‘Not at all.’
Stop living life like you’re scared, she told herself.
‘Why not?’ She smiled, hoping that Caro could find her supper in the freezer.
He put out his hand. ‘Then I believe an introduction is in order. My name is Gabriel.’
Grace shook it.
‘Grace Ashford.’
The restaurant had a little garden area to the side and they took a table next to a tree covered in fairy lights. The sun had already dipped behind the far hills and the light was dimming to a blueygrey.
‘So. You know what I do,’ said Grace. ‘What brings you to Port Douglas, Gabriel?’
‘I’m a writer.’ He shrugged. ‘They are making a film out of one of my books in the area, so I’m kind of tagging along on set.’
She looked at him in horror. ‘Oh no,’ she gasped, her hand covering her embarrassed smile.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You’re not Gabriel Hernandez, are you?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Grace had read about it in the local paper a few weeks before: a big Hollywood studio was filming an adaptation of the massive literary hit Cast No Shadow.
‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea.’
‘You apologise too much.’ He smiled.
Grace had actually read Cast No Shadow a couple of years ago and had some hazy recollection of him winning a Pulitzer Prize. Or was it a Nobel? Something very impressive, anyway.
‘But isn’t the book set in the Caribbean?’ she said, hoping she had remembered correctly.
Gabriel nodded. ‘Apparently the studios will save a lot of money by filming out here. David Robb and Julia Collins only had a ten-week window in their schedules. It’s hurricane season in the Caribbean at the moment, so the production was moved out here. It’s a good choice: lush, lots of white sand, and those colonial clapboard houses by the harbour could easily be Key West or Bridgetown if you squint slightly.’
The observation unsettled her, but she was distracted by the waiter. They ordered their food – red snapper for both of them – and chatted about diving and sailing and the weather, with just a slight hint of flirtation on both sides. Grace was intrigued and surprised by Gabriel; he wasn’t at all the tortured poet she’d expected from reading the book, a story of star-crossed lovers, one driven to suicide by the infidelity of the other. There wasn’t anything pompous or gloomy about this man; he was intelligent and witty and warm.
‘So where are you going to take me now?’ said Gabriel as he waved away the bill, simply handing over his gold Amex.
Grace felt thrilled at his invitation to carry on the evening, quickly followed by horror at the idea of taking him back to the cottage, where no doubt Caro would be lying prostrate on the sofa surrounded by pizza boxes. Not that it’s going to get that far, she reminded herself.
‘Well, it’s Tuesday night,’ she said. ‘That means toad racing.’
‘Toads?’ he said, raising one eyebrow. ‘Toads as in frogs?’
She laughed. ‘Cane toads to be precise. They’re quite poisonous, actually, but it’s kind of the local sport around here if you’re a gambling man.’
‘Ah, you know us writers.’ Gabriel smiled. ‘We live close to the edge.’
Grace could tell the races were well under way before they even got close to the Iron Bar near the harbour; men were cursing or bellowing encouragement while shrill female voices shrieked with the excitement of winning a couple of drinks.
‘Around here, they say toad racing is better than sex,’ shouted Grace over the noise.
‘Well I guess that depends on which toad you’re backing,’ said Gabriel, looking at her meaningfully as Grace felt a shiver of pleasure.
When the race was over, Grace and Gabriel took their drinks to a booth at the back of the dark bar.