A sudden inspiration assuaged the pain: she’d stay with her and not go abroad. That’s what she’d do. She’d help Marina set up somewhere else. They’d build a new place together, a place more beautiful even than the Polzanze.
With that thought she felt happier. She turned her attention back to Jake and his ludicrous theory. As if Rafa could be Baffles; the very idea was absurd.
* * *
On Friday, June 12, Charles Rueben and his glacial wife, Celeste, arrived for the weekend. Marina had begged Grey to say they were fully booked, but he had refused her. As hard as it was for him to admit it, he needed them.
It poured with rain, which Marina hoped might put them off, for the place looked very gray in bad weather. Heavy black clouds hung low over the sea, and a cold wind whipped up the cliffs and over the roof, groaning as if in protest at the new guests.
Marina loathed Celeste on sight. She was almost six feet tall, and so skinny she nearly disappeared when viewed from the side. She had the remains of an icy beauty, with pale blue eyes, heavily made-up with kohl and mascara, and white hair blow-dried into a stiff shoulder-length bob. Her cheekbones were high and as sharp as the big diamond studs that glittered on her earlobes and long, wrinkled fingers. Her lips were thin and pursed into the disapproving pout of a very unhappy woman. In spite of her luxurious cream cashmere sweater, black crocodile Birkin, and matching Ralph Lauren shoes, she looked utterly disenchanted with her life.
“What a quaint little place,” she said in a nasal voice as she stepped into the hall, leaving Tom and Shane to stagger behind with her Louis Vuitton luggage. “And you must be Marina.” She looked down her nose and pulled a tight smile, as far as her recent face-lift would allow.
Marina extended her hand and smiled politely, though her eyes remained hostile. “You’re very welcome,” she said.
The Ruebens were the enemy, inveigling their way into her home to snatch it for themselves. Grey greeted her warmly, for nastiness was not in his nature. Marina glanced out of the open door to see Charles Rueben pacing the gravel with his BlackBerry pressed to his ear, while his driver walked behind him with a large golfing umbrella. He was short and portly, with the big belly of a man who spends a great deal of time in restaurants. His head was bald, his face fleshy and broad like a toad. When he came in at last, he shook the rain off his trench coat and complained in a strong cockney accent about the lack of signal.
“You’d have thought we were out in the sticks. You know, I was in the back of beyond in India last week and the reception was one hundred percent. What does that tell you about Britain, eh?”
“You’re welcome to use the phone in your room,” said Grey.
“It looks like that’s what I’ll have to do.” He shook Grey’s hand and smiled. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thank you,” Grey replied. “It’s Marina’s place, really.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said to Marina, shaking her firmly by the hand. “I’ve heard a lot about it, so I had to come and check it out for myself.”
“May I introduce you to the manager, my son, Jake.” Grey was aware of his wife’s mounting resentment and keen to keep her as far away from the Ruebens as possible.
“A family business, I like it,” said Charles. “Have you met my wife, Celeste?”
By contrast, his wife spoke in a croaky, upper-class whine. “Of course we’ve met,” she retorted. “You’ve been nattering on the telephone for ten minutes—what was I supposed to do, watch the flowers wilt?”
“Let me show you to your room,” said Grey.
Marina watched them leave the hall and bristled like a territorial tigress. Celeste’s heavy floral perfume lingered in the air, and Marina insisted that the door remain open until the smell had gone. She looked at the magnificent display of white lilies and roses, none of them anywhere near wilting, and thought Celeste Rueben the rudest woman she had ever met.
The telephone rang and Jennifer, back at her post after her embarrassing episode with Mr. Atwood, answered it in her most professional voice.
“It’s for you, Mrs. Turner. It’s Clementine.”
Marina took it at the desk. “Clemmie.”
“Are they there yet?”
“Yes, they’ve just arrived.”
“What are they like?”
“Ghastly.”
“If she was an animal, what would she be?”
Marina laughed. “An albino hyena in diamonds.”
“Lovely. And him?”
“A toad in suede and cashmere.”
She lowered her voice. “Do you need any moral support? I can leave at any time. After Mr. Atwood’s robbery charade I can do whatever I want.”
Marina glanced at Jennifer, busy with the diary, and suppressed a smile. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Grey has insisted we entertain them royally, so I’m going to kill them with kindness.”
“Can’t you just leave them to get on with it?”
“Trust me, these are the sort of people who demand to be entertained.”
“Okay, but call me if you need support. I’m dying to leave the office; it’s a miserable day and nothing’s happening.”
“Come home early and join us for tea. If the situation wasn’t so tragic, we could have a good laugh about this.”
“We’re all in this together, Marina. One for all and all for one. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t, darling. And thank you for calling. Your concern means a lot to me.”
She wandered into the sitting room where the fire was lit to keep out the damp. It was cozy and warm, and the air smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke. She perched on the club fender and thought about Clementine and how much she had changed. She had almost forgotten the dark shadow that had once accompanied her stepdaughter everywhere. The girl was transformed. Marina looked through to the conservatory, where Rafa was teaching a group of young women from London, and knew that she had him to thank. Somehow, his presence there at the hotel had changed everything.
It wasn’t long before the tranquillity of the sitting room was disturbed by the whining tones of Celeste. “It’s jolly cold for June,” she complained, making her way towards one of the sofas. When she saw Biscuit lying comfortably on the armchair, she screwed up her nose in horror. “Goodness me, a dog. Do you allow animals into the hotel?” She directed her question at Marina.
“Of course. But Biscuit lives here. He’s part of the place.”
“So, he’s yours?”
“Well, he belongs to all of us and none of us.”
“Lucky I didn’t wear my smart trousers.” She brushed a hand over the sofa before sitting down.
“You needn’t worry—he’s only taken a liking to the armchair.”
Celeste swept her eyes over the room. “The Somerlands had very good taste in decoration, didn’t they?” she said. Marina didn’t bother to tell her that the taste was all hers. “What’s the name of that beautiful flower?” She pointed to the display of purple orchids on the coffee table at the other end of the room.
“Orchid,” said Marina.
“No, my dear, I mean the grown-up name.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Marina replied, biting her tongue. “I have yet to grow up.”
At that moment Grey appeared with Charles, who was ruddy-faced with excitement. “Grey’s going to give me a tour of the garden,” he declared.
Marina panicked. The idea of being stuck here with Celeste was more than she could bear. “Would you like to go, too?” she asked hopefully.
But Celeste settled back into the sofa and folded her arms. “I’m not going out in the rain,” she replied, appalled. “You go and be boys, but we girls are going to stay by the fire, aren’t we, Marina?” Heather entered with tea. “Good timing. I could murder a cup of tea. Is it Earl Grey?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Heather, placing it on the coffee table.
“Oh, biscuits. I won’t be touching those.”
“They�
��re homemade shortbread,” said Marina.
“I’m sure they are. Typical of these provincial little places. Delightful, I’m sure, but I’ll pass. I didn’t get to be as slim as I am by gorging on shortbread.”
Heather poured her a cup of tea. “Would you like milk, ma’am?”
“Is it soya?”
“No, cow’s milk.”
“Full fat or skimmed?”
“Full fat.”
Celeste blanched. “I’ll have it with a slice of lemon, then.”
Marina rolled her eyes at Heather. It was going to be a tiresome weekend.
* * *
When Rafa sauntered into the sitting room, Celeste sat up keenly. Marina introduced them and watched as Celeste began to flirt like a young girl. Clearly used to being admired, she seemed not to care that it was inappropriate to behave that way with a man young enough to be her son. She giggled shyly and blinked up at him from beneath her thick black lashes. Rafa flattered her and asked her about herself, looking into her eyes in that intense way of his, making her feel she was the only person in the room he wanted to talk to. Marina wondered whether he was doing it on purpose as a favor to her, or whether he did it unconsciously.
“Do you paint, Celeste?” he asked.
“I was once a very good painter,” she replied. “I have a good eye for detail.”
“Then come and paint.”
Marina was quick to encourage her. “Oh, you must, Celeste. You can show those girls in there how it’s done.”
“Oh, I haven’t painted for years.”
“You never forget how to paint,” said Rafa.
“It’s like riding a bicycle,” rejoined Marina.
“I’d have to change out of my clothes.”
“I have an overall for you,” said Rafa. “Come, it will give me pleasure.”
Celeste got up. “What a wonderful idea, having an artist-in-residence, Marina.”
“Thank you,” she replied, waiting for the insult. But it didn’t come.
Celeste followed Rafa into the conservatory, and Marina made her escape—but not before Rafa had looked over his shoulder and tossed her a wink.
At midday Charles returned with Grey, full of enthusiasm. They had walked all the way along the cliff top to Dawcomb-Devlish and enjoyed a cup of coffee in the Wayfarer.
“Charming place,” Charles gushed, inhaling with delight. “Nothing like the sea and the smell of ozone to clear the airways and soothe the mind. This place has a special energy. I like it. I like it a lot.”
Grey was keen not to be overbearing and left him to lunch with his wife in the dining room.
Arnaud, the sommelier, had at last found someone who knew about fine wine. They discussed the list in great detail, and Charles chose a red Cabernet Sauvignon blend, Chateau Palmer ’90, one of the most expensive wines available on the menu. The sommelier almost danced around the tables in his eagerness to go and fetch the bottle from the cellar.
Celeste had enjoyed a couple of hours in the conservatory with Rafa and was now an expert on watercolors. She told her husband that the young artist had encouraged her to paint because he had recognized a kindred spirit in her, someone with natural flair and talent like him.
“The trouble is,” she explained as the sommelier poured a little wine into her husband’s glass and waited for him to taste it, “there just isn’t time enough in the day to do all the things I’m good at.” Charles swirled it around, then put the glass to his lips. The sommelier waited, barely daring to breathe. This particular Cabernet Sauvignon blend was a favorite of his and he was sure a sophisticated businessman like Mr. Rueben would appreciate it.
“Full bodied, complex, and fruity,” he declared and tapped his glass.
The sommelier filled Mrs. Rueben’s glass first before filling her husband’s. He was dismayed to see the woman take a sip without so much as a smile of pleasure. She was too busy talking about herself to notice the exceptional taste of the wine.
After lunch Celeste was keen to continue painting. Charles retreated to his room to make some calls. Grey and Marina returned to the stable block. It had stopped raining and the sun had come out, shining onto the wet leaves, causing the raindrops to glitter like glass. Neither wanted to talk about the Ruebens. The implications were too painful. So they skirted around the subject, although it hung between them like a bright neon sign.
At teatime Clementine roared up the drive in her Mini Cooper, eager to see what the Ruebens were like. She found Rafa in the conservatory, putting away the paints and brushes.
“So?” she hissed, surprising him from behind.
He turned round. “Oh, it’s you.” He laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re referring to the Ruebens.”
“Go on, what are they like?”
“Pesados,” he replied. “Heavy.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know. Marina and your father have gone back to the stable block. The atmosphere is very tense.”
“I know. I can feel it.” She cast her eyes around the drawing room, at the other guests who sat in small clusters drinking cups of tea and nibbling on little egg sandwiches, and wondered whether they felt it, too.
“I can’t believe my father will actually agree to sell.”
“He doesn’t want to, Clementine.”
She looked at him seriously. “It’s that bad, isn’t it?”
“I think so. I wish there was some way I could help.”
“Me, too.” She placed a hand on his arm. “But there isn’t. All we can do is support—and hope the Ruebens loathe the place.”
He grinned at her sadly. “Unfortunately, that is impossible. The Polzanze has a certain magic you don’t find very often.”
“A magic Marina will take with her if she has to leave. They’ll end up buying a shell.” She walked over to the glass and looked out onto the sun-drenched gardens. “Fancy taking Biscuit for a walk?”
“You’ve read my mind, Clementine. There’s nothing I’d like to do more.”
Clementine spent the weekend by Marina’s side, protecting her from the hyena’s barbed comments and making fun of her behind her back to make her stepmother laugh.
But it was of no consequence that Celeste had enjoyed her painting lessons or that Charles had relished going out in Grey’s boat and catching fish, because if they liked the bones of the hotel and bought it, they’d gut it anyway, as they had done to all their others, and change it in every way.
On Sunday, Grey and Charles spent a great deal of time in the library discussing books. Then the door was shut and they remained there until lunchtime, and no one knew what they were talking about. Marina had had enough and refused to join them. She sat in her kitchen with Clementine, Rafa, and Biscuit, drinking cups of strong tea and eating the shortbread Celeste had declined to taste. “I know he’s making Grey an offer he can’t refuse,” she said, wringing her hands.
“He always has the power to refuse,” said Rafa hopefully.
“Not if we’re broke.” She sighed. “There, I’ve said it. You might as well know, Rafa. We’ve borrowed up to our eyeballs, and we’re simply not making money.”
“But the place is full now,” Clementine protested. “We must be making money.”
“Unless you have a fairy godmother who can wave her wand and give us a great big cash injection, we are incapable of paying back the money we owe.”
“There has to be a way,” said Rafa.
Marina shook her head. “If there is, I haven’t managed to figure out what it is.” She began to gnaw the skin around her thumbnail, for that wasn’t entirely true. There was a way; it had occurred to her many times in her most desperate moments. At first it had just been the frantic meandering of a desolate mind. Then, as the possibility of losing the Polzanze had become a reality, those meanderings had grown more direct and strategic.
Yet, beneath her desire to rescue the hotel was a need more visceral. At first she had been too afraid even to contemplate it, but littl
e by little the idea had grown into a possibility and her heart had filled with hope. Was her plan to save the hotel merely an excuse to enable her to go back and right that terrible wrong? She pictured the little box at the top of her cupboard and shivered at the prospect of stepping back into her past.
Clementine confused her shudder for helplessness and took her hand. Marina smiled at her feebly.
At last the Ruebens left in their chauffeur-driven Bentley, and Grey appeared at the kitchen door. Even Biscuit lifted his head to hear what he had to say.
“Well?” Marina asked. But she could tell by the doleful expression on his face. “Oh God, he’s made an offer, hasn’t he?”
Rafa caught Clementine’s eye. They were both thinking the same thing. They turned to Marina and watched powerlessly as she seemed to wither before their eyes.
“Is it a very big offer?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“It’s the biggest offer we’re ever likely to get,” Grey replied. He was too ashamed to admit that part of him felt relieved that there was at last a way out of their financial nightmare.
“What are you going to do?”
Clementine squeezed Marina’s hand. “You can’t sell, Dad. There has to be another way.”
Grey sighed and scratched his head. “I can’t think of one.”
Marina closed her eyes. In that brief moment she saw her life flash before her. She watched the building of the home she cherished as if it were a reel of film passing across her mind. Harvey and she were laughing as they painted the hall; Mr. Potter was mowing the lawns on the new tractor they had bought; Grey was coming down on weekends and admiring the progress; they were sitting in the greenhouse as the rains battered the glass, chewing on Mr. Potter’s digestive biscuits, discussing what plants to buy and where to place them. They had planned together: she, Harvey, Mr. Potter, and Grey. They had been a team, a family. She had realized her dream with the very force of her will and watered it with love. It had grown bigger and more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. No one was going to take it from her. Not now. Not when she needed it the most.
The Mermaid Garden Page 39