The Mermaid Garden (9 page)

sure a woman without having to use satellite navigation.”

The door swung open, and Mr. Atwood walked in. “Morning, girls,”

he said cheerfully. Then he saw Clementine hunched on her chair, with

her handbag on her knee. “You leaving us already, Clementine?”

“Just going to get you a skinny latte and a muffin,” she replied, get-

ting up.

“Good girl. Will you get me the
Gazette
and
Telegraph
? Oh, and while you’re there, it’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow—see if you can

find something appropriate.”

“Appropriate?”

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“A scented candle or something. You’re a woman, you know what

women like. I haven’t a clue, and I always get it wrong.”

“I don’t know what your wife likes.”

“I do,” said Sylvia, screwing the top onto the varnish. “Go into

Kitchen Delights and get her something in there. It’s her favorite shop.”

“What if she has it already?”

“It’s the thought that counts,” said Mr. Atwood. “The thought will

be enough to keep the little lady happy.”

“I’ll do my best.” Clementine rather relished the idea of spending

time outside the office.

“Be a love and bring me a chocolate brownie and a cup of tea, milk

no sugar,” Sylvia added. “And a black coffee for Mr. Fisher.” The tele-

phone rang. She picked it up, careful to avoid ruining her nails, and answered in a singsong voice. “Atwood and Fisher, Sylvia speaking. How

can I help you?”

Mr. Atwood strode into his office, straightening the magazines on

the coffee table in the reception area on the way, and closed the door

behind him. Clementine squinted in the sun as she stepped into the

street. She wanted to keep walking until she lost herself.

She went to Kitchen Delights first, deliberately spending as much

time as possible browsing for a suitable present. She envisaged poor

Mrs. Atwood in an apron, slaving away at the oven for a man who

couldn’t even be bothered to choose her birthday present himself.

What sort of husband was that? She couldn’t imagine the woman

being happy with a few cooking bowls. What was wrong with a pretty

necklace or handbag? Mr. Atwood had no idea, and nor, for that matter,

had Sylvia. Provincial people, she sniffed disdainfully, picking up a set of jelly molds. After a good fifteen minutes, she settled on a shiny pink food mixer.

Very fetching
, she thought, pleased with her choice. She looked at the price tag and winced.
Expensive, but it costs to be lazy
.

She wandered around to the Black Bean Coffee Shop with her bag,

buying the newspapers, a birthday card, and wrapping paper on the

way—she lingered a good ten minutes over the cards, finding the most

in
appropriate card possible to cheer herself up.

By the time she reached the coffee shop she was feeling a lot better.

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Santa Montefiore

She flopped into one of the velvet sofas with a latte and a bun, and

read the latest on the robberies in the
Gazette
. Another twenty minutes was wasted in the most satisfactory fashion. She took a luxurious deep

breath and watched the other customers: a couple of mothers with tod-

dlers, a trio of businessmen having a meeting, schoolgirls playing tru-

ant. But she couldn’t stay away all morning. Reluctantly, she drained her cup and joined the queue to buy the long list of requests to take back

to the office. She thought of Joe, and her fears returned to churn her

stomach to butter. The door swung open, and a man in a suede jacket

and denim jeans walked in. She glanced at him. But instead of turn-

ing back, she remained agog, unable to tear her eyes away. He looked

around the coffee shop, then took his place in the queue behind her.

Clementine wrenched her eyes off him with some effort, though

not before she had extracted a smile. She felt a blush creep up her chest and flourish on her face, and she forgot all about Joe and her sense of inadequacy. She could smell the sandalwood of the stranger’s cologne.

She breathed it in, savoring the scent of foreign places. He was obvi-

ously not English. Englishmen didn’t wear jeans so well, and they never bothered with such elaborately buckled belts. She looked down at his

feet: brown suede loafers. She hadn’t seen a pair of those since she’d left London. The queue moved quickly and soon she was at the counter,

giving her order. She stood aside to make room for the stranger as the

girl placed the muffin and brownie into a bag and went off to make her

tea and coffee.

“Are both those cakes for you?” he asked.

Clementine was startled. She hadn’t imagined he would talk to her.

She tried to act coolly, but her heart danced noisily in her chest. “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t?”

“Of course not. It’s important for a girl to eat well.” He was now

grinning at her.

“Are
you
going to have something naughty?”

“If you put it like that, I think I’d better.”

“Rude not to. Where are you from?”

“Argentina.”

“Argentina? The land of polo.”

“How well you know it.”

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She laughed, feeling foolish. “I don’t know it at all. I’ve been to the Cartier Polo Match, watched the Argentines slaughter the Brits, and

seen
Evita
at the theater. That’s as much as I know.”

“It’s a good start.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

“Not really. The world is getting smaller all the time.”

The girl at the counter stood poised by the till. “Can I help you?”

Clementine noticed how she perked up at the sight of him, too.

“A chocolate brownie and an espresso.” He turned to Clementine.

“As you say, it would be rude not to.”

She laughed. “It really would. If you’re from Argentina, you should

go to Devil’s and taste our scones with clotted cream and jam. They’re

out of this world.”

“Next time we meet, you can take me.”

“Deal.” She sincerely wished for a next time.

She paid for her order. He didn’t invite her to join him. Perhaps he

wasn’t staying, either. “Well, so long, stranger.”

“So long. Enjoy your naughty muffin.”

“Not for me, actually. For my boss.”

“Lucky boss.”

“Lucky boss indeed. He certainly doesn’t deserve it.” She was left no

alternative but to leave. The queue behind them looked on impatiently.

She tossed him a casual smile, as casual as she could muster when her

mouth wanted to swallow her entire face with happiness, and left.

Clementine hurried back to the office in a state of excitement.

Throwing herself against the door with her bags, she fell in. “Oh my

God!” she exclaimed to Sylvia, who was now rubbing oil into her cu-

ticles.

“You look better. What have you done? Got the present?”

“A pink food mixer.”

“Fabulous!”

“I think so. I’ve got wrapping paper and a card.”

“Let’s see?” Clementine placed the bag on Sylvia’s desk. “You’ll have

to get them out, lovely, my nails are still tacky.”

“I’ve just bumped into the most delicious man I’ve ever seen!”

“More delicious than Joe?” Sylvia looked disappointed.

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Santa Montefiore

“Forget Joe, Sylvia. Joe’s not a runner.”

“Shame, he’s just sent you round a bouquet of roses.” She nodded at

Clementine’s desk.

Clementine’s heart sank at the sight of ten plump roses in transpar-

ent paper, tied with ribbon. “Oh Lord!”

“He can’t help you.”

“I can but ask.”

“So, go on. Amuse me.”

“This divine stranger from Argentina just sashayed into the Black

Bean Coffee Shop and chatted me up.”

“Are you serious? With all that makeup caked onto your face?”

“Yes.”

“Foreigner. And?”

“Well, that’s it.”

“Did you give him your number?”

“Of course not.”

“Did he give you his?”

“No.”

“Does he know where you work?”

“Sylvia, he knows nothing about me. We had a little chat. That’s all.”

“I’m not even mildly amused. So you’re turning Joe down because of

a man you’ve talked to for five minutes and will never see again.”

“I feel on cloud nine.”

Sylvia looked perplexed. “You’re a very strange girl, Clemmie. What

sign are you?”

“Aries.”

“Must have Aquarius rising.”

“Whatever. My hangover is cured.” She smiled broadly.

“Well, thank the Lord for that.”

Clementine handed Sylvia the card. Sylvia looked at the black-and-

white 1950s photograph of a woman in an apron, smiling serenely

while wielding a wooden spoon. The caption read, “Bet you can’t imag-

ine where I’d like to stick this?” “Do you think this is appropriate?”

Sylvia asked.

“He won’t know until she opens it. I think it’s funny.”

“
He
won’t.”

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“But Mrs. will.”

Sylvia laughed, handing it back. “I think she will, too. Now give me

the gift and the paper, and once my nails are dry I’ll wrap it for you. If your wrapping is anything like your dressing, Mr. Atwood will throw

it back at you.”

Clementine spent most of the morning stuffing documents into the

nearest files without any consideration for the person who might later

need to find them. She dreamed of the handsome Argentine. She

wondered what he was doing here in Dawcomb, if he was staying, or

whether he was on a train bound for London, gone forever. She didn’t

expect to see him again, yet she couldn’t help fantasizing about taking him to Devil’s for scones and clotted cream. Perhaps, when she’d earned enough money, she’d go to Argentina instead of India. She wished he’d

call to rent a property for the summer, and kicked herself for having not found a way to get Atwood and Fisher into the conversation. It would

have been easy to have just slipped it in somewhere, and she was only

round the corner. He could have wandered along after his coffee and

invited her out for lunch.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the Argentine who strode into the office at

twelve thirty, but Joe, suggesting they have a quick bite at the brasserie on the seafront. Clementine feigned delight, clutching her stomach

to stop it churning with regret, and thanked him for the flowers. She

barely dared look into his eyes in case they triggered more memories of the night before. She decided she was better off not knowing, at least

that way there still remained the possibility of having
not
done it.

Joe was very coarse compared with the stranger, his features blunt

and regular, void of character. In a pair of badly cut jeans and a V-neck sweater, he was easily outshone by the man she would never see again.

She could still smell the sandalwood on his skin and picture his raffish grin and deep-set eyes. There was nothing deep about Joe, just the hole she was now unintentionally digging herself into by agreeing to lunch.

Mr. Atwood granted her an hour, as long as Sylvia was in to man the

office. He was pleased with the gift for his wife, neatly wrapped and

tied with a ribbon. It looked like he had gone to great trouble to find the perfect gift. She’d be thrilled with the mixer—pink was her favorite 30067 The Mermaid Garden.indd 53

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Santa Montefiore

color. He signed the card without looking at it and placed it in the bag with the present, then reached for the telephone to call his mistress.

Back at the hotel the dining room was almost empty, but for a few

resident guests eating quietly by the window and an elderly couple who

had come from town to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary

with an expensive lunch. Heather waited on the tables sleepily, while

Arnaud, the sommelier, heaved his enormous frame between the tables

importantly, waving the silver
tasse de dégustation
that dangled around his neck on an elaborate chain.

Marina was too happy to lament the empty tables. She had found

her artist-in-residence. He was charming, talented, and warm. Above

all, Harvey liked him and Harvey had a good nose for people. She sat

at her desk and began to write a list of things to buy in spite of the little money she had available. She was sure Rafa would draw people to the

hotel once she posted it up on their Web site. Shelton was famous for

its beauty and birds. If she could somehow reach people all over the

world who liked to paint, she was sure she could save the hotel from

bankruptcy.

The sound of the sea and crying gulls swept in through the open

window, drawing her thoughts onto the water, where her secret pain

lay scattered on the waves and in the wind. For a moment she felt an

overwhelming sense of bereavement. She paused her pencil above the

paper and almost gave in. But then she remembered her beloved Pol-

zanze, the house she had built into a beautiful hotel with all the resolve and purpose of a woman determined to create with her hands where

her body could not. The Polzanze had sustained her when her grief had