Free Saltskin by Louise Moulin Page B

in the bush, and
eventually came back to the man at the guard gate.
    'Any luck?' he asked her while he wound a rope around
an iron bar set in the wood of the pier.
    She shook her head. She knew Allan wasn't going to
show, and she felt oddly all right with it. At least I got to see
this quaint village, she thought, and smiled in a relaxed way.
    But he still might show . . .
    She shaded her eyes from the sun and her bag rang.
Gilda dropped it, crouching inelegantly as she searched
for her phone, willing it to keep ringing. Her black lace
knickers and toothbrush spilled to the ground.
    'Hello?'
    'It's me.'
    'Allan?' Gilda's muscles turned to liquid and her heart
raced, in 'flee' mode. Sweat sprang.
    'Where are you?' His voice was hard.
    'I'm at the marina.'
    'Prove it.'
    'Well, the ocean is behind me and I think the yacht
club is that big white building on the hill in front. Where
are you?' Gilda glanced at the guard, who waited for her,
and, disturbingly, eyed her.
    'I'm not there, I never was there, and in half an hour
I'm changing the number on my phone so you can never
reach me again.'
    'Oh, okay, I'll call you back then,' said Gilda, trying
to hide the effect of Allan's words, but she was horribly
embarrassed. The guard had probably heard every word.
She shoved her stuff in her bag, said to the guard breezily,
'Change of plans,' and ran back along the wooden wharf
to the gate. She fumbled and cursed the lock and, once
through, ran up the nearly vertical stone steps. In a normal
frame of mind she would have had to pause partway for
breath, but she was angry. Once up on the parade she rang
his number. He answered.
    'Okay then,' she said, 'did you ever love me?'
    He hesitated and she sensed his quandary. She knew he
had. Once. But he replied, 'Probably not.'
    'Then how dare you marry me if you didn't love me?'
she fired back, turning in circles as she spoke. 'You know
what? Do change your number. I never want to speak to
you again either, and you know what else?' She forced her
voice calm, steely. She stopped, stood very still. 'One day
you're going to go looking for the love of your life, and
she is not going to return your phone calls.' She hung up
on him and walked very fast along the parade, her dress
moving against her body, her long hair bouncing.
    Waves shuffled to and fro on the beach down to her
right. She had done all she could — travelled to the other
side of the globe for love. She had proved to herself that
she at least took love, loyalty and marriage seriously.
She had fulfilled her role as wife as far as she had been
permitted. And now she felt excused of all responsibility
to her vows, and, for that matter, all responsibility to love.
The nuptials had never been legal, such was the rush, but
she had considered that it was pledging your bond in a
ceremony that made it real, not the red tape. No one had
been married in her family as far back as anybody knew.
Nor had any boys been born. Men drifted in and out,
telling the women how to use their bodies.
    The adrenalin drained away and a peaceful lull took its
place. She had only wanted him to want her. She realised
she didn't really want him.
    Gilda sat on a bench facing the ocean.
    An elderly gentleman sat down beside her, his hands
propped on a walking stick. He had the grandfatherly air of
a character in an Enid Blyton book, his moustache curled
out past the edge of his nostrils in a waxed grey half moon.
He wore a tweed waistcoat over an open-necked shirt, long
shorts and sandals. His legs looked handsome.
    Gilda gazed out at the long, pebbled beach, blue sky
and sea and brilliant sunshine.
    'Turner painted this exact scene,' the man said. 'I'm
Cecil Mills.'
    'Oh. Gilda.'
    'Are you a painter?'
    'Yes,' she said wistfully, although she wasn't. It was
easier to just go along, and in a way as a photographer she
was at least image-oriented.
    'Care to have tea with me?'
    'No thank you. I'm not very good company at the
moment.' She half smiled and the mole above her