‘How would you know?’
‘My sister Colleen had one of those sex parties once. As well as sex aids, whips and naughty undies, they had loads of weird smelling candles.’
‘Then, you’re probably right,’ Sophie teased, ‘Lottie and Pearl usually have a few friends round on a Friday night.’
There was a resounding ‘Oh!’ as Callie turned and looked behind her. ‘You mean the two old pro—?’
Sophie swiftly clamped her hand across Callie’s mouth with a whispered, ‘Shhh. Don’t you dare say that! Contrary to popular belief Lottie and Pearl are not … In fact they’re really rather sweet. I’ve got to know them quite well since the Rosa incident.’
Attempting to dislodge Sophie’s hand, Callie squeaked. ‘Oh, yeah. So what about their friends?’
‘Their friends are perfect gentlemen, they seem to spend most of their time reminiscing about the war and listening to Glenn Miller records.’
‘Blimey! Just how old are Lottie and Pearl?’
Sophie did some quick mental arithmetic, ‘About sixty, I guess.’
‘Sixty! You’re having me on! Surely if war broke out in 1939 they couldn’t have gone on the game when they were only—’
Laughing, Sophie shook her head, ‘Callie! What am I going to do with you? Lottie and Pearl are not on the game but Lottie’s dad was in the RAF.’
Callie shrugged her shoulders, it still didn’t make sense. Anyway did it matter? All that mattered now was that Sophie got to Heathrow in time to meet Carlos. ‘Heh! I’ve just had a really wicked thought,’ she giggled, when they drew up outside the Nag’s Head. ‘If old cousin Carlos gets bored while he’s over here, you could always send him round to see Lottie and Pearl!’
‘Heaven forbid!’ Sophie cried in alarm, ‘I hadn’t thought of him coming to the flat. You don’t think he will – do you?’
‘Course not. Rosa will be whisked off to London for tea at the Ritz and dinner at the Savoy! Who knows, you might even get taken along too.’
‘I doubt it,’ Sophie said, pulling away from the kerb. ‘Don’t forget I’m working all weekend.’
Edging the mini towards the M25, Sophie hit five solid queues of Friday night traffic filtering into three. She should have realised. At this rate it would take simply ages to get to Heathrow. Leaning forward she switched on the radio, both for company and the latest travel bulletins.
‘And that was Diana Ross, singing, I'm Still Waiting,’ came a friendly, mellow voice.
Sophie drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. She was still waiting in this wretched traffic! Listening to the DJ announce that he would be on air until ten o’clock, Sophie settled back in the driver’s seat. Carlos’s flight was due in at 9.45, which should mean perfect timing. Accompanied on her journey by such a deeply soothing voice, Sophie felt very much reassured. By the time she reached Terminal Two, Carlos should be reclaiming his baggage and heading for arrivals.
‘And this is Mark signing off and wishing you all a very good night. Take care and have a great weekend.’
‘No!’ Sophie pleaded, peering first at the radio and then the clock on the dashboard. It was indeed ten o’clock already. ‘You can't go yet, Mark! I’m not even near the terminal!’
Frantically scanning lanes of snaking vehicles, Sophie saw a gap in the traffic. If she could only squeeze through and avoid the next hold up?
Here goes, Poppy, she thought, willing encouragement to the bright red Mini. You might not be in the first flush of youth, my dear, but please don’t have a mid-life crisis now! Spurred on it would appear by Sophie’s beseeching cries, the ageing Poppy spluttered and coughed into life, nosing her way in the direction of the familiar Heathrow tunnel.
Marginally comforted when the sign for the short stay car park came into view, Sophie breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now all she had to do was find Carlos Martins.
‘All I have to do!’ The words echoed in stereo within the confines of the car, filling Sophie with renewed panic. What if she’d already missed him and why hadn’t she taken more notice of Rosa’s family photos?
Knowing full well it was because Rosa always insisted on showing her these photos when she’d either just come in from work exhausted or was just about to leave for Beckford General, Sophie became aware of agitated tooting. Someone had their hand jammed firmly on a car horn. With a jolt she realised they were gesticulating wildly in her direction from an open window.
‘Take your bloody ticket will you!’
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, knowing it would do no good. The driver behind couldn’t hear, nor did he look the type who’d be in the least bit sympathetic.
Hearing a squeal of tyres as a car sped past, its driver shouting obscenities, Sophie negotiated an empty parking bay near the footbridge.
Locking the car, she nodded approval. If Carlos did have loads of luggage, at least he wouldn’t have far to walk. Now, what was it Callie had said? Tall, dark and distinguished, greying at the temples, and with a flashing smile, that shouldn’t be too difficult – should it?
How wrong she was! Coming towards her was a sea of tall, dark, fiftyish-looking men. OK, not many of them fell into the distinguished looking category that Callie had described, and flashing smiles were also sadly lacking. And they’re all far too pale, she told herself, hurrying past Boots (somewhere she’d have liked to stop – she felt a headache coming on), besides, none of them could possibly be Carlos. Surely he’d still be at baggage reclaim?
To Sophie’s acute dismay, all arrival screens registered the same information. Flight TP454 due in at 21.45 had not only landed, it had also come in ahead of schedule. Baggage in hall, the screen flashed and by the rows of assorted numbers now clicking merrily away beneath the Lisbon flight, she could only assume Carlos and his luggage had not only been "in hall" already, they’d also left it some considerable time since!
‘Oh Lord!’ she said, feeling her mouth suddenly go dry. Perhaps Callie was right? She should have brought an idiot board. Frantically searching her handbag for pen and paper, she discovered nothing bigger than a used envelope and a till receipt. And a complete idiot she’d look waving her Sainsbury’s bill with the name Carlos Martins scrawled across it! Oh, Rosa!
Looking behind her Sophie spotted an information desk. She also caught sight of a kiosk. Fumbling in her purse she bought some Polos and popped one in her mouth. It was now time to take stock of a very desperate situation. OK, Sophie Fuller, a voice urged in her head. If you were Carlos what would you be doing now? You’ve got your luggage; you’ve come through arrivals; there’s no sign of Rosa anywhere, Where would you go?
‘Would the person meeting … kindly make their way to the information desk.’
Her heart soared. The person they were paging wasn’t Carlos Martins but it was certainly worth a try, especially as she discerned a trio of dark-suited businessmen leaning against the counter. One in particular caught her eye. Tall, tanned, reasonably good looking and fiftyish, he certainly fitted the bill. He was also smiling in Sophie’s direction.
Convinced this had to be Carlos she found herself grinning back like the proverbial Cheshire Cat. Neither she nor Callie had expected Carlos to be wearing a hat. Least of all like the one Humphrey Bogart had worn in the film Casablanca. Her nerves momentarily getting the better of her, Sophie could only think of one thing – Ingrid Bergman and that song. Seconds later, reminding herself this was hardly the time or the place to start singing, she concluded there was only one option.
‘Carlos ... Carlos Martins?’ she ventured, and was met with a beaming smile, when the hat was raised to reveal a head of black, wavy hair, flecked with exquisite silver at the temples.
‘How I wish I was senhora.’ Flashing white teeth grinned at her, while mischievous, brown eyes took in the blue and white uniform beneath her unfastened jacket. ‘Especially if it meant you were to be my nurse.’
‘Oh!’ Sophie blushed. ‘I was looking for Rosa’s cousin. I thought you were—’ Turning, sh
e clasped her hand to her mouth in embarrassment, only to find someone eyeing her intently, his fingers slowly folding over the keypad on a sleek mobile phone. Equally sleek and polished was the way he was dressed and this gorgeous hunk of man was heading straight towards her. Sadly, Sophie noticed to her chagrin that –unlike the reincarnated Humphrey Bogart – he was not smiling at all.
‘Excuse me. Did I hear you say "Rosa's cousin?" If so – and the Rosa in question is Rosa Ramirez, then I am her cousin Carlos.’
‘You! But Rosa said—’ Sophie stopped short. How could she say, Rosa told me you were old? Because quite clearly this cousin Carlos, hovering impatiently in front of her, most definitely wasn’t! He could only be in his mid-thirties!
‘Where is Rosa?’ Carlos demanded, his tanned, anxious face scanning the crowds, searching for his cousin.
‘I’m afraid she couldn’t make it. Celia – Miss Sheffield – has taken the group to the theatre. Rosa rang and asked me to meet you. I’m sorry I was late. You see I wasn’t contacted until the very last minute and then the traffic—’
From where he stood towering above her, Carlos eyed the flustered young woman in what appeared to be a blue and white overall, nervously glancing at her watch. It had been years since he’d last visited Beckford. Things were obviously looking up for Celia Sheffield.
‘Then you must be Miss Sheffield’s maid? How do you do?’
Maid? Maid! Sophie felt her blood boil. She knew, following the harrowing journey to Heathrow that she didn’t exactly look her best, but to be thought of as Celia’s maid!
‘No, I am not Miss Sheffield’s maid!’ she replied, fixing him with flashing, hazel eyes. ‘I’m Sophie Fuller and if you’re ready to leave Mr Martins, perhaps you’d care to follow me?’
Chapter 4
When Sophie strode away Carlos had little choice but to follow. One look at the amber sparks glinting in her eyes told him he’d offended her. Quite how, he couldn’t fathom but, she hurried along in silence, deftly weaving her way through the departing throng. Only once did she turn to see if he was still there. By the time they reached the footbridge and thanks to his long strides, Carlos was already by her side.
‘Here we are,’ she said, inserting her key into the lock of a less than tidy boot. ‘If you’d like to put your luggage—’ Luggage! She’d been so furious with him for suggesting that she was Celia’s maid, she’d forgotten all about his luggage. Carlos hadn’t been pushing a trolley – had he? She’d not given him chance to find one!
‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to put this across the back seat,’ he announced, coolly polite, his gaze taking in Poppy’s dilapidated appearance.
‘This’ Sophie discovered was an exquisite suit carrier complete with designer logo and co-ordinating brief case. How very appropriate, she mused, leaving Carlos struggling with the release catch of the front passenger seat. Moments later with his luggage neatly stowed away, Sophie made her way to the driver’s side. To her surprise Carlos remained standing. What was he waiting for?
‘Is there anything else,’ she enquired, ‘Have you left anything behind?’
‘No. I was waiting for you to get in.’
Amused by his peculiar show of manners, a weak flicker of a smile left her face when she realised what was wrong. The idiot who’d parked alongside in her absence had made it virtually impossible to open Poppy’s door!
Tall and observant Carlos had already assessed the situation. The only way Sophie could get into her car was via the passenger seat. Brushing past him, discerning the merest hint of expensive cologne, she reluctantly hitched her uniform above her knees and wriggled awkwardly across to the driver’ side.
‘It would appear some people have no consideration for others,’ he remarked, averting his eyes.
You can say that again, she thought, faintly amused by his efforts to fold his lean, tall frame into the tiny space before fumbling for the seatbelt. Callie (Poppy’s last passenger) with her short dumpy legs, always preferred the seat forward. She also needed a vast expanse of seat belt.
‘My last passenger,’ Sophie explained, switching on the ignition.
‘I see,’ Carlos replied, examining a seemingly endless length of seat-belt webbing. ‘Was she pregnant?’
Secretly enjoying her current passenger’s discomfort, Sophie slid the parking ticket into the machine, breathed a sigh of relief when the barrier stirred into motion and manoeuvred her way into traffic. To her right purred a white, stretch limousine. ‘I don’t intend to argue with that,’ she muttered, giving Carlos a sideways look, half expecting him to hop out and thumb a lift to his hotel. With his dark good looks and exquisite tailoring, even Sophie in her current frame of mind had to admit he appeared more suited to a sleek stretch limo than the faithful, chugging Poppy, who’d seen far better days.
Thoughts of hotels prompted her to ask Carlos for his own destination. There were numerous hotels on the periphery of Heathrow but had he perhaps asked Rosa to fix him up at one of the few – such as they were – in Beckford?
‘Your hotel?’ she enquired, ‘Where are you staying?’
‘I don’t know. I asked Rosa to make arrangements for me. Didn’t she tell you?’
Shaking her head in reply, Sophie’s hands gripped the steering wheel, ready to concentrate on the tricky job of filtering onto the M4.
‘You mean Rosa said nothing at all?’
‘No. She merely rang me during the interval, shortly after nine o'clock, and asked me to meet you.’
‘Then I suppose I must come back with you.’
‘Unless you want to ring her? At the airport, I noticed you had a mobile phone. She should be at the flat by now.’
‘Ah, sim. Obrigado.’ Carlos replied, slipping into Portuguese while dialling Victoria Villas. There was no reply.
‘You could also try Celia’s – Miss Sheffield’s. Sometimes she takes the students back for coffee and post-theatre discussion.’
Though Carlos said nothing, Sophie sensed his acute disappointment. Instead of post-theatre discussions shouldn’t Rosa have been making preparations for his arrival? He dialled Celia’s number and recognised Doreen Sheffield’s voice almost immediately.
‘This is Carlos Martins. Is my cousin Rosa with you?’
‘Mr Martini! How are you? No dear, she left some time ago. They’ve been to the theatre and Celia’s taking the girls home, I expect you’ll find Rosa at Sophie’s.’
‘I’ve already rung there.’
‘Have you dear? Well, I expect she’ll be there soon. Don’t worry Mr Martini, Celia’s a careful driver. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’ve left some milk on for my cocoa.’
Studying a silent mobile, Carlos left Doreen to sip her cocoa and leave a message for her daughter: Mr Carwash Martini rang about his cousin. I told him not to worry. (Celia would eventually read it with a groan of despair. Wasn’t Rosa problem enough?)
Pleased to find her parking space vacant, Sophie drew to a halt and was immediately filled with alarm. The state of the flat: the remains of the takeaway! Her mind went into overdrive. What should she do now? Perhaps nothing for the moment, she concluded. Carlos was far too busy surveying the somewhat unsavoury surroundings to notice the panic in her eyes.
‘Er – um … Why don’t you wait here in the car? It’s quite a cold night.’
Carlos raised a questioning eyebrow. He was anxious to stretch his legs. How much longer was this ordeal going to last? Why the sudden concern for his welfare, particularly after the frosty reception at Heathrow?
‘Just give Rosa a couple of minutes to get her coat and we’ll take you to your hotel. Ate logo,’ Sophie said a little too brightly, hoping her attempt at ‘see you soon’ in Portuguese might do something to soften his unhappy countenance.
‘Rosa! Thank heavens you’re back! If you knew the problems I’ve had fetching Carlos? Not to mention the fact I've got—’
‘He eez ere!’ Rosa cried, clapping her hands in delight. She looked expectantly towar
ds the door. ‘Oh, Sophie! You are so kind and I very sorry I forget to tell you.’
‘Never mind that now, said Sophie, misinterpreting Rosa’s sheepish expression. Let’s just take Carlos to his hotel. Only I hope it’s not too far away. I’m on duty in half an hour – or had you forgotten?’
Rosa’s huge brown eyes widened in horror. ‘No,’ she said meekly, ‘but when I forget to tell you Carlos was coming, I also forget to book him a hotel. I was so very busy with my studies.’
‘You mean he has nowhere to stay?’
The look on Rosa’s face said it all. No wonder she was already dashing down two flights of stairs to the ancient red Mini and its disgruntled occupant.
‘Carlos!’ she cried, ecstatic, wrenching open the door and reaching for his hand, her eyes glistening with tears.
To his astonishment Carlos was pulled from the car and smothered in kisses. Moments later and with a gabble of Portuguese, Rosa linked her arm in his and led him upstairs to the flat. Sophie met them in the confined space of the hallway.
‘I’ll put the kettle on for coffee – or tea if you’d prefer? Meanwhile Rosa has something to tell you.’
Carlos looked anxiously at his watch. Why was Rosa plumping up assorted cushions? ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable,’ she cooed.
‘Don’t you think it’s rather late?’ he questioned, aware of the hasty clearing up taking place in the kitchen.
When Sophie appeared with a tray of coffee and biscuits, she was conscious of polite yet animated conversation taking place between the two cousins. Feeling surplus to requirements, she made for the bathroom. There she combed her long, straight fringe onto her forehead, brushed the rest of her sleek sandy-coloured hair behind her ears, fastened it at the nape of her neck and reached for her makeup bag.
‘Five minutes Rosa,’ she hissed, addressing her reflection in the mirror while applying a fine layer of mascara, a slick of lipstick and a delicate sweep of blusher to her cheeks. ‘Tonight I am in Gavin Markham mode. Five minutes is all I’m giving you to explain to Carlos. After that I’m off to work and you can jolly well order him a taxi! Better still. Why not go back with him to his hotel so I can have the flat to myself!’
When Summer Fades Page 5