SPAIN, LATER THE SAME YEAR

The beach was almost empty; a pleasant contrast to earlier in the day, when the basking bodies of a thousand holidaymakers had been spread out across the sand - all paying homage to their sun-god. It was fascinating to watch them, with their attendant rivalries and strange activities; but she was glad that all was so much quieter now. It gave her a chance to think; to reflect upon the day's events, and to decide where she was to go from here; what she should do next. It seemed a shame to think that, having finally got Chris Tate away from his office, away from the village and its inhabitants, away from his sister and his ex-wives and all of the hundred and one things that reminded him so much of Kim Marchant; that she should not be able to put this unexpected advantage to good use. It was her chance to push herself forward for a change. No matter how close they had been getting over the course of the last few months, Laura knew that she was still playing second fiddle to Kathy Glover, for all Chris's repeated assertions that this was not the case. She could read him rather more clearly than he would like to think. Laura wandered through the surf, brushing a stray strand of dark hair from her eyes. She liked the feel of the water against her ankles, and the wind in her hair; it was warm and fresh and so different to Emmerdale. Here nobody knew her, or her past. Nobody had any expectations, and there were no pointing fingers, or overly-loud stage whispers discussing her role as Chris Tate's latest conquest. She smirked to herself. She could handle the crowd back home; she had proved that before. Her only regret was that they couldn't see her here, handling the Spanish clients with an ease that could not fail to impress those who still saw her as an iron-headed robot with no social graces. She paused for a moment to watch the birds swoop towards the ocean's surface, and wished that she could persuade Chris to join her on the beach. So far he had come up with any number of excuses as to why he should stay behind when she walked there, and she was beginning to think that her words fell on deaf ears. Perhaps he could take no pleasure from a beach, now that he could no longer feel the sand beneath his feet, or the splash of water against his legs. She knew that he would find it hard to move the chair on the soft sand, and he hated to have to accept help, even from those closest to him. Perhaps he had never liked to walk along the sand. Perhaps he had had the heart and the head of a businessman all of his life. But she couldn't believe that, and threw the thought aside. She had seen something of what lay beneath the ruthless exterior, and she was convinced that there was something else to the man everybody else saw as a heartless jerk. Kathy Glover had unearthed it; so why shouldn't she?

Whilst Laura pondered on the beach, Chris Tate, object of her thoughts and day-dreams, moved slowly along the pathway running adjacent to the coast. He was some way further along the beach than Laura, and had no idea that she was also wandering along, in the same direction as was he. Whilst her thoughts were running along the paths of romance, and the beauty of the approaching sunset, however, he was himself heading in a different direction; albeit in a metaphorical way. He was thinking about business, and about the series of meetings he had had that day with his new Spanish client. Things were looking good for his burgeoning business. Hard-headed rivals aside, he was beginning to think that there was real promise in this latest venture. Admittedly things had not been ideal in the past, but Chris, with the selective blindness for which he was so famed amongst his friends and associates, was certain about the reasons for his failures. It had always been the fault of Kim Marchant; or indeed Kim Tate, as it galled him so much to admit that she had once been. She had cheated him, and tricked everybody else, causing the downfall of the great Tate Empire. It had been her fault that Home Farm had changed hands. It was not impossible, with a little imagination, to blame her for just about everything that had gone wrong since the arrival, some ten years previously, of the Tate family in their new home. Everything except perhaps for the plane crash. Chris smiled to himself; a harsh smile with little humour. If he tried hard enough, he was sure that he could find a way to blame her for that too. It amused him to consider the possibility. There were those, his sister included, who thought that his ability for bearing a grudge was one of Chris's main character faults; but to the man himself it was one of his greatest strengths. Who else, after all, had seen through Kim's lies? Who else had realised just what she was truly capable of? Okay, so maybe she had escaped with her stolen money, and maybe she had taken her son - Chris's half-brother - with her. But she had been forced to flee because of him; and in the process had finally let him see her true colours. Perhaps he would never convince the others of it, but at least he now knew the truth for sure. Frank Tate had been killed by his wife, just as surely as if she had shot him, or run him down in her car. The self-congratulations which recent events had sparked within him fed his ego most pleasantly. He had beaten the police to the truth. He alone had escaped having the wool pulled over his eyes by his step-mother. He alone. It was this semi-victory of sorts which made it easier to accept the fact that Kim had escaped scot-free. A pair of scantily-clad young women - British to judge by the tinge of red around their shoulders - walked by together, slowing their pace and giggling suggestively as they passed him. Chris did not notice. He was miles away. His thoughts drifted occasionally to Laura, but mostly they dallied over his business affairs, cutting a fine and unbreakable line between work and pleasure that even her appearance before him, provocatively dressed and offering all manner of extra-curricular activities, would very likely not have been able to disturb. Chris was still a young man, but there were times when he seemed determined to ignore that fact. The two giggling girls, whose clear attraction to the dark-blond man in the flattering brown suit could not have escaped the notice of a blind person, went unnoticed by the man himself. His piercing brown eyes stared straight at them, but the girls might as well have been made from stone. He pushed himself on. It was nearly dark before Chris slowed his onward meanderings, and began to consider turning about for home. He had promised to meet Laura at a local restaurant that she had discovered, and was unwilling to leave her waiting for too long. A little wait might do her good, but he had no wish to offend or to upset her. If things continued to go badly with Kathy, Laura was a solid second choice that would do nicely. It was a mercenary attitude, but that did not concern Chris. He was sure that Laura had guessed the way that he was playing this game; and if she hadn't, she was not the woman he had thought her to be. If that was the case then he wasn't interested anyway. A shape flitted by in the midst of deepening shadows, and for once it succeeded in catching Chris's eye. He glanced towards the source of the shadow, and saw a man jogging by on the beach below. Chris watched him run. He had never been a fitness fanatic, but there were times, when he watched such effortless displays of the things others took so much for granted, that he could not help himself thinking-- but he cut the thought short. Such moody reflection belonged in the past. He watched the jogger for a few seconds longer, then turned his head away, planning to head townward once again. Something else caught his eye, but he almost ignored it, his thoughts drifting on some tired plane between Laura, the restaurant and the jogging man. Something clicked in the depths of his subconscious and he turned slightly, seeing the new centre of his attention in a different light, as it passed beneath the lamps set into the path above the beach. He could see now that it was a figure, clearly female, although too far away to see any great amount of detail. That a woman should have attracted his attention was no event of great significance; but something about her held his gaze, even though he could see little more than a tumble of blonde hair. He turned about, facing directly towards the figure, and saw her toss her head in a strangely proud fashion. Somebody had apparently spoken to her, and she had told him in no uncertain terms where to go. A smile drifted across Chris's lips; but all at once it hardened into the thinnest of lines. There was something about the figure. Something familiar. Something, perhaps, in the way that she had put down her would-be suitor; something, maybe, in the way that she was dressed or the way in which she stood; or maybe just in the way that her hair grew - but it was something, and the something was making his skin tingle. His bright eyes flashed and he pushed his way forward; only to come, rather suddenly, to the end of the walkway. In front of him a metal barrier barred the way, making progress impossible. A sudden burst of customary, uncontrollable rage burst its way through him, and he slammed his fist against the barrier. It hurt, but he didn't care. All that he cared about was that the blonde woman was getting away. Had he been able to stand; to get out of the chair; he could have jumped down onto the beach and run along the sand. He could have followed her up the steps that she was now climbing, and he could have followed her along the streets and alleyways until he had found where she was living. It could have taken all night and he wouldn't have cared. Laura would have waited in vain for him, and he would not have spared her a second's thought. But it was all immaterial. He was trapped on the walkway, staring through the metal barrier towards the rapidly disappearing back of the one person in all the world that he would have moved mountains to get to. The woman for whom he had an obsession that went far beyond hatred; the woman who had killed his father and had tried to kill him. He knew, as he stared after the shadow-wrapped figure, who she was. He had not seen her face, or any feature other than her hair. He had not heard her voice, or even established her nationality; it didn't matter. He knew that he had just seen Kim Marchant; and his brain was already beginning to seethe with the thrill of sudden possibilities.