The Wall (3 page)

the thought, and that's about it.'

'In a nutshell,' he murmured, and she had to chuckle.

'Sad in a way, isn't it? An entire human life and thinking awareness

can be described so simply and dully.' She took out another cigarette

and lit it. Her hand, she noticed absently, was shaking less now. Soon

she would be back to normal. But what was normal, any more? 'I

could walk out in that water right now, and not come back, and no

one would really miss me.' She caught his complete stillness and

shocked eyes and had to laugh. 'Don't worry, I am
not
contemplating

suicide! I'm merely expressing how total the waste of a life can be. I

should know, I've wasted twenty-eight years, and I'll never get them

back again. It's only now that I've begun to suspect that I've never

really lived.'

Strange, she thought in a detached way, how comforting it is to talk

about oneself with a stranger. It was a good feeling, rather like what a

Catholic would feel after making a confession to a priest behind a

curtain. This man didn't know her and probably never would. She

could say the most truthful and outrageous things she wanted to and

feel sure he would never know who she really was and what she was

talking about.

A sudden comment made her start in surprise. 'You smoke too much

for an invalid,' the man told her expressionlessly. 'In fact, you smoke

too much for a healthy individual.'

Sara looked up with a kind of shocked feeling, meeting dark and

almost blank eyes. Almost. Deep down there was a flicker of—

interest? Of concern? No, not that, she was a stranger and meant

nothing to him .. . whatever it was, it dispelled the hard and

implacable quality that she had first seen in his eyes. A slow smile

spread over her face and it was like a ray of sunshine. She looked at

the smoking cigarette in her hand as if she had never seen it before,

then stubbed it out.

'You see?' she said. 'A total waste of life so far. You're absolutely

right! And I'll tell you this right now: I quit. How does that sound?

Only I hope I can do it, I've never tried to quit smoking before, you

know, and I smoke a lot. Well, if one is determined and all, etcetera,

and so on.'

'Eloquently put,' he drawled, looking for a moment amused. Sara

grinned amiably, glad to see a lighter expression on his face. She was

sprawled all over the sand, the rolled-up jeans revealing slim ease,

and she absently reached down to dust off her feet. Her hair lifted off

her neck in a puff of wind, and she reached up with a long-fingered

thin hand to straighten it, looking over the water with a peaceful

feeling. It showed in her eyes, and her lips were turned up at the

corner ever so slightly. The man's head was turned her way.

'Shall I apologise?' she asked, without looking away from the water.

'For what?'

'Trespassing, silly. If I apologise nicely, will it get me off the hook?'

She turned at that and looked at him mournfully, her big eyes soulful

and solemn. 'I truly am sorry.'

He regarded her, and a faint smile touched the edges of his lips,

banishing the unhappy look, 'No, you're not.'

'Well,' she returned, 'it sounded good, didn't it?'

At that he really did laugh, and the sound was rich and glad. She felt

absurdly happy hearing it; when she had first seen him she had

wondered if he ever laughed at all. After watching him with

appreciation, she began to gather up her things. He told her, 'You're

absolved of all crime.'

'How nice.' Dusting off her feet as best she could, she started to put

on her socks and shoes and thought better of it, tying them to the

knapsack instead. She picked up her camera bag and would have put

that on her shoulder too, but was stopped when a big hand took it

from her and took her knapsack too. She stared at the man in

surprise.

'I'll carry them for you,' he said easily, slinging them on his own

broad shoulder. Sara regarded him with a faint twinkle in her eyes.

'Do I have a choice?' she asked the world in general. Then she

addressed him personally. 'You really don't have to feel compelled to

show me off the property. I promise to leave!'

'It's my pleasure,' he murmured, looking down at her from his

superior height. This rankled. He was a stranger and had no reason to

feel favourably inclined towards her, but to say such a thing after just

spending an agreeable hour in her company was a bit of an insult.

'I suppose,' she said a little stiffly, 'I should thank you.'

'Not at all.' They climbed the rise and slid down the other side. He

moved quickly and easily in the sand, and she was soon hard put to it

to keep up with his longer stride. Finally she had to beg him to slow

down, which he did immediately, waiting for her to catch up. She

drew up alongside him, inwardly angry at him for his apparent

eagerness to get rid of her and furious at herself for feeling angry at

him. It shouldn't matter one way or the other.

When they had reached the path that led to her back door, he handed

her the bags and stepped out of the way so that she could pass. She

nodded pleasantly to him, determined to be polite and uncaring, then

stopped to gape at his words when he told her quietly, 'Feel free to

come exploring on the beach whenever you like.'

She stared and then managed to reply, 'Are you sure? I mean, I don't

want to be an imposition on your privacy.'

He looked down at her with an enigmatic look, eyes taking in every

detail. 'I'm sure. You'll be welcome.'

She was silent for a minute at this. 'Would it be all right if I came

back this evening to take a picture of the sunset? You really don't

mind me tramping about on the beach?'

'I really don't mind, and yes, feel free to come whenever you like.

The house is well back from the beach, so you won't be invading my

privacy.'

Nice hint, that, she thought. 'Very well, if you're sure, then.' A

thought struck her and she laughed. 'What do I call you, anyway?'

He was standing with hands pushed into his jeans pockets, the stance

hunching his shoulders, and his feet were planted well apart. She had

a quick impression of immovable strength, and then he was moving,

back up, starting to turn away. 'My name is Greg.'

She backed up herself. 'Nice meeting you, then, Greg. Thank you for

letting me come back.'

'You're welcome, Sara.'

Without a backward glance, she took off up the path and soon let

herself into her back door, unaware of the tall figure that stopped and

turned, watching her go with unreadable eyes, following her until she

was out of sight.

Back inside, Sara went about the actions of putting the knapsack

away and washing her thermos and plastic cup mechanically. She

spent a good deal of energy in thinking about the stranger whom she

had apparently befriended. Or had she befriended him after all? He

had seemed such a strange mixture of politeness and bitterness, of

wariness and friendliness, of cynicism and real concern. Thinking of

the man and the aura of watchful reserve that clung to him, she

started to wonder at her own overtures again.

It was definitely a strange situation, for she hardly ever made casual

acquaintances. But that look in the man's eyes and the unhappy nerve

to his mouth had struck a spark of understanding and empathy within

her. She knew, how it felt to be unhappy; she had been extremely

unhappy herself until just recently. She knew how it felt to be bitter

and disillusioned. Perhaps that was the reason she had made such

obvious overtures of friendliness. She had felt a desire to show him

that there was the possibility to overcome bitterness, and to be happy

after disappointment. Perhaps that was why she had spilled so much

of herself out to him.

She shrugged and put the matter out of her mind for the time being.

She didn't even know what prompted that strange and unhappy

expression and the chances were that she never would. There was no

reason for the man to wish to confide in a total stranger. She didn't

even want him to, anyway.

Feeling in need of an outlet for her strangely aroused emotions, she

went into the rather small living room and sat down at the ancient

piano that she had just recently had tuned. Flexing her long strong

fingers over the black and white keys, she emptied her mind of all

thought and concentrated on the mood of the moment. Then she let

her fingers come down on the keys and began to play. Strangely

enough, to her mind, what she had impulsively decided to play was a

sad, haunting love song that left her with unexplained tears in her

eyes and an ache in her throat. She played it through several times,

humming once, and then singing it softly. It left her feeling very

empty.

She didn't understand it; she had never felt so lonely in her life.

Suddenly, and with great impact, the realisation that she had no true

friends hit her. There was no one with whom she could just be herself

and not the singing star Sara Bertelli. She slowly laid her head down

on the piano keyboard, her eyes shut tight. A drop eased out from the

squeezed eyelids and dripped on to ivory, and then another followed.

How had she got to be twenty-eight years old without ever having a

serious relationship? How could she let herself get so isolated from

other human beings? Why did she let things get so hectic and

unfulfilling? Why had she let ambition rule her life?

Looking back over the years, it was easy to see the progression of

events. She had worked like a dog for so long, taking as many music

and singing lessons as she could afford, working at nights, searching

for a lucky break into the competitive field of popular music. Her

talent was dynamic and did not go overlooked for long. But then

there were the long, hard years of pure, intense, furious creative

work. Ambition is a drug that one gets hooked on, and Sara had been

a complete slave to its demands. She gave totally, with great drive

and power, whether she was in the recording studio or on the stage,

and the greedy public sucked it all up like a sponge taking in water.

One thing led to another, until all the aspects of her life seemed to

have culminated in the one event that had made her decide to leave

Los Angeles for an extended, long-overdue vacation.

It had been a long day in the recording studio. The musicians were

tired and irritable, and Sara's throat had ached. So had her head. She

was exhausted, she remembered ruefully, and the tension of the

weeks before, the terrible glittering, empty party that she had been

obliged to attend the night before, and her own stretched nerves had

caused her self-control to snap and she had ended up in a bitter fight

with Barry, her agent. She had rushed out of the room and he had

followed closely behind. Crazy, weak, infuriating tears coursed down

her cheeks.

'Here, love,' Barry coaxed softly, shocked at the sight of her tired

weeping, 'I know you've had a hectic time of it. We'll take a ten-

minute break and get everyone a cup of coffee and into a better mood

before we go on.'

She asked him, 'Couldn't we just stop for the day, Barry? I've had a

total of three hours' sleep last night because of that stupid party you

got me committed to going to, and an average of four or five for the

past three weeks. This pace is going to kill me! Can't we slow down a

little?'

'Now, baby, you know we can't, not today!' he had replied, a great

deal alarmed at her show of weakness. She had never cried before, at

least not that he had known of, and he didn't know how to handle a

woman's tears. 'We're way behind schedule as it is, and I've got

people panting down my neck for the release of this new album. I

know it's a bruising pace, but it's only for another month, and then

you can take a vacation. How does that sound?'

'I need a vacation now, not a month from now,' she whispered,

leaning tiredly against the wall. 'Barry, I don't think I'm going to

make it.'

'You will, love,' he said bracingly. Then, with more anxiety at the sad

little shake of her head, he said, 'You've got to, Sara. You're

committed to, by contract. You are going to make a million easily off

of this album, and if you break the contract's terms by discontinuing