The Mermaid Garden (7 page)

She placed a hand on his as he squeezed her shoulder. His touch was

loaded with so many unspoken words she didn’t have the courage to

reply, so she squeezed him back instead. They remained still, allowing

their love to console them where syllables could not. Then he kissed her again and left the room.

Clementine awoke with a head full of warring rhinoceroses. She put

her hand to her brow and rubbed it ineffectively. As she slowly came to her senses, fragments of the night before surfaced one by one, until an unsavory picture began to form in her mind. She groaned at her own

folly. Not only had she allowed Joe to kiss her, which had been quite

nice at the time, but she had allowed him to do all sorts of
other
things, of which she had only jumbled recollections and a lingering sense of

shame. She rolled over and pulled a pillow onto her head. Had they

gone the whole way? She was mortified to discover that she couldn’t

remember.

The door opened and Marina crept in. “Clementine, you have to

get up. It’s eight-fifteen.” Clementine lay inert, pretending not to hear.

Marina walked over to the window and opened the curtains. Sunlight

tumbled in. “It’s a beautiful day again. Not a cloud in the sky.” She approached the bed and lifted the pillow. “I know you’re awake. Heavy

evening?”

“Too much vodka at the Dizzy Mariner,” Clementine mumbled.

“I’ll make you a strong coffee. Take a cold shower, you’ll feel better.”

“I want to sleep.”

“I’m not going to phone and pretend you’re sick.”

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“Please.”

“No. That’s beyond the call of duty. Now hurry, or you’ll be late.”

Clementine dragged herself into the bathroom and peered at her re-

flection in the mirror above the basin. Her face was gray, the circles beneath her eyes as dark as purple storm clouds, and she had an unsightly spot on her chin. Her shoulder-length hair was tangled and knotted, as

if a bird had spent the night in it, trying to scratch its way out. Her lips were swollen from too much kissing. No amount of eye drops would

restore her bloodshot eyes, and as for her self-respect—she fumbled for the paracetamol—nothing could restore that.

At last she made her way down to the kitchen. The smell of fresh

coffee and hot croissants revived her flagging spirit. Marina was at the table, reading
Vogue
. She looked poised and polished in a pair of beige trousers and bright floral blouse, her small feet tucked into a pair of high wedge heels. She raised her eyes over the magazine and smiled

sympathetically. “That’s better.” But only marginally. She had tried to cover up with too much foundation and kohl.

“I should never have drunk so much.”

“We all do silly things.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Marina. You don’t look like you’ve done a single

silly thing in your entire life.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Yes I would.” Clementine didn’t imagine her stepmother had ever

gotten drunk and allowed a coarse odd-job man to have his wicked way

with her. She poured herself a cup of coffee and gingerly nibbled the

corner of a croissant. Shame clawed at her stomach. She would have

liked to share her worries, but knew that Marina was the last person on the planet who would understand. As she chewed, her fears mounted.

What if he hadn’t worn a condom? What if she was pregnant? What if

he had a disease? Should she go to the doctor? She felt the blood drain into her feet.

Marina glanced at her, sensing her misery. “Are you all right? You

look sick.”

“I’m fine. Just hung over.”

Marina wasn’t convinced. “If you really are unwell, you shouldn’t go

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into work and you certainly shouldn’t drive. I’ll call Mr. Atwood and let him know.”

“Stop fussing. I said I’m fine.” Clementine hadn’t meant her voice

to sound so sharp, but she was too frail to apologize. She looked at her watch. “I’d better go.”

“You’ve barely eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.” She stood up.

“Take the croissant to eat in the car.”

“I’ll get something in town.”

Keen not to fuss, Marina did not insist. She looked at the barely

eaten croissant discarded on the table and felt a rush of maternal angst.

It wasn’t healthy to start the day on an empty stomach.

“See you later, then. Have a good day.”

Clementine didn’t reply. She left the room, taking her darkness with

her. A little later the front door closed with a loud bang. A gust of wind swept into the kitchen, but then the air settled and the place felt light again.

Marina turned her thoughts to Rafa Santoro. She was not looking for-

ward to meeting him. Her spirits felt heavy with dread and anticipated

disappointment. If only Paul Lockwood would come back, everything

would be all right. She drained her coffee cup and cleared the table.

As she stacked the plates she heard the door open again and the loud,

habitual sigh that always accompanied Bertha’s arrival.

“Morning,” Bertha groaned. “Another lovely day at the Polzanze.”

She bustled into the kitchen, heaving her heavy body across the room.

A porcine woman with mottled pink skin and pale blond hair tied into

a ponytail, Bertha worked at the hotel, doing a couple of hours every

morning for Marina at the stable block.

“Morning, Bertha. How are you today?”

“Well, my cold’s definitely on the way out, but my back. Well . . .”

She handed Marina a postcard then sank into a chair and helped her-

self to Clementine’s half-nibbled croissant that still sat on the table.

“Come all the way from Canada. Pretty writing.”

“Katherine Bridges,” Marina replied with a smile. “My old teacher.”

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“Funny to still keep in touch with your teacher.”

“She was more than a teacher. She was special.”

Bertha pulled a face. “The doctor has suggested I try those needle

things. What are they called?”

“Acupuncture,” Marina replied absentmindedly, scanning her eyes

down the postcard.

“Sounds painful, all them little needles. Don’t think I could bear

it. I have a very low pain threshold. Giving birth nearly did me in. If I hadn’t been given epidurals for all my children, I would have died.”

Marina stiffened. “I had better wander over now. Would you give

Clementine’s room a good clean this morning?”

“I saw her driving down the lane. Doesn’t look very well this morn-

ing. I didn’t even get a smile.”

“Neither did I, Bertha.”

“Doesn’t cost much to smile.”

“It does if you’re as hung over as she is. Don’t forget her room,

will you?”

“I’ll do my best.” She got up slowly, one hand in the small of her

back, and lumbered over to the dishwasher, where she began to load the

plates halfheartedly.

Marina put the postcard in her pocket and made her way across

the gravel to the hotel. Bertha checked that she was well and truly gone before switching on the kettle and sitting down again, extracting the

Daily Mail
from her handbag and settling into a gripping article about a kitten that was flushed down the lavatory and survived.

Jennifer and Rose were at the reception desk talking to Jake when

Marina entered. Unlike his sister, Jake was a sunny young man with a

ready smile and easy charm. Tall like his father, he was classically good-looking, with clear blue eyes and a long, straight nose. What under-

mined his appeal was the lack of character in his face. There was little to distinguish it from other generically handsome Englishmen who had

experienced nothing in their lives but pleasure.

He greeted his stepmother jovially, and she couldn’t help but smile

back at him. “I should be angry with you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to take a de-

tour to Thurlestone. But I never expected to stay so long.”

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“So, what did you discover about the robber?”

“Besides the fact that he leaves a thank-you note?”

“That’s his signature, is it?”

“I think he’s rather relishing being called Baffles, the Gentleman

Thief. I suppose he’s got a fixation with Raffles, the character from that old movie. You know, the one David Niven starred in.”

“It was originally a novel by E. W. Hornung, brother-in-law to Ar-

thur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Grey told me. He’s

good with books. Well, Baffles had better watch out. It’ll be his down-

fall. They always get too pleased with themselves.”

“You’re probably right. At the moment, though, they’re baffled.” He

laughed at his pun. “He clearly knows the hotels and stately homes

intimately, but no one can work out how.”

“I’m not a detective, but even I can see that he must pose as a guest.”

“Perhaps. But how do guests have access to all the other rooms?”

“He climbs out of the window and jumps from sill to sill, like a cat.”

She smiled at the thought of Harvey reciting “Macavity.”

“Or he’s a serviceman who works for hotels—a gas man or carpet

cleaner.”

“They’ll catch him sooner or later,” she added hopefully. “These peo-

ple never get away with it.”

“He should quit while he’s ahead.”

“If he’s leaving little notes, it’s because he’s enjoying himself. He’s on a roll.”

Jake shook his head. “He’ll trip up, mark my words. He’ll get too

cocky and do something stupid.”

“Let’s hope so, sooner rather than later.”

Jake followed her into the hall. “So, I hear your interviews didn’t go

so well yesterday.”

“I’m very demoralized.” She dropped her shoulders and smiled pa-

thetically.

“Dad tells me you have an Argentine coming this morning.”

“Rafa Santoro. Sounds like a fancy brand of dog biscuits.”

“Let’s hope he’s less flaky than a biscuit.”

“I just hope he’s a normal painter. I’m not asking for anyone special.

I don’t want eccentric—there are enough of those around here already!”

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“Speaking of which, Mr. Potter needs to speak to you. Something

about sweet peas.”

“Later.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll just go and chat up the old

brigadier before the Biscuit gets here. I’ll be in the dining room, if he’s early. Show him into my study and don’t tell me if he’s odd. I can’t cope with odd this morning.”

The brigadier sat at his usual table at the end of the dining room, beside the window. He was dressed in a three-piece tweed suit and pale yellow tie, drinking tea and reading
The Times
, chuckling loudly at the absurdity of the world. The room was blessed with tall ceilings and

giant windows that gave onto the magnificent cedar tree so that the

morning sun flooded the room with brilliance and lit up his head like

a halo. When he saw Marina, he staggered to his feet, in spite of her

repeatedly telling him not to, and greeted her cheerfully in a stentorian tone.

“What a delightful sight first thing in the morning.” His face was a

fleshy mass of ruddy skin and broken veins, with neatly clipped side-

burns and mustache, and a full head of thick white hair. His eyes may

have been as small as raisins, but his sight was perfect and he swept

them over her as if appraising a pretty mare. “You’re a picture of loveliness, Marina.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down.

“Grey lent me a very interesting book yesterday. I started reading it

last night and couldn’t put it down.”

“Which one is it?”

“Andrew Roberts’s
Masters and Commanders
. Great read. Beautifully written. Pure pleasure. Sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back.

Best days of my life.”

“I’m very glad we can’t do that.”

“Call me an old fool, but my life had purpose then. I had a cause to

fight for, and nothing has been as good in my life since. I’m like an old train in the junkyard, remembering happier times.”

“You have purpose, Brigadier. You have children, grandchildren, and

your great-grandson, Albert. You are certainly not in the junkyard.”

He chuckled. “Ah, yes. Children are a blessing. One doesn’t really

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feel one’s left one’s imprint on the world if one doesn’t produce off-

spring. I’ll die knowing my bloodline continues. We didn’t fight for

nothing, although most young people don’t appreciate what we did for

them. If it wasn’t for us, they’d be speaking German and kowtowing

to a load of Huns! Goddamn it!” He choked on his laughter, coughed

loudly, then cleared his throat of phlegm. “Speaking of children, how

are yours? That Jake gets taller every time I see him.” Marina didn’t

have the heart to remind him that they weren’t hers.

Talking to the brigadier had distracted her from the imminent ar-

rival of her ten o’clock interview. When Jake strode across the room,

she had almost forgotten about it altogether. “Ah, speak of the devil,”

said the brigadier.

Marina noticed the strange expression on Jake’s face. It was a mix-