by Anne Mather
‘You know why I wish to speak with you, I am sure,’ he remarked in a low tone, after she was seated. ‘Andreas had no information earlier as to why Margot is not here. I want you to tell me the truth. Does she want a divorce?’
‘No!’ Sylvie’s denial was uttered on a rising note, which she quickly stifled as other eyes turned questioningly in their direction. ‘No,’ she repeated, half inaudibly. ‘Honestly, Leon, that’s the truth.’
‘Then why is she not here?’ he demanded, his dark eyes glittering with suppressed emotion. ‘She knows the situation. She knows I am unable to come to London at this time.’
Sylvie expelled her breath unevenly. ‘Leon, she’s got a part—in a play. You know the kind of thing she does. Well—–’ she sighed, ‘it’s a good part for her, and she wants to do it. It—it means a lot to her.’
‘More than we do,’ remarked Leon bitterly, his thin hands moulding the arms of his wheelchair.
Sylvie hesitated. ‘I—I don’t think that’s true,’ she ventured, albeit unconvincingly. ‘She—she just—needs this—stimulation. But she needs you, too. In her own way.’
Leon’s mouth tightened. ‘You mean as a safety net, do you not? In case this career she is pursuing does not work out.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘No.’ Though she had said virtually the same thing ten days ago. ‘Leon, give her a break. Let her try and prove herself. She may fail.’
Leon looked down at his knees, swathed by a soft fur rug. ‘I have given her many breaks, Sylvie,’ he said heavily. ‘How many does she expect?’
Sylvie felt terrible. If only she had known Leon was ill, she would never have agreed to come here, not under any circumstances. It was the support of a wife Leon needed at this time, a mother for Nikos. How could Margot be so callous?
‘Have you told my brother why Margot is not here?’ enquired Andreas’s harsh tones above their heads, and Sylvie looked up in sudden confusion.
‘Yes.’ It was Leon who answered, leaning back in his chair now, his hands on the arms relaxing almost submissively. ‘She has told me, Andreas. It seems I must be patient once again.’
‘Patient!’ Andreas’s lips twisted. ‘I would not be so understanding, I fear.’
‘But you are not like me, are you, Andreas?’ Leon countered, with a dry smile. ‘As yet, no woman has invaded that cynical heart of yours.’ He lifted his hands for a moment, then let them fall. ‘Not even Eleni, I suspect.’
Andreas acknowledged his brother’s gentle cajolery with a casual shrug of his shoulders, but he made no response to it, even though Sylvie’s ears had sharpened at the mention of the Greek girl’s name. Instead he turned his attention to her, looking down at her with cool assessing eyes, making her overwhelmingly aware of his earlier antagonism towards her.
‘My father suggests that perhaps you might like to come and visit Nikos tomorrow morning,’ he said, his tone only a couple of degrees higher than the chilly reproval he had offered her in the car. ‘Does that appeal to you, thespinis, or would you rather go sightseeing?’
Sylvie moistened her lips. ‘I’ll come here, of course,’ she declared, maintaining her composure with an effort. ‘I didn’t come to Greece to go sightseeing, as you very well know.’
‘Good.’ Andreas was dismissive. ‘I will tell my father of your decision. I myself can bring you, on my way to the office.’
‘That’s not necessary—–’ began Sylvie quickly, deciding she could more easily take a taxi, but Leon intervened.
‘Sylvie is staying here, is she not?’ he exclaimed. ‘There is no need for her to go back to your apartment.’
‘On the contrary,’ retorted Andreas inflexibly. ‘It is all decided. She and Marina are to sleep at the apartment, until you leave for Monastiros.’
‘But why?’ Leon sighed, and Andreas attempted to explain.
‘Rooms were prepared for Margot, not for her sister, Leon,’ he stated flatly. ‘You would not have—Sylvana— occupying those apartments adjoining yours.’
‘There are other apartments,’ protested Leon wearily, the effort of arguing evidently exhausting him, and Andreas put a half impatient, half soothing hand on his shoulder.
‘It is easier this way, believe me!’ he declared gently, and Leon had to accede to his brother’s arrangements.
Dinner was announced a few moments later, and this time Sylvie took charge of Leon’s chair. ‘Please—let me,’ she said, when Andreas would have taken it from her, and with a gesture of indifference he went to join his fiancée. For she was his fiancée, Sylvie felt sure of it, and she knew a moment’s sympathy for the Greek girl in netting so overbearing and unpredictable a catch.
The dining room was just as impressive as the reception room had been. Long sideboards flanked walls decorated with carved wooden murals, and the enormous table would have seated more than twenty people comfortably. The Petronides’ other unmarried daughter, Persephone, joined them for the meal, but after greeting Sylvie with formal politeness, she spent the rest of the evening in conversation with her mother. They were very much alike, whereas Marina resembled her father, and judging by the glances Sylvie occasionally felt in her direction, her presence was a source of some provocation to them.
Sylvie could only suppose they did not approve of Leon’s attention to her. Yet her brother-in-law seemed to relax during the course of the meal, and under his gentle encouragement she talked quite freely of her own activities. She told him of her interest in antiquity, and how she had succeeded in her ambition to gain a place at Oxford, and she made him laugh when she bemoaned her efforts to keep slim, and her fateful love of chocolates and fatty foods. She was conscious that Andreas’s eyes, too, were often upon them during the meal, but she hoped he would not intervene and spoil their tentative friendship. She had hardly known Leon before this meeting, but after only a couple of hours in his company, she could quite see why Margot had been attracted to him. He was kind, and he was sympathetic; and she felt that she could rely on him, which was reassuring after Andreas’s hostility.
When the meal was over, Marina was despatched to collect her overnight things, and Leon’s father took the opportunity to have a few words with their young guest.
‘Andreas tells me Margot is acting again,’ he said, bringing up the subject Sylvie least wanted to discuss, and she forced herself to explain the circumstances.
‘Her agent found her this part in a new play,’ she said, shifting a little uncomfortably beneath his penetrating stare. Like his eldest son, Aristotle Petronides had the ability to impale her with his eyes, and she found it almost impossible to look away.
‘And left you to—how do you say it?—carry the can, no?’ he enquired dryly, and a little of her tension eased at the gentleness of his tone. ‘Relax, Sylvana—or is it Sylvie? I heard Leon call you that earlier. This is not the den of wolves you think it. We are only human, and Leon is very dear to us.’
‘I—I appreciate that.’ Sylvie moved her shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m sure if Margot had realised—–’
‘I think Margot realised very well,’ replied Leon’s father heavily. ‘But now we will say no more about it. I am sure Nikos will find the prospect of a new playmate just as appealing as a mother he scarcely knows.’
It was a damning criticism of Margot’s role as a mother, but Sylvie could not dispute it. Margot had not been cut out for motherhood, and there was no use pretending to these people, who knew her so well, that her sister had anything more than a desultory interest in the welfare of her son.
Sylvie was sitting with Leon again, when Andreas came to tell her they were leaving.
After dinner, coffee had been served in another of the imposing withdrawing rooms, and earlier, Sylvie had watched Andreas at the grand piano, which occupied one corner of the apartment. He had lounged lazily before the keys, with Eleni draped gracefully beside him, picking out a tune here and there, and just occasionally breaking into some haunting melody that was over far too soon as far as Sylvie was conc
erned. That he was an accomplished musician she had no doubt, without Leon’s casual reference to a talent wasted.
‘Andreas could have attended the Conservatoire, in Paris,’ he remarked, smiling without envy, as his brother improvised on a theme by Schubert. ‘But my father would never have forgiven him, if he had not taken on the mantle for which he was born.’ He sighed. ‘It is as well he can separate the two halves of his personality. There is no place for sentiment in business.’
Sylvie doubted Andreas was over sentimental. She did not believe one had necessarily to feel for the music. Andreas had a talent, which he projected quite expertly, but that was all. His skill did not demand emotion, only complete concentration.
And now Andreas was standing over her again, informing her politely that they would be leaving shortly, making her overwhelmingly aware of his influence over all their actions. He had said he believed her when she told him that Margot had not confided the truth about Leon’s illness to her, and yet there was still censure in his dark eyes as they rested upon her. What was it? Did he secretly believe that as sisters she and Margot must be tarred with the same brush? Or was it simply that he objected to her blossoming friendship with Leon, seeing in it the seeds of other disasters? Whatever his inner feelings, his tone was detached and courteous, and Sylvie wondered if any warm emotion had ever ruffled that cold façade.
‘I will see you tomorrow,’ said Leon, as Sylvie rose from her chair to make her farewells. ‘Goodnight, Sylvie. Sleep well.’
‘I shall.’ Sylvie bent impulsively and kissed his cheek. ‘Until tomorrow, then. I’ll look forward to it. And to meeting Nikos again.’
Andreas took his own leave of his brother, and while Sylvie bid goodbye to his mother and father, he went to speak to Eleni. Unwillingly, Sylvie’s eyes followed his progress as he crossed the room, the lithe, easy stretch of his legs that took him to the Greek girl’s side. There was a curiously tight feeling in her chest as she watched him stop beside Eleni, inclining his head towards her as she looked up into his face, and she didn’t altogether understand her sudden resentment. It was as if she had abruptly become aware that even without Margot’s damning influence on the situation, to Andreas she was little more than the child she had been at his brother’s wedding. It was not incomprehensible, she supposed. He was an older, and much more sophisticated, man. But she wished he would give her the credit for having some maturity, and not behave as if she was an annoying encumbrance he was obliged to take care of.
CHAPTER FOUR
SYLVIE was up early the next morning.
She had slept surprisingly well in the wide comfortable bed, surprisingly, because she had expected the events of the day would prevent her mind from relaxing. But the air, and the food, accomplished what determination could not, and she lost consciousness almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She awakened with a tremendous sense of well-being that was quickly dissipated by the remembrance of why she was here. But she determined not to let Margot’s lingering carelessness spoil what could be a wonderful holiday, and sliding out of bed she went straight to the windows.
Her room overlooked the back of the apartment building, where the gardens surrounding the tall skyscraper block gave on to a small area of parkland. Even at this early hour there were people about, and she could hear the hum of traffic from the busy heart of the city only a few hundred yards away. There were even joggers in the park, a distinct reminder of the parks back home, and a smile curved her lips as she watched them trot by.
There was no sound that anyone in the apartment was up yet, and after ascertaining that it was barely six-thirty, Sylvie wasn’t really surprised. After all, it had been quite late when they returned the night before, and after escorting Sylvie and his sister up to the apartment, Andreas had departed again to take Eleni home. Apparently it had not been to his advantage to make the detour, and take Eleni home in the same way as they had picked her up on the way to his parents’ house. Clearly he intended to have a private conversation with her, and as she and Marina had gone straight to bed, Sylvie did not know what time Andreas had returned.
Turning from the windows, and the rose-tinted beauty of the day just beginning, Sylvie paced restlessly about the bedroom. It was already warm, and although she had left the air-conditioning on in her room all night, she felt no sense of chill in her brief cotton nightshirt. Indeed, she could have done without the elbow-length sleeves it sported, and although there was a low vee in front, her hand probing the neckline encountered moist flesh.
She was dying for a cup of tea. The night before, she had drunk only the glass of champagne and one glass of wine with her dinner, the coffee that was served afterwards proving too thick and strong for her taste. In consequence, she was thirsty, and although there was plenty of water in the tap, even the cold was inclined to be tepid. Tea was what she really fancied, a cup of hot sweet tea, and after another tentative examination of her watch she wondered if she dared go and make herself some. She had a fair idea where the kitchen was, and a kitchen was a kitchen, after all. Anyone could boil a kettle, and surely she would find the tea caddy without too much difficulty.
Opening her bedroom door, she stood for a few moments on the threshold, listening. But the apartment was silent, no one stirred, and gaining a little confidence, she padded along the carpeted hall to the living room.
The blinds could not have been closed the night before, and sunlight flooded the floor with its golden rays. It winked on the bronze lamps, and added colour to the hide sofas, and accentuated that sense of space and colour Sylvie had appreciated the previous afternoon. In the morning light, the columns of the Acropolis looked like the backcloth to some ancient Greek drama, the shafts of sunlight reflected from the marble, like spotlights highlighting an empty stage.
Smiling at the fanciful notions of her imagination, Sylvie dragged herself away from the windows, and padded across the soft rugs to the door through which Madame Kuriakis had appeared the day before. She guessed this was the way to the domestic offices of the apartment, and she was proved right. A short hall gave access to swing doors which led into a large, modern kitchen, and she looked about her admiringly before doing anything else.
It was spacious, like the rest of the apartment, with every kind of electrical convenience. A kind of control panel, set into the wall behind the fitted units, regulated a variety of implements, from food-mixers and blenders to the sophisticated mechanism of the refuse disposal. There were the usual machines for washing and drying dishes, and refrigerating food, as well as a split-level cooker with two ovens and a barbecue spit. It was all very space-age and modern, and Sylvie could imagine her mother’s delighted reaction if she were faced with such an assortment of gadgets.
Shrugging a little bemusedly, Sylvie padded barefoot across the cork tiles. The electric kettle was filled and ready to be turned on, and feeling slightly daring, she pressed the switch.
While the kettle boiled, she examined the contents of the cupboard above the veined marble worktop. Sure enough, there were jars of coffee beans, just waiting to be ground, and several different kinds of tea, from West Ceylon, to some incomprehensible Chinese variety. Sylvie selected the one that looked least expensive, and was spooning some into a silver-plated teapot when the distinct sound of a door closing came to her ears.
Madame Kuriakis, she guessed, not without some apprehension. She doubted now that the housekeeper would appreciate one of her employer’s guests helping herself to tea in the kitchen, and what had seemed a rather exciting adventure became suddenly an invasion of privacy. She stood there, disconsolately, hopelessly embarrassed at her obvious state of undress, her bare legs from the thigh down seeming far more indecent than they had ever done, even in a bikini. How could she explain that she had been longing for a cup of tea? The woman didn’t even speak English! Her only hope was an instinctive understanding of the situation, and she smoothed her unbrushed hair nervously, preparing her mimed excuses.
Th
e kitchen door swung open without preamble, and Sylvie’s mouth went dry. It was not Madame Kuriakis who had caught her helping herself to his hospitality, but Andreas Petronides himself, flushed and unfamiliar, in a dark green track-suit, with a narrow red band running down the arm and leg seams.
Sylvie didn’t know which of them was the most taken aback: she, in the skimpy blue and white striped nightshirt, her face almost as red as the bands of his tracksuit, or Andreas, riveted by the sight of her in his kitchen, when he had obviously expected to see Madame Kuriakis. He had even opened his mouth to speak as he came through the door, but Sylvie’s apologetic face made him catch his words back.
‘Sylvana!’ he said instead, and she knew her name had been torn from him. ‘Theos, what are you doing in here?’
Sylvie sighed, moving her shoulders unhappily. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought no one was up. I was just making myself a cup of tea. I know it’s probably not the done thing, but I was so thirsty!’
Andreas was still holding the swinging door, but now he let it go almost abstractedly. ‘If you had wanted tea, you should have rung for Madame Kuriakis,’ he said, half impatiently, his eyes flicking away from her scarcely-clad figure. ‘Are you in the habit of running about the house half naked, for I should tell you, it is not something you should pursue here.’
Sylvie sighed. ‘I’m not half naked,’ she protested, even though she knew he was right. ‘I—I wear much less than this on the beach, and no one’s ever objected before.’
Andreas’s mouth compressed. ‘Where is Madame Kuriakis?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sylvie shrugged again. ‘She isn’t up yet, I suppose.’ She paused, as the kettle began to boil noisily behind her, and she turned to make the tea. ‘Will you have some tea with me—Andreas? Or do I have to drink alone?’ She forced her tone to remain light, determined not to let him upset her as he had done the day before. ‘Or don’t you drink tea?’