Tangled Emotions. CATHERINE GEORGE

about you?’ asked Joe.

      ‘I’ll just take my jacket off.’

      Fen had never suffered from shyness, but with Joe for an audience she couldn’t bring herself to strip down to the bikini.

      ‘Fen,’ said Joe after a while, staring out to sea. ‘It strikes me that I was a bit insensitive to ramble on to you about my childhood.’

      ‘Not a bit,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I liked hearing about it. Tell me more.’

      ‘I probably painted it a bit rosier than it was. The three of us squabbled a lot, and grumbled when required to dig the garden, wash dishes, or walk the dogs. But because my mother worked hard at school as well as at home, my father considered it only fair that the rest of us, including himself, pitched in with the chores. There was no money for hired help, and just coping with the family wash was a major undertaking. The three of us were into rugby, athletics, cricket, and in my case tennis.’

      ‘Which meant mountains of dirty sports gear,’ said Fen, feeling sympathy for Mrs Tregenna.

      Joe glanced at her. ‘In your situation I imagine you had to do your share of chores, too?’

      ‘Some,’ she agreed briefly, and pulled her hat low over her eyes.

      Eventually Joe got up, thrust his feet into deck shoes and pulled on his shirt. ‘I’m hungry. I’ll go and hunt up some lunch. You keep off those aching feet of yours, Fen, and stay here with the gear. If there’s no crab, what shall I bring?’

      ‘Anything they’ve got.’

      She watched him as he strolled out of sight, then turned back to gaze out over the sea, aware of how much she was enjoying Joe’s company. This Melissa of his was mad to refuse the move to Pennington with him. And stupid to assume she could take over his flat rent-free. Joe Tregenna was no one’s fool. Even on short acquaintance Fen knew there was steel behind the humour in those navy blue eyes, a combination which grew in appeal each time they met.

      Taking advantage of his absence, Fen took off her jeans and shirt and hung them on the back of the chair, then applied a coat of sunscreen to the expanse of skin left bare by the scarlet bikini. There was a small garden behind the house in Farthing Street, not much more than a patch of rough grass with a washing line, separated from the house next door by a high privet hedge. But it gave her a secluded place to lie in the sun for those brief periods when the weather was kind during her time off. So far she’d been lucky with the weather, but the idea of Farthing Street in constant rain was so depressing she refused to think of it.

      It was some time before Joe returned with lunch. He swept her a glance of open appreciation, then sat down on the footrest of the deckchair and took packets of sandwiches from a carrier bag, plus some ripe red tomatoes and a clutch of paper napkins. Madame,’ he said triumphantly, ‘lunch is served. Sorry I was so long. The sandwiches are cut fresh to order, and I had to stand in line.’

      ‘Worth waiting for,’ Fen assured him. ‘But first could you just slap some cream on my back? I’ve done the rest.’

      ‘Spoilsport,’ said Joe, grinning, his touch swift and impersonal over her back and shoulders. ‘Right. Now let’s eat.’

      The sandwiches were generously filled, made with thick slices of crusty bread, the crab seasoned with lemon and black pepper, and Fen bit into one with an ecstatic groan of appreciation. ‘Wow, these are amazing!’

      Joe nodded, munching. ‘As good as the ones they make at the Anchor in Polruan.’

      Later, after making inroads on the peaches and chocolate for dessert, they sat in comfortable silence for a while, drowsy with good food and warmth. Eventually, when Joe began to doze, Fen pulled on her shirt and sneakers and went for a stroll. When she got back with two cartons of coffee Joe was sitting up, watching her pick her way over the cobbles.

      ‘You’re an angel! Just what I need. I woke up with a fur-lined mouth.’

      ‘Thought you might.’ Fen sat down. ‘First I’m going to drink this, then I’m going to treat my feet to a spot of thalassotherapy.’

      ‘What the devil’s that?’

      ‘Dunking them in seawater,’ she said, grinning. ‘Want to paddle?’

      ‘I fancy a swim. How about you?’

      She shook her head. ‘Feet only. The rest of me stays dry.’

      Joe took the empty cup from her and stuffed it into the empty sandwich bag with his. Then he took her hand and pulled her up. ‘Come on, then.’

      As they crunched their way over the cobbles Fen tripped and almost overbalanced, but Joe fielded her neatly, held her close against his sun-warmed chest for an instant, then kept firm hold of her hand until they reached the water.

      It was colder than expected, and Fen hopped up and down as the waves lapped over her feet. ‘Definitely no swim for me,’ she gasped. ‘Are you sure about this?’

      Joe gave her a scornful look, waded out until it was deep enough, then dived into the water. He emerged yards away, raking wet hair back from his grinning face, and waved. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing!’

      ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ she shouted back, and, after a minute or two of watching him power his way through the water, picked her way back over the cobbles to the chairs. She waggled her toes to dry her feet, took off her shirt and applied another layer of sunscreen while Joe made for the beach.

      When he stood up, water streaming down the body which had felt so good against hers, she had to admit that Joe Tregenna appealed to her strongly—in every way other than his tendency to take over at times. She watched as he made his way towards her over the cobbles, admiring his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. These days her most constant problem was loneliness. Which was new in her life. What she needed was a new friend. The girls at the Mitre all had boyfriends or husbands, and in any case worked the same antisocial hours she did. And, if she were honest, Joe was exactly the kind of friend she needed: an attractive, intelligent man willing to accept her just as she was, no background details required.

      ‘That’s a very stern expression, Fen,’ said Joe, as he joined her. ‘Could you fish in my bag for a towel?’

      ‘I bet you’re freezing, only you won’t admit it,’ she teased, tossing it to him.

      ‘It did me the world of good,’ he insisted, rubbing himself down. He secured the towel round his hips and searched in his bag. ‘This is where you gaze discreetly out to sea!’

      Fen chuckled, and pulled her hat over her eyes. ‘Use my towel for your hair.’

      The rest of the day went quickly. At one point Joe went back to the café to fetch tea, and afterwards they just talked easily, or fell into companionable, comfortable silence. But eventually it grew too cool to sit, and they began to pack up.

      ‘It’s been a lovely day,’ said Fen, licking the ice-cream cone Joe had bought her on the way back from the beach.

      ‘Is there something pressing you need to get back for tonight?’ he asked when they reached his car. ‘No. Why?’

      He opened the boot to stow the chairs away. ‘We could go back across country and find a pub somewhere for dinner.’

      ‘I’m a bit grubby,’ said Fen doubtfully, looking down at herself.

      ‘Does it matter?’

      ‘No. No, of course it doesn’t.’ She smiled at him. ‘Though this time I’ll be awake all the way, probably talk about myself non-stop, and you’ll be glad to get me back to Farthing Street instead of taking me out for a meal.’

      Joe shook his head. ‘I doubt it. So far I know where you live, and that you work at the Mitre. But otherwise, Miss Dysart, you’re very sparing with personal details.’

      ‘Is that a problem for you?’

      He