Kiss of Hot Sun (2 page)

Monica jumped up and bent over the bed to put her arms round me. “Darling, how could I have been so beastly? Full of myself, my own happiness, and not a thought of you!”

“It’s all right,” I muttered.

“But it’s not all right! I persuade you to come out here, and then just up and quit.”

“But...”

She wasn’t listening. Pacing away from me now, over to the window and then back, Monica was lost in thought. Once again she was feverishly making plans for me. “Of course, pet, you won’t have to worry about the financial aspect. Would three months—no,
six
months in lieu of notice be okay? And your plane ticket back to London.”

It was incredibly generous of her, and I couldn’t possibly accept so much. “But it’s not that,” I said sadly. “I don’t want to go back to London.”

“Well then, you shan’t.” I swear that right then Monica was thinking more about my predicament than her own wedding.

The waiter came in with the coffee, Monica tossed him a brilliant though abstracted smile, and he departed well pleased with himself.

Suddenly Monica stopped prowling and snapped her fingers in the air. “I’ve got it! Adeline Harcourt.”

“Who’s she?” I asked. Very dimly the name echoed in my mind, but I couldn’t pin it down.

Monica regarded me with pity. “Not to have seen Adeline Harcourt as Lady Macbeth is not to have lived.”

“Oh, she’s an actress?”

“She
was,
my pet. One of the truly greats. But of course she was rather before your time. Dear Adeline must be well into her seventies by now.” Monica picked up the phone again, jigging it impatiently. “Get me Miss Adeline Harcourt,” she said in English. “She’s staying at the Prima Astoria—I think.”

I lay back and waited, reckoning I’d learn quicker that way than trying to probe the mystery of Monica’s mind.

It never seemed to take her long to get put through on the phone. In a few seconds she was chirping, “Adeline... oh darling, did I wake you?”

The receiver quacked, and Monica held it a distasteful three inches from her ear. “Well, never mind—the damage is done now, isn’t it? Listen darling, I’ve got just the person to help you run that great guest house of yours.”

The quacking was quieter now, and I could almost imagine a puzzled note to it.

Monica plunged in again. “But
of course
you need an assistant, Adeline. Why should you
slave
away all the while, now you’ve reached a time of life when you should be taking it easy... No, I did
not
mean you’re
ancient,
darling. But let’s face it, with all your money, why
should
you...?”

I was fearfully embarrassed. Obviously, Monica was selling me hard to this unknown woman. She herself had made a job for me, and she refused to see why someone else shouldn’t do the same.

I shook my head at her, frowning and gesticulating fiercely. Monica chose not to notice, casually turning her back on me.

“But darling, Kerry is absolutely... She’s been my assistant for simply...
of course
I’d like to keep her myself, only how can I...?”

There was a pause; then Monica continued in a little rush. “Oh, didn’t I explain, darling? I’m going to marry Sam Tracy. Yes, after all this time...”

It went on for some minutes. Feeling helpless, I poured the coffee and had time to drink it before she’d finished talking.

Monica put down the phone in triumph. “You’re to go and see Adeline before lunch—one o’clock, she said.”

“But how can I? There isn’t any job, is there? She doesn’t want me.”

Monica merely smiled smugly. “Oh, I think she will. You just go along and talk it over with her, my pet. You can’t refuse me that.”

I wasn’t in a mood to argue any more. I badly wanted to remain in Italy, and after all, Adeline Harcourt
had
agreed to see me.

Monica swallowed half a cup of coffee, and floated out of my room. I looked at my watch. Eight-forty.

What, I wondered, had Philip meant by good and early? Would he ring about nine?

I decided to be ready and waiting for his call, so I jumped out of bed and bathed and dressed in a hurry. But not too quickly—I put some concentrated care into the final polish...

I stuck to my room, close beside the phone. By nine-thirty the heat of the day was coming up, and some of my polish was losing its sparkle.

By ten-thirty I was feeling pretty limp. I abandoned the phone long enough to go to the bathroom for another wash, and then re-applied my make-up.

By eleven I’d almost given up. Fighting off despair, I went over and shut the windows. Why had I thought Rome a gaily bustling city? It was just plain noisy!

By eleven-thirty I
had
given up, finally and for ever.

Damn the man! Damn all men! It would be a mighty long time before I made such an utter fool of myself again. But just in case something unavoidable had delayed him, I still hung about in my room.

I’d lost all heart for the appointment with Adeline Harcourt now. Why stay in Rome and be reminded? But out of courtesy I had to go through the motions, so I changed into something more suitable for a job applicant—a cool-looking pale green and white Courtelle outfit. Soon after twelve-thirty I emerged for the first time that day.

It was only a short way to the Prima Astoria. I decided to walk, strolling easily in the hot sun. I had to admit, reluctantly, that despite everything Rome was a lovely place. And after all, it didn’t belong to Philip Rainsby. With the logic of my Irish great-grandfather, I decided that if I ever ran into the man again in Rome, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d run away on his account.

On my left the raised terrace of a classy hotel was brightly decked in coloured awnings and sun umbrellas. The tables were crowded with pre-lunch drinkers, but a man and woman sitting close to the balustrade became the instant focus of my attention.

My eyes riveted on them.

Philip Rainsby, laughing and joking with a woman! A brash over-ripe blondie type of maybe thirty-five plus.

From the way he sharply bent his head as I went past, it looked like he’d seen me, too. But he gave not the smallest blink of recognition.

I lifted my chin, and strode on briskly.

I walked so fast and furiously that I arrived at the Prima Astoria in a sweat. Fortunately I had five minutes in hand, so I skulked behind a bank of potted pink hydrangeas in the cool lounge, and slowly simmered down.

At five to one precisely I went across to the reception desk and asked for Miss Harcourt. I still hadn’t reached a decision about whether or not I wanted a job with her, even if she was prepared to have me. I’d not been thinking about that.

Obediently, I tailed the bellboy across expanses of opulent floor, let myself be wafted upwards in a silent lift, and tottered after him through a long corridor.

When he tapped on a door and held it open for me, I went in like an automaton. I was too bemused to get more than the vaguest impression of the apartment, except that it was rather ornately furnished.

At first I thought I was alone, until a jewelled hand, followed by a slender arm, lifted itself gracefully above the back of a sofa set facing one of the tall windows. The index finger raised aloft, beckoned. At the same moment a voice, a thrillingly resonant contralto-deep voice, broke the silence.

“Of course she won’t,
caro mio.
There is no earthly reason why she should ever discover...”

Miss Adeline Harcourt, I gathered, was speaking on the telephone.

The bellboy closed the door behind me. Obeying the imperious instructions of the still-raised arm, I went across the huge room. Miss Harcourt, stretched comfortably on the sofa, smiled a little absently and motioned me to sit down on a nearby chair.

“But you worry yourself too much,” she went on. Her voice fascinated me. Not particularly loud, it filled every corner of the room; I could well imagine how it used to fill every corner of a great auditorium. “... listen.. ,” she was saying, "just a little help with the domestic side, that is all. I tell you, it is of no consequence to us...”

I sat and observed Miss Harcourt discreetly. Monica had told me she was well into her seventies. From her appearance, though, it would have seemed ungenerous to label her even as much as sixty. Her easily lounging figure was supple; the gesticulating arm had the lazy grace of youth.

A formidable old lady, I thought! I began to wonder if, after all, I might not enjoy working for her. Monica had been fun. Adeline Harcourt promised to be stimulating too, in a different way.

She put down the phone at last, and switched her full attention upon me. Her smile was no longer preoccupied; it belonged to me—warm, friendly, and quite utterly candid.

“Forgive me...”

“Not at all, Miss Harcourt.”

“You look charming, my dear. So pretty!”

My deflated ego swelled with the puff. This woman had obviously been a real beauty in her time—the fine bone structure of her face was evidence of that.

“So you are coming to help me at the
Villa Stella?”

“Well—I’m not sure...”

“Not sure? But I thought it was all fixed. Monica told me on the telephone that you were anxious to find another post here in Italy.”

Quite suddenly I’d come to a definite decision. “Yes, I do, Miss Harcourt. But I wasn’t sure if you’d really want me.”

“Is there any reason why I should not?”

“It’s just that I got the idea you weren’t really needing any help,” I explained, a bit uncomfortably. "It sounded as if Monica was rather pressuring you into it.”

“Nobody pressures me into anything.” A shadow crossed her face, as though she was trying to convince herself as well as me. But I could easily have imagined it, because her mobile features were relaxed again into a pleasant smile. “I confess I did have certain... reservations at first. But now I have decided that Monica’s suggestion is an excellent one. The villa is too much for me to manage on my own. It will suit me very nicely to have you there to help.”

“You realise I’ve had no experience of this sort of thing?”

She snorted delicately, “You are intelligent, are you not?”

“I hope so.”

“Intelligence is all that is required in any business undertaking.”

She picked up the phone again, and spoke briskly. “I have a reservation on the Catania plane this afternoon. Book an additional seat, if you please.”

I felt hopelessly confused. Surely the extra reservation must be intended for me? For the moment I couldn’t place Catania, but clearly it must be at some distance if we were to fly there. And all the time I’d been taking it for granted that Adeline Harcourt’s guest house was not far from Rome.

Miss Harcourt had replaced the phone. “Salary we will discuss later. You will find me not ungenerous. Now, will you be here with your luggage by three o’clock at the very latest?”

Feeling I was probably putting my foot slap in the middle of something silly, I asked: “Where are we going, Miss Harcourt?”

“Where?” Her sharp look doubted my sanity. “To the
Villa Stella d’Oro,
of course. Where else?”

“Monica didn’t happen to mention where your villa was. I rather thought it must be near Rome.”

“Oh, I see.” She smiled, relieved, I think, to discover that I was not an imbecile. “No, it is a long way from Rome. The
Stella d’Oro
has a magnificent situation in the hills behind Taormina. We get quite remarkable views of Etna.”

Etna! But Mount Etna was in Sicily! So, now I came to think of it, was Catania.

How could I possibly go flying off to Sicily just like that? It must be hundreds of miles from Rome—way down south. An island in the Mediterranean.

I considered the alternatives. I might try to find another job in Rome. But what sort of job could I hope to get? An English girl whose Italian was decidedly ropy—one might almost say non-existent. A girl whose idea of local geography was so vague she hadn’t been able to pin down Catania.

Rome, I reckoned, was out as far as a job was concerned.

What else, then? Go back to London, tail between my legs? Admit defeat? Admit the exotic life was not for me?

Going to Sicily wouldn’t be admitting defeat. It wouldn’t be a matter of running away from Philip Rainsby. I’d been offered a job there, a job that grew more attractive every moment I thought about it.

An island in the Mediterranean! A villa in the sun!

“I think I’m going to like Sicily,” I said impulsively.

Adeline Harcourt scooped up my agreement with a quick smile. “You will love poor Sicily,” she pronounced in that richly vibrant voice. “One cannot help loving her. She has seen so much tragedy, yet for all that she is beautiful. Beautiful!”

It was like a curtain speech. A curtain coming down on my past existence. Soon, a new act would begin.

* * *

I had thought it impossible to switch the direction of life within the space of a couple of hours. But in practice I found it not only possible, but highly stimulating.

Naturally, Monica rallied round, delighted that her plan for me had worked out. Having spent the entire morning trousseau shopping, she came back tired. But she readily skipped lunch to dash round a large department store with me, hastily sorting out the things she insisted I should need in Sicily. And afterwards she found time to come to
the airport to see us off.

Next morning she would be leaving Rome herself, going direct to New York with her Sam.

When we were airborne, settling back comfortably with a long cool drink of vermouth and soda, Adeline Harcourt began to tell me about the villa with the romantic name.
Stella d’Oro—
Star
of Gold.

“It was given me by my beloved Vittorio,” she said with a happy sigh. “Such a generous man, Vittorio. He could never do enough for me.”

When I remarked innocently that he sounded the perfect husband, she burst into a peal of merry laughter. In her penetrating voice she announced to a fascinated planeload of passengers that Vittorio d’Azeglio had been her lover, not her husband.