The House on Flamingo Cay (3 page)

“I didn’t sneak, and it’s my holiday too,” Sara reminded her mildly.

Angela seemed to realize that she had been unnecessarily tart. “I’m sorry if I snapped,” she said, more amicably. “I suppose I’ve got a touch of nerves. But when I woke up and found you’d disappeared, I imagined all sorts of things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Oh, you know what you are for making friends with people and saying all sorts of odd things to them. It didn’t matter in London, but it could be fatal here. If anyone guessed our real circumstances, they might take us for a couple of ... of adventuresses.”

“Which is what we are, I suppose,” Sara said unhappily. “You—you aren’t going to actually lie to people, are you?” she asked, with an anxious glance.

“Of course not, sweetie. Nobody is likely to ask us any direct questions. All we have to do is to imply that this is our natural habitat.”

“It still sounds vaguely dishonest. I don’t see why we have to pretend anything.”

“Oh, Sara, you’re so naive!” Angela retorted impatiently. “Don’t you realize that top people live in a kind of closed circle, and the only way to break in is to give the impression that you
are
in.”

“I’m not sure that I want to break in,” Sara said gloomily.

“Well, I do—and I’m going to,” her sister said vehemently. “Now you’d better take a shower, and I must start doing my face. I’m going to wear the pale green chiffon, and you’d better put on your cream silk so that we complement each other.”

Sara was ready when Angela was still in her slip, doing complicated things to her eyelashes. The cream silk had not been expensive, but Angela had said that it was so plain that it would easily pass for a model. It had a shaped sleeveless bodice and a stiffened skirt of rustling unpressed pleats. With it, Sara wore amethyst slubbed silk slippers and the real amethyst ear-clips that had belonged to her mother.

There was so much to see from the balcony that she did not mind waiting almost another hour for Angela to be ready. And, when she was summoned back into the bedroom, she had to admit that her sister looked breathtakingly lovely, her glowing hair wound sleekly round the crown of her head, her lissom figure swathed in the cloudy chiffon.\

“Oh, Angela—you look gorgeous!” she exclaimed warmly.

“I hope so, but there may be a lot of competition.” Angela twisted to examine the reflection of her smooth bare back. Satisfied with her own appearance, she gave Sara a critical glance. “You look very sweet yourself, pet,” she said kindly. “No just remember to look absolutely poised and unruffled and we ought to knock their eyes out.”

Going downstairs while Angela kept up a flow of casual chat, Sara felt anything but poised. She knew that it was Angela who would be the cynosure of attention, but her legs felt weak with stage-fright and she longed to bolt back to the bedroom.

The cocktail lounge was already fairly crowded and, as Angela paused on the threshold with Sara a pace behind her, there was a sudden lulling of conversation. Sara pretended to be looking for something in her bag, painfully aware that everyone in the room was looking at them. Then Angela moved to the red leather stools along the bar, and people began to talk again.

Feeling as acutely self-conscious as the day she had tripped in the London Underground and sprawled on the dusty floor, Sara managed to perch on a slippery stool without overbalancing or showing too much leg. But it wasn’t until the West Indian barman produced two iced fruit cocktails in tall green glasses with sugar-frosted rims, and Angela was fitting a cigarette into a nacre holder, that she ventured to turn slightly sideways and covertly examine some of the other guests.

As on the plane, they were mainly older people, but there was a group of younger men and girls round one of the painted tables and a couple of bachelor types further along the bar.

The cocktail was delicious and mild—until some minutes later when it suddenly proved to have a kick. Sara nibbled one of the stuffed olives which the barman had placed between them and wondered when they would go in to dinner. The ‘fine sailin’ wind’ had edged her appetite, she found.

A small plump woman encased in beaded white crepe with a rather startling décolletage and crisp blue hair came into the lounge and heaved herself on to the stool next to Sara.

“My usual, please, Hercules,” she said to the bartender, in a strong American accent. Then, to Sara: “My, such a day! This morning we went to see those cute trained flamingoes in the park and then, directly after lunch, Conrad insisted we go right over to Lyford Cay and look at the sea-gardens. My dear, you really must go there. It’s
the
most fabulous place you could imagine. They have these quaint little glass-bottomed boats so you can see right under the water, and the colors—well, they’re just unbelievable! It’s Neptune’s jewel-box—that’s the only way to describe it. Oh, but you’re new here, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Slightly dazed by the wave of expensive scent and flow of superlatives, Sara smiled and agreed.

“Why, you’re British!” the woman said delightedly. “We visited Britain last fall when we were doing Europe, and I thought it just darling. Those cute thatched cottages and everything, and that wonderful old-world atmosphere. Oh, but I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Emily Stuyvesant.”

Sara glanced swiftly at Angela to see how she was taking this effusion. “How do you do. I’m Sara Gordon and this is my sister Angela,” she said politely.

“Oh, here comes Conrad now,” said Mrs. Stuyvesant, catching sight of someone in the entrance.

She began waving and beckoning to a man in a white tuxedo who was standing aside to allow some women to pass him.

“This is my son, Conrad. Honey, these are Miss Angela and Miss Sara Gordon who’ve just come out from Britain,” she explained, as he reached their side.

Conrad Stuyvesant was an amiable-looking young man in his late twenties. He was not at all good-looking and slightly under medium height. His crew-cut hair bristled like a gingery toothbrush and he wore thick-rimmed horn spectacles that made him look rather like a small boy trying on his father’s glasses, but he had a very pleasant smile and Sara liked him.

“Why, Connie, I’ve just this moment thought of something!” his mother exclaimed, when he had acknowledged the introduction with hearty handshakes. “You remember that charming couple we met at the Westbury Hotel in London last year. Their name was Gordon too, and I’m sure they mentioned their daughters.” She turned to the girls. “Now don’t tell me they were your parents. Why, of all the delightful coincidences.”

“I’m afraid our parents are dead,” Sara said quietly.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I do apologize. How tactless of me,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said contritely. Then, a thought occurring to her, “You don’t mean you’re here on your own? You are? Now, Connie, isn’t that just the pluckiest thing you’ve ever heard? These two slips of girls coming all this way by themselves. Well, in that case, I just insist you join us for dinner. I know how it is when you arrive at a big hotel without knowing anyone.”

Sara wondered how her sister would dodge the invitation, but, to her surprise, Angela said sweetly, “That’s awfully kind of you Mrs. Stuyvesant. To be perfectly frank, we
were
feeling a little bit lost. You see, it’s the first time we’ve come on holiday alone. Last year ...” She stopped short and looked down at her hands.

Mrs. Stuyvesant was all sympathy. “Oh, my dears, how perfectly tragic for you, and I quite understand you wanting to get right away from Europe for a while. I know I felt just the same when I lost Mr. Ottaway, my first husband, you know. Such a dear man and so devoted to me. I had to go right off to Hawaii to recover from the shock. But we mustn’t dwell on these bereavements, must we? As I always say, time and tide wait for no man, and we must just learn to live with our grief and look to the future.”

During dinner, Angela talked to Conrad and Sara was subjected to the full flood of Mrs. Stuyvesant’s life history. The voluble little American had urged them to try two local specialties, feather-light orange pancakes and a delicious green turtle pie, and Sara marvelled at the way in which she was able to chatter incessantly while eating a substantial meal.

Later in the evening, the Stuyvesants were joining some other Americans and going ‘over the hill’—which meant, apparently, a visit to one of the calypso clubs in the West Indian quarter.

“How exciting! We’d love to,” said Angela, when Mrs. Stuyvesant again insisted they should join them. Then, looking disappointed: “But Sara hasn’t been too well lately, so I really think she should have an early night. One can never sleep properly on a plane, do you think?”

Mrs. Stuyvesant turned to the flabbergasted Sara. “Now what a strange thing! I had a feeling you’d been ill, my dear. I’ve always been sensitive to the least little hint of tension in other people and I could tell right away that you were under a strain. Now, you just do right as your sister says and have a good night’s rest. There’s nothing like sleep for restoring those over-taxed tissues, you know.”

Beneath the table, Sara felt a sharp nudge on her ankle and, after a fractional pause, she recognized the cue.

“But you’ll go won’t you, Angela? I’m sure you aren’t tired yet.”

“Of course not, Sara, I wouldn’t think of leaving you. We’ll both have an early night.”

“But that’s silly. I know you’d like to go.” Sara turned to the Americans. “Perhaps you can persuade her, Mrs. Stuyvesant.”

“Yes, do come with us, my dear. Your sister will only fret if she thinks she’s spoiling your fun. I can see what an unselfish little person she is.”

‘Oh, can you?’ Sara thought acidly. ‘Just wait till Angela gets back!’

“Well, if you’re
sure
you don’t mind, Sara dear?” Angela said doubtfully.

“Of course not, Angela
dear.
Well, if you’ll excuse me...”

Back in the bedroom, Sara gave vent to her feelings by kicking off her shoes and flinging herself on the bed. She had no idea of the purpose behind her sister’s strategy, but whatever it was, it had better be pretty convincing. It would serve Angela right if she went out by herself for the evening.

But presently, after considering this idea and deciding that Nassau was not the kind of city where a girl could stroll unescorted—at least, not after dark—she hung up the cream silk dress and changed into cotton pyjamas.

It was after eleven when she came in from the balcony, and another two hours before Angela crept through the door.

Sara sat up in bed and switched on the rose-shaded lamp. “I do hope you had a good time,” she said cuttingly.

“Oh, sweetie—I’m sorry about tonight.” Angela dropped into a chair and hunted for a cigarette. “I was afraid you’d be cross,” she said wryly.

“Cross! I’m homicidal. Honestly, Angela, you—”

“Now, look, I did it in our best interests. I didn’t
want
to cut you out of the fun,” her sister broke in. “But there’ll be plenty of other evenings and, as a matter of fact, there was a boy there tonight who I think will just suit you.”

“Thanks very much. Your solicitude overwhelms me. Now, would you mind explaining why you had to make me a semi-invalid and pack me off to bed like a tiresome schoolgirl?”

“Because I didn’t want Emily to start pumping you. It was obvious that when she’d finished telling you about herself, she’d start probing our background. I thought it best for me to deal with her at first. Now I’ve satisfied her curiosity, she probably won’t delve so deeply again.”

“And I suppose your version of our background was just about as far-fetched as this mythical illness of mine?”

“Not at all. I was just slightly more skilful at parrying than you would have been. Incidentally we’re having lunch with them on these other people’s yacht tomorrow.” Angela stretched her arms above her head, then smothered a yawn. “I must say it’s a much better start than I expected.”

“I should have thought you’d have sheered off. They don’t strike me as being ‘top people’ particularly.”

“They’re certainly not the cream of American society,” her sister conceded. “But it’s not social status I’m after. Surely you didn’t miss those diamonds she was wearing?”

“I thought they were rhinestones.”

Angela gave a hoot of laughter. “You’d probably mistake a ruby for red glass. They were whacking great diamonds.”

“Angela—you’re not thinking of setting your cap at Conrad?”

“He’s rather sweet—and I think he likes me, too,” her sister said carelessly. “No, as it happens I’m going to survey the whole field before actually setting my sights. Though I could do a lot worse than Connie,” she added reflectively. “He’s nobody’s dreamboat, but he’s certainly not repulsive.”

Sara’s eyes were anxious as she watched her sister undressing and creaming her face. Angela seemed to be getting harder and more mercenary by the moment and, once again, Sara was troubled by a sense of impending disaster.

She was almost asleep, when she heard the muffled note of a launch crossing the harbor and was reminded of the man she had met on the wharf that afternoon. He had probably gone back to the Out Islands by now and she was unlikely to encounter him again. Thinking of the lonely coral cays that tourists never visited and of translucent turquoise lagoons under whispering palmettoes, she gave a long sigh and turned her face into the pillow.