The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  “That’s high praise from you, Mr. Atwood.”

  “Praise where praise is due.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d like you to come to the meeting this afternoon. It’s time you learned a little more about the business.”

  “Sure.”

  “And in that suit, I think you’re perfectly dressed to represent us.”

  “Okay. Where is it?”

  “It’s a massive property called Newcomb Bisset Manor, about half an hour away. If all goes well, Atwood and Fisher are going to put it on the market. The husband is a bit of a ladies’ man. He’ll like the look of you. If he has any doubt about being represented by us, he won’t by the end of the meeting.” Clementine grimaced. “All you need to do is smile,” he added firmly.

  * * *

  Back at the Polzanze, Rafa was giving a lesson to a group of twelve in the vegetable garden. Some were painting in watercolors, others with oils, a few drawing in charcoal. They all sat in front of the picturesque glass-and-iron greenhouse where Mr. Potter was busy washing potatoes.

  The brigadier sat beside Jane. He’d made sure he was downwind so he could smell her perfume. He liked her company. She was sweet-natured and gentle, which reminded him of his wife. The more he talked to her, the more he realized she was mischievous, too, which made him laugh. His wife, as much as he had loved her, hadn’t been known for her sense of humor.

  Grace, Pat, and Veronica chatted in the sunshine. Fat bees buzzed about the lavender and the pink and yellow roses that climbed the south-facing wall of the greenhouse. Birds tweeted in the lime trees, intrepid squirrels played tag in the branches. The atmosphere was languid. Rafa wandered from easel to easel, giving advice here and there, sometimes taking the brush himself and showing how it was done.

  When he had a moment to himself, his mind drifted to Clementine. She was tugging his conscience like a kite on the wind. He had gone over and over their conversation and, as much as he regretted speaking his mind, he didn’t regret trying to help her. He had definitely gone about it the wrong way, picked the wrong moment, but his intentions had been honorable. He had noticed Marina’s tense shoulders that morning and the way she had smiled with her lips and not with her eyes. He wondered whether she was upset that Clementine had moved out. He resolved to go into town that afternoon and find her at work. Perhaps they could have tea together and make up.

  After lunch he took a break from painting and drove into Dawcomb-Devlish. He knew that she worked for an estate agent on the high street. It wouldn’t be hard to find. He parked the car on the seafront. The place was teeming with tourists and British holidaymakers on half term. Children sat on a low wall licking ice cream in cones, waiting for a man with a long ponytail to apply tattoos. Mothers in brightly colored sweaters and shorts gossiped on the pavement, and a couple of dogs lay in the shade waiting for their owner to come out of Kitchen Delights. Rafa weaved through the slow-moving throng that ambled idly up the road, and scanned the shops for the estate agency. It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon it.

  Atwood and Fisher looked suitably prestigious, painted a discreet navy blue with shiny windows displaying fine, beachfront houses to rent or buy. He peered through to see a pretty redhead talking on the telephone at the front desk. There was no sign of Clementine. When he opened the door, the redhead glanced up. With a smile she swiftly wound up her conversation and put down her nail file. “Hello, can I help you?” she asked.

  Rafa approached her desk. Her green eyes devoured him hungrily. “I’m looking for a girl called Clementine Turner. Does she work here?”

  “Little Clemmie? She certainly does. You must be the artist-in-residence at the Polzanze.”

  He grinned. “Am I that obvious?”

  “You are, lovely. It’s the accent, distinctly not English.”

  “Is she here?”

  “I’m afraid not. She’s gone for a meeting with Mr. Atwood. I don’t think she’ll be back until late afternoon. They’ve only just left.”

  He swore in Spanish. “Can you give her a message for me?”

  “Of course.” She picked up her pen. “Fire away.”

  “You don’t need to write anything down. Just tell her I came by to see her.”

  “I’m coming up to have a drink at the Polzanze tonight. I’ll bring her with me.”

  “Okay. Then tell her I’ll see her later.”

  “Sure.” Eager to detain him she added breezily, “So, how’s it going up there?”

  “Getting busy.”

  “I bet it is. You’re slowly getting to know the whole of Dawcomb.”

  He laughed. “It’s a great town.”

  “I like it. Clementine doesn’t. She’s just desperate to leave. But then she’s a city girl. I prefer the quiet of the countryside. I’m a woman of simple pleasures.” Rafa took in her heavy makeup and manicure and smiled to himself. She didn’t look like a woman who understood the word simple.

  “I’d better get back to the hotel. I have some very keen artists to teach.”

  “I’m glad the weather’s nice for you.”

  “So am I.”

  She watched him walk to the door, wishing she could entice him to stay and chat a little longer. “My name’s Sylvia, by the way.”

  “See you later, then, Sylvia.”

  She gave a little wave. “Bye!”

  Clementine sat through the meeting while Mr. Atwood’s client, Mr. Rhys-Kerr, leered at her from the other side of the dining room table. The discussion went on for well over an hour, the majority of it having nothing to do with business and everything to do with golf. It transpired that Mr. Atwood and Mr. Rhys-Kerr were both members of the same club.

  Once the finer details of the sale were settled, Mr. Rhys-Kerr insisted on showing them around the house. Mr. Atwood had already seen it, but Mr. Rhys-Kerr was keen for Clementine to appreciate the merits of a big country pile. Clementine rolled her eyes at his childish innuendos: bath “wide enough for two”; shower “that’s seen a lot of loving”; bedroom “if these walls could talk, I’d blush to the roots of my hair.” The two men clearly shared the same sense of humor as well as the same golf course, because Mr. Atwood laughed at everything Mr. Rhys-Kerr said.

  “You were terrific, Clementine,” Mr. Atwood gushed as he drove out of the electric gates. “He really liked you.”

  “Must be the suit,” Clementine replied drily.

  “You’re a pretty girl, no doubt about it. We’ll make a fortune on that house.”

  “It’s very naff.”

  “Naff?”

  “Yes, no taste at all.”

  “That’s beside the point. The fact is, it’s twelve thousand square feet with a sea view. Splendid.”

  “It’s still naff.”

  “Are you telling me that if you had the money to burn, you wouldn’t like to live there?”

  “I’d hate to live there. The house is new, with no character or charm.”

  “But it’s big.”

  “And soulless.”

  “I can’t work you out, Clementine.”

  Clementine sighed and stared out of the window. “You’re not alone, Mr. Atwood. Neither can I.”

  When they returned to the office, Sylvia was talking on the telephone to Freddie, doodling love hearts onto her notebook. She waited until Mr. Atwood had left the room, then she told Clementine that her Argentine had come looking for her.

  “What did he say?” Clementine asked, perking up.

  “Just that he popped by to see you.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s gorgeous. It’s the smile. Full of naughtiness and his accent is as delicious as toffee banoffi pie.”

  “I suspect he wanted to apologize.”

  “About what?”

  “Long story.” She sat down, disappointed that she had missed him. “What do I do?”

  “Go home to Joe. Rafa’s a man who is bound to break a girl’s heart.” Sylvia knew she should tell her that he expected to see her at the ho
tel that evening, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the words out. They hung on her lips, refusing to budge. She knew jealousy didn’t become her, but she convinced herself that Clementine wasn’t interested in him. As she settled grumpily behind her desk, Sylvia decided that she’d probably decline his invitation anyway.

  19.

  That evening Sylvia changed into a red dress, reapplied her lipstick, and motored up to the Polzanze, fighting her guilt that she hadn’t invited Clementine to come with her.

  She was greeted at the door by a porter who escorted her into reception.

  “Good evening. Can I help you?” said Jennifer, smiling politely from behind the desk.

  “Yes, I’ve come to have a drink with your artist, Rafa …” She hesitated, not knowing his last name.

  Jennifer recognized the buxom redhead, but couldn’t place her. “Sure, he’s in the drawing room, straight through the hall.” She watched her slope off in the direction of the drawing room, her gait slow and sexy, as if she were walking through a saloon in a cowboy movie. And then she remembered where she had seen her, through the window of Atwood and Fisher, and she breathed deeply, relieved that she had taken the incriminating bracelet off.

  Sylvia found Rafa in the sitting room, talking to a group of old ladies and a ruddy-faced codger in a gold-buttoned blue blazer. He looked up as she walked over and acknowledged her with a smile. She noticed his eyes stray past her, expecting to see Clementine. She wasn’t used to that.

  “I’m on my own, I’m afraid; Clementine’s busy,” she said carelessly, as he stood up to greet her. His face darkened with disappointment. She wasn’t used to that, either. Normally, she eclipsed other women like a big, beautiful moon. “You don’t mind having a drink with me, do you?”

  “It would be a pleasure. Let’s go outside. Will you be warm enough?”

  “I have a wrap,” she replied, flapping it in front of him. “It’s come all the way from India.”

  “When were you there?”

  “Oh, I haven’t been. It was a gift.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  She savored the suede texture of his foreign accent and followed him through the conservatory. “I could listen to your accent forever,” she sighed. “But I suppose all the girls have told you that?”

  “So, there’s no point trying to sound English?” he replied with a laugh.

  “Oh, no, that would be foolish. You won’t have any admirers at all if you sound like everyone else.”

  “I’ll lay it on thickly, then.”

  The terrace was almost full. They sat at a small round table and looked at each other across the candlelight.

  “So, what’s this boyfriend of Clementine’s like?”

  “I introduced them,” Sylvia replied proudly. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can I offer you one?”

  He shook his head. “I’m surprised a beautiful woman like you smokes.”

  She pulled the packet out of her bag and tapped it with a talon. “I’ve tried to give up, so many times, but it’ll take more than willpower.”

  “Like what?”

  “Love,” she stated simply, fixing him with feline eyes. “If I fell for a nonsmoker, hook, line, and sinker, I’d give up for him.”

  “I think you should give up for yourself.”

  “Been there, done that, failed miserably.” She placed the cigarette between her scarlet lips and lit it with one of the tea lights set decoratively in purple tumblers in the center of the table. He watched her puff a few times, then sit back as the nicotine loosened her up.

  Jake decided to take their order himself. He liked the look of Sylvia, full-bodied and feminine, like a beautiful ginger cat. He had seen her up there once or twice before, but she hadn’t noticed him other than to say a brief hello in response to his greeting. Now she tossed him a smile as Rafa ordered a martini and a glass of Chardonnay. Then she settled her pretty eyes onto the Argentine again and blew a ribbon of smoke out of her mouth provocatively.

  Jake withdrew inside as his gut twisted with jealousy. He resented Rafa more than ever. While Rafa resided at the hotel Jake didn’t stand a chance. He gave their order to the waiter. Then stood a while, watching Sylvia from the conservatory, unwilling to tear himself away.

  “You know, Clemmie’s told me a lot about you.” Sylvia took a sip of wine.

  “Has she?”

  “Yes, she came rushing in after she’d seen you in the Black Bean Coffee Shop. She’s a child, really. I’m like a mother to her.”

  “It was such a coincidence, meeting like that.” He smiled at the recollection, and Sylvia noticed his eyes sparkle. “She’s quirky, I like that. In Argentina we say, un personaje. So tell me, is her boyfriend good enough for her?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied with emphasis. “They’re like two peas in a pod.”

  “Her stepmother doesn’t like the sound of him,” Rafa added.

  “That’s because they have a bad relationship. Clemmie says she’s a drama queen because she likes to be the center of attention. I imagine it’s the stress of wanting children and not being able to have them that has driven her a little crazy.”

  “How long have you known Marina?”

  “I don’t really know her. Only through Clemmie. The problem is she’s from a different class to Grey and that bothers Clemmie. It’s a very unattractive English trait, this class obsession. I’m sure you don’t have anything like it in Argentina.”

  “Believe me, prejudice exists all over the world.”

  “Well, Clemmie thinks that Submarine—I mean, Marina—set her sights on Grey because she wanted to move up in the world, socially. I suspect they just fell in love. After all, they hardly hobnob with the aristos. But no child is ever going to love a stepparent, however hard the parent tries. I’m sure Marina has tried until she’s blue in the face. Clemmie is very stubborn.”

  While she spoke he listened attentively, his eyes steady and penetrating. “This class thing, is it based on family or education?”

  “The two go together. I imagine Marina’s family are working class, or lower-middle class. She certainly wasn’t privately educated. I should know because I wasn’t, either.”

  “Have you met her parents?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Clemmie’s never met them. I think Marina keeps them well hidden, don’t you?”

  “You mean, she’s ashamed of them?”

  “Perhaps.” She laughed. “I don’t think they even attended their wedding. Clemmie once remarked that they married in the local registry office as soon as the divorce came through. For two people in love, that’s not very romantic, is it?”

  “Some people don’t like to make a big noise.”

  “Clemmie says Marina loves a big noise, if she’s in the middle of it.” She lowered her voice, aware that she might be overheard. “I bet she didn’t want her family there to let her down. She presents quite posh, doesn’t she? I mean, her accent, it’s rather pretentious, isn’t it, like she’s trying too hard?”

  It was now twilight. The tea lights glowed in their purple glasses, the roosting birds were silent against the sleepy murmur of the sea. Rafa drained his glass, Sylvia lit another cigarette. He felt anxious about Clementine—every time he thought about her the knot tightened in his chest.

  “Do you have Clementine’s mobile number?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Sylvia squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Give it to me.”

  With a groan she burrowed in her bag for her mobile and scrolled down for the number. She read it out and watched nervously as he punched it into his BlackBerry.

  “Are you going to call her?”

  “Why not? She can be busy up here.”

  “I don’t think Joe will like it. He’s very possessive.”

  “Then I will ask them both.”

  “Why don’t you text?”

  “You think that would be more appropriate?”

  “Absolutely,
otherwise you might get her into trouble.”

  C, where are you? I was hoping you would come up with Sylvia for a drink. Are you really too busy? I want to tell you I’m sorry … Rafa

  Clementine read the text. Her stomach flipped like a pancake. She read it again, blushing deeply. Her first thought was that Rafa wanted to see her. Her second was that Sylvia had deliberately failed to include her. She glanced at Joe, sitting in the armchair watching sport on Sky, and knew that she couldn’t possibly get away right now. She wished Joe would disappear in a puff of smoke.

  Can’t now. Can you come to the house that God forgot tomorrow evening, after work? C

  Rafa’s BlackBerry bleeped with an incoming message. Sylvia reddened. “Is that Clemmie? Is she coming?”

  He read her text and narrowed his eyes. The house that God forgot, would he remember how to get there?

  “Well? What does she say?”

  “She’s busy,” he replied.

  Sylvia’s shoulders relaxed. “You see? I told you.”

  “I’ll see her tomorrow. What time do you finish work?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Okay.” He typed with his thumbs: I’ll come by your office and we can go together.

  “Who are you texting?” Joe asked.

  “Jake,” Clementine lied. “I’m going to go up to the hotel after work tomorrow. There’s something he wants to tell me.”

  “Probably wants to persuade you to move back.”

  “Maybe.” The only thing standing between her and going home was her pride. Joe turned his attention back to the television. She watched him as he sipped beer out of the can, feet up on a stool, eyes glued to the screen, and thought how very coarse he was. Just as she was wondering what on earth had possessed her to move in with him, her telephone bleeped with a text. She read it eagerly. So, Rafa would pick her up tomorrow and they’d drive out to the old church, their secret place. At once her spirits soared.