him from calling on her was fear.
He found himself attracted to Caroline Platt; she was a lovely woman, warm, friendly and intelligent. There was something about her that was deeply humane, and it came out in the essence of her paintings. He could not look at the still life of oranges on his wall without seeing in their colour and vibrancy something of her life-force.
He was attracted to her, and it frightened him. He had been so long without a lover, had adapted himself very well to his solitary lifestyle, and while his heart craved her company, his head counselled caution.
Since the exhibition, his head and heart had battled, and on the third day his heart won. He completed his thousand words by midday and decided to call on Caroline and invite her to take lunch with him at Georgiou’s taverna.
He set off along the track to her villa, pausing to stare out across the sea. A tiny fishing boat puttered away from the island, reduced to the size of a child’s toy in the blue vastness. The sun was at its height and hottest, beating down with a relentless dry heat that smote the skin with something like a physical blow. In the shade of his vine-covered patio, he had been spared the sun’s intensity; out here he was aware of its force. It was a good day for sitting in the shade with a simple meal and a glass of retsina.
Caroline was not at home, and he had looked forward to her company so much that he felt deflated. He knocked on the front door, and on receiving no reply stepped from the path and peered in through the big plate glass window that overlooked the pine-clad hillside and the sea.
The lounge was comfortable and homely, lived in rather than exhibiting the stark functionality of so many modern rooms, which looked like set-pieces for interior design magazines. He saw a big, battered sofa, woven rugs, bookshelves...
He squinted. On one of the selves he made out a hardback copy of every one of his novels. The sight should have gratified him, perhaps, but instead - something of his habitual paranoia resurfacing - he felt vaguely threatened.
He moved from the villa and continued along the track, feeling guilty for having pried.
Caroline had mentioned reading one or two of his books, but never the fact that she had every one of them. She had obviously built up the collection over time, which begged the question: why she decided to buy the villa next door to his own?
Perhaps she had heard of his legendary reclusiveness, and resolved to write a feature on the man... He was convinced now that she was a bona fide painter, but that did not exclude the possibility that she also wrote as a side-line.
He cursed the treacherous course of his thoughts, but, once in his head, they could not be dismissed.
By the time he reached Sarakina, he knew what he should do.
Instead of taking his table in the shade, he entered the taverna and slipped into the telephone kiosk at the back of the room. It was small and cramped, and reminded him of a confessional booth. He phoned the local operator and asked for an international line, and five minutes later dialled the London number of his agent.
In a day or two, he would know if Caroline was indeed who she said she was.
“Daniel!” Pryce exclaimed, as he did on the few occasions that Langham phoned. “This is a pleasant surprise. You’re not in London, by any chance?”
“What do you think?”
“Somehow I thought it unlikely. How is tropical Kallithéa?”
“Well, it isn’t tropical, for a start. But otherwise it’s as beautiful as ever. I’m ringing to ask a favour.”
“Ask away.”
“I need some information on a painter.”
“Now, if you were connected to the Internet...”
“Sod the Internet. Have you got a pen?”
“I’ve a keyboard, will that do?”
“I want to know about a painter called Caroline Platt. She’s had exhibitions in London, and a gallery on Great Portland Street handles her work. What I really want to know is if she writes. Features. Essays.
He found himself attracted to Caroline Platt; she was a lovely woman, warm, friendly and intelligent. There was something about her that was deeply humane, and it came out in the essence of her paintings. He could not look at the still life of oranges on his wall without seeing in their colour and vibrancy something of her life-force.
He was attracted to her, and it frightened him. He had been so long without a lover, had adapted himself very well to his solitary lifestyle, and while his heart craved her company, his head counselled caution.
Since the exhibition, his head and heart had battled, and on the third day his heart won. He completed his thousand words by midday and decided to call on Caroline and invite her to take lunch with him at Georgiou’s taverna.
He set off along the track to her villa, pausing to stare out across the sea. A tiny fishing boat puttered away from the island, reduced to the size of a child’s toy in the blue vastness. The sun was at its height and hottest, beating down with a relentless dry heat that smote the skin with something like a physical blow. In the shade of his vine-covered patio, he had been spared the sun’s intensity; out here he was aware of its force. It was a good day for sitting in the shade with a simple meal and a glass of retsina.
Caroline was not at home, and he had looked forward to her company so much that he felt deflated. He knocked on the front door, and on receiving no reply stepped from the path and peered in through the big plate glass window that overlooked the pine-clad hillside and the sea.
The lounge was comfortable and homely, lived in rather than exhibiting the stark functionality of so many modern rooms, which looked like set-pieces for interior design magazines. He saw a big, battered sofa, woven rugs, bookshelves...
He squinted. On one of the selves he made out a hardback copy of every one of his novels. The sight should have gratified him, perhaps, but instead - something of his habitual paranoia resurfacing - he felt vaguely threatened.
He moved from the villa and continued along the track, feeling guilty for having pried.
Caroline had mentioned reading one or two of his books, but never the fact that she had every one of them. She had obviously built up the collection over time, which begged the question: why she decided to buy the villa next door to his own?
Perhaps she had heard of his legendary reclusiveness, and resolved to write a feature on the man... He was convinced now that she was a bona fide painter, but that did not exclude the possibility that she also wrote as a side-line.
He cursed the treacherous course of his thoughts, but, once in his head, they could not be dismissed.
By the time he reached Sarakina, he knew what he should do.
Instead of taking his table in the shade, he entered the taverna and slipped into the telephone kiosk at the back of the room. It was small and cramped, and reminded him of a confessional booth. He phoned the local operator and asked for an international line, and five minutes later dialled the London number of his agent.
In a day or two, he would know if Caroline was indeed who she said she was.
“Daniel!” Pryce exclaimed, as he did on the few occasions that Langham phoned. “This is a pleasant surprise. You’re not in London, by any chance?”
“What do you think?”
“Somehow I thought it unlikely. How is tropical Kallithéa?”
“Well, it isn’t tropical, for a start. But otherwise it’s as beautiful as ever. I’m ringing to ask a favour.”
“Ask away.”
“I need some information on a painter.”
“Now, if you were connected to the Internet...”
“Sod the Internet. Have you got a pen?”
“I’ve a keyboard, will that do?”
“I want to know about a painter called Caroline Platt. She’s had exhibitions in London, and a gallery on Great Portland Street handles her work. What I really want to know is if she writes. Features. Essays.
Similar Books
