re here, anyway,’ Mark observed tautly, his expression mirroring his impatience with his mother. ‘So let’s go, shall we? It’s hot, and I for one could do with a dip in the pool.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
Tobie guessed Mrs Newman really meant it as she gestured towards the car. She was obviously very fond of Mark, but in spite of her comments about Robert, Tobie wasn’t altogether sure how she felt towards him. Yet they must be friends. They lived here together. They shared the same house. There had to be some feeling between them.
The drive from the airstrip to the villa gave her a little time to assimilate her own position. The news that Robert had offered the invitation required some adjustment in her thinking, and she couldn’t help wondering how he proposed to behave towards her. She had thought if he hadn’t admitted to Mark that he knew her before, he could be relied upon not to do so now, but that was not taking into account his condition, and who knew what quirks in his personality that might have created? She was both apprehensive and uneasy, and her feelings made a mockery of her boast to Laura that she loved Mark, and nothing Robert did could change that.
The road curved up from the flat stretch of earth that provided a landing strip, climbing towards the hills that formed the backbone of the island. It was a dusty track, rutted in places, where the rains had dislodged the stones that held the track together, but the scenery was so magnificent one could ignore the discomfort.
As they climbed, beyond the airstrip they could see miles and miles of unbroken sand, stretching to infinity. This side of the island must be uninhabited, Tobie thought, and the lace-edged waters of the ocean were the only intruders on these shores. It was a disturbing concept, and she experienced a moment’s awareness of how ship-wrecked mariners must have felt when faced with their own insignificance.
The hillside was thickly covered with stunted trees and flowering shrubs, their roots even encroaching on to the road at times. One could stretch out one’s hand and touch them as one passed, and Mark snatched a magnolia blossom to tuck behind Tobie’s ear. She shared his laughter for a moment, and then encountering his mother’s speculative gaze was silenced.
As if sensing the sudden tension, Mark broke into conversation, asking how Robert was, questioning his mother about his brother’s paralysis.
Mrs Newman seemed unnecessarily pessimistic about her son’s condition. ‘He says he’s quite well,’ she replied, plucking at the leather on the back of the seat in front. ‘But you know how independent he is. I keep my own counsel. I have my own opinion. I know what his doctors say. But it’s not a subject I’d advise you to discuss with him. At least—’ she paused, allowing her eyes to move to Tobie once more, ‘not in front of—strangers.’
‘But he’s—no worse?’ Mark insisted, his hand finding Tobie’s in gentle reassurance, and his mother shrugged.
‘Were it not for the lingering amnesia, I’d say he is as recovered as he’ll ever be,’ she responded succinctly, and when Tobie’s head jerked towards her, a mocking smile tugged at the comers of her mouth. ‘Didn’t Mark tell you, my dear?’ she enquired, with what Tobie was almost convinced was malicious amusement. ‘Robert still suffers a mental blackout of everything that happened immediately before the accident. He’s lost six whole months of his life. Isn’t that a shame?’
ROBERT’S villa lay on the south-west side of the island, above the tiny manmade harbour. As they came down the winding road towards the sea again, Tobie saw its sprawling green-tiled roof, and realised it was much more than the comfortably-sized bungalow she had envisaged. It was much bigger, for one thing, and set on different levels, it looked more like a Spanish hacienda, with the large circular swimming pool providing a focal point. The walls were colour-washed in pastel shades, and overgrown with clinging vines and bougainvillaea, and as they drew nearer she could see the white shutters bolted back against the walls, and the arched courtyard below the patio. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful house she had ever seen, and in other circumstances she would hardly have been able to contain her excitement. As it was, she felt a bewildered sense of confusion, and was troubled by the knowledge that Mark’s mother was not as ingenuous as he imagined her to be.
As the sleek convertible entered the tiled courtyard, Mark pointed down to the harbour below them, where a tall-masted sloop lay at anchor. ‘The Ariadne,’ he told her whimsically. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘Th-that’s Robert’s yacht?’ Tobie ventured.
‘The same,’ agreed Mark lightly. ‘Fancy a sail?’
‘Per-perhaps.’ The car had come to a halt, and Tobie avoided his mother’s eyes as she climbed out. ‘I—it’s not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect, Miss Kennedy?’ enquired a low voice from somewhere behind her, and her whole body froze in an attitude of consternation. ‘Some kind of motor launch, perhaps? Something I can control with my hands? Or am I being unkind, and you didn’t mean to be tactless?’
‘Rob!’
Mark’s ejaculation was both impatient and enthusiastic. Turning quickly to face the man whose wheelchair had rolled so silently up behind them, he shook his hand energetically, unknowingly giving Tobie time to gather her scattered senses. He obviously shared her disconcertion at his brother’s unexpected appearance, but he could have no idea of the traumatic effect Robert’s arrival had had on her. She had expected to be shocked, she had expected some kind of physical reaction; but nothing had prepared her for the emotions that swept so devastatingly through her as she encountered those achingly familiar features.
He hadn’t changed, or at least, not a lot. He was thinner, perhaps, and there were streaks of grey in the night-dark hair that brushed the collar of his open-necked denim shirt, but he still possessed those disturbingly uneven features that combined to make such an attractive whole. He was looking at her now in frank appraisal, but there was no element of recognition in that coolly admiring glance. He was looking at her as a man might look at the girl his brother was expected to marry, and she knew with a wrench that that was the cruellest cut of all.
Her eyes dropped lower, over the long legs, folded on to the chair’s footrest, jean-clad and casual, but without the strength they had had when he first walked into the gallery less than four years ago, and she knew a pain like nothing she had ever known before. Oh, God! she thought in agony, I did this to him! And he doesn’t even know me!
‘Let me introduce you,’ Mark was saying now, shaking his head over Robert’s unconventional method of greeting his guests. ‘This, as you’ve already divined, is Tobie. Tobie, allow me to introduce you to your favourite artist—Robert Lang!’
‘Painter, Mark,’ Robert inserted dryly, holding out his hand towards her in apparent friendliness. ‘How do you do, Miss Kennedy? You’ll have to forgive my not getting up. It’s not so easy as it used to be.’
‘How—how do you do?’
Somehow Tobie articulated the words, withdrawing her hand as swiftly as possible from the firm coolness of his. Hers felt hot and sticky, and even that slight contact had left her feeling weak and shaken.
‘Call her Tobie,’ Mark intervened, putting a possessive hand on her shoulder. ‘She’s going to be your sister-in-law, Rob. Don’t you approve?’
‘Very much.’ Robert was polite. ‘And a fan, no less. Tell me, Miss—I mean, Tobie—are you an expert?’
Tobie swallowed with difficulty before replying.