The Englishman's Bride

But she could not curb a faint feeling of frustration as she squelched along to the swimming hut to retrieve her clothes.

She did not tell Lisa. Neither what had happened nor what—more startlingly—she wished had happened.

Kit was not sure why she kept her own counsel. Normally she told Lisa everything. Well, nearly everything. Not about Johnny. Not about the other, unbearable, thing. But everything else. She had had to keep secrets from her anxious mother. But Lisa knew all that there was to know—or at least all that Kit could bear to tell.

But tonight she was not even tempted to confide. Maybe because Lisa showed no interest at all in how she had spent her solitary evening.

In fact, Lisa was monosyllabic. Kit had showered and changed in her luxury cottage, then wandered up the cliff to say goodnight to her sister and brother-in-law before taking her jet lag to bed.

But there was no sign of Nikolai. Lisa was sitting alone in the dark on the little terrace outside her cottage. In fact, Kit nearly did not see her. If it were not for the squeak of the rattan rocking chair, she would have thought the cottage was deserted.

‘Lisa?’ said Kit tentatively into the murmurous night.

At first she thought Lisa must have fallen asleep. Or was not going to answer for some reason. She was even on the point of turning away.

And then Lisa said, ‘All right, you’ve got me.’ She sounded weary. ‘You’d better come up.’

There were spiral steps from the pathway up to the terrace. Kit went up them carefully. She was halfway up when a match scraped and Lisa appeared at the top, carrying a storm lantern. One look at her face and Kit ran the rest of the way.

‘What is it?’ she said involuntarily.

Lisa had been crying. No doubt of it. Even in the uncertain light of the oil lamp, her eyes were swollen.

Lisa folded her lips together. ‘Not feeling too well. Sorry.’

Kit looked at her narrowly. Lisa was never ill. Or she never had been until this winter.

Lisa looked away. ‘How’s your cottage?’ she said with a palpable effort.

‘Very luxurious. Lisa, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Where’s Nikolai?’

Lisa shrugged. ‘Having a drink with other boffins, I suppose.’

Kit was concerned. ‘Why didn’t you go too? Not because you were waiting for me?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘Didn’t feel like it.’

Kit’s concern grew. ‘But surely, Nikolai must have wanted you with him.’

‘Who knows what Nikolai wants?’ said Lisa with sudden bitterness. ‘Oh, forget it! Tell me how you like your cottage. Found out how the fans work yet?’

Kit gave up. Lisa would tell her what was going on in her own good time if she wanted to.

So she said cheerfully, ‘Yup. Sussed the fans. Sussed the electric blinds. Got rid of the television and the mirrors.’

Lisa gave a rather forced laugh. ‘You and your anti-mirror campaign!’

Kit grinned. ‘I’ve been beaten by the one in the bathroom. It’s fixed to the wall.’

Lisa managed a better laugh this time.

‘Anyway, if it weren’t for all the drawer lining paper with wedding bells on, I’d really feel at home now.’

Her attempt at a joke was partly rewarded. Lisa threw back her head and laughed uninhibitedly.

‘Oh, they do like their wedding bells,’ she agreed. ‘They’re quite convinced people will start getting married here again as long as they don’t admit that they ever had a reason to stop. Have you seen their brochures? You can’t go on a fishing trip without it being called a honeymoon cruise!’

Kit pulled a comical face. ‘Even the basket of shampoo and stuff in the bathroom has got a gift tag in it. For the Bride,’ she said in disgust. ‘It feels as if I’m here under false pretences.’

Lisa’s smile died.

‘You and me both.’

There was a nasty silence. Kit waited for her sister to retract—or confide what was wrong. She did neither.

Instead she got up and went to the balustrade. She stood there scanning the horizon. She had obviously bought a native sarong locally. It stirred gently in the sea breeze.

‘It should be the ideal place for a honeymoon,’ she said almost to herself.

‘Or a love affair,’ said Kit. She was not quite sure why she said it. ‘My cottage is as near isolated as you can get and still be fifteen minutes’ walk from breakfast. A classic lovers’ hideaway.’ Her voice sounded odd, even to her own ears.

Lisa seemed to notice that at last. She turned, looking at Kit with sudden concern.

‘Are you all right with that? I didn’t think. You’re not jumpy about being on your own?’

‘I’m jumpy about being in a room full of strangers,’ Kit said drily. ‘On my own I can handle.’

‘Because you could always sleep here if you are,’ said Lisa, not attending. ‘Unhappy about being alone, I mean.’

Kit shook her head in undisguised horror. She could see where this was going. It had to be stopped—and soon.

‘Look,’ she said frankly, ‘I said I didn’t want to be a gooseberry. Well, I don’t want to be a buffer zone either. You and Nikolai have your problems, you sort them out on your own.’

Lisa did not answer for a moment. Then she said in a low voice, ‘You’re right. Sorry, Kit, I shouldn’t have tried to involve you.’

‘What is it with you two?’ said Kit, torn between exasperation and sisterly sympathy.

But Lisa made a little gesture, silencing her. And soon after she said she was tired and wanted to go to bed.

So Kit wandered back to her cottage on her own. The cottage that she’d said herself was a dream of a lovers’ hideaway.

She gave a little superstitious shudder as she remembered that. What on earth had made her think of that, much less say it?

‘You’re suffering from evening-class withdrawal,’ she muttered to herself bracingly.