Modern Romance October 2018 Books 5-8. Trish Morey

her door. It was very hot. A blazing summer afternoon, with the sun still high in the sky and the clouds little more than cotton wool puffs of white idly floating by. The land looked glorious and untouched. It was a short walk to get to the site where the protestors had set up camp. Yes, she could have driven there, but it was easier to park here and a nice day for walking. Except now she would be walking in a state of nervous tension.

      ‘Is that a crime?’ Arturo had followed her out and he looked at her, still grinning.

      ‘I’ve never been attracted to men who are too sure of themselves.’

      ‘Challenging observation...’

      ‘That’s not my intention! You’re here to...support us! And I won’t be going out with you because... I’m not interested in any sort of relationship at this point in time.’

      ‘Who’s talking about a relationship?’

      ‘I don’t do casual sex.’ Rose was staggered that she was having this conversation, but she had yet to meet a man who was open about what he wanted and surely he couldn’t want her because, rich or poor, he had the sort of charisma and good looks that would guarantee him a spot in any woman’s little black book.

      So why her?

      But heck, was she flattered? It had been a while since her last disastrous relationship, a while since she had felt like a woman. And, if she was honest, even Jack, earnest and brimming over with admirable integrity, hadn’t made her feel like this.

      ‘I thought I just mentioned having dinner,’ Arturo murmured, which made Rose feel her cheeks flush what was surely an even deeper shade of red.

      ‘You’re playing with me,’ she said sharply. ‘And I don’t like it.’

      Their eyes tangled but Rose refused to be the first to back down even though she wanted to.

      * * *

      Art was learning what it felt like to be politely but firmly pushed to the kerb.

      ‘Tell me about the protest,’ he encouraged, changing tack, matching her gait with his and releasing her from the stranglehold of her embarrassment as they continued to walk towards the distant horizon. ‘How many people are there at the site?’

      ‘Ever been on a protest before?’

      ‘I can honestly say that I haven’t.’

      ‘Well, I’m glad that this is of sufficient interest to you to get you motivated into doing more than just sitting on the sidelines and sympathising. So many people have strong views about something and yet they never quite go the distance when it comes to doing something about those views.’

      ‘What made you choose employment law over something better paid?’

      ‘Because money isn’t everything! And I’m taking it that you feel the same as I do.’

      ‘Money can often be the root of all evil,’ Art hedged. ‘It’s also pretty vital when it comes to putting food on our plates.’

      ‘I like to think that in my job I’m helping other people put food on their plates.’

      ‘And you’ve always worked for yourself or did you work for a bigger company after you graduated?’

      ‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’ But she seemed flattered by his interest.

      ‘It’s the only way to get to know someone.’ Art had the grace to flush. He was here for a purpose though and with him the practical would always take precedence over any unruly conscience. Vast sums of money were at stake and he was only trying to make his point of view known to a group who probably thought that their opinion was the only valid one on the table.

      A rich diversity of opinion was a bonus in life. By subtly introducing a different viewpoint to theirs, he would effectively be doing her and all of the protestors there a laudable favour.

      ‘Nearly twenty-five,’ Rose told him briskly, walking fast, each stride determined and sure-footed.

      ‘Nearly twenty-five what?’

      ‘You asked how many protestors there were on the site. Nearly twenty-five and growing by the day.’

      ‘And what lovely days we’ve been having...’

      ‘They’d be here come rain or shine,’ Rose informed him tartly and he grinned at her.

      ‘And quite right too. Nothing worse than a protestor who packs up his placards and heads for his car the minute the skies open.’

      ‘I can’t tell when you’re joking,’ Rose said, pausing to look at him.

      ‘Oh, I’m very serious about being here indeed. Make no mistake about that,’ Art said softly.

      ‘And how long do you plan on staying?’ She began walking again and he fell in beside her.

      ‘I reckon at least a few days, maybe longer. Perhaps a week or two.’

      ‘Getting first-hand experience of putting your money where your mouth is.’ Rose smiled. ‘I commend that. The camp’s just up ahead. We’ve managed to get running water and electricity going. It’s been a nightmare but where there’s a will there’s a way and, like I said, there are a lot of people with a lot of talent who have been keen to help us out.’

      Art was looking at a collection of makeshift dwellings. Tents rubbed shoulders with slightly more solid constructions. There was an elaborate portable toilet. People were milling around. Children were playing. It was, he had to concede, a wonderful campsite, dissected by a clear, bubbling stream and surrounded by trees and flowers. It was, however, a campsite on his land.

      Clearly much loved and admired, the second they were spotted, Rose was surrounded by people, young and old alike. She was part and parcel of the community and Art could see the warmth of the supporters surround her like a blanket, seemingly reaffirming her belief in what they were doing—saving the land for the locals. Several dragged her along to have a look at some new ideas for placards. One old guy involved her in an elaborate discussion about some legal technicality, which she handled with aplomb and a great show of interest, even though he could somehow tell that she was answering his questions automatically.

      No one paid the slightest bit of attention to him.

      He was introduced, of course, and he, likewise, was shown yet more placards to add to the already healthy supply in evidence.

      ‘Very artistic,’ he contributed to one of the middle-aged women who had carted him off to one side. ‘I like the...er...’

      ‘Drawings?’ She delightedly pointed to the illustration of stick figures holding placards showing stick figures holding placards. ‘I’m trying to convey the idea that all of this is a never-ending problem which will just keep recurring until everyone feels as passionately about the countryside as we do.’

      ‘Very imaginative.’

      ‘I guess you’ll be helping? Rose says you’re interested in what’s taking place in this little pocket of the world.’

      ‘Very interested,’ Art said with heartfelt honesty, relieved to be dragged away before he could be quizzed further. The woman struck him as the sort who took no prisoners.

      Overhead, the sun continued to beat down with ferocity. He felt hot and sweaty and in need of just a handful of those minor luxuries he took for granted. A nice cool shower, for one thing.

      He’d brought the minimum of clothes, stuffed into a holdall which he’d left in the Land Rover. They nestled on top of his computer, because there was no way he intended to be completely out of reach. That would have been unthinkable.

      ‘So,’ Rose said brightly when she was back at his side, having done the rounds, including squatting on the ground to talk to some of the children, ‘I notice that you didn’t think to bring a tent.’

      ‘Come