The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  That afternoon more easels were set up on the lawn, and the four women looked at the tree as they were instructed. Grace found it quite hard to concentrate on anything but Rafa. However, after a while, with a little encouragement, she lost herself in the thick green pine needles and branches. The tree made her feel insecure, and a knot tightened in the pit of her belly. She feared poverty more than she feared anything else. The more she looked, the more the tree pulled her into a dark world where she had nothing but the skin on her body. And the skin was as old and wrinkled as the bark.

  Pat stared at the tree. She had no difficulty concentrating on it. It reminded her of her childhood, for she had loved climbing the big copper beech in her garden in Hampshire, where her father had built her a playhouse out of wood. It made her feel young again, as if she could jump off her chair with the agility of a child and scale the cedar right to the top.

  Veronica gazed at the tree with delight. The color green was so dark and alluring, the branches so magical and mysterious, she wondered where they led. She imagined she was a bird, perched high up, observing the world with merry detachment. She would spread her wings and fly a swooping dance, and the music in her head inspired her to hum a tune.

  Jane saw the regeneration of life in the branches of the tree that had stood for hundreds of years, watching the generations come and go in the grand cycle of life. Having felt so lost without her dear Henrik, she began to feel a little more positive. Wasn’t it true that nature was reborn, season after season? Why would it not be so for human beings? Perhaps Henrik had been reborn in Heaven and was now among those branches, watching her. The tree gave her hope. The way it grew up from the ground, its roots deep in the earth, the highest branch soaring towards God. It made her think of Henrik’s body in the earth and his spirit up there beyond her senses. She smiled wistfully as the hope in her heart gave way to a sweet melancholy.

  Rafa watched them watch the tree. He observed their expressions as they lost themselves in its branches. He saw the fear in Grace’s eyes, and the hope in Jane’s. He saw the joy in Pat’s and the awe in Veronica’s, and when he decided they had all been inspired to feel something, he told them to pick up their brushes and paint. For once, none of them said a word.

  Bertha stood at the window of Rafa’s bedroom. As Marina hadn’t got round to talking to Jake she had decided to have a private word herself. Jake had been only too happy to put her in charge of the artist’s bedroom.

  “You’re the right person for the job,” he had said with a smirk, patting her shoulder. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Now she stood looking out as Rafa taught the old ladies how to paint. She remembered painting at school, a class she had hated because she was so bad at it. She hadn’t a creative bone in her body. Still, she would give it another go if he asked her to. She pulled away and began to tidy his room. It smelled of sandalwood. As she bustled about, she picked up his things and sniffed them one by one, savoring the scent of this exotic stranger from a distant land.

  She wasn’t even sure where Argentina was on the map, but she remembered Diego Maradona and “the hand of God” goal that had sent everyone into a frenzy during the 1986 World Cup. There had been something rather sexy about him, too. She didn’t need to make Mr. Santoro’s bed, as it had been done that morning by the housemaids. In fact, she had no business to be in there at all. But since she had been given the task of looking after him, she felt it was only right to come up and check that everything had been done properly. Which it had, she could see. But in future she would be the one to do it. Every morning. Every evening.

  Mr. Santoro was very untidy. She hooked his suede jacket on the back of the chair and folded the shirt he had worn the day before. It excited her to feel so close to him, and she went hot with nerves at the thought that he might come in at any moment and discover her smelling his clothes. She noticed his suitcase still sat on the rack where Tom had undoubtedly placed it on arrival. It didn’t look heavy. She’d store it under the bed where it would be out of the way. As she went to lift it off, she saw that it was unzipped. She pulled up the top to make sure that there was nothing inside. She peered in. The case lay empty but for an important-looking folder. She glanced about the room, as if checking that she was, indeed, alone. Then she picked it up.

  It looked old and faded but official, like the files they brought out on those American television dramas like Law & Order. Now, trembling with curiosity, she lifted the flap. Inside were papers, lots of papers, all in a language that she didn’t understand. What did they speak in Argentina? Italian? That was it, then. Italian. At the back was a big pile of letters written in a very tidy hand, tied with an elastic band.

  She pulled it out, frustrated that she couldn’t understand what they said, and ran her eyes over the first one. A name leapt out. She had just read the words ti amo, which she knew meant “I love you” from the Laura Branagan song she used to listen to in her teens, when she thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. Hastily, she put the letters back in the file and placed the file back in the case.

  She shot to the bed and began to smooth the quilt so it would look like she was cleaning. Her heart raced, and sweat gathered on her nose. When she was sure no one was there, she took a deep breath and relaxed a little. She was now anxious to leave the room as quickly as possible. As she tiptoed down the stairs the name somehow stuck in her head. It was a funny name, because, surely there should have been another n in there. But perhaps they didn’t use the n in Argentina.

  Costanza. Surely it should be Constanza?

  15.

  Clementine was not surprised when Joe walked into her office. She had been avoiding him by not returning his calls, but she knew it would be only a matter of time before he came in person to find her. As he stood before her she felt the sinking feeling of waking from a dream and facing the dull reality of true life. As much as she could fantasize about Rafa, the truth was that he was out of her league. She looked at Joe, coarse and regular, like so many other men found in bars and pubs across England, and wondered whether this was the best she could expect. Was it healthy to reach for the stars when she was never going to touch one?

  “Hi, Joe,” she said, masking her guilt behind an artificial smile.

  “Where have you been? Haven’t you noticed I’ve been trying to call you?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been really busy up at the hotel. The new artist has arrived, and Submarine needed my help. It’s been full-on.”

  Joe didn’t look convinced. “The least you could have done is called.”

  “I know. I thought you’d understand.” She delved into her bag for her lip gloss. “I obviously overestimated you. My mistake.”

  He suddenly looked lost and scratched his head. How had she managed to make him feel guilty in such a short exchange? “Can I see you tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not. We’re going out on Dad’s boat. I don’t know what time we’ll be back.”

  “Come and stay over?”

  “No, Joe. I told you, I’m needed up at the hotel at the moment.”

  He looked exasperated. “Then when? We’re meant to be having a relationship.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow night.” But she regretted it just as soon as she had said it.

  Sylvia sat at her desk listening to every word. Once Joe had gone she put down her nail file and turned on Clementine. “He’s a good lad, Joe is. I don’t know what’s got into you!”

  Clementine put her elbows on the desk and sank her chin into her hands. “He’s so ordinary compared to Rafa.”

  “When the scales fall from your eyes, Rafa will be just as ordinary. Men are men whichever way you look at them.”

  “No, Rafa is different.”

  “That’s what I thought about Richard, and Jeremy, and Benjamin … and countless others. It always ends in disappointment because your Superman is just a man in underpants after all. Just as needy, just as demanding, just as selfish as every other man in
the world.”

  “You’re so cynical.”

  “I’ve lived longer than you, lovely.”

  “I’m holding on to the dream.”

  “It’s made of soap, silly.”

  Clementine sighed. “So what do I do? I don’t love Joe.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “After a couple of vodkas in the Dizzy Mariner he’s quite charming.”

  “A bird in hand is better than two in the bush.”

  Clementine screwed up her nose. “What’s that got to do with Joe?”

  “You don’t want to end up alone. I’ve taken Freddie back, only because his whining was so boring.”

  “But that’s such a tragic compromise.”

  “Look who’s talking? If you don’t love Joe, bin him.” She shrugged. “You’re the one holding on to him. Ask yourself why?”

  The telephone rang, and Sylvia picked it up. Clementine took her tray of correspondence to the filing cabinets. As she slipped each letter into the proper place she considered what Sylvia had said. She was right, of course. If she didn’t love Joe, why was she still with him? Was she so insecure that she would rather be with a decidedly average man than alone? Yet, her spirit aspired to greater heights. Her thoughts soared among the planets, and her heart longed for the burning white fire of the greatest love.

  When she had finished, she realized that for the first time she had filed each letter correctly. Fueled by something she was unable to identify, she decided to tidy all the files, one by one, until everything was where it should be. It was a big job, for she had spent the last month shoving things wherever they fit, without a single thought to ever finding them again.

  Mr. Atwood returned from a viewing to find the floor littered with paper. His jaw dropped at the mess. “What on earth is going on?”

  “I know,” Clementine replied coolly. “I’m a little shocked myself. Ask Sylvia, I don’t know what’s got into me. But I’ll admit I’ve been putting things in the wrong files for weeks.”

  Mr. Atwood didn’t know whether to be cross or grateful. He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose I should be pleased you’re putting it right now, before you leave your chaos for Polly to find.” He stepped carefully over the islands of documents. “When you’ve finished, I have an errand for you.”

  “Another present for Mrs. Atwood?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Come into my office and don’t take all day about it.” He disappeared inside and closed the door behind him.

  Clementine caught Sylvia’s eye and grinned. “Why doesn’t he just come out with it and say it’s for his lover?”

  “A good secretary turns a blind eye.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Someone with very bad taste and no sense of smell.”

  Clementine laughed. “He doesn’t smell, does he?”

  “What do you think?” She pulled a face. “That kind of skin always smells, well, eggy.”

  “Yuck!”

  “I’ve had my fair share of eggy, and it’s not pleasant. Still, he’s rich and probably spoils her with presents. Some women will do anything for presents.” She pulled out her nail file and sighed heavily. “Oh, the things I’ve done for presents.”

  “Let’s not go there, Sylvia.”

  “You’re right. Let’s not.”

  Once all the documents and letters were filed in their correct places, in order of date, and all the old, redundant ones shredded, Clementine stood back to admire her work. She felt an unfamiliar sense of pride. “There, all done,” she announced, walking back to her desk with a bounce in her step.

  “Good for you,” said Sylvia. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think you were capable of doing a proper day’s work.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Now you’d better go and find out what Casanova wants you to buy his mistress.”

  “Can’t wait to spend his money for him. Whatever budget he gives me, I’ll spend double!”

  Clementine was disappointed to find that her errand involved accompanying Mr. Atwood to a jewelry shop to choose a bracelet. “It’s our wedding anniversary,” he explained a little awkwardly.

  “How many years have you been married?” she asked as they entered the quiet enclosure of Nadia Goodman, situated on the high street.

  “Too many to count,” he replied tightly. “When you’re my age, you stop counting.” A pretty salesgirl brought out a tray of gold bracelets and smiled at Clementine. “Now, which one do you like?” Mr. Atwood asked. Clementine picked up a gold chain with emerald cabochons.

  “Let me help you,” said the salesgirl. “There, such a pretty color against your skin.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Clementine agreed. “Daddy’s so generous.” She grinned at Mr. Atwood.

  “Not sure about green,” he said crossly.

  “But I love it.”

  He ignored her theatrical doe eyes. She was clearly enjoying herself at his expense. “Take it off,” he snapped.

  The salesgirl unclipped it, looking confused. “What about blue?” she suggested cheerfully.

  “I love blue,” Clementine gushed.

  Mr. Atwood asked to see another tray. When the salesgirl went to the back of the shop, he rounded on Clementine. “Quit the monkey business. I’ve got a reputation in this town, you know.”

  “I’m only teasing!”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “Anyway, what color suits your wife?”

  He hesitated. “Red.”

  “So, let’s have a look at rubies. You’re very generous.”

  “I know. Have to keep the little lady sweet.”

  “Oh, she’ll be sweet all right.”

  Clementine managed to restrain herself while they looked at gold bracelets with ruby cabochons. They were very pretty. Still, she didn’t think she could sleep with an eggy-smelling man, however many gold bracelets he bought her. She thought of Joe and imagined him buying her jewelry, but the emptiness of that thought convinced her that no amount of jewelry could take the place of true love.

  Finally, they chose the gift and waited while the salesgirl wrapped it in a red and gold box and tied it with ribbon.

  “Lucky Mrs. Atwood,” said Clementine, thinking how very unlucky she was.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Atwood agreed, shiftily.

  “That will be fifteen hundred pounds, please, sir,” said the salesgirl, smiling again at Clementine. “Is it your birthday?”

  “No,” Clementine replied. “He’s just pleased with me.”

  “Oh,” said the salesgirl. Mr. Atwood handed her his credit card. “Thank you.”

  “And thank you, Daddy,” said Clementine, taking the bag off the counter. She gave her sweetest smile, which the salesgirl mistook for genuine affection.

  Mr. Atwood inhaled through dilated nostrils, punched in his PIN, then tapped his fingers on the glass impatiently, eager to leave the shop as quickly as possible.

  Clementine laughed all the way back to the office, which infuriated Mr. Atwood even more. “I’m teasing,” she repeated. “If you weren’t so serious, I wouldn’t find it all so funny.”

  “If I didn’t owe your father for all the clients he’d sent my way, I’d fire you for insubordination.”

  “You love me, really. I know you do. You just don’t want to admit how funny you think I am.”

  “I don’t think you’re at all funny, Clementine,” he huffed, which made Clementine laugh all the more.

  * * *

  That evening she returned to the Polzanze with a bounce in her step. Rafa was on the terrace having tea with Marina, Grey, and four old ladies, who Clementine presumed were the four painters from the year before. The sight of Rafa caused her heart to expand with joy. They were all talking at once, isolated in their mirth. They didn’t even notice her as she walked towards them.

  When she reached the table, her father looked up. “Ah, Clementine. Come and join us?”

  “You haven’t met my ladies, have you?” Marina interjected.
>
  Clementine swept her eyes over their expectant faces and smiled only because Rafa was watching her. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have avoided meeting them altogether. Marina introduced each one, and Clementine shook their hands. She was grateful that her father squeezed a chair between him and Rafa so she didn’t have to waste her time talking to them.

  “So, how was your day?” Rafa asked, drawing her away from the general conversation, which had revved up again.

  Clementine basked in the warmth of his eyes. He had a way of looking at her with such intensity, as if she was the only woman in the world he really wanted to talk to.

  “My boss took me shopping to help him choose a bracelet for his wife. Though we all know she’s never going to see it.”

  “Ah, he has a mistress?” asked Rafa.

  “Yes, though I can’t imagine anyone wanting him.”

  “There is someone for everyone.”

  “That’s the miracle of life.” She smiled. “Lucky, eh?”

  “Are we going out in the boat this evening?”

  “Of course,” Clementine enthused, although she knew it wasn’t possible to go just the two of them, as she wasn’t sure how to work her father’s boat. “I’ll have to ask Dad,” she added, prodding Grey.

  Her father turned round. “Yes, darling?”

  “Will you take Rafa and me out in your boat this evening?”

  Grey’s face lit up in surprise. “What a good idea. Beautiful evening for it.” He looked out over the calm waters and clear sky. “We can go to Smuggler’s Cove and do a bit of crabbing. What do you say?”

  Clementine had only unpleasant memories of crabbing in Smuggler’s Cove, of sitting on the rocks, bored to her core, while Jake and her father had tossed bits of bacon on string into the sea. The bucket of crustaceans had repulsed her, all climbing on top of one another in their futile attempts to escape. But the thought of spending dusk in the quiet seclusion of the cove, just the three of them, was very appealing. “Great idea,” she replied, sure that she could suffer a few crabs for the pleasure of spending time with Rafa.