by Anne Weale
Tonight was only the second time she had tried on the dress since Deborah’s comment, ‘That looks stunning on you,’ had convinced her she had to buy it. Even second-hand, it hadn’t been cheap. But, according to the shop’s owner, the name on the satin label was that of a top German designer famous for mannishly tailored day clothes and glamorously feminine evening wear.
Carefully, Liz opened the zipper, and gathering the delicate folds of the exquisite fabric dropped them carefully over her head and helped them to slide down her body, the silk lining cool on her bare flesh.
When she looked at her reflection in the long mirror that was one of her additions to the house, she knew that tonight she was going to do something she had never done before. She was going to make an entrance.
The church clock was striking eight for the second time when she locked her front door and, with her red shawl protecting her upper body from the after-dark fall in temperature, walked to the Drydens’ house, the sound of her heels echoing in the empty streets.
At that moment Cam’s Mercedes was alongside the toll-booth at the autopista outlet nearest to Valdecarrasca. It had been a long day. Tired, and with things on his mind, he was not really in the mood for Leonora’s chatfest. But he knew she had invited Liz and, as he was the only person she would know, he felt an obligation to show up. The Drydens’ parties could be a bit of an ordeal for anyone who was shy or reserved and Leonora would be too busy hostessing to keep a close eye on the newest addition to what, by expat social standards, was a fairly glittering circle.
By the time he closed his garage door it was nearly eight-thirty and he needed a shower and shave. But he was used to quick changes.
The clock was starting to strike nine when he left the house. In Spain, many foreigners arrived late in the belief that it was the custom here. Normally punctual himself, when he gave a party he expected people to show up at or close to the time he had decreed.
Knowing that the door would be open, he chose not to ring the bell that would require someone to break off their conversation to admit him. Letting himself in, he unwound his cashmere scarf and tossed it onto a dark oak hall chest. Then he climbed the stairs to the first-floor living room that had even better views of the valley than his own upper rooms.
About thirty people were drinking and chatting, but the space was large and lofty enough to prevent the noise level from becoming annoying. He took a sweeping look round, recognising most of the faces but not all. He didn’t know the man who was chatting up a woman with beautiful legs and a silky fall of hair that half hid her profile.
Then she turned slightly towards where Cam was standing, at the same time lifting her hand to tuck the hair behind her ear. As she made that quintessentially feminine gesture, he experienced two reactions. First he recognised her. Then he remembered the feel of her cheek under his lips and felt a surging desire to kiss her again, on the mouth.
Liz was listening to the man called Tony who was her hostess’s house guest when, suddenly, she had the feeling that someone was staring at her.
‘Let me get you another drink,’ said Tony, taking her glass. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She thought it was actually he who wanted a refill. His departure left her free to glance round the room. She found that someone was staring. It was Cam, standing by the double doors, fixing her with such a strange intense look that, for the first time that evening since she had put on the dress, she felt her confidence falter and was shaken by nervousness.
He came towards her, not smiling but extending his hand. When she gave him hers, he turned it and kissed it. Straightening, he said, ‘You look beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ Her self-possession returned. ‘I’m glad you got back in time for the party.’
‘Who is the guy with the moustache?’
‘He’s staying with Mr and Mrs Dryden. He’s a professor of linguistics.’
‘Interesting?’
‘Extremely. How was your trip?’
‘The weather was vile…snow turning to slush. How was yours?’ he asked.
‘I was pleased to get back. You must be longing for a drink. Don’t let me stop you heading for the bar.’
‘Is that a diplomatic way of telling me I’ve arrived in the middle of a promising tête-à-tête that you’d rather was not interrupted?’
‘Not at all. I think you’d have more in common with Tony than I do. Language is your stock in trade. I’m better with visuals than words. Here he comes now. I’ll introduce you.’
Soon after the two men started chatting, Leonora joined them. ‘Delighted you made it, Cam.’ She gave him a glass of red wine and offered a dish of smoked salmon and caviare montaditos to all three of them. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I whisk Tony away. There’s someone I specially want him to meet.’
‘Leonora has the most efficient antennae of any hostess I’ve met,’ said Cam, as she led the other man away. ‘I’m sure she knew that, after a trying day, I would rather talk to my ravishing neighbour than to the most brilliant professor in the whole of the US.’
‘You promised not to flirt with me,’ Liz reminded him.
‘I promised to wait for a signal. You can’t wear a dress like that and not expect to receive compliments. You should emerge from your chrysalis and shake out your wings more often. Why hide those legs inside trousers?’ He stepped back the better to admire them.
‘How many drinks did you have on the plane?’ she asked.
‘None. I never drink on flights if I have to drive when I land. This is my first alcohol today.’
She remembered that, in Alicante, he had had champagne before lunch but not much wine with their meal, and he had not been driving back until several hours later.
‘I wonder what time we’re eating?’ he said. ‘I skipped the inflight meal and my stomach is starting to growl.’
‘I think supper proper starts at nine-thirty, but there are masses of nibbles. Wait here. I’ll fetch a selection.’
But when she attempted to leave him, he caught her hand and made her stay. ‘I can wait another fifteen minutes.’
‘Oh…I’ve forgotten to thank you for the door-knocker,’ Liz exclaimed. ‘It was such a lovely surprise…my best Christmas present.’
Cam was still holding her hand. ‘Then how about showing your pleasure in the traditional way?’ He leaned towards her, offering a closely shaven cheek.
She didn’t want to but, without seeming ungracious, she had no choice but to comply with the suggestion. As she pursed her lips, intending the kiss to be very brief and light, he turned his head and it was their mouths that made contact.
Angry that he had trapped her into a public gesture that must, if anyone noticed it, give a misleading impression that they were on much closer terms than was actually the case, Liz jerked back and gave him a glare.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ she muttered crossly.
Yet, even as she reproached him, all her senses were tingling and sparking in the same way that a hand that had gone to sleep started coming back to life when its blood supply was restored. Feelings almost forgotten, because it was so many years since they had been experienced, revived with disturbing force.
Almost twenty years on, she relived the misleading rapture of her first kiss and all the passionate, only dimly understood longings it had aroused in her.
‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Cam, her hand still imprisoned in his.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, supper is served.’ The ringing voice of their host broke the tension between them.
Moments later, a voice said, ‘Cam, darling…long time no see,’ and a woman in a purple top and dangling amethyst earrings began an animated monologue about the dramas in her life that allowed Liz to extricate her hand and remove herself from his orbit.
By the time supper was over, she had decided that the only way to deal with him was to stay resolutely unfazed. He was only trying it on. He wouldn’t force himself on her. Not if he wanted to keep her as his garden-minder and websit
e designer.
She must cultivate a light-hearted, ‘down boy’ manner, treating him like an over-exuberant dog. There was, she thought acidly, no shortage of accommodating bitches to waggle their tails invitingly at him. The woman he was talking to now was fifty if she was a day, but it was plain from the other side of the room that she would be more than willing to have an enjoyable fling with him.
Liz and another guest were in their hostess’s bedroom, touching up their lipstick, when Mrs Dryden joined them. With her slim athletic figure and thick blonde hair, seen from behind she could pass for a much younger woman than she was. But her wrinkles, her neck and her liver-spotted hands indicated that she was in her late sixties or possibly older. Clearly colouring her hair was the only artifice she was prepared to use to keep age at bay.
She was simply dressed in a black satin shirt and black trousers with grosgrain ribbon down the side seams.
After chatting for a few minutes, she said, ‘Liz, I have a gardening magazine I think would interest you. Come to my den and I’ll find it for you.’
Her den was divided into three areas. On a large table stood a sewing machine. In another corner stood an easel with the charcoal outline for a portrait on canvas on it. There was also a writing desk and, nearby, a comfortable sofa backed by shelves for books and magazine boxes.
‘Perhaps you already subscribe to Gardens Illustrated?’ she said, closing the door behind them.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘If you like it, I can lend you all my back numbers. But I thought the issue dealing with courtyards might give you ideas for Cam’s and your own. Do sit down while I look for it.’
‘Obviously you don’t have a problem filling your time here, Mrs Dryden.’
‘Do call me Leonora. No, certainly not. My problem is the reverse…finding time for all my pursuits. Ah, here it is.’ She handed Liz a glossy magazine. ‘What a gorgeous dress you’re wearing. Cam mentioned that you have connections with a women’s magazine. Were you the fashion editor?’
Liz laughed and shook her head. After explaining what she had done, she said, ‘Actually I found this dress in a second hand shop in Denia. When it was new it would have been too expensive for me. I can’t understand its original owner not keeping it. I shall wear it for ever.’
‘Alas, there will come a time when you won’t be able to,’ said Mrs Dryden. ‘There comes a point when arms are better covered up. But it will be at least twenty years before you reach that stage. I often sigh over clothes that I could have worn at your age but can’t any more. Still, I have kept my waist, which is something to be thankful for. Have you ever been painted?’
‘Not since primary school when we all did drawings of each other,’ said Liz.
‘I should like to paint you in that dress. Could you spare the time? It would take several hours but we could split them into forty-minute sessions. I find that’s about my limit for intense concentration.’
‘I’d be happy to pose,’ said Liz.
‘Good: I’ll call you next week and we’ll look at our diaries. Now, I think we’d better rejoin the others. Leave the magazine under your shawl on my bed.’
When they returned to her sitting room, she introduced Liz to some people she hadn’t yet met, their chief interest in life being Spanish wild flowers, particularly the native plants.
Several times, while she was with them, she noticed Cam moving about the room, doing his guestly duty of mixing. His popularity was obvious, not only with women but also, a little surprisingly, with the men present. But the fact that he was a womaniser didn’t necessarily make him a poacher of other men’s women, she thought. Anyway it was unlikely he would pursue women past the first flush when voluptuous beauties like Fiona were available to him.
Being an early riser and unaccustomed to late nights, by half past eleven she was beginning to wilt. But as no one else seemed ready to leave, she waited until an elderly couple departed before seizing the opportunity of the Drydens’ being together to thank them for having her and say goodnight.
‘Allow me to walk you home,’ said Tony, appearing beside them as they were shaking hands.
Had Leonora signalled to him? Liz wondered. She said, ‘Thank you, but it isn’t necessary. I don’t mind walking through the village at night. There are no muggers here.’
‘I will see Liz to her door,’ said Cam, from behind her. ‘Con permiso,’ he added, with a glinting glance that challenged her to refuse permission.
CHAPTER FIVE
Galan atrevido, de las damas preferido
A bold lover is a favourite with women
‘GOOD party, didn’t you think?’ he said, as they left the house.
‘Very good. A lovely house. Great food. Lots of interesting people. But I don’t know what they will make of my little cottage when I ask them back.’
‘They’ll like it. Money and status symbols mean nothing to the Drydens. What they value are brains and initiative…and good manners,’ he added. ‘I’m sure you will write to Leonora tomorrow, but guests who don’t are not invited again. She’s a stickler for the old-fashioned courtesies.’
‘I do know how to behave in polite society,’ said Liz, rather miffed by the possibility that his comment had been a hint in case she did not. ‘When you have time to look through your snail mail, you’ll find a note I wrote to thank you for your Christmas present.’ He would also find the book she had bought for herself but decided to give to him.
‘Are you still cross with me?’ he asked.
‘Not in the least. Why should I be?’
‘Because I kissed you in public. It was only a peck…not enough to start any gossip.’
‘Gossip doesn’t need a solid foundation. It can start from nothing,’ she retorted. ‘But I should think my reputation is a good deal more robust than yours.’
‘I agree with you,’ he said carelessly. ‘But gossip always exaggerates. I’m not as black as I’m painted. You have nothing to fear from me.’
‘I didn’t think I had.’
By the light of a street lamp, she saw the lines down his cheeks deepen, betraying amusement. ‘You have a short memory, Liz. But I’m glad you’ve revised the opinion you held the first time we lunched. How about lunch tomorrow? I have another proposal I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘It’s my turn to stand you a lunch.’
‘All right. We’ll do it your way. What time do you want me to be ready?’
‘Half past twelve, if that suits you. The restaurant is about half an hour’s drive from here.’
By now they had reached her house. Liz had already taken her key from her evening bag. When Cam held out his palm, she put the key on it and watched him unlock the door. Would he try to kiss her goodnight? she wondered. Would she let him? Or would she resist?
She did not find out because he did not attempt it.
‘Buenas noches…hasta mañana.’ When he spoke Spanish, even commonplace remarks like ‘goodnight’ and ‘until tomorrow’ sounded oddly caressing.
‘Buenas noches.’ She watched him turn and walk back the way they had come, his tall figure casting a long shadow ahead of him.
After the warmth of the Drydens’ sitting room, her house felt like a dungeon. She hurried upstairs to the bathroom where a hot towel rail and an electric radiator, which she always switched on at sundown, provided a comfortable level of warmth. Her bedroom did not have a heater, but the bed itself would be cosy because she had put the electric blanket on before she went out.
Before she took off her dress, she looked at herself in the mirror behind the handbasin. ‘You look beautiful,’ Cam had said. No other man had ever said that to her. She had received lesser compliments, but never that ultimate accolade, and said in a tone that sounded as if he meant it.
In the morning, Liz regretted agreeing to lunch with Cam. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. It had clouded her judgment, she told herself severely.
After hand writing a thank-you letter to Leonora Dryden,
she typed and printed her weekly letter to her mother.
Describing the party, she wrote, ‘One of the guests was a television reporter, Cameron Fielding.’ She had not told her mother he lived in the village or that she looked after his garden.
Later she put the first letter in the Drydens’ box and posted the second in the yellow box attached to a wall in the main square.
Cam was already in the street outside his house when she arrived in her car. He was chatting to one of his neighbours, a small woman dressed in black, a convention still observed by many of the older ladies. This one had bandy legs, usually a sign that their owner had been born in the Thirties when Spain’s civil war had made worse the poverty endured by most of the population in the first half of the last century.
As she slowed down, Liz saw that Cam was listening with the same close attention he had given to the well-heeled guests at the party. Clearly, like his hosts, he did not rate people according to their social status but by a yardstick of his own. There were some things about him that she liked very much, Liz thought, as she stopped the car a few yards short of them.
Perhaps the old lady was deaf and had not heard the car pull up. She had been in full spate for several more minutes and might have gone on indefinitely when he said something that made her pause and turn round. From their gestures, Liz gathered that the old lady was apologising for delaying him, and he was assuring her no apology was necessary.
‘I wish my Spanish was good enough to talk to people the way you do,’ she said, when he climbed in beside her.
‘It will be. Give yourself time. Señora Mora was telling me about her brother who, when times were bad here, emigrated to Argentina and did well for himself.’
That he knew the Spanish woman’s name and didn’t refer to her as ‘that old dear’ sent him up another notch in her estimation.
When they were clear of the village, she said, ‘Tell me about your new project.’