Fishermans Point

Tom inherited the Fisherman's Point cottage from Polly, his great aunt. At the time, Tom and Karen were living in a small garden flat in Shepherd's Bush. Karen was working as a marketing executive for a package holiday company. Tom was working as a freelance journalist, although what he really wanted to do was try his hand at writing a novel.

The cottage was not large. It had probably started life as a fisherman's cottage sometime in the early part of the 18th century. Polly had given it a new roof and added a south-facing deck. Later she had added a small extension to one side. The extension now housed the bathroom. In the first year that Tom and Karen owned the cottage, they had removed a couple of the interior dividing walls to make one reasonably spacious living area with a small-but-functional kitchen at one end. There was also a decent-sized bedroom, and a smaller box room that Tom had converted into a workspace.

In the second year that Tom and Karen owned the cottage, they spent most of August down there. The plan had been to spend ten days or so painting the exterior and then another couple of weeks just relaxing. As it turned out, they completed the painting in just four days, and by the end of the second week Tom had started sketching out some ideas for a novel.

When it came time to go back to town, Tom decided to stay on for a few more days and Karen went back to London alone. That was when she met Robbie. Talking about it later, she admitted that it probably should have been nothing more than an afternoon of hot sex. But, for a brief moment, she thought that she had found true love.

Tom spent the week working on the outline of his novel, and Karen arrived back down at the cottage on the Friday evening. For different reasons, they both drank too much. But in the morning they talked. And in the afternoon they talked more. And they drank more.

Eventually Karen said: 'Look, I think we should have some time apart. I think I need to get my head straight.'

Tom was not convinced. 'Some time? How much time is some time?' he asked.

'I don't know. Let's just ... well, see.'

And so Tom stayed on at Fisherman's Point and Karen went back to the Shepherd's Bush flat.

Autumn turned to winter; and Christmas came and went. Tom made a few trips up to town, and Karen made a few trips to the cottage, but both knew that they were drifting further apart. Then, one weekend towards the end of February, Karen arrived at the cottage with papers for an uncontested divorce. Tom was surprised. 'Gosh, I hadn't realised that we had reached this particular crossroad. Is it Robbie?'

'Robbie's gone,' Karen said. 'Back to his wife.'

'I see. Someone else?'

Karen smiled. 'No.'

'So ... what's the rush?'

'No rush. I just think it will be better this way.'

'Well, if there's no one else, shouldn't we give it another go? I could put the novel to one side for a bit. It's not that we hate each other or anything.'

Karen shook her head. 'No. But things are just not ... well, not the same. Maybe they never were. Probably not your fault. Probably mine. Maybe we never should have got married in the first place. I don't know.'

Just five months later, towards the end of July, Karen married Arnold, an investment banker who worked in The City. Petra was born in the middle of December.

To the surprise of his agent, Malcolm, Tom managed to complete his novel, When the Devil Drives, in just over a year, and it came out the following March. But its reception was not great. Sales were patchy, and praise was mostly faint.

'Three things,' Malcolm said. 'First, the weather. I don't care what people say, when you're up to your oxters in late snow and disrupted timetables, getting down to your local bookshop to see what's new – or even looking in the right corner of the Internet – is not high on your list of priorities. Second, who could have predicted that you and Peter Swift would have chosen almost the same theme at almost the same time? And remember, he's already a well-established author and his book came out three weeks earlier. And third, there's just too much political stuff going on at the moment. People are suddenly spending their evenings glued to the telly.'

And then Tom's book was short-listed for the Camberley Prize. 'Well, there you go. What the fuck do I know?' Malcolm said as he eased the cork from a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and poured a generous slosh into two of the three champagne flutes that were standing ready and waiting. 'You're a gold-plated genius. I never doubted that. And we're all going to be rich. Well, you and Harold are.'

'Oh? Have you decided to forego your commission?' Tom asked.

Malcolm smiled. 'You know how it is, Tom. I would if I could. But a chap has to eat. Anyway ... cheers.' And he raised his glass. 'Oh, and by the way, Harold is sending over one of the girls from the publicity department. He thinks there's some mileage to be had from this short-listing business.'

Author and agent were halfway through their celebratory glass of The Widow when 'the girl from the publicity department' arrived. 'Come in. Come in,' Malcolm said. 'This is Tom. And Tom, this is ... umm ....'

'Bella.'

Malcolm frowned. 'Yes, of course. Bella.'

'Congratulations,' Bella said. 'Quite an achievement. You must be pleased.'

Tom nodded. 'Thank you. To be honest, it's all a bit of a surprise. But at least it's a nice one for a change.'

Malcolm poured Bella a glass of champagne. 'So ... do we have a plan?'

'I've jotted down a few ideas,' she said. 'But I thought, before I take it too far, I'd really like to get Tom's thoughts.'

Calling Bella a 'girl' was typical of Malcolm. She was very definitely a woman. And a rather attractive woman at that. She appeared to be close to Tom's age – 35, 36 – and she had the confident air of someone who knew what she was doing. But Malcolm, despite having only just turned 42 himself, was Old School. Any female below board level was 'a girl', unless, of course, she held a noble title. Being a duchess was always a good start.

'Gosh, I don't know,' Tom said. 'This is all a bit new to me.'

They kicked around a few ideas. Then the wine ran out, and Malcolm seemed uncharacteristically unwilling to find another bottle.

'I think I should probably go,' Tom said.

Bella nodded. 'Yes. So should I.'

Once they were out on the street, Tom suggested that he and Bella might find somewhere for a quick bite. And, over some surprisingly good scaloppine al limone at a little Italian place near Marble Arch, they chatted about the fickle finger of fate that is literary prizes. 'It's quite amazing really,' Bella said. 'Your book is still the same book that it was six weeks ago – except now everyone wants to read it, and every bookshop wants to put it in their window. Not that either of us should be complaining.'

'Have you read it?' Tom asked.

Bella smiled a slightly lop-sided smile. 'As a matter of fact ... yes. And that was before it was short-listed.'

'And?'

'I liked it. I thought that Harry Buckton was a really interesting character. And I liked the way that you leaked out his motivation just a little bit at a time – as if, at the beginning, even he didn't know why he was doing what he was doing. Which I assume he didn't. Yes. I liked it a lot. And that's not something that I can say about all of our books. There are more than a few that I have never been able to read beyond the first 20 or so pages.'

'But you still promoted them.'

'Well, naturally. That's my job. But I do find it easier to get behind a book that I like.'

'Nice to know,' Tom said.

'Look, I hope you won't be offended, but I think we need some new publicity photographs,' Bella said. 'The ones we have on file make you look more like an accountant than an author.'

Tom smiled. 'They are a bit grim, aren't they?'

'Malcolm says that you live on a rather wild stretch of the coastline ....'

'Well, not that wild. Unless there's a big easterly blowing.'

'I'm wondering if I might come down and get a few pics of you in your natural environment – in your lair, as it were.'

'Sure. If you think that that would be a good idea.'

They agreed that Bella would come down to Fisherman's Point the following Tuesday. 'Say around midday?'

'Yeah. Fine,' Tom said.

When Tom was up in London, he usually stayed at his sister's place in Notting Hill (he and Karen had sold the Shepherd's Bush flat). Susanna, his sister, was a business development executive for an IT firm and spent quite a lot of her time 'on the road', meaning that Tom often had the flat to himself. When he and Bella left the restaurant, it was on the tip of his tongue to invite her back. Not that Tom was exactly a Lothario, but then neither was he a monk. And there was something about Bella. Or maybe it was just the effect of the champagne followed by a glass or two of pinot grigio and some agreeable conversation. In the end, Tom put Bella in a taxi and then headed for Marble Arch and the Central Line Tube to Notting Hill Gate.

The following morning, he drove back down to Fisherman's Point and immediately set to work on a short story. Bella phoned on Monday morning. 'Is it still convenient for me to come down tomorrow?'

'Oh, definitely. Although the beautiful weather we've been having looks as if it's about to desert us. They're talking showers.'

'I'm sure that we can work around a few spots of rain.'

She said that she would catch a train and then get a taxi to Tom's place. But Tom told her to just text him or call him when she was on the train. 'I'll pick you up from the station.'

'Are you sure?'

Tom laughed. 'I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise.'

When Tom woke on Tuesday morning, it looked as though the forecasters had got it right for a change. There was a cool breeze coming in from the northeast, and a bank of cloud building on the horizon. He waited for Bella's text and then drove into town to pick up a few supplies before heading to the railway station to meet her. Less than an hour later they were back at the cottage.

'This is really nice,' Bella said. 'From what Malcolm said, I imagined something a little more ... well, rustic. This looks like something off a postcard.'

Tom grinned. 'Well, it's hardly a palace. Also, it's amazing what a coat of paint will do.' Bella followed him into the cottage. 'This is it,' he said. 'What you see is pretty much what you get. There's a bathroom though there, if you need it. The bedroom's next door. And through that door is where I do most of my writing – either there or out on the deck. Can I get you a coffee? Or do you want to get straight down to work?'

'A coffee would be nice,' Bella said.

While Tom made the coffee, Bella wandered back out onto the deck. 'Is that shingle spit thing, right out in front, is that the eponymous Fisherman's Point?' she said.

'I've never really been sure, but I guess so,' Tom replied. 'As small as it is, until you get to Dungeness, it's the only pointy bit around here – although it does move up and down the beach a bit. When I first used to come here – 25 years ago – it was right out in front of that pink cottage, about 150 metres further north.'

'And do fishermen go out there and fish?' Bella asked.

'Some of us have been known to take our rods out there,' Tom said. 'Whether that counts as fishing or not, I'm not sure. I think for it to count as fishing you have to catch some fish.'

Bella smiled and nodded.

'Do you normally take the authors' photographs?' Tom asked when he brought the coffee out onto the deck.

'Not always. But I thought that we were getting on quite well the other night. And I always think it helps if the sitter and the photographer have a bit of a rapport.'

'I'm sure it does,' Tom said. 'By the way, are you OK out here? Or would you prefer to go inside?'

'No, this is fine. This jacket is really warm.' Over her tan chino-style trousers and red and blue hooped sweater, Bella was wearing a dark blue Barbour-style wax jacket. Despite her slightly-bulky outdoor clothing, Tom thought that Bella looked very attractive – perhaps not in a conventional way, but attractive nevertheless.

As Tom set the coffee mugs down on the weathered teak table, Bella slipped the lens cap off the Nikon DSLR camera that hung from a broad black and yellow strap around her neck. 'Hmm. This is quite nice light,' she said. 'Quite ... silvery.'

Tom looked out across the grey-green sea. 'Yesterday, we had bright sunshine – almost golden. It was a bit milder, too. Still, at least it hasn't rained. Well, not yet.'

'So, how did you find this place?' Bella asked.

As Tom told her about his great aunt, and his former wife, and how some things had 'just happened', Bella started snapping away, pausing every now and again to review the resulting images on the small screen at the back of the camera. 'Hmm. Nice,' she said. 'And definitely not accountant-like.'

Tom smiled.

'Could we try a few shots out on the spit?'

'You're in charge,' Tom said.

They walked out maybe 25 or 30 metres onto the shingle spit.

'What do you want me to do?' Tom asked.

'Can you sing?'

'No.'

'Oh well, don't worry,' Bella said. 'Neither can I.'

Tom laughed. It wasn't that anything was particularly funny. He just felt unexpectedly happy and relaxed.

'I think that'll do,' Bella said. And she took the lens cap out of her jacket pocket and snapped it back onto the front of the Nikkor lens.

Tom looked a little surprised. 'Is that it?'

'I think so. We'll download these onto my laptop and have a bit of an organise. But, yes, I think we have several shots that we can use.'

'Gosh. That was painless,' Tom said. 'In that case ... I'll make us some lunch. I take it that you haven't eaten.'

'Umm ... no, not really. Well ... not at all actually.'

While Bella downloaded the images from the camera to her laptop, and started to select a dozen or so images for further consideration, Tom pulled out a large non-stick pan, a chopping board, and his favourite chef's knife. 'You're not a vegetarian or anything, are you?'

'Nope. Just your average omnivore,' Bella assured him.

Tom chopped a chorizo sausage into small cubes and put them in the pan to start rendering down. He added some roughly chopped red onion and about half of a red capsicum – also roughly chopped. As the onion and capsicum mixture started to cook down with the chorizo, he took a poached chicken breast from the fridge, chopped it into three roughly equal pieces, and then broke the pieces up further with his fingers. After another two or three minutes, the chicken joined the rest of the ingredients in the pan. And then he added a couple of roughly torn up sun-dried tomatoes and some chopped flat-leaf parsley. Finally, he lightly whisked four free-range eggs, seasoned them with a little salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper, and added them to the pan.

While the eggs gently cooked, Tom took several lettuce leaves and a small handful of basil leaves, sliced them into a medium-fine chiffonade, and dressed them with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of sherry vinegar. 'Nearly there,' he said. He slipped the pan under a pre-heated grill for a couple of minutes and then upended its now omelette-like contents onto the wooden chopping board. Deftly, he cut it into six wedges and then covered the wedges with the dressed chiffonade of lettuce and basil.

'Would you like to eat in or out?' he said.

Bella glanced outside, across the deck, and towards the horizon. 'Well, it's not raining. In fact, there are even a few patches of sunshine.'

Tom gathered up some plates, forks, and wine glasses.

'What can I do?' Bella asked.

'Maybe if you take these. And I'll find us some wine. There should be some rosé in the fridge.'

The cool breeze that had been blowing from the northeast earlier in the day had now dropped almost completely, and, by the time Tom and Bella sat down at the silver-grey weathered table for the second time that day, it was almost summery. Bella had taken off her wax jacket when they had returned from the spit, and now she removed her sweater too. 'This looks lovely,' she said.

Tom was about to say: 'And so do you.' But he kept the thought to himself.

It had been a funny day for Tom. On the one hand, he had been looking forward to it. Or at least he had been looking forward to seeing Bella again. There was something about her that really appealed to him. But, on the other hand, he was never very comfortable with having his photograph taken. Maybe that's why he had looked so un-Tom-like in the earlier photographs. And then Bella had arrived and somehow she had taken 30 or 40 photographs without Tom really being aware that it was happening. It had all just ... well ... happened. Bella hadn't even suggested that he say 'cheese'.

Tom poured a couple of glasses of wine. 'Just help yourself,' he said, nodding towards the frittata-like dish in the centre of the table.

'Thanks.'

As they ate and drank and chatted in the late spring sunshine, Tom once again mentally kicked himself for not inviting Bella back to the Notting Hill flat after their evening at the Italian restaurant. Of course there was no guarantee that she would have accepted his invitation. But he should have at least put it out there. He should have at least given her the opportunity to say no. Or, preferably, to say yes.

And then Bella suddenly looked at her watch. 'Oh, god, is that the time? I should phone for a taxi, shouldn't I?'

'A taxi?'

'Yes. I need to get the 3:08 to Ashford if I'm going to catch the 3:45 back to Charing Cross.'

'Well, I can take you to the station,' Tom said. 'But do you have to get the 3:45?'

'I need to get back in time to pick up Gordon. I said that I'd pick him up by 5:45.'

And, suddenly, Tom's buoyant mood crashed. It simply hadn't occurred to him that Bella would have someone else – a Gordon – in her life. Since Karen's departure, Tom was foot loose and fancy free. And he had assumed that Bella was too. But apparently not. 'OK. Well, we still have another ten or 15 minutes,' he said. 'In fact, probably 20. There's not a lot of traffic at this time of the day.'

Bella smiled. 'You're the one with the local knowledge,' she said. But she started packing up her laptop anyway.

At the station, Tom parked in the five minute zone and walked Bella to the platform.

'I've really enjoyed today,' she said. 'And thank you for lunch. You're a man of many talents.' And then she gave him a hug and a kiss that felt, to Tom at least, rather more than just perfunctory. Talk about confusing signals.

When Tom checked his email the following morning, there was a brief note from Bella with four jpeg images attached. 'Thank you for letting me come and visit,' she said. 'It was most enjoyable. And I hope you approve of the attached. I think that each works in its own way, but, if you have a favourite, let me know. Best, Bella.'

Tom clicked on each of the attached files. Yes, definitely an improvement on his old mug shots. A big improvement.

Tom was still contemplating the images when his phone rang. It was Bella. 'I'm hoping that you might be free around lunchtime tomorrow,' she said. 'Michael Hawks wants to interview you. He's offering to buy you lunch at a place in Tenterden. I think he lives somewhere down that way. And it would save you having to come all the way up to town.'

'Will you be there?' Tom asked.

'I think you should speak to him alone. It's OK. It seems he's a fan of yours – well, of your work anyway. You and I can talk afterwards.'

Tom met Michael Hawks at The Woolpack, a 15th century inn that had had its ups and downs but now seemed to be enjoying an up. And immediately afterwards he phoned Bella.

'How did it go?' Bella asked.

Tom shrugged his shoulders (not that Bella could have known that). 'Well, he was pleasant enough. He didn't seem to have any trick questions, no obvious traps. But who knows? This whole thing is a bit new to me. I'm used to being the one asking the questions. Anyway, how are you? I meant to ask if you made it back to London in time to ... whatever it was that you needed to do.'