by Sarah Mason
“No, but I wouldn't put it past him to come and knock on your door. So just remember to lock it. In fact, come on . . .” He strides past me. “I'll walk you back up there.” He pulls open the door with some force and speeds ahead of me.
As I trot along behind him, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the little dimple at the bottom of his back, hastily realize that it is quite inappropriate and raise my eye-line to the back of his neck instead. We pass Madame on the stairs, who Sam gives a cheery, “Bonjour!” to, and who I can't even look at. What sort of depraved bedroom antics must she think are going on? Especially with my swollen face and pajama combo. When we reach my room, Sam takes the key out of my hand and opens the door.
“Would you like me to check underneath the bed, Clem?”
I open my mouth to say, “Would you mind?” but see he is grinning wickedly at me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “That's quite all right. I'll be fine now,” I say stiffly.
“Are you sure? What about the wardrobe?”
“I can manage perfectly well, thank you.” God, he's annoying.
He beams in an infuriating kind of way, ruffles my hair and then turns on his heel. “G'night!” he calls over his shoulder.
I expect to spend the whole night tossing and turning and so am ashamed to confess that I fall asleep almost immediately. In the morning, all my anti-Martin devices—my sarong twisted around the door handle and then wound around the wardrobe knob and my espadrilles rammed through the window latches—are still in place. I go through to the bathroom and check my face. Happily someone vaguely resembling me stares back at me. Thank God for that, I'm not sure if I could have faced going out today looking like a bullfrog. As it is, I slather on some tinted moisturizer and mascara, pull on my skirt, which I only just notice has a hole in one of its seams, fail to locate one of my flip-flops so have to make do with my cowboy boots instead, and go downstairs where Madame informs me that my parents have gone to have coffee on the harborfront.
I exit into the gorgeous morning air and breathe deeply. The little village is starting to wake up and the tantalizing smell of fresh bread is in the air. I jog down the steps toward the seafront and within a minute I round the corner to see my parents sitting in the morning sun. Sam is sitting at the table as well, much to my consternation.
“Anything going bump in the night, Clemmie?” Sam greets me. “Any unexpected guests? Strange noises?”
“No,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. I have to admit I am feeling a little ashamed of my rather hysterical claims last night. I can only put it down to the alcohol and having a face like a puffer fish. Which only goes to demonstrate the dangers of remaining sober for too long. I pull out one of the wicker chairs, sit down and help myself to some coffee from the cafetière.
“Dare I ask if anything should have been going bump in the night?” asks my father politely.
“Clemmie got it into her head that Martin Connelly had come all the way down to the south of France just to bump her off,” explains Sam.
“I didn't say I thought he was going to bump me off,” I protest.
“What did you think he was going to do? Ask for a best of three at tiddlywinks and then disappear back to Cambridge for good?”
“I thought he might be a bit cross that I've thwarted his plans. That's all. Besides . . .” I turn to my father, “. . . you're the one who put the idea in my head.”
He stares at me. “I don't think he's going to kill you, Clemmie. I just think he might make a bit of a nuisance of himself if we don't stop him now. You didn't really think he might murder you, did you?” My father snorts with laughter.
“Well, vindictive people don't always have rational thought processes. Anyway . . .” I add, anxious to get off the subject, “. . . have you heard from Holly this morning? Have you told her what Sir Christopher wants us to do?”
“Holly was going to talk to James and get back to me this morning.”
My mother hasn't added a word to the conversation yet. She is sitting with her huge, dark glasses on, staring out over the view with Morgan on her lap. Mornings really aren't her best time. She hasn't stirred once since I arrived and I have a strong suspicion that she is asleep behind those enormous glasses.
My father pays the bill and then we all get up slowly and start to wander back toward the hotel, my father occasionally steering my mother in the right direction. Madame greets us as we arrive. “Ça va?” she asks me.
“Oui, ça va,” I answer, looking up at her. She is looking deep into my eyes and smiling sympathetically. What's up with her? “Et vous?” I ask politely back.
“Je vais bien,” she says gently and gives my shoulder a compassionate little squeeze.
“What's wrong with her?” I ask Sam as she walks back behind the reception desk.
“She probably thinks you've been crying,” says Sam.
“Me? Crying?”
“Well, your eyes are still a bit swollen and red.”
“What on earth would I be . . . ?” Bloody hell, the old nag thinks I've been crying about Sam. She saw him escorting me back to my room last night and probably thinks I was chucking myself at him or something and had been gently but firmly rebuffed. I feel the color start to rise up my cheeks. Madame gives me a little smile from across the room.
“Right, who's going to kick off?” says my father. “Sir Christopher is calling me again this morning. So I would rather stay here and take the call, and your mother is useless before noon anyway. It might be better if you and Clemmie head off by yourselves,” says my father. When he spoke to Sir Christopher last night, they both agreed it was strange that Martin Connelly was still hanging around. Surely if he had seen Emma leaving with the Winstanley family then he would have followed her. So the only conclusion we have drawn is that Connelly didn't see Emma go and is still waiting around here for some clues. So basically Sir Christopher wants us (if it isn't too much trouble) to stick around, keep an eye on Connelly and see if he really has found out where Emma is before Sir Christopher starts making new plans to move Emma again. And, as you know, my father is pretty keen to resolve this whole thing so he agreed to it.
“Clemmie and I will take the first shift if you like,” says Sam.
“So what exactly does this involve?” I ask.
“We're just going to go about the normal business of enjoying our holiday and see if we spot Connelly anywhere.”
“And what if we see Connelly?” I ask my father. “What do we do then?”
“Absolutely nothing at all. Just keep track of him.”
“I'm not sure I'm going to be very good at this.”
“Clemmie, we're not asking you to be an actuary for the day.” I look sharply at Sam at this little jibe but he continues regardless. “We're just asking you to sit around in some cafés and maybe have a swim. That sounds pretty much like what you do in Cornwall.” I narrow my eyes at him. What exactly is he getting at?
I turn to my father. “And why is Sir Christopher calling you?”
“I'm hoping he might have thought of something. Either way, we need to decide what to do next. Your mother and I will take over after lunch. You might cave under the pressure if you think you're being shadowed by Martin Connelly all day.”
“And how are you and Mum going to take over? If given a choice between following you or me, he's going to pick me.”
“Not necessarily. You and Sam come back here at lunchtime and then your mother and I will go out. Hopefully he might switch to us.”
“If he's following anyone at all,” puts in Sam. “Because he clearly can't have been watching when the Winstanleys picked up Emma, and he wasn't watching us last night when we saw him in the restaurant.”
“Okay, you're all doing my head in. I think we should call Holly and ship her out here. It's all her fault we're in this mess in the first place.”
“And you had nothing to do with that at all, did you, Clemmie?”
“Absolutely nothing! It was all Holly.”
>
There's a small silence as Sam surveys me for a second. “Boy, this is going to be a fun day out,” he remarks.
After I have collected my little beach bag and rescued my bikini from the washing line in the bathroom, I meet Sam in reception. He still looks disturbingly handsome and has changed into a pair of linen trousers, a shirt and a pair of loafers. Everyone in the world must have more in their wardrobe than me. That includes Madame, who is looking fondly at us both and smiling. Sam gives a cheery “A bientôt!” and pulls me out of reception.
“Now, do not spend the entire day looking over your shoulder. Just act natural.”
Sam wants me to act natural. I am in the presence of someone I fancy but am not supposed to fancy while being followed by an ex-convict bent on revenge. My mother has also told me to keep an eye out for any more politicians as she is now convinced they are having some sort of secret summit over here. And Sam wants me to act normal.
“Get in the car.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I thought you might like to visit an old hill town; I asked Madame where to go and she suggested a place called Eze.”
“But Martin Connelly might not have a car. He might not be able to follow us.”
“Clemmie, I couldn't give a shit whether Martin Connelly can follow us or not. I would really like it if we could just go out and have a nice day by ourselves, without worrying about anything.”
He smiles at me and I suddenly relax and smile back. “So if this is a hill town, is it a good bet that no bikinis will be needed?”
He grins. “No bikinis will be needed. Now get in.”
I don't need asking a third time. I scuttle to the car door and get in with great alacrity. I get to ride up front this time too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sam looks quite ridiculous driving the car to Eze. The seat is back as far as it will possibly go and still his legs are around his ears. Back home, his car is an automatic so he keeps forgetting that he has to put the clutch in to change gear and this results in a great deal of swearing as the little car chokes and grumbles and occasionally conks out altogether. All I do is shout “PASSENGER-PAVEMENT” ever so often to remind him to keep the passenger side to the right as we have a tendency to drift over to the left-hand side of the road and come eyeball to eyeball with some unfortunate motorist driving the other way. Somewhere off the coast road to Monaco, we take a left into the hills and start an enormous sweeping zig-zag up this vast precipice with absolutely no barriers on the edge. So the first time we are really able to make conversation is when we arrive and park in the only car park we can see. I exit into the still-soft sunshine and breathe deeply. The mountain air is clean and smooth and even though it is still relatively early, the crickets have started singing in the dusty car park.
“God, that was a bit hair-raising, wasn't it?” I remark.
“You stamping on your imaginary brake every other minute did wonders for my confidence.”
“Sam, we were so close to that Renault that at one point I thought I was going cross-eyed.”
“Of course, it didn't help you screaming ‘Look out for that car!' every time one appeared on the horizon.”
“I thought I was being helpful.”
“I'll try to remember to be as helpful the next time you drive.”
“Do you think Martin was following us?” I ask.
“I have no idea. I wasn't about to take my eyes off the road. Besides, Clemmie, I don't want to think about Martin Connelly today.”
“Or Emma?”
“Or Emma.”
Sam goes over to the ticket machine and buys a ticket, which is lucky since I still haven't managed to get my hands on any euros.
“Sam, I haven't changed any money yet. Can I pay you back later?” I ask when he returns to the car, anxious not to appear like a freeloader.
“Don't be silly, Clemmie. You don't need to pay me back for anything. Let's go.”
We start walking up an incline toward what looks to be the town. “I think this is right,” says Sam. “Madame said that no cars are allowed.”
“Thank God for that.”
We reach the gray stone wall that encompasses the town and rises up like a giant, sheer cliff in front of us. To one side there is a wide, sweeping staircase and we start to climb it. Halfway up, the wall partly falls away and we can suddenly see for miles and miles down to the coast and out to sea. The still, oppressive heat is lifted by a breeze. Sam and I eye the view for a while while I surreptitiously catch my breath and try not to look as though I'm about to collapse.
We push onward and upward and soon emerge through a couple of archways to a small, cobbled street.
“This is gorgeous.” I breathe, looking around at the ancient stone buildings. Miniature, wonky mews houses with wooden front doors surround us. Some have window boxes overflowing with colorful geraniums, others still have their wooden shutters closed against the heat of the sun.
“Do you want to walk to the church?” asks Sam, indicating a little wooden sign on the wall which points in the direction of “l'église.”
I smile and nod and we start the slow, gradual climb up tiny twisting alleyways and crooked steps. Now and then we glimpse a tiny rooftop garden or a Romanesque window.
We monitor each other's progress and give encouraging smiles until Sam breaks the silence by saying, “So, did you ever hear anything more from Seth?”
The question takes me by surprise and I stop on my step and look over at Sam. He pauses a couple of feet ahead of me and leans against a wall.
“Em, no. I haven't heard from him since I left the country.”
“You know he tried to come and see you?”
I frown. “No, when was that?”
“You'd just left for your trip.”
“What? Did he call?”
“He actually came up to the house. Barney nearly lamped him.”
“But Holly said Barney saw him in Exeter.”
“Barney doesn't know where Exeter is!”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“We didn't think you needed to know.”
“Who is ‘we'?”
Sam shrugs. “The family.”
“Why on earth didn't I need to know? I might have wanted to see him.”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist, Clemmie. I'm only telling you because I thought you might want to know and Barney told me you seem to be well over him now. You're not still bleeding your heart out for him, are you?”
“No, I'm definitely over it.”
“He was hopeless, you know.”
“Nobody thought of telling me this at the time?”
“Come off it, Clemmie! You were so smitten! And he was so smug! I hated the way he always talked about how much he earned, he name-dropped for the Olympics. He was a pompous arse who treated you appallingly, so of course we weren't about to tell you that he was trying to get hold of you.”
The pompous arse bit stings. It feels like some sort of personal insult, which of course it is, as it implies that I am incapable of picking out a good man. Which of course I am.
I ignore the few people struggling to pass us in the narrow street. “Since when did everyone decide he was pompous? I thought you liked him!”
“Oh, come on Clemmie! He would blind-taste a cheap bottle of plonk from Sainsbury's and rave about its virtues. And he would insist on cleaning his shoes every day. He even tried to get you to do it! It used to drive me nuts.”
“Is that why you kept stepping on his feet?” I demand.
Sam relaxes and grins suddenly. “Did you notice?”
“Of course I did! I thought you'd lost all hand-eye coordination in some sort of freak accident.”
We stare at each other for a second and then we both laugh.
“Come on. Let's go and see this church.” We start our slow progress once more, pausing now and then to peer into shop windows.
The church is more beautiful than I could possibly have imag
ined. It is so quiet and cool when we enter that it feels like we're stepping into another world. The walls are painted with ancient murals and pictures of various saints. I slip into one of the pews and sit quietly for a while while Sam prowls around trying to read all the various inscriptions. I try my best to think of Godly things but fail miserably and end up in a lovely fantasy where Sam and I are actually going out together and have just popped down here to the south of France for a little holiday.
Eventually we feel cool enough to return outside and decide to push on up to the pinnacle of the village: le jardin exotique, which is apparently built on the site of the old castle.
“Has there been anyone since Seth?” Sam asks as we start to climb the steps again.
I shake my head. “No one. Well, a couple while I was away,” I add hastily, not wanting him to think I have taken a vow of chastity. “But no one important. I know Seth was pompous at the end but he was quite different when we first started seeing each other and I somehow managed to lose sight of that.”
“I know it was a rough time for you, Clemmie.”
We pause and I look up to meet his eyes. They're not mocking or probing but full of warmth and sympathy, which makes me want to open up a bit more.
“I just can't understand why I didn't notice how much he'd changed.”
“I think you're too hard on yourself.”
“But you're right! He did turn into a pompous arse and I did absolutely nothing about it. I didn't even acknowledge it to myself. He even started choosing my clothes for me! I suppose he was embarrassed. I have an eclectic taste at the best of times.”
“I love your taste!”
I beam at him. “Do you really?”
“Of course!” His eyes take in today's outfit. It is a bit tatty and I squirm slightly. “You can't say it's not individual. But I love the cowboy boots. Anyway, maybe deep down you did know about Seth but just wanted to avoid the storm for a while.”
I find this vaguely comforting. “It was quite a storm, though, wasn't it?” I smile. “I managed to lose my job because of it. I just wonder if I'd come to my senses earlier, would I still be working there and not living back at home and being shouted at by Mr. Trevesky on a daily basis?”