Snapped in Cornwall Read Free Page B

through the fabric of her skirt.
    People shouldn’t die in the summer, she thought, it doesn’t seem right.
    But her thoughts were really more specific. She meant David, David whom she had wanted never to die at all. It was four years now yet the pain was not far from the surface. She missed him more than she imagined possible even though she had had months in which to prepare herself. There were still times when she expected him to walk through the door; when suddenly in the street she thought she heard his voice; when she would say to herself, I must tell David that. Tall, easy-going and loving, he had died in the prime of his life, wiped out as if he was of no consequence. The anniversary of his death was in two weeks’ time.
    Rose pushed her hair behind her ears, dry now after her shower. She felt a tightening around her skull, the beginning of a headache caused possibly by the wine, but hopefully, by the way the clouds were banking up, by an impending storm. There was a sulphurous yellow glow in the distance.
    Recognising her mood and knowing the danger signs, she had two alternatives: work or ringing Laura. She opted for work, but first she must eat.
    The wine was returned to the space for bottles in the fridge; she might finish it later. A brilliant flash of blue-white light illuminated the kitchen, followed by a loud bang. Within seconds the sky darkened further; rain hammered on the windows and bounced off the bonnet of the car. Rose took herself up to the attic which served as a dark-room and developed Mrs Milton’s film.
    Engrossed in what she was doing she took several seconds to realise the telephone was ringing and she had not set the answering machine. With the film drying it was safe to switch on the light. She wiped her hands and went downstairs.
    ‘Mrs Trevelyan? I’m sorry to bother you in the evening, but I was wondering if you’d like to come over a week on Saturday. We’re having a bit of a do. Family and a couple of friends from London, but really it’s for the people I’ve met down here. I know we hardly know one another, but, well …’ Her voice trailed off.
    Rose immediately guessed that the invitation was issued out of loneliness and not because a last-minute replacement was required.
    ‘Thank you. I’d love to come,’ she heard herself replying before she had given herself a chance to think about it. ‘What time?’
    ‘Any time after eight. I’ll look forward to seeing you. Oh, I’ll see you before that, won’t I? With the proofs. No, wait, bring them with you, Dennis can have a say in the choice then and it’ll save you a journey.’
    Rose agreed to do so, then hung up. A party. She had not been to one since David died – and what would she wear? When did she last buy herself something new? And whomcould she take? Gabrielle had said to bring a guest if she wished. Rose shook her head. Ridiculous, she felt like a teenager going on a first date. Barry Rowe. She’d ask him. There was, she realised, no other male who came to mind.
    Once she had cleared up in the dark-room, Rose poured out some more wine and dialled his number. Barry made no pretence of checking a diary or hesitating. He had known Rose since she first came to Cornwall and did his best to sell her work. Since David’s death he had been her only escort. He had always hoped to become more than that but there seemed to be no romantic attachment on Rose’s side. At least they shared similar tastes and found a sort of comfort in each other’s company.
    ‘I’d be delighted,’ Barry told her. ‘God, it’s not evening dress or anything, is it?’
    Rose laughed. ‘No, Gabrielle said it’s informal.’ Although that still left her in some doubt as to what would be suitable attire. What the invitation had done was to take her mind temporarily off the looming anniversary. She finished the conversation by promising to bring in the water-colours she had completed.
    Depressing the bar, Rose waited for the dialling tone,