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“It’s just that you seem…”
“Elodie and me?” And this time I scoff. “Of course not."
He continues to regard me.
“It wouldn’t happen, not in a hundred years.”
“Why not? She’s lovely, surely you noticed.”
I get busy tidying up the spare bits of wood and stacking the hexagonal cells against one wall.
Elodie…
Light-brown eyes, and blondish-brownish hair, an upturned nose, and plump lips. When she smiles, her two front teeth slightly overlap. Long legs, tanned below the rolled-up cuffs of her trousers. Slim ankles, finely shaped especially when she rises on tiptoe to reach something too high. The stretch also shows off her smaller waist and wider hips which are nicely rounded and roll when she walks. She’s a little insecure and doesn’t think herself sexy, which makes her even sexier.
Of course, I bloody noticed. I couldn’t be a man and not notice.
But being a man doesn’t make me an animal dragged along by my crotch.
“She’s fine,” I answer. “But I’ve been in enough relationships to know I need more than looks.”
“I was talking about her lovely personality.”
“No, you weren’t.” I give him a severe look and he laughs.
“Okay, but her personality is nice too.”
It’s difficult to answer this. “I need more than just ‘nice’ to make starting something worth it.”
“I wonder if, with a little more—” He starts speculating.
“A little more nothing. We’re real people, not a table you can cut on the diagonal to make something that isn’t really there.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I won’t mention it again. It’s just Pierre who has a romantic heart.”
“Well, I don’t have a romantic heart.”
Yet, over the afternoon, my mind keeps going back to what he said which makes it uncomfortable to talk to Elodie. So much for not letting myself get involved. This weekend is acting on me like paint stripper, dissolving my layers of protection. It takes a real effort to remember my resolve to keep myself aloof. So, I let the other three do the talking and I just drill where I’m told, screw what I’m told, and generally keep my eyes on my work and my own thoughts separate.
Unfortunately, this island has a way of hitting you when you least expect. The last thing I expected was that an ordinary, plump woman delivering a box of fabric would find and poke at the unhealed wounds beneath my armour.
“I’m Amira from the Casemates,” she says. “You need ribbons?” Her box is full of strips of silk, off cuts from the textile factory. Elodie is delighted initially until she discovers a folded quantity of damask.
“This is gorgeous,” Pierre says, taking out the luxurious material in deep sunset gold. “Just the signature colour you talked about yesterday.”
Elodie kneels down to stroke the fabric then puts it back in the box. “I can’t accept this. Off cuts is one thing but this is too expensive.”
“It’s a gift,” Amira says. Her accent sounds east European. “No need to pay. For you from La Canette Silks.”
“No, thank you.”
Again, it’s what I saw in her face yesterday, the battle between accepting help she desperately needs, and her pride. This is a woman who finds it difficult not only to take praise but also to take support. It pulls me to intervene.
“The colour looks just like honey,” I say to encourage her. “I think it fits your theme.”
A small corner of my mind is laughing at me, Harrison Hemingway, practical, efficient man with a drill suddenly talking about colours and themes.
Elodie is too emotional to speak clearly, I catch the words “Everyone” and “never afford” before her voice breaks.
