The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “Don’t listen to her,” Harvey protested, a twinkle in his eye. “There’s just no one else on the premises who can change lightbulbs like I can. Even at seventy-five.”

  “You don’t look seventy-five, Harvey.”

  He winked at Rafa. “It’s that kind of flattery that keeps me climbing ladders and clearing drains.”

  “Did you bring any of your work to show us?” Marina asked.

  “Of course.” Rafa pulled a brown leather bag onto his knee and unzipped it. He withdrew a sketch pad and placed it on the coffee table.

  Marina leaned forward eagerly. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  She opened the first page. “Perfect,” she breathed, gazing on a watercolor of a river, painted with flair and warmth. A flock of birds was taking to the air, some still in the water, others already reaching for the skies, and she could almost feel the spray as they agitated the water with their feet. The next was a sketch of old women gossiping in a market, their faces full of expression, from bitterness to pride. “You are very versatile.”

  “I have to be, in my business. I might draw a cola bottle one day, a landscape the following day, a caricature the next. It is never the same.”

  “Where did you learn to draw?”

  “Nowhere special.”

  “You were born with the gift.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  He grinned at Harvey. “But I’m not good at clearing drains.”

  Marina flicked through the whole book, her admiration growing with each new picture. “We would love you to spend the summer with us,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

  Rafa looked pleased. “I’d like that very much.”

  She looked a little embarrassed. “We can’t pay you, I’m afraid. But you’ll have your board and lodging for free. All we ask is that you are available to teach the guests to paint. We’ll provide all your materials, of course.”

  “When would you like me to start?”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “Next month. Shall we say, the first of June?”

  “First of June.”

  “Come the day before to give yourself time to settle in.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “So do I,” she replied, pleased that he looked happy with the arrangement. “You don’t know how hard it has been to find you.” Then her thoughts turned to Clementine. At last, the girl would have something to thank her for.

  4.

  Clementine staggered into work in a pair of skinny jeans and pumps, a thick gray sweater hanging almost down to her knees. It was spring, but she felt cold to her bones. She didn’t know what hurt more, her morale or her head. Sylvia sat at her desk in a tight dress and stilettos, painting her nails red. Mr. Atwood’s partner, Mr. Fisher, was already in his office talking on the telephone. She was relieved she had gotten there before her boss, though she didn’t imagine she was going to be of much use.

  “Oh, deary dear,” said Sylvia, shaking her head. “You don’t look well.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “Go and get a coffee.”

  “I’ve already had one at home.”

  “Then get another. Mr. Atwood will be in shortly, and he’ll be wanting a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin. If you have them waiting for him on his desk, he’ll forgive your sickly pallor.”

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Yes, lovely, you do. You shouldn’t wear foundation at your age. When you’re pushing thirty like me, you can pile it on with a shovel.”

  Clementine flopped onto her chair and switched on her computer. “I can’t remember much about last night.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Joe.” She closed her eyes, hoping he might go away.

  “Isn’t he lovely? So handsome. You two really hit it off, which puts a smile on my face this morning as I was the one to set you up. I think he’s smitten. I’ve never seen him behave like that before.”

  “Behave like what?”

  “He was all over you.”

  “Was he?”

  “Oh, yes.” Sylvia grinned. “It’s usually the other way round, and he’s having to fend them off.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “You don’t sound very happy about it. He’s quite a catch, you know.”

  “I’m sure he is. A big fish in a small pond.”

  “Nothing wrong with a small pond. Better than a small fish in a big pond.”

  “I don’t know. Regardless of the pond, I’m not sure about the fish.”

  Sylvia knitted her eyebrows. “Now you’ve lost me.”

  “I remember going to his place. I remember you and Freddie dancing.”

  “Freddie loves to dance.”

  “Then I remember his sofa.”

  Sylvia laughed throatily. “I bet you do. That sofa’s seen a lot of action in its time.”

  “That makes me feel so much better. Thank you.”

  “You know what I mean. He’s no monk.” Sylvia held her nails up and waved them in the air to dry. “And you’re no angel.”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “You don’t regret it, do you? The secret of life is not to regret anything. Waste of time. You had fun, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “You looked like you were having fun when we left.”

  Clementine felt her spirits dive. “I feared you’d left.”

  “I’m no voyeur, Clemmie. Besides, me and Freddie had business of our own to see to. Mmm, now there’s a man who knows how to pleasure 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, getting 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?”

  “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 telephone 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. 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 toddlers, a trio of businessmen having a meeting, schoolgirls playing truant. 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 turning 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 obviously 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.”

  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 cuticles.

  “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.

  “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 transparent 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 imagine 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.”

  “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 pa
ir 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 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 Polzanze, 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 threatened to break her. She had poured all her love into its conception and birth. Without it, she would be lost. She began to scribble until the roar of the ocean and the squawking of gulls faded into a dull lament.