‘I think that’s enough of a head start, don’t you?’
She cranked the winch, raising the mainsail.
The moment the ketch’s skipper saw them coming he began barking commands, not that it made any difference. The Albatross cut through the chop as if it didn’t exist, her big canvas sheets sucking every available ounce of energy out of the air. While the crew of the ketch scrambled about her topsides, trying to trim up properly, Lucy barely moved a muscle. When she finally did, it was only to offer a demure little salute to the skipper as she overhauled him.
‘Judging from his expression, I would say he hates you.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ grinned Lucy, her flushed face a picture of pure contentment. ‘The helm’s so balanced I could have tied off the tiller and taken a nap.’
They fell off, running dead before the wind to the eastward, making for Le Rayol. While Lucy put the sloop through its paces, getting to know its limits, Tom sat back and enjoyed the view.
There were any number of spots along the Riviera where the mountains collided with the sea, but for a short stretch east of Le Lavandou it seemed almost as if the two elements had struck some secret pact, Earth and Water conspiring together to create a place of wild, primitive beauty. The high hills backing the coast fell away sharply in a tumble of tree-shrouded spurs and valleys which were transformed on impact with the sea into a run of rocky headlands separated by looping bays. Dubbed the Côte des Maures – a reminder of a time when the Saracens had held sway over this small patch of France – the exoticism of the title seemed entirely appropriate. The beaches strung out along the shoreline, like pearls on a necklace, were of a sand so fine and white, the waters that washed them so unnaturally blue, that they might well have been transported here from some far-flung corner of the tropics.
‘Stand by to gybe!’ called Lucy.
‘Ready.’
‘Gybe ho!’
They both ducked the swinging boom as the stern moved through the wind, bringing them round on to a port tack run. Lucy steadied up the Albatross. ‘She feels like a big boat but responds like a small one. How’s that possible?’
It was a rhetorical question, and Tom smiled at her wonderment.
Only one thing was missing from the moment: Hector. He should have been there with them in the cockpit, or, as he often liked to do, standing steadfastly at the bow, snout into the wind like some canine figurehead.
Tom had spent the previous evening walking the twisting coast road either side of Le Rayol, checking the verges and ditches, sick with fear at what he might find. He pushed the memory from him, steering his thoughts towards a far more pleasing prospect: that Hector had finally found his way home, and that as they sailed into the cove below the villa he would come bounding out of the trees behind the boathouse on to the little crescent moon beach, barking delightedly.
It didn’t happen.
They tied up at the buoy where the rowboat was already tethered and waiting for them. The Scylla, Tom’s old knockabout dinghy, lay at her anchor nearby.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘what do you make of her?’
‘What do you think I make of her! She’s the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever helmed.’
‘That’s good, because she’s yours.’
Lucy stared, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.
‘Your twenty-first birthday present. A week early, I know, but I couldn’t wait.’
Lucy was speechless.
‘She comes with free transport to England . . . I might even sail her back myself. Should ruffle a few feathers down at the Lymington Yacht Club,’ he added with a smile.
Lucy didn’t smile. In fact, her face creased suddenly and tears filled her eyes.
‘Hey . . .’ Tom moved to take a seat beside her, slipping a tentative arm around her shoulders. ‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head as if to say that she couldn’t explain. He thought perhaps he’d made a big error, wildly misjudging the appropriateness of such a gift.
‘I don’t understand,’ choked Lucy. ‘Why me?’
‘Because I love you, of course.’
This set her off again, worse than before, and it was a while before she composed herself enough to ask, ‘How can you say that so easily?’
She was wrong. He had only ever spoken those words to one other person, a long time ago.
‘Does Mother . . .?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom. ‘She knows.’
‘But she doesn’t approve.’
‘She thinks I spoil you.’
Lucy wiped at the tears with the back of her hand. ‘She’s right, you do.’
‘Godfather’s prerogative. Besides, I don’t have anyone else to spoil.’
He hadn’t intended it to sound so self-pitying, and her response threw him.
‘What about your lady friend?’
‘My lady friend?’
‘The one who lives in Hyères.’ He glimpsed the familiar spark of mischief behind the watery sheen of her eyes. ‘Leonard told me about her.’
‘That’s not like him.’
‘He was defending you. Someone at dinner said he thought you were a homosexual.’
‘Oh?’
‘Leonard put him straight.’
‘So to speak.’
Lucy smiled weakly at the joke. ‘Do you buy your lady friend boats?’
‘She has other admirers for that sort of thing.’
Lucy looked at him askance. ‘You mean you share her?’
Tom hesitated. ‘That’s not how I think of it.’
‘How can you share her?’
‘Get to my age then see if you ask the same question.’
‘You’re only thirty-nine.’
‘It feels older than it sounds.’
It was a few moments before Lucy replied. ‘Well, I hope I’m still asking the same question when I’m thirty-nine.’
‘So do I,’ said Tom softly. ‘So do I.’
Lucy laid her head against his shoulder, sobbed a couple more times then said, ‘Thank you for my beautiful present.’
He kissed her on the forehead. ‘It’s my pleasure. Now pull yourself together, Captain – whatever will the crew think?’
They parted company just behind the boathouse, where the path bifurcated.
‘Are we seeing you later?’ Lucy asked. ‘Not tonight. You have house guests.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘I’m not sure you know them. They’re friends of your mother’s psychoanalyst.’
‘Oh God . . .’
‘They’re not so bad. I had them over for dinner last night. She speaks as much nonsense as the time allows her, and he perks up no end if you get him on to Phoenician pottery.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ groaned Lucy.
‘Until tomorrow.’
Lucy set off up the steep pathway