by Ray Connolly
“Don’t you have any work to do?” asked Karen.
“No. Today’s my day off. We’re supposed to get one day a week to ourselves, and if any of the boats are free we can take one.”
“And one is free?”
Sacha grinned. “Now that you come to mention it, I do believe there is one available.”
Karen sat up. Sacha had the charm of a slightly diffident youth. He might have been the best-looking man in the village, but he never showed that he knew it. He was never brash and never tried to make a pass. He was, thought Karen, the most perfect of men to spend the day with. “Just wait until I get some clothes together,” she said.
“I’ll see you down at the marina,” said Sacha. Putting his arm down he helped her to her feet.
“Great.” Karen dashed back to her room. Today could change her life, she thought, and she glowed.
Sacha was waiting for her on board one of the boats. Dressed now in a pale pink cotton sundress, and wearing a yachting cap with a wide brim which she had bought in haste and at great expense from the boutique, she clambered aboard.
“Hold tight, now,” called Sacha as he cast off and pushed the boat out into the makeshift shallow harbor. Then, opening the throttle, gently at first and then wider, he steered the boat away from the wooden dock. Above them, on a terrace, Karen saw two couples she recognized as the Arrowsmiths and the Roegs sipping lunchtime cocktails and watching their departure. They didn’t appear to be having a very happy vacation, she thought.
As the boat picked up speed and began to skim across the harbor, Karen idly allowed her hand to trail in the water. But although the sun was hot the January sea definitely was not, and she withdrew her hand after a moment. In the back seat of the boat was a Club Village picnic hamper.
“May I look and see what’s for lunch?” asked Karen.
Sacha shook his head playfully. “It’s a surprise,” he said.
“Good. I like surprises,” said Karen. She looked at a copy of the Yachtsman’s Guide to the Bahamas, which was lying open alongside her on the front seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“I thought we’d take a look at a group of islands called Dutch Cays,” Sacha replied. “They’re sort of wild and beautiful, more like the islands you get farther south. No one lives there now. Sometimes I think I’d like to live there one day. A nice quiet place of my own, where no one could bother me.”
Karen watched him as the boat bounced across the ocean waves. His eyes were focused on the far horizon, as though he were looking for something. Despite the tan, his features were soft and gentle, and wispy layers of fair hair fell across his forehead. For the first time in ages, she felt the heat of desire.
The island Sacha had chosen for their picnic was wild and more verdant than Elixir, and the flowers were more tropical, but swamps lined much of the coast, and barriers of coral reef formed a natural hazard around the strip of beach toward which Sacha steered the boat.
“I can tell you’ve been here before,” she remarked, admiring the skill with which he rounded the rocks.
“It’s one of my favorite places. Just look at the angelfish underneath us. There’s every color in the world down there.”
Karen peered through the glass window bottom of the boat and watched the darting shoals as Sacha gently steered the boat around the hazards and in toward the beach. As they entered the shallower turquoise beach waters Sacha put the boat into neutral and, jumping into the sea, towed the craft along the beach until he found a convenient root to which it might be tethered. Then, together, the two of them waded ashore, hauling the hamper between them, Karen’s sun dress tucked demurely into her bikini bottom.
Lunch was an almost sedate affair of terrine de volaille, cold bass with Dumas sauce, salad, crystallized fruit mousse, Camembert cheese, and fresh fruit. It had been a long, hot journey to the island, and the two ate with relish and urgency, sitting on a rug.
“This is like a scene from a movie,” said Karen as she sucked on a cherry, savoring the juice. She had drunk quite a lot of wine and was feeling definitely romantic.
“Which movie would that be?” asked Sacha. He was now lying back in the sun, wearing only the briefest of swimming shorts. He had a lithe, golden, muscular body, surprisingly sinewy considering his delicate features.
“Which movie? Oh, I don’t know. What about a modern-day version of From Here To Eternity … the one with Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster. Did you ever see that one?”
Sacha nodded. “I think I must have seen it about ten times on television.”
“Well, the only part I remember is where the two of them are rolling in the surf at night.”
“I guess that was pretty heavy stuff in those days,” said Sacha, looking toward the surf, which was breaking along the beach, causing their boat to swing to and fro on its rope.
“I guess so,” said Karen. “God, I’m hot. What do you say we go for a swim?”
“You swim, I’ll watch,” said Sacha. “Don’t go too far out, though. I’m terrified of sharks and I’m a terrible lifesaver.”
Pulling off her sundress, Karen scampered away down the beach to the edge of the water. Sacha watched her silently. Choosing her footing carefully, she waded in until she was thigh deep, before throwing herself under an approaching breaker. Squealing with shock, cold, and exhilaration all rolled into one, she swam a few strokes and then, turning, dashed back up the beach to the warmth of the huge Club Village towel that Sacha was holding ready for her.
“God. It looks inviting, but it’s so cold,” she cried, shivering and giggling in the warmth of the towel. She could now feel her body against the warmth of Sacha’s skin and was both comforted and aroused.
“Stand still while I dry you,” he said. Very methodically, he began to rub her gently all over, from the head downward until, kneeling before her, he eased her legs open and rubbed the insides of her thighs.
“That’s wonderful,” she said.
Sacha stayed at her feet, his hands resting gently on her thighs. The towel fell onto the rug. Slowly Karen sank to her knees, facing him. She put an arm out and ran her fingers along his shoulder. He didn’t smile or attempt to grab her. She liked that. Most guys would have been on top of her by now, with one hand down the front of her bikini. It was nice to meet a man who was bashful, particularly a man as gorgeous as this one. She bent forward and kissed his mouth and he responded with a slight gasp of surprise. But he made no move toward her. This was becoming puzzling. When a man took a girl to a remote spot, gave her a splendid, sumptuous picnic, got happily drunk with her, and then made what she interpreted as a delicately sensuous pass, it was odd for him to be so slow in following up.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like me anymore?” asked Karen, leaning forward again and tantalizingly pushing the tip of her tongue along his half-opened lips.
Sacha just stared at her, a hopeless, sad stare.
Why didn’t he say something? Surely, he couldn’t be that shy. She ran her hand down his chest, stroking his chest before allowing her hand to fall across his stomach. He flinched, but still he made no move toward her.
She took her hand away, crimson with embarrassment. She must certainly have mistaken his intentions!
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, turning her head away. “I think perhaps I drank too much.”
Sacha still stared at her. His face was setting into a remote, far-off expression. Suddenly Karen felt cold. There was no longer any of the warmth which had so attracted her to him. She turned and reached for her sundress, but he caught her hand and stopped her.
“Take off your swimsuit, Karen,” he said softly.
“What?” Karen hesitated. Five minutes earlier, such an invitation would have met with an instant acquiescence, but the moment had gone.
“Come on … be a sport,” said Sacha. Slowly, a shy smile spread across his face. His hands moved upward from her thighs to her waist, caressing her as they went.
“I don’t understand you,” said Karen.<
br />
“What is there to understand?” asked Sacha, his fingers now exploring the insides of her bikini. Very carefully he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek, moving her head until his lips found her mouth. For a long moment he held her like that, a moment in which Karen’s confusions and doubts evaporated. Then, with great tenderness, he very carefully unfastened her bra strap, until the top fell away. Pushing his face down, his mouth found her breasts and he sank his face into them. At the same time he moved his fingers down her body to free her legs of the bottom half of her swimsuit.
Very slowly, Karen tumbled onto her back, pulling Sacha on top of her, their mouths still together, her legs now entwined around his. Her hands began to work at his shorts, pulling at him impatiently until her hands cupped his genitals.
Only then did she realize her mistake. There was no excitement in his body. Try as she may, the beautiful, perfectly formed Sacha remained totally unaroused.
“Is it me, Sacha?” Karen asked quietly.
Sacha didn’t speak. Slowly she withdrew her hand. Sacha rolled off her onto the rug.
“I’m sorry, Sacha,” she said. “I guess you don’t like forward girls. I didn’t think what I was doing.”
She began to reach for her clothes.
“No.” Sacha stopped her. “I want to look at you,” he said, holding her down with one strong arm pinned to her shoulder.
She wriggled to free herself from his grip, but he would not allow it. For several seconds he stared at her body, allowing his eyes to wander across her breasts and stomach and thighs as though enchanted by the sight of her.
“I’m sorry I upset you. I thought you liked me?” whispered Karen.
“I like you very much, Karen. You have a beautiful body,” he said, his voice soft and teasing.
“Can we go back now, Sacha? I think it’s getting late, and it’s a long way home.” She was hurt, and she wanted to be away from him.
The journey back to Elixir was an eternity to Karen. The changes of mood that Sacha had displayed on the island had made her feel utterly rejected.
At last they reached the dock. Just as Karen was about to jump ashore, Sacha’s hand went to her shoulder. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he said. “Please don’t.”
“No, never.” Karen answered.
“I knew I could trust you, Karen,” he murmured quietly, with a warm smile. He brushed her cheek with a kiss and released her.
Karen clambered onto the floating planks of the wooden dock and hurried back toward the village.
That, she vowed, would be the last time she ever went for a boat ride with a young Adonis.
Forty-Six
Hardin’s invitation to supper forced Cassandra to make a drastic reassessment of her presence in Club Village. She had now spent a week in Elixir, and with every day that had passed, with the ever-increasing deepening of her tan, the original reason for her trip had receded from her mind. During the first few days she had half expected to receive endless cryptic Telex messages from the London office of Night and Day giving further details of the way in which she should angle her story. But when these had not materialized, the general vacational ambience of Elixir had overtaken her, and every day had become less a matter of sleuthing her story than simply keeping up with the constant source of grownup amusements provided by the club.
Now the invitation from Hardin was placing her firmly on the spot. There was little doubt in her mind that before the evening was out he would make a heavy pass at her, and there was equally no question in her mind that such a pass would be welcome. At the same time, was it fair to any man to allow him to wine, dine, and woo her without admitting the real purpose of her visit? She already had quite a little mental dossier on the way Elixir operated, of the sexy picnics, the dope problems, the exorbitant boutique prices, the bar rip off with the shell money, and the dangers of being a CV, and she was certain she was going to write all of it. That was her job.
All of these thoughts crossed her mind as she prepared for her dinner à deux in Hardin’s bungalow. She was by now extremely tanned, but concerned to discover a couple of small sun blisters on her shoulders, into which she rubbed Nivea Cream. For most of the week she had worn only the bottom half of the bikinis she had bought from Lucienne Phillips in Knightsbridge before dashing off on her assignment, and she now viewed her long, dark body with extreme satisfaction.
It is a matter of universal fact that no matter how attractive a woman or a man might be, the possibility of a new encounter urges her or him to painstaking efforts.
She decided on a pale green cotton dress she had bought at Harrod’s Way In department. With her hair newly washed, and the week’s sunshine seeming to glow from her new streaks, she looked about as good as she had in years.
Thus prepared, Cassandra made her way from her room, down the steps, across the village, and up the grassy knoll to Hardin’s bungalow. It was situated on a slight rise so that it overlooked both the village and the beach.
Hardin was waiting for her, sitting in a rocking chair on the veranda as she made her way up the short pathway through the trees. He smiled as she approached and came down the short flight of steps to greet her.
“Later in the year I believe we could have had dinner outside, but in January it gets a little chilly, so I’ve had the staff lay the table inside,” he said, leading the way past his rocking chair and through the screen door into the house.
The living room was large and airy. Against one wall was a large stone fireplace in which some pine logs sparked and crackled, while in the center of the room was a heavy oak dinner table, with two candles burning and laid for two. Low, imitation copper lanterns threw a warm glow over the varnished strip wooden floorboards, and the sparse collection of furnishings, a heavy mahogany chesterfield, a couple of Mexican rugs, two easy chairs, and a sideboard. On the varnished wooden walls hung a random collection of unexceptional prints.
“I asked for dinner to be served at about nine,” said Hardin. “I thought we might have a drink before then.”
Cassandra smiled and sat down on one end of the chesterfield. “That would be nice. As I’m in the islands, I feel I ought to have something with rum … what about one of those cocktails that were served the other night?”
Hardin nodded and began to prepare a drink from a tray laid out with an assortment of bottles, fruits, and glasses. “This time we’ll put a little more rum in it,” he said. “When you have to serve over five hundred people you instruct the staff to go very easy on the measures. That’s why you can drink so many without getting drunk.”
He finished mixing a couple of drinks and then turned to her. “Well, what do you think of my home?” he asked as he passed her drink to her.
“It looks extremely cozy,” said Cassandra. “The perfect home for a bachelor, I would have thought. But I thought you told me you had hardly any belongings. What about all the prints and rugs?”
“They all come with the job,” Hardin explained. “I inherited them from Dick Pagett.”
“The man who drowned,” said Cassandra.
“That’s right,” said Hardin. There was a moment’s silence as he considered the fruit in his glass, and then suddenly asked, “Tell me, why didn’t you want me to know that you were a journalist on a working vacation?”
Cassandra swallowed slowly. She was about to reply, but he beat her to it.
“I asked the head office in the Bourse to check you out in London. You seemed to be asking an awful lot of questions for someone on vacation.”
“And are you cross?” asked Cassandra.
“Not at all. I’m amused. Did you think that we would try to hide things from you, or that we would want you to say only nice things about Club Village?”
“It has been known,” replied Cassandra. “Is that why you asked me to dinner … to tell me all the good things about Club Village?”
Hardin poked the fire before answering. “I work for Club Village, Cassandra. They pay me reasonab
ly well, and I have a reasonably pleasant life. For that, I work very hard to make sure that the village I’m in charge of works to the satisfaction of the guests. But my loyalty is not to Club Village. You can’t be loyal to a corporation four thousand miles away. We have a business arrangement. I do my best for them, and they treat me accordingly.
“But the people who really matter to me are the people who pay their money and come down here for a couple of weeks in the sunshine. If there is a Club Village spirit, then it belongs to those people, because they are the only reason any of us is here. Now I know, I can see in your eyes, that you think this is so much garbage, but it happens to be true. I have no ambitions in Club Village other than cleaning up this place and making it work as efficiently as possible, which means giving the paying customers a good time. So if you want to write a piece condemning what goes on here, then just go ahead. I won’t mind, I promise you. But at the same time, remember to add that an awful lot of people have good vacations, don’t go to sex orgies, and don’t get mixed up with dope.”
“You make me feel almost guilty,” said Cassandra.
“Don’t be silly. Do your job,” said Hardin. “That’s what they pay you for. If you want to know anything, just ask; I’ll tell you.”
“Even if that means leaving yourself open to all kinds of criticisms?”
“Whatever it may mean. It seems to me that too many people think only about what is good for the company. The company can go out the window, I say. When I die and go up to heaven and tip my hat to St. Peter at the pearly gates, God isn’t going to ask me what I did for Club Village. He’s going to want to know what I did for my fellow man, and how I can justify having spent most of my life playing games.”
“How will you justify that?” laughed Cassandra.
“Oh, I guess I’ll just drop your name and hope they’ll be so impressed they’ll give me a free ticket to everlasting happiness.”
“I wouldn’t count on my name.”
“I don’t count on anything. Drink up and I’ll get you another.”
“I’ll be drunk.”