Sleeping Arrangements (5 page)

'Amanda—'

'We should have gone to Club Med. With Club Med you're safe. At least you know what you're getting! I mean—what if we can't find it? What are we going to do then?'

'Wait!' Hugh slowed down. 'Aha. Now, I think this could be our turning.'

There was silence as the car swung off the road and down a narrower track. Scrubby gorse bushes began to give way to olive and lemon trees; they passed a cluster of tiny houses, and a pair of smart blue gates guarded by closed-circuit television.

'Villa del Serrano is the next house after the blue gates,' read Hugh aloud. He drove on a few hundred yards, then stopped at a small sign. There was silence as they turned off the track and slowly approached a pair of high wrought-iron gates, adorned with elaborate gold crests.

'Villa del Serrano,' said Hugh, reading the engraved stone sign at the side, and stopped the car. He turned in his seat and smiled at the girls. 'Here we are, at last. OK, Beatrice?

Octavia?'

'Have we got a key for the gates?' said Amanda.

'Not a key,' said Hugh. He reached into his pocket, pulled out an electronic bleeper and jabbed it in the direction of the gates. For a moment there was anxious silence. Then, slowly, the gates began to open.

'Jesus,' breathed Jenna, staring at the view before them. 'It's incredible!'

An avenue of cypress pines and palm trees swept up before them to a semicircular drive.

The façade of the house was white, with ironwork balconies and a tiled, pitched roof. Huge terracotta pots holding white blooms were placed at intervals around the drive; stone paths led away through shady lawned areas. In the distance was the blue glint of a swimming pool.

They drove slowly along, in silence. They stopped in front of the pillared entrance and stared at it silently for a few moments. Then, abruptly, Hugh opened his door. The hot, scented air outside was like stepping into a warm bath after the chilly atmosphere of the car.

'Shall we go inside?' he said.

'I suppose so,' said Amanda with a nonchalance he knew was entirely put on. 'Why not?'

Slowly, they walked up to the pillared entrance. Hugh reached in his pocket for the key and inserted it in the heavy front door. As he pushed it open, a high-pitched whining began.

'Shit,' said Hugh. 'That'll be the alarm system.' He sprinted out to the car, squinting in the sunlight, then ran back holding Gerard's instructions. 'OK, cupboard on right . . . 35462 . . .

enter.' He punched carefully at the key-pad and a moment later the whine stopped. Hugh came out of the cupboard and, for the first time, looked around.

They were standing in a large, marble reception hall furnished with a circular, dark wood table. In front of them, a sweeping double staircase curved up to a galleried landing; above them, the high domed ceiling was painted with trompe l'oeil clouds. Hugh met Amanda's staggered gaze and a little smile came to his lips.

'So, Amanda,' he said, unable to resist it. 'Still wish we'd gone to Club Med?'

They had stopped the car again for Nat to be sick. As Philip crouched down on the side of the road with him, murmuring soothing words, he glanced at his watch. They had been on the road nearly two and a half hours: an hour longer than Gerard's instructions indicated. After leaving the airport they had managed to get hopelessly lost, heading down the coastal road in the wrong direction, and only realizing their mistake as they arrived at a notorious resort full of sunburned English tourists munching hamburgers.

Chloe had remained determinedly upbeat throughout: staying calm as Philip stalled the car while trying to turn round; smiling faintly as a Spanish lorry driver leaned out of his cab and yelled some incomprehensible insult at them. How she could stay so cheerful, Philip didn't know. He felt like a coffee pot bubbling with frustration—with himself, with Gerard's un-clear wording; with bloody Spain for being so hot and dry and foreign.

His eyes passed over the mountainside stretching down before him. This wasn't beautiful country, he found himself thinking ungratefully. The greenness of these mountains was an il-lusion. Close up they were dry and scrappy, with an uncared-for look. All he could see was dried-up river beds, overhanging boulders, sparse bushes fighting each other for survival.

'I feel better,' said Nat, standing up. 'I think.'

'Good,' said Philip. 'Well done.' He put an arm around Nat's shoulders and squeezed tight.

'We'll just wait a few minutes before we go on.' He turned to Chloe, who was leaning against the car, perusing Gerard's instructions. 'How much further now, do you reckon?'

'Not far. We have to find a little village called San Luis.' She looked up, a glow on her face.

'I must say, this villa sounds marvellous. Four bedroom suites. Two acres of grounds. And a lemon grove!'

'Very nice.'

'Oh my goodness!' Chloe's voice rippled with amusement. 'It's got bulletproof glass!'

'Bulletproof glass?' Philip stared at her. 'Are you sure?'

'That's what it says here. And the alarm system is linked up to the local police station.

We'll certainly be safe from intruders.'

'Typical Gerard.' Philip shook his head impatiently. 'What the hell does he need all that for?'

'Maybe he's worried some disgruntled wine merchant's going to take a pop at him.' Chloe giggled. 'Maybe someone's got a contract out on him.'

'Self-aggrandizement, more like.'

Chloe put down the sheet of paper and looked at him with clear blue eyes.

'You really don't like Gerard, do you?'

'I do like him!'

'You don't. You never have.'

'I just . . . I don't know.' Philip shrugged. 'He thinks he's so bloody amusing and witty.'

'He is amusing and witty,' pointed out Chloe. 'His job consists of being amusing and witty.'

'Not at other people's expense,' said Philip, looking at a distant rock. Chloe sighed.

'Philip, that's just his way. He doesn't mean any harm.'

'He shouldn't make fun of your career,' said Philip doggedly.

'You're too sensitive!' retorted Chloe. 'He doesn't make fun of it. Not really.' She smiled.

'Come on. He's lent us his villa for nothing, hasn't he?'

'I know. It's very kind of him.'

'So . . .'

'So. Good old Gerard.'

'Good old Gerard,' echoed Philip after a pause, and looked away.

He and Chloe would never agree about the delightfully vague and dizzy Gerard Lowe.

Yes, the man was charming. Yes he was a famously generous host, always plying one with delicious morsels of food and wine and gossip. But there was, thought Philip, an eagle eye beneath the bonhomie, looking for weakness, looking for vulnerability. Everyone adored being insulted by Gerard; it was all part of the game, all part of the entertainment. But even as the victim was helplessly laughing, there would often be a sheen to the eyes; a flush to the cheeks, which indicated that Gerard had hit the spot just a little too accurately.

Chloe, of course, thought his teasing hilarious. She had known Gerard for so long, thought Philip, she was blind to his worst qualities; could not see what he had turned into. Gerard treated her with a childish possessiveness which she found flattering. When he called her 'his girl' and put a proprietorial arm around her waist, she laughed and found it charming. Philip found it sickening.

'Anyway,' he said, turning back. 'Let's get on.'

'Absolutely,' said Chloe, squinting ahead at the road. 'It really can't be too much further now. OK, Nat? Into the car.' As the car door slammed she met Philip's eye and smiled. 'Just think. We're nearly there. I can't quite believe it.'

There was a wistfulness to her voice, a longing tone which made Philip suddenly ashamed of his churlishness. Chloe deserved this holiday. She deserved a chance to relax, to escape.

He wasn't being fair on her. On any of them.

'Nearly there,' he echoed, walking over to her. 'Great, isn't it?'

'Do you really think that, Philip?' As she met his gaze, all the questions that existed between them seemed to be held in her eyes. 'Are you really glad we're here?'

'Of course I am,' said Philip. He pulled her towards him and kissed her, holding her tight against him. 'Of course I am. It's going to be perfect.'

Hugh lay on a lounger by the pool, newspaper open and glass of beer at his side. He had to hand it to Gerard, this was a pretty spectacular place. He was sitting on a vast, terraced area of paved terracotta, surrounded by huge palm trees and well-tended areas of greenery.

In front of him, the swimming pool curved gently round to a bridge, then cascaded in a waterfall to a lower-level, shallower pool. Beyond the swimming pool was a long wrought-iron balustrade—and beyond that, nothing but the mountains and the blue sky.

Inside, the house was pretty incredible, too. A vast drawing room, a long formal dining room, a slatefloored kitchen leading into a grapevine-clad conservatory. All decorated sump-tuously. There were, as Amanda had pointed out, only four bedrooms, which was fewer than one might have expected in a house of this grandeur. But then, as he had replied, they didn't need more than four bedrooms. Which made it perfect.

And the kitchen was stuffed to the gills with food. Not just food, gourmet food. Dressed seafood, pâtés and cheeses, fine wines and bowls overflowing with fruit. Even Amanda had been overwhelmed as they'd all stared into the laden fridge.

'Pineapple juice,' she'd said disbelievingly, ticking it off on her hand. 'Passionfruit juice.

Apple juice, orange juice, cranberry juice.' She'd looked up and given a snort of laughter.

'Anyone for juice?'

Hugh had taken a beer and brought it outside, into the sun. Now he picked it up and took a swig. He turned to the next page of his newspaper and found himself looking at the headline of an article he had already read. Through inertia rather than interest, his eyes began to run down the text again, as though gleaning missed nuggets of information.

There was a pattering sound and he looked up. Beatrice was approaching the pool, attired in swimsuit, armbands and flip-flops. Her skin was pale with Factor 24 sun cream and she was sucking at the straw of a boxed orange juice.

'Hello there,' said Hugh, lowering his paper slightly. 'Going swimming?'

'Yes,' said Beatrice, sitting down at the water's edge.

'Shall we . . .' Hugh cleared his throat. 'Do you want to go in with Daddy?'

He put his paper down, stood up, and held out his hand invitingly to his daughter. She ignored him.

'Come on, Beatrice!' said Hugh, attempting a cajoling tone. 'Let's go in together.'

'I want to go with Mummy,' said Beatrice, and sucked hard at her drink.

'We could just—'

'No!' wailed Beatrice, as Hugh tried to take her hand. 'Go with Mummy!'

'Right,' said Hugh, and forced an easy smile. 'Let's wait for Mummy, then.'

'Beatrice?' Amanda's voice, raised in alarm, came across the terrace. 'Beatrice, where are you?'

'She's here!' called Hugh. 'She's fine.'

Amanda appeared round the corner, holding Octavia by the hand. She had changed into tiny white bikini bottoms, a pair of beaded flip-flops and a close-fitting white T-shirt.

'Beatrice, don't bother Daddy,' she said sharply.

'She's fine,' said Hugh again.

'I told her to stay with me until I was ready.'

'Where's Jenna?' asked Hugh. 'Shouldn't she be helping you out?'

'She's unpacking their things.'

Amanda let go of Octavia's hand, dropped a towel onto a lounger and peeled off her T-shirt in one deft movement. Underneath she was topless, her breasts firm and tanned without a single strap-mark. Her stomach was taut, her back strong and muscular, her biceps defined.

With her cropped hair, burnished in the sunlight, she looked like an Amazonian warrior, Hugh found himself thinking.

'Here you are,' she said to Octavia, reaching into her bag and producing four clementines.

'And here you are, Beatrice. Go and eat them on the grass, and put the peel in this bag. And walk carefully.'

The two little girls pattered off to a grassy, shaded area and began to pull strips of peel off the clementines. Amanda watched them for a few seconds, a poised look on her face, as though she were about to throw some further command or criticism. Eventually she sighed and turned to her sun lounger.

'So,' said Hugh, as she sat down. 'Here we are. Not bad, eh?'

'It's nice,' said Amanda, the tiniest of grudging notes still in her voice. She reached in her bag for a paperback and briskly flicked to the right page. 'It's a shame there isn't a tennis court

. . .'

'The point is, it's all ours,' said Hugh. 'There's no-one else to worry about. We can do whatever we like.'

He took another swig of beer, then put the glass down on the ground, reached a hand out and gently caressed her naked breast.

'Hugh,' said Amanda, glancing towards the children.

'They're fine,' said Hugh. 'They can't even see us.'

His fingers moved down to her large brown nipple and it stiffened slightly under his touch.

Hugh glanced at his wife's face for a corresponding reaction—but her eyes were shaded behind Gucci sunglasses and her lip-glossed mouth was motionless.

What exactly was she feeling behind that shell of perfection? Hugh wondered. Was all the passion still there, behind the impassive mask, underneath the sculpted muscles? Or had her skin had all the sensitivity pummelled and exfoliated out of it?

He had recently overheard her revealing to a friend on the telephone that she was deliberately smiling less, so as to decrease the chance of wrinkles. Perhaps this assumed calmness extended to sex as well. He had absolutely no idea.

'Hugh . . .' said Amanda, and shifted on her sun lounger, slightly away from him.

He had to admit, the signs were not good. She sounded mildly irritated and wanting to get back to her paperback. But he didn't care, thought Hugh. He was on holiday and he wanted sex.

'Let's have a siesta,' he said in a low voice. Slowly, his finger circled her nipple, ran down her perfectly toned stomach and fingered her bikini bottoms.