I’m a big Garbo fan. Are you? I’ve seen all her films over and over again but this one is my favourite. Have you read the book or seen the opera?’
Kit laughed until she saw from his face that he hadn’t been joking. ‘You mean there really is an opera?’ she asked, her green eyes wide, glittering and sharp like shards of broken green glass in sunlight.
‘La Traviata—have you ever seen that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not that keen on opera. I’ve never seen La Traviata, although I have heard the music quite often.’
‘Oh, you’d love this opera—same storyline, more or less, but even sadder and more romantic than the film—but that’s the music.’ He smiled, and she blinked at how good-looking that smile made him.
His hair might have been going grey but his features were spare and rugged and his eyes held charm. ‘Without music any film loses half its impact, don’t you agree? You can do without words, but music creates the mood.’
Kit nodded. ‘Absolutely. And they realised that right from the start of cinema. Even silent films were always accompanied by music—live music in that case, of course—a pianist or an organist. Even a trio, I gather, and—’
Behind them there was a meaningful cough, and Kit looked round and saw the cinema usherette, a pert blonde who wore a lot of make-up, impatiently tapping her foot and glaring. ‘Oh, sorry! Are we the last to leave?’
‘Yes, and we’re waiting to lock up! Are you coming, or shall we leave you here all night?’
The girl turned on her heel and flounced off and Kit got up, grimacing. ‘Oh, dear, she’s cross now.’
The man stood up too, and immediately towered over her, making Kit feel smaller than ever as she followed him up the steps into the brightly lit foyer where the manager was waiting to lock up behind them.
‘I was beginning to think you two planned to stay all night,’ he told them in irritable tones.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting; it was such a great evening’s entertainment,’ the tall man said, and gave him one of those smiles which changed his face. Kit watched the other man’s features relax, saw an answering smile.
‘Glad you enjoyed it, sir. We had an almost full house tonight; we always do for Garbo. Come again. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ they said, walking out through the big plate-glass doors which the manager locked behind them.
A cold March wind blew along the rain-wet street, and Kit shivered. Who would have thought that it was nearly spring? The passage of time had begun to depress her in recent years; it went too fast and she was worried by the speed with which the year flashed by. Am I getting old? she thought, and felt like breaking into a run, as though that would take her far away from such gloomy thoughts.
Before she could move, though, the tall man took hold of her coat collar and raised it so that it framed her face, sheltered her from the wind. She gave him a startled look, tensing at the feel of his gloved hands against her skin. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘You looked cold.’ His hands still in position on either side of her head, he bent towards her and murmured, ‘Fancy a Chinese meal?’
Kit’s green eyes widened. ‘You’re a fast worker! I don’t even know your name!’
‘Don’t be so Victorian!’
Oh, yes, he certainly had charm, she thought—a warm, lazy charm which showed most when his face was in motion, talking, laughing. He must have been a real drop-dead knockout when he was young. How old was he now? she wondered, eyeing him assessingly.
Younger than me, anyway, she decided. Not fifty yet. Getting on that way, but he looks good for his age. Men always did—that annoyed her whenever she thought about it. It was so unfair.
‘Like what you see?’ he asked, watching her watching him, his eyes bright as if he liked to have her looking at him.
‘I’m thinking about it,’ she told him tartly. She was no teenager to be swept off her feet by a stranger who tried to pick her up in a cinema! But she was flattered, she couldn’t deny it. Maybe he was short-sighted and thought she was much younger than she actually was?
Who are you trying to kid? she cynically told herself. She probably looked older than her years! Along with all the other advantages they had, men aged slower than women. They didn’t live as long, of course. Women tended to outlive them, but life did not compensate by letting women keep their looks into old age.
Time started in on you once you were in your forties, pencilling wrinkles in around your eyes and mouth, especially if you had ever smiled a lot, which seemed doubly unfair. Women with cold faces and cold hearts kept a smooth skin longer. If you were active, keen on skiing or sailing or just being out in the fresh air and sunshine, you paid for that too. I probably have skin like an old prune, she thought, remembering holidays in the sun, on boats and in Austria, skiing.
Oh, well, she had had a wonderful time during all those years, and she didn’t regret a minute of it, but she avoided mirrors these days.
‘Well, don’t take too long making up your mind,’ he drawled. ‘Sorry to rush you, and I don’t normally go this fast, but I don’t want to let you go before I get a chance to find out more about you and make sure I am going to see you again.’
Kit was breathless and, for once, wordless. I know who he looks like! she thought at that instant. Clark Gable. All he needs is a moustache.
He gazed down into her eyes and said softly, ‘I’ll start by telling you I’m Joe Ingram. I’m forty-two, divorced, heterosexual; I’ve lived in a lot of different places, in a lot of different countries, and I’ve only just moved here, but I’ve suddenly decided I’m going to love it.’
Kit gave him an incredulous look. ‘Is there anything wrong with your eyesight, Joe? For your information, I’m fifty-two—that’s ten years older than you! I’m also divorced, I have a son of twenty-six who’s married with two kids of his own, and my hair is silver where it used to be blonde.’
He put out a long forefinger and curled a strand of her hair around it. ‘It’s naturally silver? I thought you’d dyed it. It looks terrific—and you didn’t tell me your name.’
‘Kit—Kit Randall,’ she said slowly, staring at him. ‘Did you hear what I said? I’m ten years older than you.’
‘I’m not deaf; of course I heard you. I’m not hung up on age. Are you? That’s a very conventional attitude.’
‘This is a very conventional little town, Joe. Most small towns are very hot on traditions and conventions—at least, in England they are; and Silverburn is no different. I know—I’ve lived here all my life.’
It seemed a terrible confession as she said it; he was clearly sophisticated, cosmopolitan, experienced, the very opposite of her quiet, stay-at-home self. She had never had the urge to go away from this tranquil, beautiful corner of England with its hedged green fields, deep, shady woods and ancient villages.
This town was very old too, with houses from every period of English history—medieval, Elizabethan, Georgian,
