Hideaway Heart

by Roumelia Lane

  Mr. Moss nodded and sank into a chair, apparently overcome by the heat. He seemed quite elderly to have a working life abroad. His suit was a badly fitting serge that pushed at the collar of his shirt, making it wing out untidily. An apologetic smile played around his mouth. The look in his eyes said he didn't care for the situation any more than they did.

  Chris hurried away to see about some cooling drinks. When she returned Mr. Moss was settled back comfortably expounding his theories on the season's cricket. Though exiled abroad his enthusiasm for the game seemed not the slightest bit dampened, and as he explained, it was a sport he never failed to catch up on whenever he returned to England. His voice droned on through the afternoon heat describing one match or another he had seen or followed in the English newspapers. When the subject of cricket was exhausted the game of golf took over. Obviously a sporting man, there was nothing that Mr. Moss didn't know about knocking a ball around. Boyd listened and put in the odd sentence, but Chris suspected he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  Eventually the other man's words trailed off and he stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. Boyd looked at his openly, then turned to Chris. "You'd better go and give Miss Fry a shake."

  Chris walked along the veranda, thinking that Paula really must have been worn out. She had slept almost the whole of the afternoon. She opened the door and raised the blind.

  "Paula, I think you should get up now, the..."

  Chris turned to stare at an empty bed. The indentations of where Paula had lain were clearly visible, but she was nowhere in the room now, or in the garden. Only a faint whisper of her perfume hung on the air. Chris went over to the shed. Clive had disappeared too.

  Thoughtfully Chris went back to the living room.

  "Paula isn't there," she reported, "and Clive's gone too."

  Boyd stood up. He lowered his head for some moments to think and then looked up at Chris.

  "Where would they go ?" he asked abruptly.

  Chris had to think. Paula must have woken early and met Clive in the garden. Where would he go? Not the cliff. She knew that was out for him for good.

  "The cove, probably,'' she offered.

  "Let's go." He turned towards the Athens representative, who was pouring himself another drink. He looked up absently.

  "I'll wait here. They may come back another way."

  He didn't seem too concerned, Chris thought wryly, following Boyd. They took the path that circled the island. It sliced through banks of wild flowers and gorse, and pink and yellow heads of the cistus jutting among the rocks. Through the green the flaming broom shone like splashes from a paintbrush.

  The bees droned on the still air and Chris had to quell a desire to take Boyd's hand. The magic of summer, this summer here on Cyrecano, seemed to swamp her senses. It drew out to a fine sweetness the fire of woodsmoke eyes, the grip of muscular steel. She stole a glance to where he walked a little distance away, and her heart reeled. What was the use? One had to admit love whether it was returned or not.

  They came to a point where the ground dropped away and through an archway of trees the cove showed two figures. Paula was sitting on a rock, Clive standing alongside. He lowered his head at intervals as though in conversation. The path Boyd chose was rocky and steep. He led the way, his attention divided between assisting Chris down the incline, and the couple on the beach. Paula was the first one to see them approaching over the sand. She stood up as Boyd moved in.

  "It's time to go, Paula," he called.

  She must have known what his tone implied, for with a side-glance at Clive she nodded and fell in with the other man's steps. "All right, Boyd, I'm ready."

  They walked on ahead and Chris found herself moving alongside Clive. He kept his chin on his chest the whole of the way back. She felt it would be pointless to make any kind of conversation.

  Though the journey must have taken some considerable time Mr. Moss was still draped back in the chair, glass in hand. He rose unhurriedly as they entered.

  "Mr. Randolph Moss from Athens," Boyd made the introductions. "Miss Fry."

  Paula nodded. "We have met."

  "And this is Clive Huston. He lives on the island."

  If Clive had been silent on the journey back he looked about to make up for it now.

  "Look here, Mr. - er - Moss, I'm not sure I like this," he began. "I get the feeling that Paula is being treated like some kind of criminal."

  Randolph Moss raised an alarmed eyebrow. "I assure you, sir..."

  "Oh, I know. You don't know a thing about it. Well, I can tell you this - Paula was only looking after their ends when she tried to buy the necklace. Don't forget to tell them that."

  The older man walked through the door and on to the veranda, pulling his ear.

  "Don't get me wrong, Mr. Huston. I'm here purely as an escort. Miss Fry and I have been recalled at the same time, so we may as well go back together."

  "Oh, sure! And you had to come all the way out from Athens to do just that?"

  Mr. Moss looked over his shoulder.

  "I'll be getting down to the boat." He wandered along the path as the other three came out on to the veranda. Paula followed the receding figure with her eyes and then turned.

  "Boyd, I'm scared," she whispered.

  "Don't be. It's only a job, you know." He took her arm and led her down the steps. "We'll take it as it comes."

  He stopped half-way across the garden to look at Chris and Clive on the veranda. After several seconds he spoke, but Chris couldn't be sure whether a sudden breeze had snatched his voice away or whether it was blurred with concern for Paula.

  "I'll send someone to pick up Eleni. You two will want to make your own arrangements."

  They disappeared along the path to the beach, and Chris stood and stared for a long time after, the picture of Boyd and Paula printed indelibly on her heart.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Night was creeping over the sky as Clive nosed the boat into Cathai harbour. Talons of lilac cloud reached in from the sea and as a solitary bird flew over, its breast reflected the gold of the setting sun. Chris could see the Villa Tamerlane, a pink pearly glow above the harbour. Quickly she diverted her gaze - why, she couldn't say. Boyd had gone to England with Paula, so what difference did it make? The Barbary Cloud loomed white and powerful at the end of the harbour, but singularly without life. Funny how one could tell when the master wasn't aboard.

  She didn't let her mind linger too long on the yacht. Instead she turned her attention to the travelling bag that was being deposited beside her on the quay. Clive stretched.

  "I'll have to see about hiring a car to take us to the airport." He looked down at her. "You're sure you'll be able to get a plane out tonight?"

  "Certain of it ... or almost, anyway," Chris replied. "There's always at least two evening flights for London."

  Clive nodded. "You going to be okay here or would you rather go and sit at one of the cafe tables? I shouldn't be more than a few minutes.''

  "I'll hang on here." Chris watched him go and then let her eyes roam around the cliffs. She was seeing the island for the last time. It wasn't likely that anything in life would send her this way again. Strange she had come to Cathai at night and was leaving in the same way. So much had happened since that first night here. So much... and yet so little.

  Behind her the cafes were doing a desultory end-of-day trade. One or two were making preparations to close. She thought of the time when Boyd had taken her to the Turkish quarter of the town and then on to a cafe where the tables had overlooked the sea. There had been pastel-coloured drinks and biscuits and lemon-flower jam, and she had thought a certain hard businesslike mouth had softened quite noticeably.

  A car drew up beside her and Clive stepped out. He swung her bag in and held the door for her. Chris stepped in and bit her lip at the thought that the car was similar to the one Boyd had hired when they had gone out to baby Gabriel's village. Was she to spend the rest of her life making comparisons ?
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  The airport was a hive of activity, for it was still the height of the holiday season and the islands were popular with English and European visitors. When all the formalities had been attended to Chris found she had only a matter of minutes to wait for a seat on a London-bound plane. Clive paced for a while and then steered her into the tiny refreshment bar. He ordered coffee for two. Chris sipped hers in silence. Clive watched her moodily for some time and then affirmed,

  "You don't think much of me, do you, Chris ?"

  "That's a strange question!" She tried to put a flippant slant on her reply, but failed miserably. In any case Clive looked as though he would never smile again. He lowered his cup, meeting her eyes. "Will you write to me?" he asked.

  "Do you want me to?" She had an idea they would have been better skipping the conversation, for they were both obviously skating round the main issue. Clive fiddled with his spoon, drawing patterns on the tablecloth. "I wish things could have turned out a bit better." He looked up jerkily. "You don't believe that, do you? You think I actually enjoyed letting Paula go off like..."

  "Please, Clive! Listen, I think that's my plane."

  Even if the loudspeaker hadn't been announcing her flight she would have found some way to prevent Clive finishing what he was going to say. Nothing could be gained by backtracking over the afternoon except heartache. Nobody knew that better than Chris. Hadn't she gone over the departure of Boyd and Paula a thousand times or more in her mind, remembering that they had known each other in London, gone out on the town many times together, and thinking that perhaps after all there was something deep enough between them to make it a lasting partnership?

  Her smile was bleak as she rose. "Well, Clive, it looks as though this is goodbye. I'd better not be too long. I'm lucky to have a seat on an early plane."

  She picked up her bag and Clive stepped forward. He took her by the shoulders and dropped a kiss on her cheek.

  " 'Bye, Chris. You'll write, won't you?"

  "Yes, Clive, I'll write." With a backwards smile she hurried towards the waiting plane.

  "You haven't touched your egg, Chris. Not hungry again?"

  Frank Dawnay lowered his knife and gazed to where Chris was toying with a finger of toast. She shot up a quick smile.

  "I suppose it's the change in the climate or something."

  Her father shrugged.

  "You've been home more than a week now. It's time you were finding your feet." He leaned forward and smiled. "You're not worrying about us not clinching the contract, are you? Things are bubbling along nicely. We'll make up for lost ground just as soon as it breaks."

  "No, I'm not worrying about that."

  Chris could speak truthfully. Her main concern since arriving back in Fernsea had been to steer clear of anything to do with Boyd Wyatt. She knew he had certain connections with her father, so that line of thinking was strictly taboo. She rose from the table and started to gather the crockery.

  "I think I'll see about clearing that last patch of shrubbery today. With the lawn running right down to the fence the garden will seem twice as long. We could move the summer-house over to the far corner..."

  Her father gave a tolerant sigh. "Very well, but don't overdo it, girl. There's no need to go at it as you've been doing these last few days, and I'll have to beg off this time. Boyd has asked me to make a call on him.''

  One of the tea cups overturned with a clatter, and Chris felt her father's eyes on her.

  "There's nothing wrong between you two, is there?" he wanted to know.

  She balanced the cups carefully before replying.

  "No. Why do you ask that?"

  "I just wondered. Last week when I happened to mention you were back home Boyd showed some surprise." Her father was silent, studying her. "You did a good job over there, didn't you, Chris? I like to think my daughter gives of her best even when it's not for her old dad."

  Chris gave a tremulous smile. "You needn't worry. All the ends were tied up very neatly." She turned away and her father rose.

  "Come on, Chris. There's something on your mind. I can always tell."

  "I can't think of a thing really, except. . ." she struggled to project an air of unconcern, "well, is there any point in keeping up this connection with Hideaways? I mean..."

  "They could be our bread and butter."

  "But could they?" She turned back. "Things seem to have come to a dead end."

  "I thought you weren't worrying about the contract?"

  "How does one worry about what doesn't exist?" The smile felt tight on her face. Her father eyed her perceptively.

  "Don't you like the man?" he asked suddenly.

  "Who - Boyd Wyatt?" Chris made a grab at the table napkins. "It's not that, but we don't have an awful lot in common, do we? Big deals and big decisions - we're just small fry at the side of him, and maybe we're a nuisance."

  Frank Dawnay's shoulders drooped. He pondered for some time.

  "You could be right. I have been leaning pretty heavily on Boyd. I suppose because he hasn't complained I..."

  "Well, would he?" Chris broke in. "He's a business man, after all, and I know he's been lending you money."

  "Now, Chris," her father frowned, "an advance is not a loan, and you obviously haven't got to know the man as well as I have or you wouldn't be talking like this."

  Chris gulped and returned to stacking the tray. Her trouble was not how little she had got to know of Boyd but how much. Too much to forget in a lifetime, but it would be a start to close the door on the Cyrecano affair. There wasn't going to be a contract anyway.

  Her father went to stare out of the window.

  "You think we should make a break with Hideaways and cut our losses. Is that it?"

  "I wish I could feel more optimistic, Dad," she confessed.

  At her wavering tones her father turned and with a smile came over to give her an encouraging hug.

  "You know, you're good for me, Chris. There's no putting my feet up when you're around." He nodded. "You're right, of course. Something should have developed by this time."

  "What can we do?" she sighed.

  "Look around for other work, I suppose. I'll pay Boyd back when I can. He won't press me."

  She looked up. "When will you tell him?"

  "This afternoon. Might as well get it over with, though I'll be sorry to make the break."

  "I think we ought to accept the fact that his world is totally different from ours,'' said Chris.

  "It might not be for long." Her father smiled heavily and went to retrieve the morning paper that had just been slotted through the letter box. "I hear he's cutting loose from a lot of his business interests."

  Chris turned back to the table. She asked casually,

  "Why would he want to do that?"

  "Search me. Seems to be losing his appetite for high-powered tycoonery. Could be something to do with this young woman of his."

  "Paula Fry?" Chris's head jerked up. Her father nodded.

  "The trouble she's in seems to be taking up most of Boyd's time these days. I believe she's up before the directors some time this week. I'm told Boyd will only be in Fernsea for a couple of hours this afternoon."

  Chris didn't reply to this. What was there to say? Things were working out as she had expected they would. Her father wouldn't understand that any more than he would her wish to make a complete break with Boyd businesswise. He seemed to notice her silence, for he swatted the rolled-up paper rhythmically against his trouser-leg and then with a sigh walked away, unfolding the paper as he went. Chris looked after him, seeing his hunched shoulders. Events seemed to have turned full circle, and things were right back where they had started, except that instead of her father going to open up negotiations with Boyd he was going to sever them completely.

  That ought to have given Chris some measure of comfort, but it didn't. Not one little bit.

  Her father had stopped at the bay window to turn the pages of the paper. As she gazed forlornly over his should
er her heart gave a sudden lurch. Were her eyes deceiving her? She edged closer to stare . . . and stare at the picture of a pale-haired young man. He seemed oblivious to the crowd and battery of cameras and intent only on making for a waiting car.

  The tray Chris was holding began to shake fitfully. Afraid that once again her transparent emotions might evoke some comment from her father, she hurried away to deposit the crockery on the sink, where she ran the hot water and dropped in the cups and saucers without seeing them. Everything was blotted out by a large and very clear photograph that hung in her mind.

  So Clive had come to England after all!

  Clive in England! It didn't seem possible. Chris found herself scanning the papers every day after that - for what, she didn't quite know. Her mind refused to indulge in any kind of conjecture and to keep her heart out of trouble she busied herself still more with household chores and tasks in the garden. As it happened Saturday's edition needed no searching through. It tumbled in at the kitchen letter-box of "Medway" and spread its pages like the wings of an eager butterfly. And that was how Chris first saw the picture of Clive and Paula gazing up at her from the kitchen lino.

  With hammering heart she flopped into a chair, afraid to read. So far Paula had managed to avoid the papers; now here she was smack on the front page. What had happened? She brought her eyes down and read the column beneath. Now she knew what all the smiles were about and the reason for Clive's warm embrace. She read avidly to the bottom of the column and then started at the top again. It was all so wonderful. There was only the merest reference to the necklace affair and the fact that her employers had found no reason to disbelieve Paula's good intentions. The rest of the column was devoted to the movements of Clive and his constant companion about town.

  Chris rocked happily. So Paula had come out of it unscathed, and it looked as if Clive had been there to see her through. How long she sat there soaking up the front page and its contents she couldn't be sure, but it was her father's voice that finally snapped her out of the daze.