The Mermaid Garden Page 5

  At last she made her way down to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and hot croissants revived her flagging spirit. Marina was at the table, reading Vogue. She looked poised and polished in a pair of beige trousers and bright floral blouse, her small feet tucked into a pair of high wedge heels. She raised her eyes over the magazine and smiled sympathetically. “That’s better.” But only marginally. She had tried to cover up with too much foundation and kohl.

  “I should never have drunk so much.”

  “We all do silly things.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Marina. You don’t look like you’ve done a single silly thing in your entire life.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Yes I would.” Clementine didn’t imagine her stepmother had ever gotten drunk and allowed a coarse odd-job man to have his wicked way with her. She poured herself a cup of coffee and gingerly nibbled the corner of a croissant. Shame clawed at her stomach. She would have liked to share her worries, but knew that Marina was the last person on the planet who would understand. As she chewed, her fears mounted. What if he hadn’t worn a condom? What if she was pregnant? What if he had a disease? Should she go to the doctor? She felt the blood drain into her feet.

  Marina glanced at her, sensing her misery. “Are you all right? You look sick.”

  “I’m fine. Just hungover.”

  Marina wasn’t convinced. “If you really are unwell, you shouldn’t go into work and you certainly shouldn’t drive. I’ll call Mr. Atwood and let him know.”

  “Stop fussing. I said I’m fine.” Clementine hadn’t meant her voice to sound so sharp, but she was too frail to apologize. She looked at her watch. “I’d better go.”

  “You’ve barely eaten.”

  “I’m not hungry.” She stood up.

  “Take the croissant to eat in the car.”

  “I’ll get something in town.”

  Keen not to fuss, Marina did not insist. She looked at the barely eaten croissant discarded on the table and felt a rush of maternal angst. It wasn’t healthy to start the day on an empty stomach.

  “See you later, then. Have a good day.”

  Clementine didn’t reply. She left the room, taking her darkness with her. A little later the front door closed with a loud bang. A gust of wind swept into the kitchen, but then the air settled and the place felt light again.

  Marina turned her thoughts to Rafa Santoro. She was not looking forward to meeting him. Her spirits felt heavy with dread and anticipated disappointment. If only Paul Lockwood would come back, everything would be all right. She drained her coffee cup and cleared the table. As she stacked the plates she heard the door open again and the loud, habitual sigh that always accompanied Bertha’s arrival.

  “Morning,” Bertha groaned. “Another lovely day at the Polzanze.” She bustled into the kitchen, heaving her heavy body across the room. A porcine woman with mottled pink skin and pale blond hair tied into a ponytail, Bertha worked at the hotel, doing a couple of hours every morning for Marina at the stable block.

  “Morning, Bertha. How are you today?”

  “Well, my cold’s definitely on the way out, but my back. Well …” She handed Marina a postcard then sank into a chair and helped herself to Clementine’s half-nibbled croissant that still sat on the table. “Come all the way from Canada. Pretty writing.”

  “Katherine Bridges,” Marina replied with a smile. “My old teacher.”

  “Funny to still keep in touch with your teacher.”

  “She was more than a teacher. She was special.”

  Bertha pulled a face. “The doctor has suggested I try those needle things. What are they called?”

  “Acupuncture,” Marina replied absentmindedly, scanning her eyes down the postcard.

  “Sounds painful, all them little needles. Don’t think I could bear it. I have a very low pain threshold. Giving birth nearly did me in. If I hadn’t been given epidurals for all my children, I would have died.”

  Marina stiffened. “I had better wander over now. Would you give Clementine’s room a good clean this morning?”

  “I saw her driving down the lane. Doesn’t look very well this morning. I didn’t even get a smile.”

  “Neither did I, Bertha.”

  “Doesn’t cost much to smile.”

  “It does if you’re as hungover as she is. Don’t forget her room, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best.” She got up slowly, one hand in the small of her back, and lumbered over to the dishwasher, where she began to load the plates halfheartedly.

  Marina put the postcard in her pocket and made her way across the gravel to the hotel. Bertha checked that she was well and truly gone before switching on the kettle and sitting down again, extracting the Daily Mail from her handbag and settling into a gripping article about a kitten that was flushed down the lavatory and survived.

  Jennifer and Rose were at the reception desk talking to Jake when Marina entered. Unlike his sister, Jake was a sunny young man with a ready smile and easy charm. Tall like his father, he was classically good-looking, with clear blue eyes and a long, straight nose. What undermined his appeal was the lack of character in his face. There was little to distinguish it from other generically handsome Englishmen who had experienced nothing in their lives but pleasure.

  He greeted his stepmother jovially, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him. “I should be angry with you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to take a detour to Thurlestone. But I never expected to stay so long.”

  “So, what did you discover about the robber?”

  “Besides the fact that he leaves a thank-you note?”

  “That’s his signature, is it?”

  “I think he’s rather relishing being called Baffles, the Gentleman Thief. I suppose he’s got a fixation with Raffles, the character from that old movie. You know, the one David Niven starred in.”

  “It was originally a novel by E. W. Hornung, brother-in-law to Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Grey told me. He’s good with books. Well, Baffles had better watch out. It’ll be his downfall. They always get too pleased with themselves.”

  “You’re probably right. At the moment, though, they’re baffled.” He laughed at his pun. “He clearly knows the hotels and stately homes intimately, but no one can work out how.”

  “I’m not a detective, but even I can see that he must pose as a guest.”

  “Perhaps. But how do guests have access to all the other rooms?”

  “He climbs out of the window and jumps from sill to sill, like a cat.” She smiled at the thought of Harvey reciting “Macavity.”

  “Or he’s a serviceman who works for hotels—a gas man or carpet cleaner.”

  “They’ll catch him sooner or later,” she added hopefully. “These people never get away with it.”

  “He should quit while he’s ahead.”

  “If he’s leaving little notes, it’s because he’s enjoying himself. He’s on a roll.”

  Jake shook his head. “He’ll trip up, mark my words. He’ll get too cocky and do something stupid.”

  “Let’s hope so, sooner rather than later.”

  Jake followed her into the hall. “So, I hear your interviews didn’t go so well yesterday.”

  “I’m very demoralized.” She dropped her shoulders and smiled pathetically.

  “Dad tells me you have an Argentine coming this morning.”

  “Rafa Santoro. Sounds like a fancy brand of dog biscuits.”

  “Let’s hope he’s less flaky than a biscuit.”

  “I just hope he’s a normal painter. I’m not asking for anyone special. I don’t want eccentric—there are enough of those around here already!”

  “Speaking of which, Mr. Potter needs to speak to you. Something about sweet peas.”

  “Later.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll just go and chat up the old brigadier before the Biscuit gets here. I’ll be in the dining room, if he’s ear
ly. Show him into my study and don’t tell me if he’s odd. I can’t cope with odd this morning.”

  The brigadier sat at his usual table at the end of the dining room, beside the window. He was dressed in a three-piece tweed suit and pale yellow tie, drinking tea and reading The Times, chuckling loudly at the absurdity of the world. The room was blessed with tall ceilings and giant windows that gave onto the magnificent cedar tree so that the morning sun flooded the room with brilliance and lit up his head like a halo. When he saw Marina, he staggered to his feet, in spite of her repeatedly telling him not to, and greeted her cheerfully in a stentorian tone.

  “What a delightful sight first thing in the morning.” His face was a fleshy mass of ruddy skin and broken veins, with neatly clipped sideburns and mustache, and a full head of thick white hair. His eyes may have been as small as raisins, but his sight was perfect and he swept them over her as if appraising a pretty mare. “You’re a picture of loveliness, Marina.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting down.

  “Grey lent me a very interesting book yesterday. I started reading it last night and couldn’t put it down.”

  “Which one is it?”

  “Andrew Roberts’s Masters and Commanders. Great read. Beautifully written. Pure pleasure. Sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back. Best days of my life.”

  “I’m very glad we can’t do that.”

  “Call me an old fool, but my life had purpose then. I had a cause to fight for, and nothing has been as good in my life since. I’m like an old train in the junkyard, remembering happier times.”

  “You have purpose, Brigadier. You have children, grandchildren, and your great-grandson, Albert. You are certainly not in the junkyard.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, yes. Children are a blessing. One doesn’t really feel one’s left one’s imprint on the world if one doesn’t produce off-spring. I’ll die knowing my bloodline continues. We didn’t fight for nothing, although most young people don’t appreciate what we did for them. If it wasn’t for us, they’d be speaking German and kowtowing to a load of Huns! Goddamn it!” He choked on his laughter, coughed loudly, then cleared his throat of phlegm. “Speaking of children, how are yours? That Jake gets taller every time I see him.” Marina didn’t have the heart to remind him that they weren’t hers.

  Talking to the brigadier had distracted her from the imminent arrival of her ten o’clock interview. When Jake strode across the room, she had almost forgotten about it altogether. “Ah, speak of the devil,” said the brigadier.

  Marina noticed the strange expression on Jake’s face. It was a mixture of amusement and delight.

  “Morning, Brigadier. Marina, the Biscuit has arrived,” he said.

  “Why the funny look?” she asked, her stomach churning with anxiety.

  “What funny look? He’s in your office.”

  “And? Is he … normal?”

  “I’d say he’s not normal at all.”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “Just go and meet him.”

  “What’s this about a biscuit?” interrupted the brigadier. “Sounds good to me, especially if it has a little milk chocolate on the top.”

  Marina reached the hall to find Shane, Jennifer, Rose, Heather, and Bertha standing in a huddle by the reception desk, giggling like a group of silly schoolchildren. When they saw Marina, they sprang apart guiltily. The air was charged with excitement, as if Father Christmas had come seven months early and was waiting in her study.

  “Would you like me to bring you some coffee?” asked Heather, her cheeks aflame.

  Marina narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s see what he wants.”

  “Looks like a coffee drinker to me,” said Bertha.

  “And what brings you into the hotel, Bertha?” asked Marina.

  “Run out of Cif,” she replied with a snigger. “Timing couldn’t be better.”

  “Then why don’t you go and get some from the cupboard. Heather, come with me, and the rest of you can get back to work.”

  It was with some optimism that Marina walked into her office. By the blushes glowing on the faces of her staff it was obvious that the artist was attractive. That didn’t surprise her: Argentine men were notoriously good-looking. However, she was not prepared for the quiet magnetism of Rafael Santoro.

  He stood by the window, looking out over the sea, hands in pockets, lost in thought. In a pale suede jacket, blue shirt, and faded denim jeans, he was of average height, broad-shouldered, and athletic. She guessed he was in his thirties, for his face was weathered, his chin bristly, his light brown hair falling slightly over a forehead that was broad and creased with frown lines. When he heard her at the door, he seemed to hesitate a moment before turning, as if collecting himself. She took in his patrician nose and the strength of his jawline, and felt her spirits swell with admiration. He was undoubtedly handsome. He turned and looked at her, and she was immediately struck by his eyes. They were brown like fudge, and deep set, but it was the expression in them that made her catch her breath. It was almost familiar, and she stumbled on her words.

  “It’s … it’s nice to meet you.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, too,” he said, extending his hand. His accent was as soft and warm as caramelized milk. She took his hand and felt the warmth of his skin travel all the way up her arm.

  “I think you’re the first Argentine to set foot in the Polzanze,” she said for lack of anything better to say.

  “That surprises me. South Americans love to travel.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to welcome you,” she said, averting her eyes a moment. His gaze was too heavy to carry. “It’s nice to hear a foreign accent for a change.”

  “I would imagine a place of great beauty like this would attract people from all over the world.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I mean to flatter you.” His comment was delivered with such casualness that she did not take it for flirtation.

  She smiled politely. “Thank you.” She liked him already. He didn’t have Jake’s shallow good looks, but the lines and imperfections of a man who had experienced life in all its shades and textures.

  “I hope you weren’t hoping for an English artist.”

  “Not at all. I have no preferences so long as the person is right for the position.” She noticed the silver buckle on his belt, engraved with his initials: R.D.S.

  He grinned, his skin creasing into deeply carved laughter lines around his mouth and eyes. “A present from my father.”

  “It’s lovely. Let’s sit down.”

  He sat on the sofa, and Marina sank dreamily into the armchair. She had quite forgotten Heather, who remained in the doorway, transfixed, a blush soaked into her skin.

  “Would you like tea or coffee?” Marina asked, remembering herself.

  “I’d love a fruit juice.”

  “I’ll have one, too. Orange juice, freshly squeezed,” said Marina.

  Heather looked surprised. “Shall I bring some nice biscuits?”

  “Good idea, Heather.”

  “A little ice in your juice?”

  “No, thank you,” he replied.

  Her blush deepened. “Anything else?” She made not the slightest movement to leave.

  “Just the door, Heather,” said Marina deliberately. “Close it behind you.

  “So, what’s an Argentine doing in Devon?”

  “You might well ask. I’m a long way from home.”

  “Very.”

  “I work for an advertising agency in Buenos Aires, on the creative side. I do all the artwork. My father died, so I decided to take a sabbatical.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He was very old. I am the youngest child of five, by twenty years.”

  “Quite an afterthought.”

  “Something like that. Anyway, I decided to travel. So, I have passed the last couple of months traveling around Europe.”

  “Painting?”

  “Yes. It’s a
good way to take time to see the places properly.”

  “You must have a wonderful collection by now.”

  “I do. But I’m afraid I don’t keep them all. I can’t travel around with suitcases full of pictures.”

  “Of course not. So, what do you do with them? Don’t tell me you throw them away?”

  “No. That would be too painful. I’m attached to each one, in a way. So, I leave them in hotels, restaurants … or I give them away.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “It’s easy to be generous. They cost me nothing.” He shrugged. “And anyway, they aren’t worth much. I’m not famous. I’m not even well known.”

  “If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re probably right. I came to Devon by chance and found it so beautiful I decided I would stay. As I was trying to work out how that would be possible, I saw your advertisement in the local paper. I would like to remain here for the summer.”

  “Then return to Argentina?”

  “Yes. Back to Buenos Aires.”

  “I have never been to Argentina.”

  “It is beautiful, too. Judging from your good taste here at the hotel, I would say you could not fail to love it.”

  “They say it is full of Italians who speak Spanish and want to be English.” She laughed, relaxing into her chair. He had such an appealing face she wanted the interview to go on and on. She knew already that Rafa Santoro would be spending the summer at the Polzanze, whether he could paint or not.

  “I suppose that is quite accurate, where I am concerned, at least. Although I don’t think I’d want to be English. I’m happy being who I am.”

  At that moment the door opened and Heather entered with a tray of juice and biscuits, followed by Harvey, keen to see what all the fuss was about. He had ordered the quartet in the hall back to work, knowing that Marina would hate them to be standing idle, especially Bertha, who was as lazy as a sow in sunshine.

  “Meet Harvey,” said Marina, eyes brightening at the sight of him. He shook Rafa’s hand and grinned down at him. Marina recognized his approval at once and felt her spirits soar. “Harvey has been with us since we bought this place eighteen years ago. He’s my Man Friday. I couldn’t have made a success of this without him.”