‘Brilliant,’ Rose said, beaming. Only the way she was still holding tight to Nick’s hand let Nick know that underneath this outward show of bravado she was more nervous than he was. But she wasn’t letting on. ‘We have a party.’
And a party they had.
It would have been a good party anyway, Nick thought as the evening wore on. Anyone who could play any sort of instrument had been dragged into the toe-tappingly good band. The food seemed generous and plentiful- great home-cooking. The beer and lemonade and wine flowed plentifully. And Rose worked the crowd.
Actually, they both did. Nick had been in enough international situations to know how to make small-talk, to ask the right questions, to keep things flowing smoothly without treading on sensitivities. He’d been trained to do it. Rose did it naturally.
It almost felt as if he was back at work, Nick thought as he moved among the crowd, but there was a huge difference here. For whoever he spoke to in this gathering was trying desperately to find out about him, to gauge his interest as being genuine or not, and to discover whether Rose felt the same. He and Rose had spent so little time together that he could only hope they were now presenting a united front. They were forced apart-there were too many people wanting to talk to them to allow them to stay as a couple-but he was aware that people were talking easily to her, laughing with her, enjoying her presence.
As he was. She had style, he thought, the sort of style that couldn’t be taught. They’d had people come into the firm who’d lacked people skills, and no amount of training had given it to them. It required genuine interest in the person they were talking to. It could never be feigned.
‘She’s a lovely young woman,’ an elderly man said to him, and he realised that he’d turned to glance at Rose and maybe watched for longer than he’d intended. Well, why not? The farmer was watching her too, and his face showed he was as appreciative as Nick was.
‘She’s a damned sight more attractive than her sister,’ the old man said, and that brought Nick up with a start. There were factors here that he hadn’t yet met-threats? Their escort had disappeared. The powers that be would be uncomfortable with what was happening right now, he thought. What would they do?
‘Please…’ It was a young man, just arrived on a shabby motor-scooter. He had a camera slung around his neck. Beside him was an intense-looking young woman with pad and pencil.
‘We had a call,’ the young man said. ‘To say you were here.’
‘Lew and his friends run a newspaper,’ the old man said.
‘It’s supposed to be illegal,’ someone else said. ‘Only the government can’t shut it down because they don’t charge. It comes out as two or four pages every month.’
‘With things the government don’t want us to know,’ someone else added.
So he and Rose were interviewed, a professional, insightful interview that Nick realised was sympathetic to the people’s cause. The journalist wasn’t interested so much in Nick and Rose as what they intended to do. She was interested in them as a means to lessen the plight of the men and women around them.
As was everyone else. As the interview progressed, the crowd around them fell silent. Someone signalled the musicians to put aside their instruments. Every ear was tuned to what they were saying. As Nick outlined the changes in Alp d’Azur and Alp d’Estella-their neighbouring principalities-and their hopes that the same changes could be made here, there was a ripple of approval through the crowd.
Finally the reporter tucked her notebook in her jacket, smiling her approval. Interview over. Now for the photographs.
‘Dance,’ someone called. ‘That’ll make a great photograph.’
The musicians obediently struck up again, but not in the lively folk music they’d been playing. They played a slow waltz so the photographer would have time to focus.
Once more Rose was in his arms.
‘We’re doing okay,’ he murmured into her hair as he led her round the grassy makeshift dance-floor. No one else was dancing-all eyes were on them.
‘I know,’ she said, but she sounded uncomfortable.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I’m thinking…It feels weird.’
‘The whole situation?’
‘Dancing with you.’
He paused, lost his timing, made a recovery. The youth with the camera was moving around them, taking shots from all angles.
‘It feels okay to me,’ he said cautiously. ‘You’re not a bad dancer.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, but she didn’t smile.
‘So what’s weird?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You just said…’
‘I know what I said,’ she snapped, and concentrated on the dance for a little. But she didn’t need to concentrate.
‘Um…Rose?’
‘Yes?’ She sounded seriously annoyed.
‘I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong here.’
‘You haven’t done anything,’ she said crossly. ‘That’s the trouble.’
‘Right.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense to me either.’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence. Another circuit of the dance ground.
‘You’re very good,’ she said at last, stiffly, and he thought about that for a bit, aware that it behoved him to tread cautiously.
‘At dancing?’ he asked at last.
‘At this,’ she said. ‘At the political bit.’
‘I was thinking the same thing about you.’
‘No, but you’re smooth,’ she said. ‘You do it like a professional. I don’t know how much it means.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s occurred to me that I’m not really sure who you are,’ she said. ‘You’re like a piece of veneered furniture, polished on the outside, but what’s underneath?’
‘Wormwood,’ he said promptly, and felt her smile.
‘I don’t think so. But you’re so…smooth.’
‘And that worries you?’
‘You see, I find you incredibly attractive,’ she said.
As dance conversation that was a real show-stopper. His feet faltered.
‘Do mind your steps,’ she said kindly. ‘The photographer’s documenting your every move.’
‘I’ve never been told before…’
‘That you’re incredibly attractive? I find that hard to believe.’
He was back in step now, and found himself smiling, responding to her laughter. ‘It’s a guy’s line.’
‘A pick-up line,’ she agreed. ‘That’s why I thought I ought to say it.’
‘You’re trying to pick me up?’
‘The opposite.’ They turned right by the youth with the camera, and she beamed into the lens. ‘It just occurred to me, then, watching you.’
‘Watching me dance?’
‘No, watching you talk to everyone. Watching you make people smile. Watching you make people believe that you’re sincere and that you have their best interests at heart.’
‘That’s a problem?’ he said cautiously, and she nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘You want to tell me why?’
‘Because I’m starting to believe you. And it doesn’t help that you dance so well.’
‘You want me to dance badly?’
