PART II- THE PRESENT

Chapter 3

Now, as I walk along the beach, I am still thinking of Scott. It has been over a year since I broke up with Alan and we have truly gone our separate ways, although we are dear to each other and I imagine we always will be. He still treats me with affection and calls me his girl. He has started chatting online to a girl called Sindi. She's a model, by all accounts, but I'm not even jealous when he talks about her. In fact sometimes I feel the urge to help him out, as he clearly wants to make a good impression!

I kick at the sand with my toes. Scott is not seeing anyone at the moment, as far as I know. There was a woman in New Zealand, Rachael I think her name was, but I don't know what happened to her. After that, I know he had a quick fling with a girl in Siberia, although what on earth he was doing up there, I don't know. He can be quite the dark horse at times, our Scott.

The sea rushes up the shore and laps at my feet. I am lost in my thoughts. Would it be so wrong to tell Scott how I'm starting to feel? I can't, though. I can't. I am still not sure how he feels about me, or if indeed he has any feelings towards me at all, despite his flirtatious ways. That's just him. He's like that with every woman who finds him attractive, and that's why he gets himself into hot water with them, whether intentionally or not. Would I even have the sheer courage to tell him that I like him?

I think back to when I was fifteen and Scott was twenty three. He was a hotshot fighter pilot and stood resplendent in his smart USAF uniform. In civvies he looked effortlessly sexy, and when he wanted to, he could melt you with his dimples. I remember all the neighbourhood girls would flock round when he was home, waiting outside on the wall for him as though he were a rock star or something. His brothers would tease him relentlessly, but he'd shrug them off with a grin. Even then, he was getting around.

At thirty, he hasn't changed much. Looks-wise, he's stronger, more muscular. There is a leanness to his jaw, a new maturity in his eyes. He is handsome, there's no doubt about it, but he has other fine qualities too. His leadership skills are exceptional. He is confident without being cocky. He is kind, he is funny, he can be surprisingly gentle and intuitive given the right moment. He has a list of achievements as long as the day, but he is not a show-off or a braggart. He has no false pride, no jumped-up sense of self. He will help you with anything if it's within his power to do so.

I sigh with dismay. I am losing my grip. I can feel myself being reeled in.

I walk down the shoreline as the afternoon bids farewell, the sun hanging low in the sky. I watch its lazy descent- sliding through oily clouds like a blob of paint, reminding me of one of Virgil's landscapes. For as long as I live here, I will never get tired of the sunsets. I sit down on the beach and dig my toes into the sand to watch the vivid orange and pink tinged clouds change colour. Eventually, as the blood-red orb starts to sink below the sea, I shiver in the sudden coolness of an early evening breeze and get to my feet. I make my way back to the house.

I climb the stone steps that lead up from the beach to the patio, where the swimming pool glimmers with the borrowed reflections of house-lights. I walk around the edge and dip my toe in, disturbing the water and sending the reflections dancing. It's hard to believe, when everything is so quiet, that underneath this pool is the enormous hangar where a huge silver rocket-plane lurks. Thunderbird 1. Scott calls her his 'baby', but she's the most monstrous baby I've ever seen.

There's another flight of steps leading from the patio to the house, and as I go up I hear piano music drifting out of the glass sliding doors- Virgil is practising his jazz numbers. The sun has gone now, and the night falls fast. I am glad to be going indoors, I don't want to be alone with my thoughts any more.

Alan and Scott are in the kitchen. They are making themselves huge sandwiches even though dinner is only a couple of hours away. Alan is laughing about something. Scott just looks wryly amused.

"I don't know why you don't hook up with her, Scott," Alan is saying. "She's a babe!"

My heart jumps. Who are they talking about? What is Scott up to now?

"Alan, listen to me. I am not going out on a blind date with Drusilla," Scott replies, sucking mayonnaise off his thumb.

"Priscilla, Scotty boy. She's called Priscilla."

"Who's called Priscilla?" I ask nonchalantly, although I feel anything but cool and collected.

"Oh, er, hi Tin-Tin," says Alan, blushing. "One of Sindi's friends asked if I knew any single guys, so I sent her a photo of Scott. Now she really, really wants to meet him, and suddenly he's being a total nerd about it, which I can't understand at all!"

"I don't even know the girl," Scott mutters. "Not only that, she's nineteen, for God's sake."

"And when has that been a problem, Scotty?" Alan waves a slice of cheese at his older brother. "You've seen her. She's hot. For crying out loud, she's a model!"

"I don't care. I am not going out with her." Scott retorts. Even I am surprised by this.

"I bet I can get you to change your mind. I sure wouldn't say no, put it that way." Alan squashes his sandwich down, lifts it up and takes a huge bite. Mayonnaise drips onto the floor. I wince slightly at his tactlessness, but enough time has passed now, and I don't get upset.

"He's got girls on the brain today," Scott remarks, turning to me.

"Hasn't he always?" I respond, watching crumbs spill out of Alan's mouth as he munches.

"Anyway, Al, I'm busy Saturday night. I've got to take Lady Penelope to her Fancy Dress Ball at that socialite friend of hers, what's she called, Annabel Ice-Cream Cone."

"Rice-Wetheringstone," I correct him.

"Yeah, her." He wags his knife. "Virgil was meant to go, but it clashes with Jazz Night At Kaminsky's and you know he doesn't give those nights up for anyone."

My heart sinks, but I manage to inject jollity into my voice. "How exciting. A Fancy Dress Ball! What are you going to go as, Scott?"

"A chicken," says Alan. "Buk buk buk bukaaawk!"

"Quit it, kid." Scott leans against the counter, chewing on his own culinary masterpiece. "I don't know, Tin-Tin. Any suggestions?"

"A pirate?" I offer. He grimaces. "A highwayman?" He pulls an even bigger face. "A bank robber? A court jester? James Bond? Spider-Man?"

"Spider-Man, yeah, right. The only Spider-Man suit round here is Alan's pyjamas."

"How about Batman?"

"Or The Joker," says Alan. " He wouldn't even need to wear makeup for that one."

"Are you finished?" says Scott.

"Not yet," says Alan. "He-Man, Master of the Universe."

"Skeletor."

"Fred Flintstone."

"Barney Rubble."

"Wilma. Or Dino."

"You guys watch way too much kids' TV," Scott snorts. "If you come up with any sensible ideas, I'll be outside." He leaves in disgust, clutching what's left of his sandwich. Alan and I look at each other and start laughing.

Later on, after dinner, which is as raucous and as noisy an affair as usual, a bottle of brandy appears. Mr. Tracy, Virgil and Scott all pour themselves a snifter, while Mrs. Tracy sips a glass of tonic wine. Mrs. Tracy has always insisted that I call her Grandma, just like the boys do, but I have always felt shy about this. She smiles at me now with her twinkling eyes and settles herself down near the piano to hear Virgil play. He serenades her with all the old tunes she remembers from her dance hall days, and she loves it.

Gordon and Alan grab ice cold beers from the fridge and head down to the games room to play pool. Mr. Tracy sifts through paperwork at his desk, and Scott walks out on to the balcony.

If Scott still smoked, this is the moment when he would be lighting up. I've never been a smoker myself, but I used to enjoy watching Scott smoke. He looked like one of those old-time movie stars. He had a silver Zippo lighter- he'd flick it open, cup his hands around it and then snap it shut. He'd take long, manly drags with the cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger and then flick the butt far out of the window when he was done. After he gave up, he would still flick the Zippo as it gave him something to do with his hands. But eventually he gave that up too, although he held on to the Zippo as a memento.

I follow him onto the balcony and smile shyly at him. He raises an eyebrow and smiles back, warmly. I stand beside him at the railing.

"It's a lovely night," I say.

"It sure is," he agrees, swirling his brandy glass.

"So many stars."

"Uh-huh." Behind us in the house, Virgil strikes up a rousing piano rendition of Tuxedo Junction. He really is one of the most accomplished and gifted musicians there is.

"There's a star at the North Pole called Ritovia," Scott says. "Want to know why it's called that?"

"Why is it called that?" I say, anticipating a Scott Special.

"Because when you stand at the Pole and look up, it's Ritovia."

I groan. "Dear me. That was pathetic."

"And that was one of my better ones."

"Yes," I retort, "I can quite believe it."

I want to say more, but I fall silent. After a while I am aware that he's looking at me.

"Is that one of your new tops?" he asks.

I study my pale yellow blouse. "This? No, Scott, I've had this for ages."

"Oh. Well, it's new to me. I like it."

"Thank you," I smile, "but I've worn it before. Lots of times."

"It's the first time I've seen it."

"Maybe it's just the first time you've noticed it." I am suddenly shy.

He raises his eyebrows as though the thought has just occurred to him. "Maybe it is," he agrees.

"I like your top, too." I attempt my best under-the-eyelashes gaze. He is wearing a soft, light-grey cashmere sweater. With his blue jeans, he looks like a mini version of Thunderbird 1.

"Thank you," he says. "The colour matches the bags under my eyes."

I nudge him gently. "There are no bags under your eyes, Scott Tracy."

He turns to face me fully. He pulls on his lower eyelids. "Look," he insists.

I squirm at the pink rims of his eyeballs. "Don't do that, Scott, it's disgusting."

"Wait, I can do this trick. Watch." He starts trying to fold his eyelids over. There was a boy at my junior school who used to do that. His eyelids would stay folded over and he'd chase the girls around the playground with his lids all pink and wet-looking. It was horrible.

"Scott, stop it. You'll have your eye out." And that would be a terrible shame, I add to myself, because your eyes are really quite attractive. "Honestly, you're worse than Gordon."

"Ow," he exclaims. His eye starts watering.

"See what I told you. You've probably got an eyelash in it now."

He rubs at his eye, making it worse.

"Here, let me see." I pull him into the light. He bends his head down and lets me pull gently at his lower lid with my thumb. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. His face is so close I could easily kiss him. He smells like the spring rain we used to get back home. I spot the offending item, a long black eyelash nestled right into the fold of his eye. "I was right," I tell him. "Come on. We're going to have to go and wash it out."

I lead him, squinting and grumbling, to the bathroom. I sit him on the rim of the bathtub and rummage around in the cabinet for eye drops and cotton buds. I spy him in the mirror, rubbing at his eye, which has gone pink and bloodshot. I tell him off. I find the eye drops and go to him. I put my hand on his forehead- his head is on a level with my shoulder. I stand so close that I'm in danger of prodding him with my breasts. I tilt his head back. Gently, I lower his eyelid while he looks up past me at the ceiling. "You've really pushed it in," I say, squeezing two drops into his eye. The eyelash doesn't budge.

"Is it in deep?" he murmurs.

"Very deep."

"That's not good," he says, his mouth tilting up, "when it goes in too deep."

"Scott," I say sternly. "Don't try and make me laugh, or there will be an accident, and it won't be me being rushed off to Sick Bay."

"Sorry."

I go back to fishing the eyelash out, dabbing at it with the very tip of a cotton bud. Eventually I manage to dislodge it and I hold it up in front of him."There's the culprit."

"Wow. It's long."

"Very long," I reply. I hand him a tissue to wipe the eye drops off his cheek. "Don't rub it."

"Or what? I'll go blind?"

"Honestly, Scott. You really do need a vacation."

I put the eye drops and cotton buds away. I lean against the washbasin cabinet. He is still perched on the edge of the bath, his poor eye red and swollen.

"So, aren't you interested in Alan's friend, then?" I ask breezily.

"The model? Drusilla or whatever her name is? Nah."

"Not even though she's a model?"

"Models are overrated. They're neurotic, and they don't stop talking about themselves."

"You've known a few models, then."

"One or two. Believe me, I'd like to keep the numbers low."

One or two indeed.

"She'll be very disappointed."

"She can hook up with Gordon, He likes models."

"Swimwear ones."

"Wearing scuba diving equipment."

I gaze at him fondly. "This is very unlike you, Scott, to turn down the chance of a date."

He thinks for a moment. "I guess I just don't like being set up."

"You don't need the help, I suppose."

He smiles wryly. "You must think the world of me, Tin-Tin," he chuckles.

"So what do you look for in a girl, Scott? Besides availability. Looks? Looks and brains? What?"

Am I fishing, or am I fishing?

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I just like them."

"Nice girls?" I attempt my best flirtatious smile. "Or naughty, what about naughty?"

"Yeah. Nice and naughty," he grins.

"What about Lady Penelope?"

"What about her?"

"Do you like her?"

"You're being very inquisitive, young lady. Why are you bothered about Lady Penelope?"

"I'm not bothered," I shrug.

"I think she's more into Virgil, anyway."

I giggle like a co-conspirator. "Really?"

"Sure. Haven't you noticed? The last time she was here, she practically draped herself across the piano."

"I thought he was just teaching her to play!"

"Yeah, but not the piano."

I stifle a burst of giggles. "How did that go over my head?"

"Because, Tin-Tin, you're a beautiful, sweet, innocent little girl who is as yet uncorrupted by the ways of the world." He gets up and peers at his eye in the mirror.

"Excuse me, Scott, I am not that sweet or innocent. Or uncorrupted," I protest.

"Don't say that, Tin-Tin. There needs to be somebody left I can believe in."

"And I stopped being a little girl a long time ago."

He looks me up and down, smiles to himself. "Okay, I'll grant you that."

He's so close to me. I want so badly to feel his arms around me. I take a deep breath and try to push my breasts out a little more, but he has already stopped looking. He turns the cold tap on and starts splashing water on his face, soothing and cooling his eye.

"Are you all right now then, Scott?"

"Uh-huh," he says through water.

"I'll leave you to it then," I say.

"Sure, Tin-Tin. Hey, thanks, you know. For getting that eyelash out. You make a great nurse."

"And you make a great patient," I smile.