Dearest Enemy Page 11

  “This is quite a market,” she observed. She had been in London street markets, but there was something about this one—perhaps the number of people selling their own produce—that made it somehow more real. “Is it always here?”

  “Machynlleth market has been running every Wednesday for eight hundred years,” he said.

  She smiled up at him in astonishment, the sun blinding her. “Are you kidding me?” She put her hand up to shade her eyes, trying to see his face.

  Math shook his head. “I am not. The charter was granted by King Edward in December, 1291. There’s a copy of it just down the road, in Owen Glendower’s parliament.”

  “Every Wednesday? Without fail?”

  “So far as we know. The cattle used to be down there where the clock is.”

  “I’m Canadian,” she said. “I don’t think I’m equipped to cope with the concept of an eight-hundred-year-old tradition.”

  “Ah, but your blood is Welsh,” he reminded her, and then she looked down the street, with its market stalls lining both sides, and wondered if some ancestress had come here to buy food for her family centuries ago....

  She trailed after Math as he shopped, pausing when something caught her eye, and then looking around wildly for him in the crowd. She stopped at a stall selling little framed prints and watercolour originals. Most of them were not very good, overdone portrayals of unnaturally cute animals with big eyes, or precociously saintly children, or poorly executed landscapes, but one water-colourist whose hand Elain recognized in half a dozen of the offerings had a good eye and a delicate way with a brush. And at least as important, a mind not devoted to cuteness. Elain asked the prices and made a face. Awful. Too low for original watercolours. The artist was selling herself short. Offered beside better work, they should command a better price.

  Behind her, Math said, “This is mostly for people to hang in their kitchens. There’s a shop selling the work of local artists to the tourist trade just across the road. Would you like to look? I’ll be through in a minute.”

  So she followed him to the next stall, where he bought a supply of ruled-paper notebooks and a box of typing paper. These weren’t on Myfanwy’s list. “Are you working on something at the moment?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said absently.

  “What’s it about this time? Or wouldn’t I understand?”

  He paused. “I’m writing about the Mabinogion.”

  “The Welsh epic,” she remembered, as he led her across the street.

  “That’s right.”

  “Is it true, Math?”

  “What do you mean by true?”

  “Is it based on real history?”

  He laughed. “That depends on what you call history. Here’s the shop.”

  It was the sort of shop you might see wherever there was a vibrant artistic community. A group of artists and craftspeople whose work did not compete, Math told her, rented the shop and ran it as a joint venture. Two potters of very different styles, a jeweller who worked in silver and polished local stone among others, a water-colourist, a weaver and a wood carver.

  Elain wandered among the displays, wondering why she hadn’t had the courage to try something like this after graduation. Why stay in London, where costs were so high, working for Raymond, when this avenue had always been open to her?

  She had sometimes sold a few things from a friend’s stall by the Embankment, but she had always put that down to simple luck. Perhaps Wales had brought out an individual vision which made her more confident. For the first time, she felt an inner conviction that she might actually make a living through selling her art to people, rather than through commercial commissions.

  “No oils,” she observed, half to herself.

  “That’s right,” Math said, and then, “John, how’s it going?” to the man sitting behind the cash desk.

  “Bore da, Math. Bit slow last week. But pretty good overall.”

  “Elain, this is John Llewellyn. He’s the weaver whose work you see displayed. John, my friend Elain Owen. She paints in oil.”

  “Do you now?” said John, shaking her hand with a very firm grasp. “Are you staying around here?”

  “I’m spending a few weeks at the White Lady.”

  The weaver’s eyebrows went up, and he tilted his head at Math. “How’s that going? Have they paid up yet?”

  Math shook his head. “Still delaying.”

  Elain took one of the shop’s business cards from the counter and slipped it into her shoulder bag, where her Walkman lay on top of her cotton jacket.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “They aren’t saying. Or they’re saying it’s a question of getting the estimate together. But I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

  John raised his bushy brows again. “Hasn’t the fire officer made a decision?”

  “He has. Petrol cans both at least fifty years old. Grime on the cans matches that of the basement. He’s satisfied it was an accident.”

  “But they don’t want to pay.” Math inclined his head. “And until they do...” John clicked his tongue. “They’ll put you out of business at this rate! You could be booking those undamaged rooms if you got the place cleaned up.”

  “I may have to start without them.”

  “Olwen was saying the tapestry went. I didn’t know that. That’s a real tragedy, that is.” Math only nodded, and the weaver suddenly remembered Elain’s existence. “So you’re a painter? Are you Welsh?”

  She grinned. “Welsh extraction.”

  “Painting the local scenery, are you?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, if you’re planning on staying around, bring in something to show us. We might display a few, see how they go.”

  That was a pretty generous offer, considering he knew nothing about her. “Thank you,” she said.

  Then they were back in the heat and noise of the market. “Lunch, I think,” said Math.

  * * *

  They spent the afternoon driving and sightseeing, and then went to the sea. They had no swimsuits with them, but they paddled barefoot along the shore late in the afternoon, getting back to the hotel long after tea had been served.

  “Do you want a shower?” asked Math as they pulled up, and when Elain laughed and nodded, he handed her a ring of keys. “I’ll drop this stuff with Myfanwy. You go on up. Make tea or pour yourself a drink if you like.”

  She stopped at her room for a change of clothes. He hadn’t returned when she had showered, and she poured herself a dry sherry. Reluctant to leave without knowing why, she wandered around the flat, towelling her hair dry.

  One of the rooms was his study. The walls were full of books, there were a couple of maps and prints, a typewriter and desk with a large black chair in front of a narrow, leaded window...and a brown cat lying on the desk among piles of open books and papers, in the last rays of the sun, watching her.

  “Well, hello,” said Elain. “Are you the watchcat?”

  The brown cat yawned, stretched out one hind leg, and carefully licked a tuft of fur into place. Then it settled down to ignore her. Drawn as much by the presence of the cat as by the window, Elain walked over and looked out.

  It was the view up to the fortress, rather restricted because the window was so narrow. She had the curious sensation that she was looking through a magic window to a land of enchantment. It was that sort of window. Elain laughed and decided to ask Math if she could paint the view from here. Who knew what she might see?

  Absently she stroked the cat’s head. He was an odd colour for a cat, his pelt deep brown and thick, like a bear’s. Idly her gaze fell onto the page in the typewriter.

  “Lord,” said Caradoc, “your messengers can do no more. Will you not set out yourself on the path that you saw in your dream? For if you lead us...”

  She broke off guiltily. She was as bad as Rosemary! She turned and left the room, the cat following her. Back in the sitting room, she told herself she should go, b
ut didn’t.

  There were books here, too, on a set of low shelves against one wall. She crouched down, browsing through the titles without any real intention. This was a very mixed collection of old and modern—fiction, poetry, history, myth, religion. She wasn’t a great reader, but she did like some modern fiction.

  Some modern authors were in a cluster: D. M. Thomas, Robertson Davies, Taliesin...were they Math’s favourites? She didn’t read much, but of course everybody knew these names. Elain settled down cross-legged, dropping the towel and setting her sherry on the floor beside her. The White Hotel. She’d read that. She had found it compelling; it had been as powerful for her as a painting. There were few writers who did that for her, but then she wasn’t much of a reader. She ought to read more.

  Bred in the Bone. “Booker Prize Nominee.” She’d always meant to read that, someone had told her it was about artists. Maybe she would ask Math to lend it to her....

  Taliesin she’d never read, she was pretty sure. That curious one-word name. Hadn’t someone been mentioning him the other day? Atmospheric Changes. The Goddess Letters. She’d heard the name recently. Wounds Which Bleed Profusely. Yes, somebody had mentioned that one. She pulled it out. “A powerfully erotic exploration of myth and reality.”

  The cat came over, sniffed her sherry and settled itself in her lap, making it impossible for her to move. So she idly paged through the book where she sat, unable to concentrate, feeling restless. What was she doing here? Why was she waiting for Math anyway?

  A woman was riding a black horse, whispering into its ear, urging it to gallop faster....

  She took a sip of sherry and stroked the cat, frowning at nothing. Why was she waiting for Math? The cat rolled over and presented its tummy with a sensuous chirrup, inviting her touch. Absently she obliged, smiling as she was rewarded with a growl and the offering of another angle of approach.

  Elain bent down and rubbed her face in the cat’s fur. “I understand how you feel,” she told the cat softly. “Just the way I do when—”

  She broke off, for she did not want to know that the end of that sentence was the answer to her question, and returned to the book.

  The horse had no reins, no saddle; he was controlled only by the pressure of the girl’s thighs and hands, and her voice. Elain got the feeling there might come a time when he would not be controlled at all. She read slowly, not noticing the glide into eroticism until it was fiercely evident, until it was clear that between the horse and the girl on his back there was some kind of passionate union of the senses that was no less physical for being unconventional.

  Of course she had read sexy writing before; these days how could anyone fail to? But those clinical descriptions of the sexual act had not moved her the way this tangential, poetic passion did. Elain was unprepared for the shiver of sensuality that coursed through her as the horse took flight into the night sky, the sudden, unbidden thought of Math’s hands stroking her...and the abrupt confrontation with the truth she had looked away from.

  “Just the way I feel when Math touches me,” she had nearly said a minute ago to the cat. And that was what she was waiting for: for Math to come and touch her, stroke her....

  She clapped the book closed with a whack that made the cat leap from her lap, thrust it anyhow onto the shelf, scrambled to her feet and snatched up the sherry glass. She must get out before he came. She had no power to resist any more, only the frailest of surface defences and an inner being already gone over to the enemy. And what had happened to her when Greg turned away in disgust was nothing compared to... That look in Math’s eyes would kill her.

  She whirled and set the glass down on the nearest surface, bent to pick up the towel and started for the door. The cat ran beside and in front of her, slowing her up, but she’d have been too late anyway. Halfway across the room she stopped, immobile as salt. She heard the sound of the door opening with a heart as thunderous as if a tumbrel were waiting to take her to her death.

  Chapter 9

  “Hi,” said Math, with a slow smile that curled her toes. “Nice shower?”

  “Yes,” she said, snatching wildly at the first excuse that presented itself. “I—I didn’t bring my comb.” Her hair was wildly tousled over head and shoulders, and she had the towel in her hand. He had stopped directly in her path to the door. She smiled nervously as she walked towards him.

  He reached out an arm and gently put it around her, turning her back into the room in the process. “That’s all right, I’ve got one. Stay and keep me company for a bit.”

  He took the towel from her helpless fingers and dropped it onto a small wooden stool that sat in the inglenook fireplace. “Are you drinking something?”

  “Sherry,” she said. Her blood was thundering around her system so powerfully that she felt faint, and yet instead of being warmed by it, her skin was a rush of shivers. Nor did the extra oxygen it must be delivering to her brain help the functioning of her mind.

  He was unbuttoning his shirt. “Will you pour me a whisky? I’ll find you a comb.”

  He disappeared into the room she knew was the bedroom. She had glanced in and then quickly closed the door, but she probably could have painted the room exactly: for some reason, that one glance had imprinted it on her mind’s eye. After a minute she stepped to the drinks table. No ice in the ice bucket. She moved to the fridge and took out the ice cubes. Then she paused, her brain clearing a little. She didn’t have to wait just because he’d said so. She could leave right now.

  He came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a worn terry bathrobe, black, full-length, voluminous. The kind of thing a grateful lover might have bought for his birthday. She froze, the ice-cube tray in her hand.

  “Math...” she began hesitantly.

  “Yes.” No question mark, as though he were answering a question, not asking one. And the way he looked, Elain thought crazily, a woman could be seduced into believing he was the answer to any question she might have.

  “Ice? In your whisky?” she asked weakly.

  “Yes, thanks.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and after a minute she heard the motor of the power shower start. Standing there with the bottle in her hand, pouring whisky over the ice cubes in the glass, she was assailed by a vision of Math in the shower, his hair dark, his skin pale against the wet black stone of the walls, the water plastering his hair to his head, his eyes squeezed shut as he held his face to the spray, his neck arched...his body compact, firmly muscled, his hands running over neck, chest, armpits...thighs...the soapy water streaming down his chest, his hips, his abdomen—

  The cat made a mewing noise of satisfaction and pressed between her feet to lick the floor, and Elain came to with a jerk. Bloody hell! She’d just poured out most of a bottle of whisky! The glass was overflowing, the drinks table was awash, and the brown cat had decided to experiment with what was on the floor. Elain set down the nearly empty bottle with a crash and looked around wildly for a cloth.

  There was a small towel on top of the ice bucket, and she began to wipe the table with that, wringing it out into the bucket. Lord, what a mess! She dropped the wet cloth into the ice bucket and carried it to the kitchen, where she set it in the sink, picked up the sponge hanging over the tap and located a small pail under the sink.

  By the time she got back, the cat had disposed of most of what was on the floor and had sat in the remainder to lick its paw. Elain rolled her eyes. How on earth was she going to explain a whisky-sodden cat? “You smell like a brewery,” she accused it. The cat blinked myopically but lovingly at her and flung itself down to offer its tummy again.

  “Meow,” it said encouragingly.

  “Meow yourself.” She carefully scooped the ice cubes out of the glass and, the whisky at a more manageable level, set herself to the task of pouring some of it back into the bottle. Scotch double malted. Aged 15 years, she noted. Oh, great. The cat alone had probably drunk ten pounds’ worth of the stuff. Elain swallowed some of her sherry and felt its warmth comfort
her.

  She had got about half the glass back into the bottle, another half ounce dribbling down over the label and onto the table, when the shower stopped. She started guiltily, set down the glass and began to wipe the new spills. Then she dropped the ice back into the glass.

  When Math came out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in his bathrobe and still rubbing a towel over his head, she was sitting in an armchair by the empty fireplace with her second sherry. His whisky was on a square wooden table between her chair and the arm of the leather sofa.

  He stood by the table, uncomfortably close to where she was sitting, picked up the glass, looked at it and then turned to smile quizzically down at her. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asked, and the laughter that threaded his tone was at least as intoxicating to her senses as the whisky had been to the cat.

  She bit her lip, dropped her eyes and shook her head. “Is it too much?”

  Before he could answer, the cat chased wildly across the room, collided with his ankles, rolled over and began biting and clawing at the hem of his robe like a kitten with a catnip mouse. “Ow,” Math said mildly, as one of the claws found his ankle. He eased his feet away, and the cat lay pressed against the floor, ears back, eyes wild. “What’s the matter with you, Mudpie?” Math asked, bending over and offering to rub the cat’s head. Mudpie took off again in a mad dash for parts unknown, kicking up a small area rug in its passing.

  “What the hell,” observed Math.

  “Mudpie, is that his name?”

  “Mudpie’s a very female cat.”

  “Mudpie is also a rather drunken cat,” Elain informed him.

  She could see his mouth twitch. “I see. You know that, do you?”

  She nodded gravely. “I do.”

  “When did she start hitting the bottle?”

  “About ten minutes ago. While you were in the shower. She had what you might call an uncontrollable urge for some of your best whisky.”