The Mermaid Garden (56 page)

Jake and his ludicrous theory. As if Rafa could be Baffles, the very idea was absurd.

* * *

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On Friday, June 12, Charles Rueben and his glacial wife, Celeste, ar-

rived for the weekend. Marina had begged Grey to say they were fully

booked, but he had refused her. As hard as it was for him to admit it,

he needed them.

It poured with rain, which Marina hoped might put them off, for the

place looked very gray in bad weather. Heavy black clouds hung low

over the sea, and a cold wind whipped up the cliffs and over the roof,

groaning as if in protest at the new guests.

Marina loathed Celeste on sight. She was almost six feet tall, and

so skinny she nearly disappeared when viewed from the side. She had

the remains of an icy beauty, with pale blue eyes, heavily made-up with kohl and mascara, and white hair blow-dried into a stiff shoulder-length bob. Her cheekbones were high and as sharp as the big diamond

studs that glittered on her earlobes and long, wrinkled fingers. Her lips were thin and pursed into the disapproving pout of a very unhappy

woman. In spite of her luxurious cream cashmere sweater, black croco-

dile Birkin, and matching Ralph Lauren shoes, she looked utterly dis-

enchanted with her life.

“What a quaint little place,” she said in a nasal voice as she stepped

into the hall, leaving Tom and Shane to stagger behind with her Louis

Vuitton luggage. “And you must be Marina.” She looked down her nose

and pulled a tight smile, as far as her recent face-lift would allow.

Marina extended her hand and smiled politely, though her eyes re-

mained hostile. “You’re very welcome,” she said.

The Ruebens were the enemy, inveigling their way into her home

to snatch it for themselves. Grey greeted her warmly, for nastiness was not in his nature. Marina glanced out of the open door to see Charles

Rueben pacing the gravel with his BlackBerry pressed to his ear, while

his driver walked behind him with a large golfing umbrella. He was

short and portly, with the big belly of a man who spends a great deal of time in restaurants. His head was bald, his face fleshy and broad like a toad. When he came in at last, he shook the rain off his trench coat and complained in a strong cockney accent about the lack of signal.

“You’d have thought we were out in the sticks. You know, I was in the

back of beyond in India last week and the reception was one hundred

percent. What does that tell you about Britain, eh?”

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“You’re welcome to use the phone in your room,” said Grey.

“It looks like that’s what I’ll have to do.” He shook Grey’s hand and

smiled. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thank you,” Grey replied. “It’s Marina’s place, really.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said to Marina, shaking her firmly by the

hand. “I’ve heard a lot about it, so I had to come and check it out for myself.”

“May I introduce you to the manager, my son, Jake.” Grey was aware

of his wife’s mounting resentment and keen to keep her as far away

from the Ruebens as possible.

“A family business, I like it,” said Charles. “Have you met my wife,

Celeste?”

By contrast, his wife spoke in a croaky, upper-class whine. “Of course

we’ve met,” she retorted. “You’ve been nattering on the telephone for

ten minutes—what was I supposed to do, watch the flowers wilt?”

“Let me show you to your room,” said Grey.

Marina watched them leave the hall and bristled like a territorial ti-

gress. Celeste’s heavy floral perfume lingered in the air, and Marina insisted that the door remain open until the smell had gone. She looked

at the magnificent display of white lilies and roses, none of them any-

where near wilting, and thought Celeste Rueben the rudest woman she

had ever met.

The telephone rang and Jennifer, back at her post after her embar-

rassing episode with Mr. Atwood, answered it in her most professional

voice.

“It’s for you, Mrs. Turner. It’s Clementine.”

Marina took it at the desk. “Clemmie.”

“Are they there yet?”

“Yes, they’ve just arrived.”

“What are they like?”

“Ghastly.”

“If she was an animal, what would she be?”

Marina laughed. “An albino hyena in diamonds.”

“Lovely. And him?”

“A toad in suede and cashmere.”

She lowered her voice. “Do you need any moral support? I can leave

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at any time. After Mr. Atwood’s robbery charade I can do whatever

I want.”

Marina glanced at Jennifer, busy with the diary, and suppressed a

smile. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Grey has insisted we entertain them royally, so I’m going to kill them with kindness.”

“Can’t you just leave them to get on with it?”

“Trust me, these are the sort of people who demand to be enter-

tained.”

“Okay, but call me if you need support. I’m dying to leave the office;

it’s a miserable day and nothing’s happening.”

“Come home early and join us for tea. If the situation wasn’t so

tragic, we could have a good laugh about this.”

“We’re all in this together, Marina. One for all and all for one. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t, darling. And thank you for calling. Your concern means a

lot to me.”

She wandered into the sitting room where the fire was lit to keep

out the damp. It was cozy and warm, and the air smelled pleasantly of

woodsmoke. She perched on the club fender and thought about Clem-

entine and how much she had changed. She had almost forgotten the

dark shadow that had once accompanied her stepdaughter everywhere.

The girl was transformed. Marina looked through to the conservatory,

where Rafa was teaching a group of young women from London, and

knew that she had
him
to thank. Somehow, his presence there at the hotel had changed everything.

It wasn’t long before the tranquility of the sitting room was dis-

turbed by the whining tones of Celeste. “It’s jolly cold for June,” she complained, making her way towards one of the sofas. When she saw

Biscuit lying comfortably on the armchair, she screwed up her nose in

horror. “Goodness me, a dog. Do you allow animals into the hotel?” She

directed her question at Marina.

“Of course. But Biscuit lives here. He’s part of the place.”

“So, he’s yours?”

“Well, he belongs to all of us and none of us.”

“Lucky I didn’t wear my smart trousers.” She brushed a hand over

the sofa before sitting down.

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“You needn’t worry—he’s only taken a liking to the armchair.”

Celeste swept her eyes over the room. “The Somerlands had very

good taste in decoration, didn’t they?” she said. Marina didn’t bother to tell her that the taste was all hers. “What’s the name of that beautiful flower?” She pointed to the display of purple orchids on the coffee table at the other end of the room.

“Orchid,” said Marina.

“No, my dear, I mean the grown-up name.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Marina replied, biting her tongue. “I have yet to

grow up.”

At that moment Grey appeared with Charles, who was ruddy-faced

with excitement. “Grey’s going to give me a tour of the garden,” he

declared.

Marina panicked. The idea of being stuck here with Celeste was

more than she could bear. “Would you like to go, too?” she asked hope-

fully.

But Celeste settled back into the sofa and folded her arms. “I’m not

going out in the rain,” she replied, appalled. “You go and be boys, but we girls are going to stay by the fire, aren’t we, Marina?” Heather entered with tea. “Good timing. I could murder a cup of tea. Is it Earl

Grey?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Heather, placing it on the coffee table.

“Oh, biscuits. I won’t be touching those.”

“They’re homemade shortbread,” said Marina.

“I’m sure they are. Typical of these provincial little places. Delight-

ful, I’m sure, but I’ll pass. I didn’t get to be as slim as I am by gorging on shortbread.”

Heather poured her a cup of tea. “Would you like milk, ma’am?”

“Is it soya?”

“No, cow’s milk.”

“Full fat or skimmed?”

“Full fat.”

Celeste blanched. “I’ll have it with a slice of lemon, then.”

Marina rolled her eyes at Heather. It was going to be a tiresome

weekend.

* * *

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When Rafa sauntered into the sitting room, Celeste sat up keenly. Ma-

rina introduced them and watched as Celeste began to flirt like a young girl. Clearly used to being admired, she seemed not to care that it was inappropriate to behave that way with a man young enough to be her

son. She giggled shyly and blinked up at him from beneath her thick

black lashes. Rafa flattered her and asked her about herself, looking

into her eyes in that intense way of his, making her feel she was the only person in the room he wanted to talk to. Marina wondered whether he

was doing it on purpose as a favor to
her
, or whether he did it unconsciously.

“Do you paint, Celeste?” he asked.

“I was once a very good painter,” she replied. “I have a good eye for

detail.”

“Then come and paint.”

Marina was quick to encourage her. “Oh, you must, Celeste. You can

show those girls in there how it’s done.”

“Oh, I haven’t painted for years.”

“You never forget how to paint,” said Rafa.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” rejoined Marina.

“I’d have to change out of my clothes.”

“I have an overall for you,” said Rafa. “Come, it will give me plea-

sure.”

Celeste got up. “What a wonderful idea, having an artist-in-

residence, Marina.”

“Thank you,” she replied, waiting for the insult. But it didn’t come.

Celeste followed Rafa into the conservatory, and Marina made her

escape—but not before Rafa had looked over his shoulder and tossed

her a wink.

At midday Charles returned with Grey, full of enthusiasm. They had

walked all the way along the cliff top to Dawcomb-Devlish and en-

joyed a cup of coffee in the Wayfarer.

“Charming place,” Charles gushed, inhaling with delight. “Nothing

like the sea and the smell of ozone to clear the airways and soothe the mind. This place has a special energy. I like it. I like it a lot.”

Grey was keen not to be overbearing and left him to lunch with his

wife in the dining room.

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Arnaud, the sommelier, had at last found someone who knew about

fine wine. They discussed the list in great detail, and Charles chose a red Cabernet Sauvignon blend, Chateau Palmer ’90, one of the most

expensive wines available on the menu. The sommelier almost danced

around the tables in his eagerness to go and fetch the bottle from the

cellar.

Celeste had enjoyed a couple of hours in the conservatory with Rafa

and was now an expert on watercolors. She told her husband that the

young artist had encouraged her to paint because he had recognized

a kindred spirit in her, someone with natural flair and talent like him.

“The trouble is,” she explained as the sommelier poured a little

wine into her husband’s glass and waited for him to taste it, “there just isn’t time enough in the day to do all the things I’m good at.” Charles swirled it around, then put the glass to his lips. The sommelier waited, barely daring to breathe. This particular Cabernet Sauvignon blend

was a favorite of his and he was sure a sophisticated businessman like

Mr. Rueben would appreciate it.

“Full bodied, complex, and fruity,” he declared and tapped his glass.

The sommelier filled Mrs. Rueben’s glass first before filling her hus-

band’s. He was dismayed to see the woman take a sip without so much

as a smile of pleasure. She was too busy talking about herself to notice the exceptional taste of the wine.

After lunch Celeste was keen to continue painting. Charles re-

treated to his room to make some calls. Grey and Marina returned

to the stable block. It had stopped raining and the sun had come out,

shining onto the wet leaves, causing the raindrops to glitter like glass.

Neither wanted to talk about the Ruebens. The implications were too

painful. So they skirted around the subject, although it hung between

them like a bright neon sign.

At teatime Clementine roared up the drive in her Mini Cooper,

eager to see what the Ruebens were like. She found Rafa in the conser-

vatory, putting away the paints and brushes.

“So?” she hissed, surprising him from behind.

He turned round. “Oh, it’s you,” he laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re

referring to the Ruebens.”

“Go on, what are they like?”

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“Pesados,”
he replied. “Heavy.”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. Marina and your father have gone back to the stable