The Mermaid Garden (12 page)

“Give him a chance. I don’t know what you want—heart flutters and

stomach cramps, I expect—but life isn’t like that. The point is, does he make you laugh and is he a good lover? Anything more than that is a

bonus, or restricted to romantic novels. You wait around for that sort of hero, and you’ll grow old alone.”

“What a happy soliloquy first thing in the morning.”

“Sorry, lovely, but I’m just giving you a dose of realism.”

“I’ve had far too much realism recently. I’m going to go to Buenos

Aires, to while away my days dreaming.”

“Now Argentines, apparently they’re the worst.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Everyone knows. They’re notorious for being irresistibly charming

and compulsively unfaithful.”

“You’re thinking of polo players, but go on, repeat the old cliché.”

“They make good lovers but bad husbands.”

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“I’m not planning on marrying one. I don’t intend to marry at all,

ever.”

Sylvia looked bewildered. “Why not?”

“I come from a broken home. I never want to do that to a child.”

“That’s silly. You can break the cycle.”

“Don’t want to.”

“I’m divorced, and yet I’d give it another go. I’d marry Freddie, if he ever left his wife. They rarely do, though.”

“My father left my mother,” said Clementine bitterly. “I’d never want

to be the wedge that drives a family apart like Submarine.”

Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe their love was so strong—”

“Weren’t you just saying that kind of love is reserved for romantic

novels?”

“And the very lucky few.”

“Ah, so you do believe in love?”

“Yes, I do. But I don’t believe it happens to each and every one of us.

That’s all. You might grow to love Joe if you give him a chance.”

“Do you love Freddie?”

“I love the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he

makes me laugh. I love who I am when I’m with him. But do I love

him? Like, would I die without him? I’d be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t be broken-hearted.”

“Don’t you want something more?”

“Of course. Every little girl wants to find her prince. But there’s no

point hankering after something you can’t have. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not one of the lucky ones.” Sylvia grabbed her handbag.

“I think I’ll go out for a ciggie. Will you man the phone?”

Clementine watched her leave. She didn’t imagine she was one of

the lucky ones, either, but deep down inside, she hoped there was more

to love than Joe.

“I think we’ll put Rafa in the suite at the top,” said Marina, sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso thoughtfully. “No one’s booked it for

months, and it’s a shame to let such a beautiful set of rooms go unused.”

Harvey was up a ladder in his blue boiler suit and cap, screwdriver

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Santa Montefiore

in hand to mend the curtain pole that had come away from the wall at

one end. “That’s the nicest bedroom in the house,” he said, pausing a

moment. “Used to be young William’s room when he was a boy.”

Harvey remembered the Duke of Somerland’s children fondly:

three rambunctious boys with big blue eyes and smiles that held within

them the promise of a whole heap of mischief. He had been just a

lad himself, employed to help the estate manager, Mr. Phelps, chop-

ping logs and sweeping leaves. He still felt nostalgic when Mr. Potter

burned the leaves in autumn. It took him back to an innocent time in

his life when things had been less complicated.

Ted and Daniel did the heavy work these days as Mr. Potter was too

old—older than he was, and
he
was as old as the hills—so he delegated, and his sons dug and planted and cut back. Harvey suspected that Marina kept him on out of compassion, because she knew how much the

place meant to him and understood the need to deny the years for as

long as possible. After all, retirement for Mr. Potter would be as good as putting him in his coffin and placing it in the ground.

Now the gardens looked as good as they had when the duke had

owned the property—better, even, because Marina had such a clear

vision of what she wanted and the determination to see it done. He

watched her fondly from the window. She was always neatly dressed,

with crisp white shirts and slacks, or pretty dresses in summer, never

jeans. Being short, she always wore heels to give her height. He felt

paternal towards her, a feeling he relished, having never married or fathered children. The funny thing was, she blossomed beneath his praise, and that made him feel good. This glamorous woman, who seemed to

have the world at her feet, needed
him
.

“Is that a new watch, Harvey?” Marina asked, noticing the silver

glinting on his wrist.

He shook his arm out of his sleeve. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

“It’s very big.”

“That’s why I like it.”

“It looks very expensive.”

“It’s an Omega.”

“Sounds fancy.”

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He was distracted by a damp patch in the corner of the room. “Looks

like there’s a leak,” he said, frowning.

“A leak?”

“Might be a blocked gutter. Nothing I can’t fix.”

She grinned at him affectionately. “You always have just the right

thing in that shed of yours. It’s better stocked than any hardware shop.”

“That’s because I don’t throw anything away. You know, I have a

wireless from the nineteen fifties and the first black-and-white television I bought in the sixties.”

“And a healthy supply of Agritape and baler twine,” she added hu-

morously, for it was a running joke that the Polzanze was held together by agricultural tape and string.

“So, where
are
you going to put Mr. Santoro?” he asked, leaning on his screwdriver.

“Paul had the blue room last year, but it’s a bit run-down, needs to

be redecorated. The suite, however, has the original wallpaper, which is so pretty, and a little sitting room for him to paint in. It has a splendid view of the ocean, and when the wind blows over the roof, it whistles.

It’s got a special energy up there.”

“That’s because William was a very happy boy. He and his brothers

used to play up there all the time. It was the children’s floor.”

Marina drained her coffee cup and stole a passing thought of her

own children playing up there, had she been so blessed. “He’s come

from Argentina; I want him to see the best England has to offer.”

“He’ll see it here, there’s no doubt about that.” Harvey gave the pole

a good pull to make sure it was firmly fixed to the wall.

“I think he’ll be perfect, don’t you? My old ladies won’t know what’s

hit them when they arrive for their week. I just hope the word spreads

and people come.”

“They’ll come,” Harvey reassured her. “Life has its ups and downs,

but mark my words, it always goes up after a down.”

Marina dropped her gaze into her empty cup. “Am I a fool, pinning

all my hopes on Rafa Santoro? I know nothing about him. He could be

an axe murderer, for all I know.”

“You have to trust your instincts. I sense he’s a good man.”

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“Do you?” She looked up at him.

“Yes, though I can’t say whether he’ll help put this place back on its

feet again.”

“We’re on our knees, Harvey.”

Harvey stopped working on the pole and looked down at her.

“I know.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. I hope that if I don’t talk about it, it won’t happen.”

“It’s quiet, all right, but it’s just temporary.”

“I hope so, Harvey. We need money, fast.”

He came down the ladder and stood at the bottom, screwdriver

hanging at his side. “Now listen to me, Marina. You have to keep going.

It’s like walking a tightrope: look ahead or you’ll lose your balance.

Things will work out; people will come. We’ll weather the recession

like everyone else, and it’ll blow over just like a storm.”

“Do you really see blue sky ahead?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“I like your mind, Harvey. I wish I could curl up in it until the storm’s gone.”

He smiled at her. “I think William’s floor will be perfect for Mr. San-

toro. Why don’t I give the blue room a lick of paint?”

“Good idea.”

“Shall we go and have a look at it now?”

“Yes.” She stood up eagerly.

“Let’s have a look at William’s floor, too, and see if there’s anything that needs to be done in there.”

“Yes, let’s.” Her voice brightened. “You can fix the leak later.”

As Marina and Harvey passed reception to get to the stairs, Jennifer

paused her telephone conversation and smiled at them guiltily. Harvey

shot her a reproachful look, knowing she was indulging once again in

a private call.

“I’ve got to go, Cowboy,” Jennifer hissed once they had gone.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you during working hours. I’ll get fired.”

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled in amusement. “Any

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nonsense from them and I’ll take it out on their daughter. She’s a li-

ability as it is.”

“Oh, Nigel, that’s not fair.”

“She’s a useless secretary, and scruffy to boot. At least Sylvia is well dressed and properly groomed.”

“Clemmie’s young.”

“So are you, Jen, and you take pride in your appearance.”

“That’s because I never know when you might saunter in here like

John Wayne with your hand on your gun.”

“I’d like you to put
your
hand on my gun.”

“Is it loaded?” she giggled.

“It’s always loaded, ready to go off with the slightest touch.”

“Oh, you dirty boy. Back on your horse!”

“Can I see you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then I won’t call you again.”

“Text me instead. I like receiving sexy texts.”

“Do they turn you on?” he whispered, mouth very close to the re-

ceiver.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

“How much?”

“So much, I grow hot.”

“And wet?”

“Shame on you, Mr. Atwood!”

“You love it.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Same time, same place. I’ll go and polish my gun.”

“Easy now, Cowboy. Don’t overpolish it.”

“Fear not, my precious. I’ll leave the best for you.”

Grey was in the library reading
The Times
when Jake found him. His face looked old and weary in repose, a sadness hanging over him like a

cloud. It lifted when he saw his son.

“Ah, Jake,” he said, putting down the paper.

“Dad, I’ve been thinking about how to revive the business.”

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“Have you?”

“Yes.” Jake sank into the big leather armchair opposite his father.

“We need to do events. Get people in through a shared interest.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Literary dinners. Something like that, anyway. A club of sorts. Peo-

ple pay to be members, and they get to come to lectures. It’s so quiet

here, it’s off-putting. We need an air of activity.”

“Well, you’re certainly right about that.”

“I know Submarine’s got her artist-in-residence.” He grinned wick-

edly. “Give him a week and he’ll be seducing every woman in Daw-

comb. That’ll teach her!”

“Don’t be unkind, Jake. She’s having a tough time at the moment. Be

a little sympathetic.”

“Sorry. He’s just so obviously a playboy.”

“I don’t think he’d be coming here for the summer if he was a

playboy.”

“Okay, so not a playboy, a player.”

“Your idea’s a good one,” said his father decisively. “I propose we

begin with a lecture. Let’s think of an author we’d like to invite to speak, and I’ll contact the publisher.” Grey was genuinely excited by the idea.

He loved books, and there were many authors he would like to meet.

“Well done, Jake. You’re on the right lines.”

“I want to help, Dad.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” As his son left the room, he watched him

with a sense of gratitude. He wished his daughter could follow her

brother’s example and think about someone else for a change.

Clementine believed herself ill-treated and wronged, when she had

so much to be grateful for. Grey knew it was his fault: he had spoiled

her. If only she could see beyond herself, she might come to understand a little more about the people who loved her. Not everything was displayed above the surface. He hadn’t left her mother and run off with a

temptress, as she believed, but taken the hand that reached out to him

in the black pit of despair. So great was his unhappiness that he had decided to walk away from it. That meant leaving his small children—but

what good would he have been to them anyway, cowed and broken?

Marina had rescued him and breathed life into him again. Of course,

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Clementine would never know these things unless she asked him for

his side of the story. Until that improbable moment all he could do was present his hand and wait patiently for her to take it.