The Mermaid Garden (33 page)

intrepid squirrels played tag in the branches. The atmosphere was lan-

guid. Rafa wandered from easel to easel, giving advice here and there,

sometimes taking the brush himself and showing how it was done.

When he had a moment to himself, his mind drifted to Clementine.

She was tugging his conscience like a kite on the wind. He had gone

over and over their conversation and, as much as he regretted speaking

his mind, he didn’t regret trying to help her. He had definitely gone

about it the wrong way, picked the wrong moment, but his intentions

had been honorable. He had noticed Marina’s tense shoulders that

morning and the way she had smiled with her lips and not with her

eyes. He wondered whether she was upset that Clementine had moved

out. He resolved to go into town that afternoon and find her at work.

Perhaps they could have tea together and make up.

After lunch he took a break from painting and drove into

Dawcomb-Devlish. He knew that she worked for an estate agent on

the high street. It wouldn’t be hard to find. He parked the car on the

seafront. The place was teeming with tourists and British holiday-

makers on half term. Children sat on a low wall licking ice cream in

cones, waiting for a man with a long ponytail to apply tattoos. Mothers in brightly colored sweaters and shorts gossiped on the pavement, and

a couple of dogs lay in the shade waiting for their owner to come out of Kitchen Delights. Rafa weaved through the slow-moving throng that

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ambled idly up the road, and scanned the shops for the estate agency. It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon it.

Atwood and Fisher looked suitably prestigious, painted a discreet

navy blue with shiny windows displaying fine, beachfront houses to

rent or buy. He peered through to see a pretty redhead talking on the

telephone at the front desk. There was no sign of Clementine. When

he opened the door, the redhead glanced up. With a smile she swiftly

wound up her conversation and put down her nail file. “Hello, can

I help you?” she asked.

Rafa approached her desk. Her green eyes devoured him hun-

grily. “I’m looking for a girl called Clementine Turner. Does she work

here?”

“Little Clemmie? She certainly does. You must be the artist-in-

residence at the Polzanze.”

He grinned. “Am I that obvious?”

“You are, lovely. It’s the accent, distinctly
not
English.”

“Is she here?”

“I’m afraid not. She’s gone for a meeting with Mr. Atwood. I don’t

think she’ll be back until late afternoon. They’ve only just left.”

He swore in Spanish. “Can you give her a message for me?”

“Of course.” She picked up her pen. “Fire away.”

“You don’t need to write anything down. Just tell her I came by to

see her.”

“I’m coming up to have a drink at the Polzanze tonight. I’ll bring

her with me.”

“Okay. Then tell her I’ll see her later.”

“Sure.” Eager to detain him she added breezily, “So, how’s it going

up there?”

“Getting busy.”

“I bet it is. You’re slowly getting to know the whole of Dawcomb.”

He laughed. “It’s a great town.”

“I like it. Clementine doesn’t. She’s just desperate to leave. But then she’s a city girl. I prefer the quiet of the countryside. I’m a woman of simple pleasures.” Rafa took in her heavy makeup and manicure and

smiled to himself. She didn’t look like a woman who understood the

word
simple
.

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“I’d better get back to the hotel. I have some very keen artists to

teach.”

“I’m glad the weather’s nice for you.”

“So am I.”

She watched him walk to the door, wishing she could entice him to

stay and chat a little longer. “My name’s Sylvia, by the way.”

“See you later, then, Sylvia.”

She gave a little wave. “Bye!”

Clementine sat through the meeting while Mr. Atwood’s client,

Mr. Rhys-Kerr, leered at her from the other side of the dining room

table. The discussion went on for well over an hour, the majority of it having nothing to do with business and everything to do with golf. It

transpired that Mr. Atwood and Mr. Rhys-Kerr were both members of

the same club.

Once the finer details of the sale were settled, Mr. Rhys-Kerr in-

sisted on showing them around the house. Mr. Atwood had already

seen it, but Mr. Rhys-Kerr was keen for Clementine to appreciate the

merits of a big country pile. Clementine rolled her eyes at his child-

ish innuendos: bath “wide enough for two”; shower “that’s seen a lot

of loving”; bedroom “if these walls could talk, I’d blush to the roots of my hair.” The two men clearly shared the same sense of humor as well

as the same golf course, because Mr. Atwood laughed at everything

Mr. Rhys-Kerr said.

“You were terrific, Clementine,” Mr. Atwood gushed as he drove out

of the electric gates. “He really liked you.”

“Must be the suit,” Clementine replied drily.

“You’re a pretty girl, no doubt about it. We’ll make a fortune on that

house.”

“It’s very naff.”

“Naff?”

“Yes, no taste at all.”

“That’s beside the point. The fact is, it’s twelve thousand square feet with a sea view. Splendid.”

“It’s still naff.”

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“Are you telling me that if you had the money to burn, you wouldn’t

like to live there?”

“I’d hate to live there. The house is new, with no character or charm.”

“But it’s big.”

“And soulless.”

“I can’t work you out, Clementine.”

Clementine sighed and stared out of the window. “You’re not alone,

Mr. Atwood. Neither can I.”

When they returned to the office, Sylvia was talking on the tele-

phone to Freddie, doodling love hearts onto her notebook. She waited

until Mr. Atwood had left the room, then she told Clementine that her

Argentine had come looking for her.

“What did he say?” Clementine asked, perking up.

“Just that he popped by to see you.”

“Oh.”

“He’s gorgeous. It’s the smile. Full of naughtiness and his accent is as delicious as toffee banoffi pie.”

“I suspect he wanted to apologize.”

“About what?”

“Long story.” She sat down, disappointed that she had missed him.

“What do I do?”

“Go home to Joe. Rafa’s a man who is bound to break a girl’s heart.”

Sylvia knew she should tell her that he expected to see her at the hotel that evening, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the words out. They hung on her lips, refusing to budge. She knew jealousy didn’t become

her, but she convinced herself that Clementine wasn’t interested in

him. As she settled grumpily behind her desk, Sylvia decided that she’d probably decline his invitation anyway.

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19.

That evening Sylvia changed into a red dress, reapplied her lipstick

and motored up to the Polzanze, fighting her guilt that she hadn’t

invited Clementine to come with her.

She was greeted at the door by a porter who escorted her into recep-

tion.

“Good evening, can I help you?” said Jennifer, smiling politely from

behind the desk.

“Yes, I’ve come to have a drink with your artist, Rafa . . .” She hesi-

tated, not knowing his last name.

Jennifer recognized the buxom redhead, but couldn’t place her. “Sure,

he’s in the drawing room, straight through the hall.” She watched her

slope off in the direction of the drawing room, her gait slow and sexy, as if she were walking through a saloon in a cowboy movie. And then she

remembered where she had seen her, through the window of Atwood

and Fisher, and she breathed deeply, relieved that she had taken the

incriminating bracelet off.

Sylvia found Rafa in the sitting room, talking to a group of old ladies and a ruddy-faced codger in a gold-buttoned blue blazer. He looked

up as she walked over and acknowledged her with a smile. She noticed

his eyes stray past her, expecting to see Clementine. She wasn’t used to that.

“I’m on my own, I’m afraid; Clementine’s busy,” she said carelessly, as he stood up to greet her. His face darkened with disappointment. She

wasn’t used to that, either. Normally, she eclipsed other women like a

big, beautiful moon. “You don’t mind having a drink with me, do you?”

“It would be a pleasure. Let’s go outside. Will you be warm enough?”

“I have a wrap,” she replied, flapping it in front of him. “It’s come all the way from India.”

“When were you there?”

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“Oh, I haven’t been. It was a gift.”

“It’s pretty.”

She savored the suede texture of his foreign accent and followed him

through the conservatory. “I could listen to your accent forever,” she

sighed. “But I suppose all the girls have told you that?”

“So, there’s no point trying to sound English?” he replied with a

laugh.

“Oh, no, that would be foolish. You won’t have any admirers at all if

you sound like everyone else.”

“I’ll lay it on thickly, then.”

The terrace was almost full. They sat at a small round table and

looked at each other across the candlelight.

“So, what’s this boyfriend of Clementine’s like?”

“I introduced them,” Sylvia replied proudly. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.”

“Can I offer you one?”

He shook his head. “I’m surprised a beautiful woman like you

smokes.”

She pulled the packet out of her bag and tapped it with a talon. “I’ve

tried to give up, so many times, but it’ll take more than willpower.”

“Like what?”

“Love,” she stated simply, fixing him with feline eyes. “If I fell for a nonsmoker, hook, line, and sinker, I’d give up for him.”

“I think you should give up for yourself.”

“Been there, done that, failed miserably.” She placed the cigarette

between her scarlet lips and lit it with one of the tea lights set decoratively in purple tumblers in the center of the table. He watched her puff a few times, then sit back as the nicotine loosened her up.

Jake decided to take their order himself. He liked the look of Sylvia,

full-bodied and feminine, like a beautiful ginger cat. He had seen her

up there once or twice before, but she hadn’t noticed him other than to say a brief hello in response to his greeting. Now she tossed him a smile as Rafa ordered a martini and a glass of Chardonnay. Then she settled

her pretty eyes onto the Argentine again and blew a ribbon of smoke

out of her mouth provocatively.

Jake withdrew inside as his gut twisted with jealousy. He resented

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Rafa more than ever. While Rafa resided at the hotel Jake didn’t stand a chance. He gave their order to the waiter. Then stood a while, watching Sylvia from the conservatory, unwilling to tear himself away.

“You know, Clemmie’s told me a lot about you.” Sylvia took a sip of

wine.

“Has she?”

“Yes, she came rushing in after she’d seen you in the Black Bean

Coffee Shop. She’s a child, really. I’m like a mother to her.”

“It was such a coincidence, meeting like that.” He smiled at the rec-

ollection, and Sylvia noticed his eyes sparkle. “She’s quirky, I like that.

In Argentina we say,
un personaje
. So tell me, is her boyfriend good enough for her?”

“Absolutely,” she replied with emphasis. “They’re like two peas in

a pod.”

“Her stepmother doesn’t like the sound of him,” Rafa added.

“That’s because they have a bad relationship. Clemmie says she’s a

drama queen because she likes to be the center of attention. I imagine

it’s the stress of wanting children and not being able to have them that has driven her a little crazy.”

“How long have you known Marina?”

“I don’t really
know
her. Only through Clemmie. The problem is

she’s from a different class to Grey and that bothers Clemmie. It’s a

very unattractive English trait, this class obsession. I’m sure you don’t have anything like it in Argentina.”

“Believe me, prejudice exists all over the world.”

“Well, Clemmie thinks that Submarine—I mean, Marina—set her

sights on Grey because she wanted to move up in the world, socially.

I suspect they just fell in love. After all, they hardly hobnob with the aristos. But no child is ever going to love a stepparent, however hard

the parent tries. I’m sure Marina has tried until she’s blue in the face.

Clemmie is very stubborn.”

While she spoke he listened attentively, his eyes steady and pen-

etrating. “This class thing, is it based on family or education?”

“The two go together. I imagine Marina’s family are working class,

or lower-middle class. She certainly wasn’t privately educated. I should know because I wasn’t, either.”

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“Have you met her parents?”