And now she was here and in a few minutes she would have to face her father. That fact loomed huge and alarming at the front of her mind, she could think of nothing else.
The taxi turned off the road into a smooth drive that wound between dense, dark-green shrubs and pulled up before one of a group of six white villas with steeply-sloping pink roofs, situated at discreet distances apart, almost on the beach.
'Trust Father to pick the best,' murmured Lucie, as Peter fished in his notecase for US dollars to pay the driver.
A smiling, dark-skinned girl came out of the villa as the taxi drove away.
'Miss Martin? I'm Blossom, your father's maid. Your father is expecting you, miss, he has just gone to the dive-shop with a friend and he will soon be back. Please let me take your bag.' She led the way into the villa.
'Service!' murmured Peter, following Lucie. He grinned and added, 'You gets what you pays for in this life.'
'Exactly,' Lucie said rather tartly. The villa seemed to represent everything that she had given up. Luxuriously furnished, with a covered balcony looking out over the sea and the white strip of sand, where a few brown bodies were stretched out on sun beds. Only a few—no tourist crowd here. A place for top people, able to pay top prices.
Peter laughed as they went into the long, cool living-room where fans whirred and deeply-cushioned chairs were placed invitingly before the sliding-glass door leading on to the verandah. 'Come on, love, it's not as bad as all that. Sit down and relax.'
Lucie met his teasing look and grinned guiltily. 'Oh, it's a perfect spot, of course it is. Lovely for a holiday. It's just that it reminds me of things I've been trying to forget, that's all.'
'Well, I can take lots of it.' Peter leaned back, half closing his eyes. 'Cat with a saucer of cream, that's me.'
She regarded him indulgently. Perhaps she was taking all this too seriously; she needed Peter here to laugh her out of it. 'You're going to be a bit of a surprise for Father, aren't you? Maybe I should have warned him. I hope there's a room for you somewhere.'
He slid her a glance. 'I suppose it wouldn't be on to share yours? No, I see it wouldn't. Daddy wouldn't approve, is that it? Ah well, I can always sleep out on the beach at a pinch, it looks distinctly inviting.'
'Don't be an idiot, Peter!' Lucie said a trifle sharply.
His face became serious and he leaned across to cover her hand with his. 'Sorry, my sweet, just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Nervous, are you?'
'Dithering,' she said, and indeed her teeth were almost chattering. 'Silly, isn't it—my own father!'
His clasp tightened. 'I'm here to back you up, love. Peter means "a rock" you know. Rock-like, that's me.'
She gave him a grateful, fleeting smile and thought once again how much worse it would have been if she had been alone. But even with Peter here the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering wildly. She jumped up again and began to prowl round the room. It was typical of a room in a luxury rented villa; she had seen so many of them. Squashy lounge sofa and chairs, low smoked-glass coffee-tables, built-in fittings that housed radio, television, trailing leafy plants. Nothing in the least home-like about it. Magazines were piled on a side table, mostly featuring scuba diving. A copy of the Financial Times, pink and neatly folded, lay beside them. A few brashly-coloured modern prints hung on the walls. Not the sort of pictures that appealed to Lucie, but she trailed round examining them, to keep her mind occupied.
Then at the far end of the room she stopped abruptly. Hanging in a narrow alcove was a picture of herself, painted by her mother, when she— Lucie—was about twelve or thirteen, all huge brown eyes and a torrent of dark hair. Lucie hadn't seen it for years, she had thought that her mother had destroyed all her pictures during that ghastly time when she had been at the end of her tether. But her father must have found this one after her mother died. He must have taken it with him in his wanderings round the world. He must have cared for her mother, in spite of the way he had treated her.
'Oh,' she gasped softly. 'He kept it—he kept it all this time!'
Peter came and stood behind her. 'It's you, isn't it, Lucie? You were a smasher even at that early age.'
'Thanks,' said Lucie absently, and went back to her chair. She was trying to adjust to new and confusing ideas.
Suddenly she stiffened as footsteps sounded outside. He was here, her father, he was walking along the verandah and in at the open window. 'Lucie! Lucie, my dear girl! You're really here!' A big man, smiling uncertainly, he stopped just inside the window.
She jumped to her feet. She had only a moment to think, with sudden shock, 'He's changed. He's grown old,' and then he was holding out his arms and she was enfolded in a giant hug and it was as if she were a little girl again.
'Well, well, well, let's look at you.' He held her away. 'You're just as lovely—but much too thin. We'll have to feed you up on turtles and lobsters, and give you a nice tan over that pale January-in-England face.' He touched her cheek. He was talking, she knew, to cover the awkwardness of the meeting and set the tone of their encounter. Both of them must have been remembering that last time, when he stormed out of the house in Paris and she rushed upstairs, weeping, to pack her bag.
Peter had been standing to one side and she reached for his hand. 'Father, this is Peter Philips. He came to look after me on the journey. We're going to be married.'
There was a pause and she saw the slight tightening of the muscles of her father's jaw. Then he held out a large hand. 'Glad to know you, Peter.' The two men eyed each other a trifle warily.
Lucie said, 'Sorry to spring Peter on you at the last minute, Father, but you didn't give me much time, did you, and I couldn't explain it all in a cable.' She passed over the fact that she could have phoned; a cable had saved the embarrassment of a conversation. 'Can we find Peter a room?'
Warren Martin brushed aside the difficulty. 'Oh, we'll soon fix something. Now, we must all have a drink, to celebrate your arrival.'
Lucie watched him as he walked over to a cabinet on the far side of the room. He had changed, there was no denying it. He wore canvas shorts and a jazzy cotton shirt open to the waist, and she could see the way the flesh had begun to sag at the back of his neck and round his knees. His hair was almost entirely white and very thin now. But he was still a handsome man, broad-faced and large-featured, and he had lost none of his old air of affluence. He was a man who had achieved, who had fought in the tough world of business and won, and every confident word and gesture proclaimed it.
'Try these, I can recommend them—speciality of the house,' he announced, handing them tall glasses containing a clear amber liquid with ice-cubes rattling in it.
Lucie gulped the drink. 'Mm, lovely—I needed that. It's just as warm as ever here. Does the sun ever stop shining in the Caymans? I suppose we're in the middle of the summer here now, only there isn't really any winter, is there?' she prattled on. Oh Lord, how corny can you get?
'Certainly not in January, my dear. Best time to come.' Warren Martin gazed at her as if he couldn't take his eyes off her face. 'God, it's great to see you again, Lucie. I've missed you like hell. By the way, Stephanie and I have split up. Six months ago. It never worked—you were right about that, dead right.' He turned to Peter. 'Forgive us, Peter? Perhaps Lucie has sketched in the family situation for you?'
He made a wry face. 'These foolish things happen—important not to let them go on too long, isn't that so, Lucie?'
'Yes,' she murmured.
Her father settled back in his chair. 'And what line are you in, Peter?' Lucie recognised that bland expression so well and knew he was summing Peter up.
Peter responded enthusiastically, and Lucie sipped her drink and watched them and listened. Her father was making a real effort to be amiable; he smiled a lot, which wasn't at all like him, and his tone was sociable, genial, as he asked questions about Peter's job, displaying interest in the publishing business, being sympathetic about Peter's plans to start his own agency. Either he
was putting on a good show, Lucie thought, because he really wanted to make up their quarrel—or else he had reasons of his own to be cordial to Peter.
Oh dear, she wished she didn't know him so well. She wished she didn't have to suspect his motives; but the habit of years didn't die in a few minutes and she couldn't believe that the hard, flinty edges of the man had been smoothed away.
When the talk became general he asked about her book, and it fell to Peter to enthuse about it, Lucie remaining modestly silent. Her father patted her hand and his warm congratulations seemed absolutely genuine. 'James told me about it and I want to see it—have you brought a copy for me?'
'Well I—' She hadn't. It had never occurred to her that he would ask for what could only be a proof that she had been right to pursue her ambitions and he had been wrong to try to stop her.
'I've brought one,' Peter put in eagerly, and fished in his bag for a small brown-paper parcel. 'You'll be very proud of your daughter when you see it.'
'I'm sure I shall.' Warren Martin took the parcel, smiling his unfamiliar affable smile. He's very strange, Lucie thought, I've never in my life seen him in this mood. 'Well now, you'll want to get settled in. Afraid there are only two bedrooms here, but I'll do a bit of phoning round and find a room for Peter.'
'I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble, sir.' Sir! thought Lucie, amused at Peter's air of diffident respect. But she supposed it wasn't surprising— Warren Martin had always had that effect on people.
After some phoning around, a room was finally found at a hotel in the town and Peter and his luggage were despatched there by taxi.
Lucie and her father stood on the steps of the verandah to see him off. 'Be back in good time for the party,' Warren Martin said. 'I told the folk to get here around eight.'
'Party!' echoed Lucie. 'This evening? But your birthday isn't until Saturday.'
'No, but I thought it seemed a good idea to have it as soon as you arrived. No time like the present. It will be nothing elaborate—just one or two people I've got to know staying at the other villas in the complex. I do some diving with the husbands. I fixed it up as soon as I got your cable. It's going to be only a very modest affair and you'll have plenty of time to rest first.'
The taxi-driver tooted, a wide grin on his coffee-coloured face.
Peter kissed Lucie lingeringly. 'I'll be back very soon,' he promised. Lucie waved as the taxi started with a swish of gravel. Peter was playing the part of the newly-engaged young man very cleverly, she thought; her father must be convinced that they were in love. And again she was thankful for Peter's company.
She and her father walked back up the steps. 'Now you must have a good rest, Lucie dear,' Warren Martin said firmly. 'I know you've never been a martyr to jet-lag, but you must be tired after all the flying.' He was so considerate—she hadn't quite got used to this new, softer Warren Martin yet.
The maid had already carried Lucie's bags up to her room. 'A room with a view,' her father said, smiling. 'Will it do for you?'
'It's lovely.' Lucie looked round the air-conditioned luxury of the room with its balcony overlooking the sea.
'Good! I want everything to go smoothly for you— to make this an occasion to remember. Later we'll have a talk, but not now. You must rest.' He stood in the centre of the room looking at her with an odd, almost apologetic expression. The jazzy shirt hung loosely over his big body as if it were several sizes too large. 'I've got a lot to make up to you, my dear,' he said. 'Please believe that I want to. You do believe that, don't you?' He made a slight movement towards her and stopped.
Lucie's doubts evaporated. 'Of course I do.' She ran to him and buried her head against his shoulder. He held her close and she felt the tears come into her eyes.
'I'm so glad we're friends again. It's horrid to quarrel,' she said. 'You do like Peter, don't you?'
'Peter?' He stared at her blankly. 'Oh yes, of course—Peter. Forgive me, Lucie, one of the penalties of growing old, your memory for names gets shaky. Yes, I thought Peter seemed a pleasant young man. You really love him, do you?'
'Of course, I'm going to marry him.' And saying that, she knew that soon she must make up her mind.
He nodded, looking into her face, saying nothing. Then he walked to the door. 'Have a good rest, little girl. How about eating? Shall I ask Blossom to bring tea up to you?'
Lucie thanked him and said no, they seemed to have been eating snacks most of the day, and her father said, 'Right then, I'll walk along to Peter's hotel and make sure he's comfortable. I've told our guests to be here at eight, so you've plenty of time to relax.'
'What sort of a party is it? Does one dress up?'
'Dress is fairly casual here. I'm sure you'll look lovely in anything—or in nothing very much.' He grinned lovingly at her. 'We're meeting here for drinks and then we're going along to a new place called The Waves' Edge, further along the beach, for supper and dancing under the stars. Very romantic!'
'Sounds like fun,' said Lucie.
'I hope so. I'm afraid my guests won't be exactly in your age group, my dear, but at least you'll have Peter to provide the romance.' He patted her arm indulgently. 'I'll tell Blossom to wake you at seven, that'll give you time to dress. Ask her for anything you want, she's a nice girl and very willing. See you later, then.' He nodded, went across the room and closed the door softly behind him.
Lucie pulled off the well-worn suit she had travelled in and hung it up carefully. She wouldn't be wearing that again until she left for home. Here, a bikini and light cover-up was all she would need, together with beach-wear and two dresses for evening. The bikinis and sundresses she had bought at a chain-store before she left. Not exactly Vogue, but they were colourful and they would have to do.
But she would wear the lilac chiffon dress tonight, she decided, as she unpacked her bag and hung everything up in the clothes closet. It was her favourite and it suited her. And it wouldn't let her down in the company of her father's rich friends. It was the one dress that had an exclusive label on it— the very last thing she had bought in Paris before she left. She could have taken all her beautiful clothes with her, but that would have been absurd for the Cinderella existence that she proposed to lead. But perhaps she wouldn't be a Cinderella much longer, now that she was a published author.
She felt a little glow, thinking of her book. The excitement hadn't worn off yet. She slipped on a nylon wrap and wandered out on to the balcony. Leaning on the rail, she let her gaze take in the wide vista below—the dazzling white strip of beach, the tall palms, straight as pencils, with their heavy plumes of leaves curling over at the top, and beyond that the incredible pale green of the sea, changing to deep blue where the line of the reef crossed it. Here and there the striped colours of sails—blue and white and yellow and orange—showed like butterflies against the blue of the sea, as para-sailors skimmed over the water. Paradise island, indeed! Peter had obviously thought so. And yet—in the middle of all this beauty and glamour and luxury she felt a kind of homesickness for her cosy little flat in London, for the cheerful buzz of the gas fire and the glow of the lamp on her drawing-table. I must be mad, she thought. But she knew that if she had to choose again she would choose the same way—the only way for her.
She didn't regret it for a moment, but all the same it was a tremendous relief that her father wanted to be friends again. The break with him had left a painful wound inside her. Over the years she had walled it off until she hadn't felt the hurt any longer, but now the wall was down she examined the wound and knew that it had almost healed. He had accepted her as a person in her own right, and not someone to be dominated and ordered about. With a sigh of contentment she lay down on the soft bed and closed her eyes.
Blossom, the smiling dark-skinned maid, called her at seven and she was immediately awake. An hour to get ready—she could take her time and enjoy it. Just for once she would savour the luxury of living soft again. Humming happily under her breath, she went into the adjoining bathroom.
She was ready with three minutes to spare. She had enjoyed a perfumed soak in the aubergine bath and there had even been time to wash her hair. She put a final touch to it now, coiling it up on top of her head. Like a shiny blackbird's wing, Peter had said, extravagantly, and she smiled softly now, remembering.
He really was a darling and she liked him immensely. But love? Marriage? She thought of her mother and what marriage had done to her art. How obstacle after obstacle had worn down her resolve until finally she had thrown her brushes and paints and canvases into a huge box and put it out for the rubbish collection. Lucie had come in and seen her ripping up her paintings and had been shocked at the look of hopelessness on her mother's lovely, sensitive face. She had been only fourteen then, but she had put her arms round her mother and they had wept together and she had felt that she understood. That was the time that she began to turn against her father. She wished she had known, then, that he had saved and cherished that one picture—the one of her as a young girl, the one that was hanging in the living-room now. He must have cared about her mother more than he had appeared to.
Even so, he was a difficult man—an impossible husband. There was no way she could forget that.
But how different Peter was! A rock, Peter had called himself, and he was just that: dependable, understanding, straightforward. And the wonderful thing was that he liked her work and encouraged her. She loved him for that. He understood her dedication to her art and there would never be any conflict between them about it. They could have a sensible, modern marriage, each one respecting the other's needs and wishes.
Honeymoon Island Page 3