Free The Sea Garden by Deborah Lawrenson Page A

she saw a pay phone on the road leading into the Place d’Armes, she took the chance to use it straightaway. Her fingers trembled as she got some coins ready and pressed in the numbers for Laurent de Fayols’s office in Paris.
    He was not there.
    She gave a moan of frustration. Wait—his mobile number was on the first letter he had written her. The letter should be in her bag. She scrabbled. It was. She tried the number twice; each time it prompted a repeating electronic message that she guessed meant the number was out of order.
    As she came out of the phone booth, she felt rattled. It was only a short walk to the friendly hotel on the other corner of the square, but she was grateful for the support of the cycle as she wheeled it. Her legs seemed to be trembling slightly, more than they should for someone as fit as she was.
    The Place d’Armes no longer seemed so benevolent. The voices of young children running across the dust sounded from a long way away, as if in an echo chamber. She was gripped by the unpleasant sensation that had begun at the Domaine de Fayols: a profound detachment that placed the world beyond a film of gauze.
    The sun was already oppressive, sapping her strength. Yet she knew she needed the safety of crowds. She headed over to a bustling café with tables set out under the eucalyptus trees and propped the cycle against the low stone wall before taking a seat in the shade.
    It was frustrating to have come so far, only to find that the job was a dud. But these things happened. She flipped through the pages of her sketchbook. The scrawled notes seemed to jump, and the drawings looked like angry doodles. She pinched the bridge of her nose to dull the pain that had settled behind her eyes.
    Her heart sank when the other chair at her table was pulled out.
    â€œDo you mind if I join you?” A man’s voice.
    â€œNot at all.” It was an automatic response.
    She hardly looked up as he took the seat by her side.
    â€œAre you on your own?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI can’t understand why.”
    Ellie gazed out at the square and fixed on the trees and the church until the lines began to melt.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said, when she failed to respond.
    â€œWhat?”
    He remained silent, looking at her. It was impossible not to look back. Eyes deep brown, with vertical frown lines above the nose. Straight eyebrows. The floppy dark hair and olive skin of Roman genes, she thought, though the process of forming impressions seemed to be too heavy for normal brain activity. She scarcely felt capable of any rational thought.
    Ellie dropped her eyes to her coffee cup.
    She was so close she could see the seams and the weave of his white shirt. Then the fabric seemed to swim in and out of focus. She thought she might be about to faint. The last thing she wanted to do was make conversation with a stranger. On the other hand, if she wasn’t well, it felt better somehow to be with someone.
    â€œHow are you enjoying the island?” he asked.
    She closed her eyes and dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. Her head felt thick, as if she had a bad cold.
    â€œAre you all right? I’m sorry. Would you like me to go?”
    His concern was real enough. She gathered herself.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    There was something her subconscious was trying to tell her. It almost became clear, then receded. The man smelled of tobacco, sweet and not at all unpleasant. The scent hung in the air between them like perfume.
    â€œDo you live here, or are you on holiday?” she asked, the words ringing hollow as she said them.
    He was deeply tanned, with beautiful skin for a man, smooth and unlined.
    â€œMy family has lived here for many years—many generations.”
    â€œYou work here?”
    â€œOh . . .” He raised his palms and pulled an expression that said, Not really .
    â€œOn the mainland, then?”
    â€œNo . . .