by Sara Craven
But when she’d suggested, stumbling a little, that he could not be comfortable, and there were surely—other rooms, knowing she was waiting with bated breath for his reply, he’d merely raised a cynical eyebrow.
‘A small sacrifice in the cause of our supposed marital unity,’ he’d drawled. ‘And it will not be for ever.’
No, she’d thought, as she turned away. Nothing was. And that was her only comfort.
She picked up her watch from the table beside her lounger, and fastened it on her wrist, then collected the rest of her things together in her pretty raffia shoulder bag.
It was time she went indoors to get ready for the weekly ordeal of lunch with her father-in-law.
And what would be on today’s menu? she wondered wryly, as she climbed the flight of shallow steps back to the garden. Her apparent inability to learn more than a few simple words in Greek was always a popular choice, as was her reluctance to mix with the other wives of wealthy men who lived around the peninsula. To join them for lunch, or coffee and sweet, sticky, pastries and admire their material possessions, and, where her own age group was concerned, their babies.
She bit her lip, knowing she was being unfair. That several of the younger women spoke good English, and that there were friendships to be made if she met them even halfway.
But shyness, and the constant awareness that her marriage existed on borrowed time, and she would soon be gone, held her back.
However, Constantine Zandros would probably opt for the latest bone of contention—the fact that she’d adamantly refused a party, complete with dancing, whole lambs roasted on spits, and guests invited from miles around, to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday in a few days’ time.
He had made his displeasure clear, and it had taken Roan’s intervention, insisting coolly and firmly that his wife’s wishes must be respected, for the matter to be closed.
If indeed it was. Constantine Zandros was not a man to readily accept defeat, she thought, biting her lip. And Roan was not around to defend her, having spent the past forty-eight hours in the Greek capital.
Showered and changed, she studied her reflection. Her dark green shift was modestly elegant, and complemented by her matching high-heeled sandals. Her lashes wore a coating of mascara, and her mouth was painted a soft coral, echoed in the polish on her toe and fingernails.
The image of a successful wife, she thought with irony, glancing across at the closed door which led to the dressing room, remembering how, for the first week, she’d lain awake at night, convinced that it would eventually open, and that Roan would come to her.
Do you know how many days and nights I waited, matia mou …?
His words haunted her, because now she’d experienced for herself the torment of waiting. Of feeling hope drift away.
Yet the increasing number of nights he spent away from home were even worse, because then she hardly slept at all, staring into the warm darkness, and weeping inside as she wondered if he was alone.
Wishing she’d had the courage back in London to tell him that she wanted him—that she needed him like the sun that warmed her and the breath that filled her lungs.
But she hadn’t done so, she thought, picking up her broad-brimmed hat and her bag. Nor would she. Because their lives were set on completely different paths, and nothing could change that. Certainly nothing as ephemeral as physical desire, anyway.
Her car was waiting outside, the sleek, dark red, open-topped beauty that had suddenly appeared a couple of days after her arrival.
‘My penance,’ Roan had told her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘And your independence. Something that you will not refuse, I think.’
And had walked away while she’d tried to stammer her astonished gratitude, amazed that he’d known she even possessed a licence.
She’d been glad of it too, because it had enabled her to get away from the villa, and explore more of the peninsula. To visit churches, and wander round markets. To sit and drink coffee under faded awnings in small village squares, watching the local men playing endless games of backgammon, their fingers moving like lightning over the boards.
On a more practical level, the car spared her an otherwise lengthy walk to the Villa Dionysius, although she was sure a chauffeur-driven limousine would have been sent for her had she demurred even slightly.
My every wish granted, she thought with irony, except those that really matter.
Constantine Zandros was waiting for her on the broad terrace overlooking the sea, at a table set as usual in a vine-shaded pergola. His greeting was polite, but his gaze was critical as he handed her a glass of chilled wine.
‘You have lost weight,’ he commented. ‘Do you not care for the food that your kitchen provides, or is it possible you are fretting over my son’s constant absences?’ he added with a cold smile.
Well, she hadn’t seen that coming, Harriet thought, leaning back in her chair, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass.
‘Roan takes his responsibilities very seriously,’ she returned levelly. ‘As you must be aware. I can hardly object to that. And Takis is a wonderful chef. Last night he served the most fabulous curry.’
He snorted. ‘He should make you good Greek food—put flesh on your bones.’
He waited while two uniformed maids handed bread, then served the first course of peppers filled with a delicious mixture of minced, spiced meat and rice.
When they were alone, he went on, ‘I had hoped that after his time in England I would now see more of my son, especially with a new wife to keep him at home. But I have been disappointed. As he is also, I think.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps if his bed was warmer, he would return more often,’ he added significantly.
Harriet’s fork clattered on to her plate. She met his impassive gaze, her face burning. ‘What are you talking about? You know nothing…’
‘But servants know everything,’ he said. ‘Also they gossip, and they say that you sleep alone. Is it true?’
She said chokingly, ‘You have no right to ask such things…’
‘No right to discuss the happiness of my only child?’ he asked coldly. ‘You are mistaken. Perhaps in your England it is not done to talk of such matters, but you are in my country now, and it is time that you recognised your duties as a wife. Time that you gave my son pleasure at night—and the promise of children. The things a man wants from his marriage.
‘Because I tell you, girl, that if you continue to deny him, he will find consolation with someone else.’
He paused. ‘So what is it with you? Are you still aggrieved over a foolish trick played by some slut from his past? Or do you not find him attractive?’
It wasn’t easy to rally your defences when you were furiously angry, and blushing all over as well, but Harriet managed it.
She said curtly, ‘Perhaps the boot’s on the other foot, Kyrios Zandros. Maybe Roan no longer—wants me.’
‘Then do something about it,’ he said. ‘After all, you are a woman, if thin. And a man has needs.’ He gave her a cynical look. ‘He does not have to be romantically in love in order to satisfy them. Or to satisfy the girl he takes.’
He uttered another snort. ‘Pyjamas,’ he added contemptuously.
Harriet pushed back her chair. She said tautly, ‘I won’t listen to any more of this.’
‘Stay where you are. I have not much more to say.’ He leaned forward, his gaze piercing her. ‘I do not speak lightly, my girl. I too married an anglithka who did not want me, and she broke my heart. Do you imagine I wish to see my son suffer in the same way?’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘No and—no!’ He took a deep breath, and drank some wine. ‘Now, eat your food, and we will talk of other things. I heard today that your grandfather comes for your birthday.’
And that, Harriet thought almost faintly, is what they call a volte face. Making it impossible for her to tell him to go to hell and walk out. As he probably knew.
‘That’s wonderful news.’ She forced herself to pick up he
r fork. Her voice sounded like broken glass. ‘How did you persuade him to leave his beloved garden?’
‘The garden?’ The heavy brows rose. ‘I thought it was the house—this Gracemead—that was so much to be desired.’
‘Of course,’ she said, wondering what Roan had been telling him. ‘And the grounds—his flowers—are all part of that.’
‘But they cannot mean more to him than you, the child of his blood. Therefore he will be here for your birthday. I have invited him to stay with me, and in the evening I shall give a dinner—ask our friends to meet him.’ He paused. ‘You cannot object to that, I hope?’
No, she thought, mentally gritting her teeth. I can’t, you self-willed monster.
Aloud, she said expressionlessly, ‘It will be delightful. Thank you.’
‘You wish to show me gratitude, pedhi mou?’ He smiled at her blandly. ‘Then give me grandchildren.’
Always the last word, Harriet thought, seething, as she made herself resume eating. She picked at the lamb cutlets and green beans served as the next course, and chose a nectarine from the fresh fruit offered as dessert.
While they were drinking the thick, sweet Greek coffee which completed the meal, they heard the sound of an approaching helicopter and saw it swing in over the other headland, and descend.
‘Ah, your husband returns,’ Constantine Zandros commented with satisfaction. ‘And you will be eager to welcome him home, I am sure, as a wife should. So do not let me detain you, daughter.’
Mute with rage, she left, swinging her car recklessly out of the gate. Fifty yards on, she braked, pulling over to the verge while she fought to regain her composure. Finding instead that she was going over the entire confrontation in her mind. Determining at the same time that it would be the first and last time he spoke to her in that way.
She resumed her short journey, driving with exaggerated care. She didn’t want an accident before she’d given Roan a piece of her mind about his father’s behaviour, and made it clear she wouldn’t stand for it.
She left the car at the door, and marched in, heading for the master suite, but found only Toula there, unpacking his case in the dressing room.
‘Oh.’ Harriet checked. ‘I—I was looking for Kyrios Roan.’
‘He was here, kyria, but now he has gone out again.’ Toula sounded reproachful. ‘I think to the place where he paints.’
My studio in the village…
Harriet hesitated. ‘Can you tell me how to find it, perhaps?’
‘Of course, kyria.’ Toula sounded surprised, as if she’d expected her young mistress to know already. ‘It is near the harbour, on the upper floor of the house next to the Taverna Ariadne.’ She hesitated. ‘But he does not like to be disturbed there.’
An unwanted image of Ianthe Dimitriou rose in Harriet’s mind.
‘Sometimes he doesn’t object,’ she returned shortly, and went back to the car.
She found the place without difficulty. The ground floor of the house was being used as a pottery, although there was no one working there at present, and a flight of white stone stairs on the outside of the building led up to a shabby blue door.
She sat outside for a few moments, staring up at it as she marshaled her thoughts, deciding that to storm in, guns blazing, might not be the best policy after all. That a more reasoned approach might serve her better.
Accordingly, she went up the steps without hurrying, and tapped lightly on the door, dislodging a few more flakes of peeling paint in the process.
It was flung open at once, and Roan confronted her.
‘Harriet?’ His brows snapped together. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’
‘Toula told me where you’d gone.’ She hesitated. ‘If this means that you’re painting again, I’m glad.’
‘And I am naturally honoured to please you.’ His tone was ironic. ‘Did you drive down here merely to encourage my endeavours, or is there some other reason?’
‘I—needed to talk to you—away from the house, but if I’m interrupting something important…’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Come in. I am simply clearing up a little after my long absence. Preparing to start again.’
He stood aside, and Harriet went in, breathing the familiar scents of wood, canvas and oils. There was little furniture—a trestle table at one side holding palettes and brushes, together with a bottle of ouzo and a glass, a couple of wooden chairs, and a battered couch like a chaise longue pushed against another wall. It was upholstered in cracked green leather, but in Ianthe’s portrait it had been covered by a crimson velvet throw, Harriet remembered, trying not to look at it too closely.
‘So,’ Roan said. ‘What can I do for you?’
She took a breath. ‘I had lunch with your father today.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And he told you that your grandfather was expected here. So you wish to make sure the actor knows his lines.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Don’t worry, Harriet mou. By the time Kyrios Flint joins us, I shall be word-perfect again.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It—it’s not that.’ She looked down at the dusty floor. ‘He insisted on talking to me about us—about our marriage. It seems he’s heard about our—our sleeping arrangements.’
Roan shrugged. ‘What did you expect? Your habit of rumpling the other pillow each morning would not deceive a fly. And my father is a great believer in frankness.’
She flushed. ‘Obviously. But he was quite impossible. My God, he practically told me to go home—and get on my back.’
‘My poor Harriet, how unnerving for you.’ Roan did not bother to hide his amusement. ‘And how old-fashioned of him,’ he added silkily. ‘Perhaps you should have fought back. Told him there were other positions you preferred.’
For a moment, his dark eyes held a disturbingly reminiscent gleam, and Harriet looked hurriedly away. She said breathlessly, ‘Well, I’d prefer to avoid any further distasteful conversations.’ She took a breath. ‘I hope you’ll explain this to him. ‘
‘And say what?’ Roan enquired sardonically. ‘The truth—that, apart from a few hours that are best forgotten, our marriage has been a total invention? Or shall I confess that our estrangement is my own doing, because I have come to prefer the charms of some girl in Athens?’
‘And have you?’ The words had escaped before she could stop them.
He shrugged. ‘Why should you care?’ He paused. ‘But you are right—he should not have talked to you in such a way, and I will make that clear to him. Yet before you condemn him, please understand he spoke only from concern for me. And because of the pain my mother caused him all those years ago, which he still feels.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He mentioned—something about that. He said she broke his heart.’
‘And he broke hers,’ Roan said quietly. ‘It was love at first sight for them both, but he expected her to be content to be nothing but his wife, and the mother of his children. But she was at the start of her career when they met, and she needed to paint as she needed air to breathe.
‘She began to feel stifled, desperate, because she could not make him understand that she wanted more than domesticity and his money to spend, and in return he became hurt, then angry. Blamed her painting as the cause of their problems, and demanded she give it up.
‘He would not compromise, and in the end there was such bitterness, so many quarrels, that she left him, taking me, his three-year-old son, with her to England.’
He walked over to the table, poured some ouzo into the glass, and offered it to her. When she declined it mutely, he tossed it down his throat, and poured some more, his face brooding.
‘He was convinced she would soon realise they could not live apart from each other and go back to him,’ he went on. ‘Finally, he became impatient and tried to compel her return through me—by beginning a legal battle for custody, thinking this would force her hand.’
He sighed. ‘After that, there was no hope of reconciliation. Just two people, who were once passionat
ely in love, tearing each other to pieces through the courts. As a result, I hardly saw my father—he lost his temper and made some stupid threat to kidnap me—and when I did, it was always in England and under supervision.
‘But I was allowed to write to him, and he to me, and in that way we came to know each other. And eventually, after some years, I was permitted to come to Greece and spend time with him.’
He drank some more ouzo. ‘But always—always he asked about her. Was she well? Was she happy? Did I have photographs? And when she died, he mourned for her as if there had been no separation.’
He added almost wearily, ‘He thought he could only show his love by keeping her close—making her share his dream instead of following her own. He has never understood that sometimes real love requires one to let the beloved go. Probably he never will.’
She said, ‘That is—so sad.’
‘But then the world can be a sad place.’ He set down his empty glass. ‘Now, have you anything further to discuss, or may I continue clearing up?’
She realised she was being dismissed, but she lingered. ‘I—I could help.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But no.’ His ironic smile seemed to graze her skin. ‘I can manage alone.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet said quietly. ‘We can both do that.’ She went past him, out into the dazzle of the harsh sunlight, and realised that she was shivering suddenly, as if she would never be warm again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
S O, THIS was it, thought Harriet. The day that had been haunting her for months, turning her life upside down in the process, had finally arrived. Her twenty-fifth birthday.
And, so far, it seemed to be running true to form—an emotional rollercoaster ride, with no chance to jump free.
Beginning first thing that morning, when Roan, a towel draped round his hips, had walked out of their shared bathroom, totally without warning, and slid into bed beside her only heart-thudding seconds before Toula had knocked at the door with Harriet’s tea.