The Mermaid Garden (32 page)

handsome young man who teaches guests to paint. It’s just not going to

happen,” said Grey. “I’m sorry.”

Marina stood up and began to pace the room. “You’re giving up too

easily, Grey. If that man is going to come into our home, size us up like a prize cow, and think he can buy us because he has pots of money to

throw around, then I won’t have him. I won’t.”

Grey could see she was getting worked up. “Calm down, darling.”

“Calm down! You’re telling me to calm down? This is my home,

Grey. This is where I belong. I’ve sweated blood into every piece of

fabric and every piece of furniture. I’ve poured my love into every inch of it. It’s not just a home, it’s a person.” She turned on him, eyes welling with tears, and in a small, pleading voice, she said, “It’s not just a person, it’s my
child
.” She clutched her belly as the unspeakable word escaped into the air. Grey and Jake stared in astonishment, as if seeing it mate-rialize. For a long while no one said anything.

Marina blinked in surprise as it echoed in her ears.
My child . . . my
child . . . my child.

She wiped her cheeks and returned to her chair. “I’m
not
going to give up,” she stated firmly, sitting down. She raised her eyes to her husband. He saw the determination in them and knew that the battle was

far from over. “I will explore every avenue, turn over every rock, and beg if I have to. I will not sell this place. You will have to bury me first.”

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Jake coughed, embarrassed. “So, are they coming or not?”

Grey looked to his wife. “Let them come,” she replied. “Let them

offer all the money in the world. And watch me say ‘no,’ for ‘no’ is the only answer I will give them.”

Grey and Jake left the office. “I need a stiff drink after that,” said

Grey to his son.

“Me too. Christ, she’s emotional.”

“Yes, very hot-blooded sometimes.” They walked across to the stable

block.

“Isn’t she very exhausting?” asked Jake, following him into the sitting room.

“Not all the time. Right now, she’s going through a difficult patch.

As you can see, she loves this place. It’s the child she can’t have.”

“That blew me away. I’ve never heard her mention her childlessness.”

Grey went to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a gin and

tonic. “She never talks about it. It’s just something that’s always there, simmering beneath the surface. She’s a contradiction—on one hand

very open and fiery, and on the other extremely secretive. I was as surprised as you when she articulated it.”

“I feel sorry for her. You already have two children. She has none.”

Grey handed his son a glass and smiled at him affectionately. “I ap-

preciate that, Jake.”

“I can see why Clemmie’s a disappointment to her.”

“Marina loves you both. You don’t belong to her, but she’s watched

you grow up. It’s a cause of great unhappiness that Clemmie and she

don’t get along.”

Jake took a sip and went to sit on the sofa. “Clemmie’s just confused.”

“Have you met this Joe?”

“No.”

“I wonder if he’s any good.”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t seem that inspired by him. Saying she’s in

love is bollocks.”

“When you get to my age, you realize that you can’t live people’s lives for them. If it doesn’t work out, she’ll come back.”

“No, she won’t. She’s too proud for that. She’ll earn her money and

scoot back to India at the first opportunity.”

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Santa Montefiore

* * *

Marina remained at her desk. When she reached out to pick up her

Biro, she saw that her hand was trembling. She rubbed it as if nursing

an injury. While she rubbed, she considered her options. There weren’t

many. But there
was
one. She bit her lip and turned her eyes to the window. Outside the sea was calm. The sky was clear. A few gulls hovered

like gliders on the wind. If pushed, there was one card in her deck that she could still play. One person she could turn to for help. But did she dare go back and open the door she had so firmly shut years ago? Her

eyes welled with tears and she put her head in her hands; she now real-

ized that there was simply no other way.

The following morning Clementine awoke to the shrill ringing of the

alarm clock. At first she wondered where she was. She opened her eyes

to the unfamiliar surroundings: the beige curtains, the white walls,

the unremarkable pictures hanging there. Then she inhaled the very

masculine smell and remembered. Fighting a wave of homesickness,

she propped herself up on her elbows. Joe lay groaning beside her. She

watched him throw his arm over his face to shield it from sunshine

breaking through the curtains and felt nothing but her sinking heart.

She didn’t love Joe, and right now, as he moaned like a dying dog, she

found him intensely irritating.

She climbed out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Her legs

felt heavier than ever. She washed her face and tied her hair up. She was only twenty-three, but she looked old and tired. She thought of Rafa

and the way she had rebuffed him. Her behavior hadn’t been very ma-

ture. He had apologized, and she had made it very clear that in spite of her words, she hadn’t forgiven him. Well, she’d put it right.

In a flurry of enthusiasm she washed and blow-dried her hair, leav-

ing it loose to fall onto her shoulders. She applied her makeup with

care, masking the shadows beneath her eyes with concealer and accen-

tuating her lashes with mascara.
You never know
, she thought hopefully.

He might come looking for me in the office
. She chose an Emporio Armani navy suit that she had never worn, primarily because she felt too grown up in it, and a pair of heels. Rafa would appreciate those. If he did come looking for her, she was determined he’d find a woman in the place of

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the child he had rowed with. She didn’t bother to kiss her lover good-

bye; he had fallen back to sleep anyway.

She popped into the Black Bean Coffee Shop on the way to work.

Standing in the queue she remembered the first time she had seen

Rafa. She even remembered his smell of sandalwood. She cast her eyes

around the café, hoping that by some miracle he had decided to have

his morning coffee in town. But it was full of the usual young mothers

with toddlers and businessmen on their way to the office. She noticed a couple of men raise their eyes above their newspapers and glance at her appreciatively. She felt good in her suit.

Remembering that Mr. Atwood had an important meeting that

morning, she arrived at Atwood and Fisher laden with coffees, muf-

fins, and a hot chocolate for Sylvia. Mr. Atwood was sitting in the

lounge area with a couple who had come in search of a house to buy. He

glanced at her, then did a double take, losing his train of thought and stammering.

Clementine smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Atwood. I’ve brought you

coffee and muffins.” She placed them on the table in front of them.

“Muffins! My favorite,” said the husband, picking one up and taking

a bite.

“Very efficient secretary,” said his wife, eyeing her suit enviously.

“I only employ the very best,” said Mr. Atwood, puzzled.

Clementine left them and returned to her desk. “Thanks for the hot

chockie,” said Sylvia, taking in the transformation. “I’m loving the suit.

That look is really working for you.”

“I’ve decided I no longer want to be me,” Clementine declared, sit-

ting down and switching on her computer.

“What’s wrong with
you
?”

“Everything.”

“Not anymore. It’s good to see a woman in heels. It shows you mean

business.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“I gather you’ve moved in with Joe.”

“Yes.”

“It must be love.”

“Whatever it is, it’s very convenient.”

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Santa Montefiore

“Having trouble at home, are you?”

“When aren’t I?”

“Joe’s a good lad. He’ll look after you.”

“He was buried beneath the duvet this morning.”

“I didn’t feel like getting up myself. The trouble with having an affair with a married man is that you never get a cuddle in the morning.”

“I didn’t get so much as a ‘good morning.’ ”

“But at least he was there. I think I should trade Freddie in for a single man. A man who can give me all of his time and all of his attention.”

“Quite,” Clementine agreed, not really listening. Her mind was

being pulled back to the hotel. She wondered whether Rafa was on the

lawn giving lessons.

“I might go up for a drink at your hotel this evening.”

Clementine frowned. “Really? Why?”

“Everyone’s talking about your Argentine.”

“He’s not
my
Argentine.”

“Good. So the way is clear, then?”

“For you?”

“Of course. Latin men like curvaceous women, don’t they?”

“I don’t know. I know nothing about them.”

“Well, everyone’s talking about him. Sugar was up there last night,

and now she’s absolutely smitten.”

“I know. I saw her. Flaunting herself like an old tart.”

“That’s not kind,” Sylvia chided. “She’s just playful.”

“Don’t misunderstand me.
He
was loving it.”

“I’m sure he was. She says he’s delicious. She’s going to ask your

stepmother whether they can have painting lessons on the weekend.”

Sylvia giggled. “Maybe
I
should learn how to paint.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I’m very happy to pose nude if he wants to

paint
me
.”

Clementine tried not to feel jealous. It was always inevitable that

Rafa would eventually sink into the perfumed posse of Dawcomb girls.

With his good looks and charm he was like a honey pot to bees. She

wished she hadn’t provoked a row. They had been getting along so well.

Now she had blown it; they weren’t even friends.

Mr. Atwood finished his meeting and called Clementine into his

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office. He dictated a couple of letters, then gave her a tray of papers to file and a list of documents he needed for the afternoon.

“Good look,” he said with a nod.

“Oh, thank you,” she replied, glancing down at her suit in surprise.

“I like my secretary to look professional.”

“Well, I feel professional today. It’s a novelty.” She laughed joylessly.

“Did your wife like the bracelet?”

“The bracelet? My wife? Oh, yes.” He coughed. “She was very

pleased. Yes. Well chosen, Clementine.”

Clementine grinned as she went to the filing cabinet. Now she knew

who his mistress was she could have fun with him. If she hadn’t been in such a grumpy mood, she’d have confided in Sylvia. For the time being,

she decided to keep the information to herself.

Having organized the files so efficiently, she found the documents

he required with ease. She swiftly typed the letters and envelopes and

took them through to his office. “That was quick,” he said, taking the

documents and looking them over to check they were the right ones.

He murmured his approval. She placed the letters in front of him for

his signature. He read them for errors, surprised to find none. He signed his name in his tight little writing at the bottom of each. “Well done, Clementine. You’re becoming quite a good secretary all of a sudden.”

“That’s high praise from you, Mr. Atwood.”

“Praise where praise is due.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d like you to come to the meeting this afternoon. It’s time you

learned a little more about the business.”

“Sure.”

“And in that suit, I think you’re perfectly dressed to represent us.”

“Okay. Where is it?”

“It’s a massive property called Newcomb Bisset Manor, about half

an hour away. If all goes well, Atwood and Fisher are going to put it

on the market. The husband is a bit of a ladies’ man. He’ll like the look of you. If he has any doubt about being represented by us, he won’t by

the end of the meeting.” Clementine grimaced. “All you need to do is

smile,” he added firmly.

* * *

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Santa Montefiore

Back at the Polzanze, Rafa was giving a lesson to a group of twelve in

the vegetable garden. Some were painting in watercolors, others with

oils, a few drawing in charcoal. They all sat in front of the picturesque glass-and-iron greenhouse where Mr. Potter was busy washing pota-toes.

The brigadier sat beside Jane. He’d made sure he was downwind so

he could smell her perfume. He liked her company. She was sweet-

natured and gentle, which reminded him of his wife. The more he

talked to her, the more he realized she was mischievous, too, which

made him laugh. His wife, as much as he had loved her, hadn’t been

known for her sense of humor.

Grace, Pat, and Veronica chatted in the sunshine. Fat bees buzzed

about the lavender and the pink and yellow roses that climbed the

south-facing wall of the greenhouse. Birds tweeted in the lime trees,