The Siren's Sting (15 page)

Stevie stood on one leg, resting the other on her knee, and cocked her head in thought. Perhaps it was because Simone came from a slave culture, having grown up with housemaids and drivers and porters that her parents never taught her to respect; perhaps it was this attitude that Simone was unfortunately exporting from her home town into the wider world.

‘What are you and Mark doing today?' asked Stevie, praying they were planning an excursion of some hours' duration.

Simone began fanning herself exaggeratedly with her hands. ‘Bloody Mark, he's a lazy shit.' She plopped heavily onto the kitchen stool. ‘It's too hot here, I can't move, let alone leave the house. I can't believe you don't have—'

‘Perhaps you should try the hammock. It's quite cooling.' And with that Stevie refilled her own coffee cup and fled to the roof terrace, where she could contemplate the bay in peace.

The sounds of gay laughter drifted over from the
Barone
's. On the roof terrace, three young women in brightly coloured bikinis were sunning themselves on raffia mats: Nicolette, Marie-Thérèse, and Severine—straight out of a Slim Aarons photograph. Stevie admired the fact that the crasser aspects of modernity had not touched the French women next door. They lived suspended in a universe of elegance and beauty and utter self-containment.

A yelp of pain, followed by several curses, disturbed her thoughts. It had come from the terrace below. Stevie peeked over. Simone was headed for the hammock and, waddling on her heels to keep her freshly painted toenails out of the dirt, she had stepped on a thorn.

Stevie watched her reverse her backside awkwardly up to the hammock then raise one leg unsteadily into the cloth sling. She lay back gingerly and lifted her other foot carefully off the ground . . . Suddenly, balance lost, the hammock twisted violently, trapping Simone. She now lay upside down like a candy in a wrapper, with only her painted feet sticking out. Her cries, muffled by the thick cloth, were barely audible, and struggle was pointless.

Stevie took a small sip of her coffee and allowed herself a moment of silent delight, then she crept her wicked way back to the kitchen.

A message from Henning was waiting on her phone: tea at eleven at the the Yacht Club Costa Smeralda. Stevie's reluctance to meet Henning's mother had faded somewhat in light of her pressing need leave the house and its guests.

What should she wear? she wondered. Nothing too outrageous; Henning's mother was quite possibly old and frail. She decided on a raw silk shift dress the colour of raspberry sorbet and some flat snakeskin sandals.

At the appointed time, she pulled up outside the yacht club, a sleek affair in granite, all sharp, clean lines, limestone floors and large canvas umbrellas. The yacht club had been founded in 1967 by His Highness the Aga Khan and sailing was taken very seriously here; the Rolex Cup, the Swan Cup, the Loro Piana Superyacht Regatta and many other prestigious international yacht races were held there every year.

Stevie, feeling unaccountably nervous about meeting Henning's mother, made her way slowly to the terrace.

A waiter appeared.

‘
Buon giorno
,' Stevie greeted him. ‘I'm meeting . . .' Henning had forgotten to mention his mother's name. She cast about wildly.

‘Henning's mother, darling.' A tall, slender woman stood and waved from a corner table. ‘I'm over here.'

It was hard to get an impression of Henning's mother as she was mostly covered by a giant yellow sunhat of supreme elegance.

‘Stevie.' She held out both hands and smiled.

Up close, Stevie noticed the razor-sharp profile, the high swelling of the cheekbones, the fine, painted mouth. Henning's mother was a Beauty in the true, old-fashioned sense of the word.

‘I'm sorry.' She returned the smile. ‘Henning quite forgot to mention—'

‘My name is Iris,' said Henning's mother. ‘But call me I. Everyone does.'

‘Does that ever get confusing?' asked Stevie as they sat.

‘Only for people who don't know their own mind.' Iris smiled again. ‘Will you have a drink?'

By now, Stevie felt sufficiently awed by this woman to long for something stronger than tea. But she could hardly—

‘
Due
gin and tonics
por favor, garçon
, and
charges-les
,' Iris called out to the hovering waiter.

Stevie wondered for a moment if Iris had Henning's uncanny ability to guess her thoughts, and sincerely hoped not.

‘So, Henning is in Atlantis or Constantinople or Alexandria or somewhere else impossible—as usual—and I suppose he must have thought I was the next best thing to his company. Poor Stevie. I'll bet you didn't feel like having tea with an old lady when you got up this morning.'

Oh dear.

‘I absolutely did, I.'

‘Well, I'll try to be interesting.' Iris grinned under her sunhat.

Stevie stared at the bracelet circling Iris' left wrist. It was made of gleaming jet and studded not with jewels, but with seashells of all sizes and shapes. The effect was wild—half gladiator, half Neptune's nymph.

‘It's a pretty thing, isn't it?' Iris glanced at her arm. ‘I had it made especially. Jewels can sometimes feel ordinary, don't you think? And when you're by the sea, it feels quite appropriate to wear shells.'

‘It's beautiful,' Stevie agreed. ‘I've never seen anything quite like it.'

‘Of course, it has a
pourquoi
.' She slipped off the bracelet to reveal a tattoo of a Japanese dragon in fiery red, yellow and blue, circling her wrist where the bracelet had been. ‘Sometimes I like to show him, sometimes I like to keep him under wraps.' She smiled at Stevie, looking at her closely.

Their drinks arrived and Iris raised her glass. ‘I am happy you came for tea, Stevie. Henning talks about you, you know. I wanted to meet the girl who takes up so much of his attention.'

Stevie felt Iris' gaze hot on her and couldn't help blushing.

‘We went through quite an adventure together. I think it brings you closer.'

‘But not close enough, it seems.' Iris' eyes were still on her.

Stevie took a very large sip of her gin and tonic, then another. ‘I adore Henning. He is a remarkable man.'

Iris said nothing.

‘I'm sorry if that sounded trite, I. To be honest,' Stevie continued, ‘I'm still quite confused about what happened. We get on desperately well, and yet . . .' She trailed off, then tried again. ‘I feel so close to him, and yet I also feel I know nothing about him. It makes me nervous.'

Possibly the gin was making her say more than she should, and yet Stevie felt comfortable with Iris and she hadn't talked to anyone about Henning. It was almost a relief.

‘Even I don't always understand Henning, and he's my son.'

Iris laughed. ‘Henning is my youngest. His two older brothers run the shipping company we inherited from Timo, their father, and they're rather good at it—serious boys, dedicated to the family business. Henning is different.' Iris took a small sip of her drink. ‘He's always marched to his own beat, that boy. Of course, he has the money to do anything he wants in the world, but he loves his musty old books and manuscripts with a passion. Every now and then, we dust him off, pop him in a smart suit and send him round to talk to our clients. He's a wonderful figurehead for the family and the most charming of my boys. He smooths feathers and launches ships and generally spreads the family presence around the globe.'

‘Sounds like a good job . . . I had no idea.'

‘He didn't tell you anything?' Iris was surprised.

Stevie shook her head. ‘I didn't even know he had brothers, or that his father died . . . ' Stevie's voice trailed off as she thought of her own parents. She turned back to the conversation. ‘There was one thing he would never tell me about: the tattoo he has of the owl.' Stevie saw it in her mind's eye, the bird on his finely muscled forearm.

Iris smiled. ‘Yes. He has what you might call a real fellow-feeling with the creatures. He says they symbolise the ability to see things that are hidden. They represent freedom, insight and swiftness, but also stealth, secrets and deception. They say owls see without seeing, and can hear what is unspoken.'

Stevie smiled. ‘That sounds exactly like Henning.'

‘So maybe you know him better than you think.' Iris placed her glass on the table and sat back. ‘Is it a matter of courage?'

Stevie frowned. She didn't like to think she lacked courage.

‘And I mean on both sides, Stevie. My son isn't always as forthcoming with his feelings as his mother. It's because I am part American and part Iranian. You can only imagine the internal conflict, darling.' She laughed and, raising a hand to the waiter, ordered two more drinks.

‘
Garçon
,
deux
more,
por favor.'

Iris slid the magnificent bracelet back on, hiding the dragon. ‘I think you should both just relax and not worry, if I can be nosy and offer advice. Just let things be. Emotions can't always wear name tags and live in neat boxes, and if it's meant to be, well, let it be. Take a chance!' She paused and glanced out to sea. ‘You only ever regret the things you don't do—take it from an old lady.'

A stocky man in a white linen shirt and large tortoiseshell sunglasses appeared with a retinue of four in tow. With a start, Stevie realised it was Skorpios. He waved a large hand at Iris and approached. He kissed the lady's hand, holding it like a silk glove in his heavy paw.

‘
La bella Iris
,' he said in his Greek accent. Iris did not let her hand linger too long in his. She turned to introduce Stevie.

Stevie, now wondering how and why Henning's mother knew Skorpios, quickly extended her hand and said, ‘We know each other.'

Skorpios smiled, eyes searching Stevie from behind the toffee-coloured lenses. He was possibly as surprised as she was to find Stevie popping up wherever he went.

‘We lived an adventure together,' explained Stevie to Iris, not wanting her to imagine unimaginable things.

‘Oh?' Iris' tone was surprised, cautious.

Skorpios smiled charmingly. ‘She saved La Dracoulis
—
my glorious Angelina—from Somali pirates.'

‘Good heavens,' said Iris mildly, her eyes on Stevie again. ‘ Did you want to join us, Socrates?' Iris made a languid gesture that conveyed that the request, however sincere, had no real energy behind it.

‘Thank you
,
but perhaps we would disturb.'

‘Well, another time, then,' said Iris, neatly shutting the door on the prospect.

When the man had been seated at his table, Iris adjusted the brim of her hat to shadow her face. ‘The trouble with having been married so many times, Stevie, is that one picks up all sorts of friends that are very difficult to lose. Once you know someone, it is very hard to unknow them. Believe me, I've tried, and it's always the ones you most wish to lose that are the stickiest. In the end, I decided it was easier to submit to their acquaintance—and to wear a large hat.'

‘So, Skorpios was a friend of your husband?'

‘First husband, Henning's father, many years ago. The dear man died in a plane crash and no one has ever lived up to him since, not really.' The waiter arrived with fresh drinks and a bowl of olives, and whisked the empty glasses off the table.

Iris continued once he was out of earshot. ‘Skorpios is in shipping, so was Timo. They knew each other, although Timo never particularly trusted Skorpios. He told me Skorpios used to run fleets of rust buckets that were overdue for the wrecker's yard, all nicely painted and reregistered, but he lost ships, and many crew went down with them. Timo thought his carelessness with human lives was gross.' She gave Stevie an appraising look. ‘I have to say I was surprised that you knew him.'

‘And not entirely approving?' Stevie smiled. ‘In my line of work, I too meet a good many people I wouldn't wish to know privately. It's a hazard but, unlike you, I'm more easily forgotten.' She twisted her glass on the table, wondering how much she should be saying to Iris. ‘Skorpios was at a lunch party I was at yesterday,' she added. ‘It's funny—we seem to be on the same orbit.'

Iris gave her a long look. ‘You don't want to be on the same orbit as that man. He attracts misfortune, Stevie, dear. I can look after myself; I am powerful in my own way. I've had sixty—well, fifty-five perhaps—years of dealing with men like him. But Henning has implied that you are a magnet for trouble, and Skorpios's world is not one you want to be drawn into.'

On leaving the yacht club,
Stevie decided to walk through the marina and clear her thoughts. The intrigue of Iris—their conversation about Henning—and the chance meeting with Skorpios, mixed with the two gin and tonics, whirled about in her head.

There was a lot of activity on the dock—the first of the yacht races would start in a week and most of the boats had been brought over and the crews flown out, and everyone was getting ready for the Sardinia season. The Ferragamo brothers were there, Prince Frederik of Denmark, Ernesto Bertarelli . . .

It was past noon and most of the boats that were planning to go out that day had left so the Zodiac cowboys had little to do but refill their fuel tanks and buzz about catching the breeze. Stevie spotted Domenico, one of the most experienced cowboys, by a Wally chase boat painted a sleek dolphin grey.

‘
Salve
.' Domenico smiled up at Stevie, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face. Stevie had never seen anyone more tanned. ‘Did you want a lift across to the
porto vecchio
?'

Stevie shook her head. ‘I was having a drink at the yacht club.'

Domenico raised his eyebrows. The yacht club was not one of Stevie's usual haunts.

‘Not a boyfriend, Domenico,' Stevie laughed; the whole of Italy seemed to put love first. ‘An older woman—a most remarkable woman, actually.'