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  Owen pulled out a chair opposite Duncan, grateful for the company. “I’m at a bit of a loose end myself. Not a lot I can do until the weekend. Then it’s just to put a few last minute touches to the collection and that’s it.”

  “So you’re high and dry for a day or two, eh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Fancy joining Ted and me on a fishing trip tomorrow?”

  “Ted?”

  “The vicar. We’ve managed to persuade old Bill Jefferies to take us out on his lobster boat.”

  “In this weather?” Owen was aghast.

  “Set fair tomorrow. They know the signs apparently.”

  “In that case, yes, I’d love to come.”

  Duncan called to his sailing companion. “Another convert joining us tomorrow, vicar.”

  The vicar raised his hand to Owen. “Glad to hear it,” he said before returning to his paper.

  Chapter 34

  As predicted by Duncan, the weather was fine. At seven o’clock the vicar and his miniscule flock gathered at the meeting point; Bill Jefferies waved to them from aboard his fishing boat moored at the end of the harbour wall.

  Duncan had warned Owen to make sure he had adequate clothing with him, as it was sure to be cold out on the water. Dressed in the waterproof Rowena had bought him when they’d gone on a walking holiday in the Lake District, he followed Ted and Duncan and climbed aboard.

  He’d phoned Rowena the previous afternoon but she was too busy to speak for long. She’d told him she was fine, work was a problem, there weren’t enough hours in the day and before she’d rung off she told him that she loved him. He’d have to make do with that. He’d noticed that there’d been no mention of how long she was going to be away or how she planned to spend Christmas.

  The bay was shrouded in early morning mist, the air so crisp it almost crackled. But Bill Jefferies assured them that the sun would burn off the mist in no time and the sea was set to be calm, except for the currents they would encounter around the headland. “We calls them the Cherry Stones - have to hang on to your breakfasts round there, you mark my words.”

  He hadn’t been kidding, Owen noted, as the boat, after gliding through the still water out of the harbour and around the coast, suddenly encountered the aforementioned currents. It lurched and tossed about like child’s bath toy but neither the vicar nor Duncan appeared to be the least bit perturbed by this occurrence. Owen swallowed hard to hold on to his breakfast.

  The lighthouse stood on a rocky outcrop hidden from view by the headland. Leaving Gareg Wen far behind them and thankfully the treacherous Cherry Stone currents, he joined Bill in the wheelhouse whilst Duncan and Ted discussed the merits of fresh water fishing.

  “How long have you been a lobster fisherman?” Owen asked as Bill steered the boat around the coast.

  “Couple o’ years now. Back a spell, I fished the sea like the best of them bringing back a good catch but times have changed. It’s them fancy restaurants in Cardiff what pays the good money for lobsters and the like.”

  “So you find it worth your while?” He wondered how many he must catch to make a living.

  “Aye lad. I’m mostly retired now. I’m sixty-six - now you wouldn’t think that, would you?”

  Owen agreed wholeheartedly, although Bill’s face was weather-beaten with deep lines etched into its surface like linocuts, he moved with the speed and agility of a man half his age.

  “The important thing about fishing for lobsters is to keep the location of the pots a secret.” He grinned. “You can’t let them know where they are see. They steals the lobsters as good as look at you and all you find is empty pots.”

  “You don’t mind me knowing?”

  “Nah, you bin approved by the vicar and Duncan, that’s good enough for me, ain’t no better recommendation in Gareg Wen.”

  The boat began to rock in the swell as it rounded a point in the coastline known locally as The Devil’s Claw.

  “Always gets a bit tricky here,” said Bill. “That’s why I always sinks the pots hereabouts.”

  He steered inland then threw the anchor, so that the boat bobbed up and down and nauseatingly from side to side. Owen felt his stomach somersaulting again and went to sit on the bench outside the wheelhouse, while Bill made his way to the back of the boat where the winch was situated.

  “Want a hand, Bill?” Duncan asked.

  “Nah, you’re alright. Tide’s easy; piece of cake.”

  Owen watched spellbound as Bill raised the winch with as little effort as if he were pulling up a clothesline. The lobster pot broke through the surface of the water spilling a waterfall of seaweed and mussel shells in its wake. Bill hauled it on to the deck with a swinging motion. Two fair-sized lobsters stared glassy eyed at Owen as Bill quickly opened the lid of the pot and skilfully bound the creatures’ claws with elastic bands before loading them into a square tank full of salt water.

  “Keeps ‘em fresh and my hands in one piece,” he explained to Owen, who watched entranced as the procedure was repeated. Afterwards, when Bill was satisfied that he’d exhausted his catch, he chugged a mile or so around the coast and using the same strategy continued as before.

  The vicar turned to Owen. “That catch alone will keep Bill in beer throughout the winter I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Duncan nodded. “Not tempted yourself then, Ted?”

  The vicar laughed. “With my physique? Carrying a stack of hymn books and landing the odd catch in the river is about my limit.”

  “Mine too. What about you, Owen?”

  Owen smiled. “I’m with the vicar.”

  Later, when the boat returned to the harbour, and Bill had landed his catch, the bar of the Anchor seemed to be the best place to discuss the events of the day. Owen relaxed as he listened to their tales, which became longer in direct proportion to the amount of beer they consumed, and for the first time in weeks put Rowena firmly to the back of his mind.

  A week after the boat trip, Owen shared afternoon tea with Duncan and Megan prior to leaving for London along with his completed collection.

  “I can’t begin to tell you both how grateful I am for you allowing me use the Crow’s Nest and for being such splendid company.”

  “Nonsense, our pleasure.” Megan handed him a slice of freshly baked sponge cake.

  Owen held it up for inspection. “Does this mean, what I think it means?”

  Duncan nodded. “It does. Megan’s finished the final draft. Went off to the publishers this morning.”

  “Congratulations,” Owen said, adding, “By the way, if you’re both at a loose end on the fifteenth, I’d be honoured, if you’d be my guests at the Furnish Gallery. I’d like to show you the result of my endeavours.”

  Megan glanced at her husband then answered. “We’d be delighted. Wouldn’t we, Duncan?”

  “I should say so. Now let’s forget about tea and celebrate with a glass or four of our finest champagne,” he said walking towards the kitchen.

  A short while later Duncan raised his glass. “To success,” he said toasting each of them in turn.

  Chapter 35

  On the morning of the fifteenth of December an email arrived from Rowena. It read Good Luck, darling, I’ll be thinking of you, and Owen felt absurdly deflated by the lack of ingenuity or genuine sense of feeling in the words.

  The paintings had been collected days ago and Mark Furnish had expressed his delight. “Totally amazing, Mailer’s going to be knocked sideways.”

  The previous day, as he’d inspected the display, Owen had been surprised at how good the collection looked. Maisie Dalton, Mark’s display co-ordinator, had a good eye for detail and had arranged his work to the best effect.

  As usual, when he’d been absorbed in fulfilling a deadline and once his work was completed, Owen, instead of feeling relaxed, felt aimless. He’d wandered around his flat for days before the exhibition, missing Rowena more acutely than he’d thought possible but avoiding calling her in case he ended up
pleading with her to come home. It was a hopeless situation. He wanted to fly out to join her for Christmas but as she’d made no suggestion that he should do so, he’d hesitated in making the call.

  Mark Furnish was in his element. He reminded Owen of a bee, flitting from flower to flower extolling the creative ability of his artists in a voice loud enough to be heard a mile away. Owen’s work was being shown alongside a relatively unknown artist Liv Dickinson who concentrated on using black and white images reminiscent of childhood drawings. She was building up quite a reputation and Maisie Dalton had designed the settings for both collections in such a way that the contrast between both mediums did not detract from either.

  Liv was a woman in her early forties with dark brown hair escaping from a knot on the top of her head. She was dressed in a brightly coloured Kaftan and wore heavy make up. In no way resembling her creations she glided through the gallery like an exotic, colourful bird in full plumage.

  “Owen,” she greeted him. “Love your collection.”

  “Likewise,” he replied with sincerity.

  “Mark says, he’s expecting hordes this evening.” She took a glass of champagne from a tray offered to her by one of the staff.

  “That’s Mark for you.” Owen shook his head, refusing a drink. He’d drunk enough over the past few days to anaesthetise him.

  The exhibition followed the usual format; press photographers jostled with reporters and Owen, Liv and Mark joined critics and patrons to give interviews and pose for photographs. After the official opening, the guests mingled, commented on or arranged to buy the exhibits. Frequently praised by critics and patrons alike, Owen churned out his stock set of replies and thanks then seeing Megan Lloyd Jones left the melee and went to join her.

  “So glad to see you managed to come. Where’s Duncan?”

  “Not here, I’m afraid. He had an accident on Bill’s boat. Nothing too serious but he’s sprained his ankle and can’t walk far. He said to tell you ‘Good Luck.’”

  “That’s a shame. You’re not driving back to Gareg Wen tonight?”

  “No. Someone at my publishers has booked me into a hotel on the Strand. I hope you don’t mind, I suggested she come along, as Duncan couldn’t make it.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good, oh here she is now.”

  Owen turned as the woman approached.

  “Sarah, come and meet Owen.”

  “Hello again.” She was wearing her hair up in some sort of pleat and once again he was reminded of Rowena.”

  “You know each other?” Megan looked from one to the other.

  “We met in Gareg Wen,” the woman explained. “I’d called to see you about the proofs, I’m afraid my car ran out of petrol and Mr Madoc was my Good Samaritan.”

  “Well, what a coincidence. Good Lord there’s Gordon Jessop, an old friend of Duncan’s. Do excuse me for a moment, I really do have to go and say hello.”

  Owen remembered that he owed the woman an apology. “I think I owe you a drink,” he said. “After we last met, I had a call from Mark bringing forward the deadline for this exhibition. I’m afraid the Anchor lost my custom for weeks after that.”

  She smiled. “Never mind. It did cross my mind that I’d offended you in some way though.”

  “Look, perhaps I could make it up to you. After this is all over, why don’t you and Megan join me for dinner? I know of a great little restaurant that’s not far from here.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure. There’s really no need.”

  “Nonsense, it would be my pleasure.”

  “Well, in that case, thanks.” She looked around. “I don’t suppose I could ask you to show me some of your work. I’d like to buy something small for my flat.”

  “Of course. But it does rather depend on whether you are looking for a traditional piece or something a bit unusual and I’m afraid the prices are a bit steep. Liv Dickinson’s work might be more to your taste and she is really rather good.”

  “You do realise you are in danger of losing a sale here, Owen.” She laughed and he was aware that it was the first time he’d heard her call him by his Christian name.”

  The crowd had thinned as the gallery prepared to close. Owen had lost sight of both Megan and Sarah. He still hadn’t had a drink and decided he was both ravenous and in need of fortification as Mark approached.

  “Mailer just loved your collection. He assured me he’d contact his paper with a favourable report. Think of the influence he has on the American Market. You could be in the money, darling,” he enthused, as Megan joined them, having bought Moonlit Memories. It was the view Owen had painted from the Crow’s Nest after a storm. “I gather you’ve invited Sarah for a meal. I’m glad; she could do with a break. I’m away to my bed. It’s been a long day.” She kissed Owen’s cheek. “Don’t forget us at Gareg Wen, will you? You’re always welcome at our place.”

  He walked her to the door feeling uncomfortably aware that now he would have to dine alone with Sarah Lawson, who was waiting for him in the foyer. Silently cursing his impulsive invitation he pasted on a smile. This was not how he’d anticipated spending the rest of the evening. He could only hope that he could make an early exit.

  Chapter 36

  The restaurant was a popular venue for what Rowena called the ‘in crowd’. Admittedly artists and writers of his acquaintance could often be found taking advantage of Luigi’s excellent food and wine, sold at prices struggling members of the artistic fraternity could afford.

  That evening, as usual, the atmosphere was welcoming without being intrusive. Owen held the door open for Sarah as Luigi, being always keen to welcome his customers personally, approached.

  “Good to see you again, you are in luck, your favourite table is free. Mario will attend to you.” He was obviously in a rush and hurried away hardly looking at either of them.

  Owen, uncomfortably aware that this was where he often took Rowena, thanked Luigi and without introducing his companion followed Mario to a table in an alcove.

  “This is nice. I don’t think I’ve been here before. I thought I knew most of the restaurants in this area.”

  Mario took her coat and she sat down. It was where Rowena usually sat and he suddenly felt like running out into the night and booking the first flight he could find to New York.

  “Owen, are you alright?” She looked up at him.

  “I’m fine. Sorry. I suppose it’s just been a long day. I’m still amazed at how well things went.” He picked up the wine menu.

  “If you’d rather not stay, I’ll understand.” She looked uncertain whether to pick up the menu or not.

  Feeling a complete bastard, he smiled. “Of course not. We’re here to celebrate after all.” He raised a hand to Mario. “A bottle of your finest champagne.” He turned to his companion, “You do like champagne I presume?”

  She grinned, “Does a cat like cream?”

  The first two glasses on an empty stomach lifted Owen’s mood to such an extent he began to think she was quite good company. She certainly made him smile. Her conversation was light and amusing. He’d spent worse evenings and besides, Rowena was probably out enjoying herself, he reasoned, why shouldn’t he.

  As if reading his mind she said, “You’re missing your girlfriend?”

  “That obvious?”

  “It’s understandable. She couldn’t make the showing?”

  “She’s working. She’s in New York.”

  “I see. Will you be spending Christmas with her?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t probe any further, for which he was grateful, and quickly changed the topic of conversation to his friendship with Megan and Duncan Jones.

  “Their house is something isn’t it?” she said, making short work of a plate of garlic mushrooms.

  Owen smiled; her enthusiasm for her food was in direct contrast with Rowena’s habit of pushing it around her plate with the end of her fork and sending most of it back to the kitchen, uneaten. Th
ey chatted about his work and touched on her relationship with Megan and two bottles of champagne followed by a large measure of cognac later, he’d stopped thinking of making an early exit and began to enjoy the evening.

  Leaving the warmth and comfort of the restaurant Owen was shocked to see that a stiff wind had sprung up carrying snowflakes towards them with increasing ferocity.

  “I’ll get us a cab,” he said.

  “No, really. I live ten minutes away. We can walk.”

  Owen put an arm around her shoulders, partly to steady himself and partly because her coat was too thin to afford her any protection against the cold.

  She shivered. “I should have worn something heavier but I didn’t anticipate being out as late as this.”

  “No problem, I’ll keep you warm.” She nestled into him as they walked the short distance to her flat.

  Fumbling in her handbag for her key, she said, “You will come in for a coffee, at least.”

  He was vaguely aware that it was a statement rather than a question as he followed her into the lobby and they took the lift to the first floor.

  The flat was cosy and warm. It was typical of the type built between the wars. The rooms were well proportioned and Sarah had furnished them tastefully, favouring comfort and colour rather than stark minimalist design. “This is nice,” he said settling into the folds of a crimson sofa.

  “That’s it, relax, kick off your shoes, you’ll soon warm up. In fact let’s forget about the coffee. I’ve a bottle of Remy Martin that I’ve been waiting to share with someone and after all it is nearly Christmas.”

  The sound of a street cleaner awakened him. Owen looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings and slid out from under the duvet. He must have passed out. He was lying on the sofa, thankfully fully clothed; she’d covered him with the quilt. His mouth felt dry and his head was pounding. Staggering towards the window, he opened the curtains. It hadn’t been a street cleaner - it was a snowplough. The pavements were thick with the stuff. He vaguely remembered it snowing on their way back from the restaurant.