by Anne Weale
‘What is this car?’ she asked as Nicolas slid in beside her.
‘It’s a 1934 Bentley, the twin of one ordered by Prince Bira, the Prince of Siam—now Thailand—who was an ace racing-driver. He had his painted pale blue—the colour matched to a dance frock worn by a Danish girlfriend. The first owner of this preferred dark green. My father bought it for eight hundred and fifty pounds in 1966, the year before he was killed. A few years ago the Prince’s Bentley came up for auction in London. It fetched a hundred thousand pounds, even though it no longer had its original interior, as this does.’
‘How romantic... to have the car painted to match his girlfriend’s dress. Did he marry her?’
‘I don’t know. His brother, Prince Chula, married an English girl. But Bira was more of a playboy. He gambled at Monte Carlo and liked going to race meetings. He was also a rather good sculptor.’
As he spoke Nicolas produced two pairs of goggles, and handed one to her.
‘It’s just as well to wear these. A piece of grit in one’s eye is no joke.’
With his eyes—his dominant feature—reduced to a deep blue gleam behind the tinted glass, the strong bones of his face became even more striking. The cheekbones, the chin, the wide mouth all hinted at reckless courage and a powerful lust for life.
The car had been fitted with seat belts, which it wouldn’t have had originally. As she fastened the clip, Cressy hoped she wasn’t about to be treated to a macho display of fast driving. She didn’t like high speeds, and once or twice when she was younger had had to sit gritting her teeth while boyfriends showed off.
However, only a maniac would have driven at speed on this drive, or on the minor roads. Even when they were on the main road Nicolas didn’t seem inclined to spend the journey overtaking everything in sight. Cressy relaxed.
Having found a space in the hospital’s car park, Nicolas said, ‘I’ll wait for you in the reception area. I hope to meet Miss Dexter later, when she’s better. But not yet. In any case I doubt if they’ll allow anyone but a blood relation to see her.’
This was a relief to Cressy because it meant she could continue to keep her real surname from him. The harmless masquerade of being Cressy Dexter, great-niece to a woman whose famous past was too far behind her for most people to remember it, was extraordinarily restful after spending her life in the shadow of Virginia Vale MP and her almost equally high-profile elder daughters.
‘I think you’ll find the receptionist speaks English,’ said Nicolas as they walked towards the building. ‘Most Mallorquíns who have to deal with foreigners do speak some English and German. But if you have any difficulties I’ll be on hand.’
‘I’ll try not to keep you hanging about too long.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll find someone to fill me in on what’s been happening on the island in my absence.’
Sending Cressy to the reception desk on her own was a deliberate strategy on Nicolas’s part. He was curious to see how she handled the situation. He didn’t mind helping people, provided they also helped themselves and didn’t expect to be nannied. He had no time for helpless females, however luscious. Nor had he patience with featherbrains. In his view, to be truly attractive, a woman must be able to stand on her own feet and make reasonably intelligent conversation between sessions in bed.
Stationing himself in a place where he could watch her face as she joined two other people awaiting attention, he was pleased to see that, when her turn came, she prefaced her enquiry by smiling and saying ‘good morning’ in Spanish. That it was now late afternoon didn’t matter. She was showing the right spirit. Too often foreigners neglected the basic courtesies and then complained to each other that the locals were unfriendly.
Watching Cressy’s exchange with the receptionist, Nicolas liked what he saw. He was beginning to feel this was going to be a very pleasant interlude on all counts. Presently he would have to shut himself away and concentrate on his next book. But that could wait for a couple of weeks. Meanwhile he intended to make the most of this unexpected gift from the gods.
Before Cressy was allowed to see her father’s aunt. she was taken to the office of a middle-aged woman doctor who shook hands and invited her to sit down.
‘Are you Miss Dexter’s only relation?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘No, but I’m the only one who was able to come as soon as we heard the news. How is my great-aunt, Doctor?’
‘She is a very sick woman. Her body is extremely frail, but she has a very strong will and is determined to recover. I thought at first she suffered from osteoporosis—the crumbling of the bones which afflicts many elderly women. But now it seems her condition may be the result of not bothering to eat enough. She’s too old to live by herself. She needs to have the love and support of her family,’ the doctor said, her tone critical.
Cressy was aware that in Spain family ties were stronger than in her own country. She felt guilty about her share of her family’s neglect of Miss Dexter. Her parents and sisters were busier than her. She could have made time to write letters, to give as much thought to her own elderly relation as to those she met in her job.
‘I know...and as soon as she’s better we’ll try to persuade her to come back to England,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she could live at my parents’ weekend place, or at any rate somewhere near.’
‘I doubt if she will agree to that,’ the doctor said dryly. ‘She tells me she couldn’t endure the climate in England. In her opinion, your country is not what it was. She prefers Spain.’
‘Well, she’s entitled to her views, but I think England’s a wonderful country,’ Cressy said stoutly. ‘Last year I spent my holiday walking up the centre of England, and in a different way it’s just as beautiful as this lovely island. All the people I met were nice, too.’
The doctor’s manner warmed a little. ‘I’m sure they were. I have enjoyed several holidays in England. Come, I’ll take you to see your relative. I must warn you, she may not show that she’s pleased to see you. She is not an easy personality.’
Cressy had been expecting her great-aunt to be an older version of the dominating, colourful woman she remembered from long ago. But the white-haired, emaciated figure who lay in a high white bed in a room at the end of the corridor was unrecognisable as the person she remembered.
As they entered she appeared to be sleeping. But, when the doctor said her name quietly, her eyelids snapped open and she glared. When she spoke, it was in Spanish. And although Cressy couldn’t understand the words she guessed it was something like, What now? Can’t I have a moment’s peace?
‘You have a visitor, Miss Dexter,’ the doctor told her, in English. ‘This young lady tells me she is a member of your family. I will leave you together.’
Cressy moved forward to stand by the side of the bed. ‘Hello, Aunt Kate. Do you remember me?’
‘Of course I remember you, Cressida...the youngest of Paul’s three girls. The last time we met, you had a pet mouse called Moonshine. There’s nothing wrong with my mind. It’s only my leg which has gone phut. I’ve still got all my marbles.’
This somewhat indignant reply made it clear that while Miss Dexter had altered physically she had not lost the trenchant manner which had quelled even Cressy’s mother.
‘Pull up a chair,’ she instructed. ‘Why have they sent you here? Why didn’t Paul come himself?’
When Cressy returned to the lobby, Nicolas saw her coming and rose to his feet with an enquiring lift of his straight black eyebrows.
Cressy rolled her eyes and pretended to totter for a few steps. ‘Wow! Have I been put through the wringer?’
‘We’ll go and have a restorative coffee somewhere.’ He turned to say a courteous goodbye to the man with whom he had been in conversation. Then, turning back to Cressy, he took her lightly by the elbow and steered her towards the exit.
‘What happened? Wasn’t Miss Dexter pleased to see you?’
‘I think so—yes. But it was like being grilled by
an interrogator. She has an intimidating manner. The last time I saw her she didn’t pay much attention to me. This time I got the full force of her rather abrasive personality.’
‘I’m sure she took to you,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘Who wouldn’t? You’re very engaging.’ His fingers moved caressingly on her elbow.
Having put on a show of being weak at the knees moments earlier, Cressy now felt the real thing. But this time she kept it hidden. Oh, God, he was dangerously attractive. If there was wine with dinner tonight, as there almost certainly would be, she would have to be careful not to drink much. He could make her insides turn to jelly when she was sober. With a few glasses of wine inside her she would be a sitting duck.
‘What about her physical condition?’ asked Nicolas, on the way to the car.
Cressy recounted what the doctor had said, adding, ‘I think Kate—as she’s told me to call her—is in considerable pain. She’s refusing to take any painkillers or sedatives. She doesn’t want to be “doped to the eyeballs”, as she puts it. But they may be giving her something to dull the pain through the drip she’s on, although they’ve told her it’s only glucose.’
Nicolas continued to hold her elbow until he opened the car door for her. ‘Did you tell her you’d been to the house and talked to her neighbour?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I explained about meeting you on the plane, and how helpful you’d been.’
‘Did you tell her you were staying at my place?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t ask about that—I should think her house would make it clear that she’s not like most people’s great-aunts. There’s nothing conventional about her. She wouldn’t feel it her duty to worry about my accommodation. She would take it for granted that I could fend for myself.’
By now he was in the driving seat. But instead of starting the engine he turned his body towards her, resting his forearm on the back of her seat.
‘Are you cast from the same mould as she is? You don’t look the stalwart type who doesn’t need a man to fend for her.’
‘It depends on the circumstances,’ said Cressy. ‘I can fend for myself in most ways, but I have to admit if a madman with an axe suddenly burst from those bushes, I would expect you to defend me. I think most women would.’
‘I’d do my best,’ he said, smiling. ‘But for my part I’d like to feel that while I was grappling with him you’d be looking round for a weapon, not screaming or having hysterics.’
‘I don’t think I’d go to pieces. But how can one tell till it happens?’
‘I’m prepared to take you on trust.’ He straightened to switch on the engine and backed the car out of its space.
But can I take you on trust? Cressy asked herself, watching his long shapely fingers handling the wheel.
They had coffee in a pavement café where she was aware that most of the women present were appraising her companion. And probably wondering what he was doing with a strapping great foreign girl when he could have been escorting a more delicate Spanish beauty. There were a lot of them about—lovely girls with dark hair and eyes, and willowy figures.
‘I ought to call home,’ she said. ‘Will there be a payphone inside?’
‘Yes, but you won’t be able to hear yourself speak with the TV going full blast and everyone talking at the top of their voices. Also, Spanish pay-phones are designed to swallow money the way harbour cats gulp down scraps. Why not call home when we get back?’
‘Only if you’ll promise to let me pay you for the call.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do. Already I feel very beholden to you.’
‘There’s no need. You’re actually doing me a favour.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘It’s a long time since I had any female companionship. I hadn’t expected to find myself sitting here with a beautiful woman beside me so soon after my arrival.’
The way he talked, she could almost believe she was beautiful. But she knew it had to be a line. She would only ever be a beauty to a man who loved her, and she couldn’t delude herself that someone like Nicolas had fallen in love at first sight. Neither had she... had she? No, she hadn’t. Definitely she hadn’t. To love a man you had to know him. What she felt was merely a violent attraction—nature attempting to undermine the decision she had made, and kept, not to become like her sisters. Not to treat sex the way men did, as if it were no more important than a slap-up meal or a movie, or any of life’s passing pleasures.
‘Nicolas!’
He rose to his feet as an elegant woman in white greeted him with a flood of Spanish.
He responded in English, introducing her to Cressy. Her name was Elena something. When Cressy stood up to shake hands, their eyes were more or less level because of Elena’s high heels.
‘Will you join us?’ Nicolas invited.
‘I can’t. I have an appointment. I’m late already. ’Dios’ With a flicker of perfectly manicured fingers she smiled into his eyes, nodded briefly at Cressy and went on her way, leaving a waft of her scent lingering on the air.
Was she the owner of the scarf? Cressy couldn’t be sure.
Before they left town, Nicolas had some shopping to do.
‘I have a very good bookseller who knows what interests me and orders books I might otherwise miss,’ he explained. ‘I’m probably his best customer, so if there’s something in his selection that I don’t want he’s happy to put it into stock.’
The welcome Nicolas received when they reached the shop made it clear he was liked for himself as well as for his custom. As he checked through the books selected for him in a back room she could see from the jackets that many were scholarly works which would be heavy going for her, even if she could read Spanish.
She was an avid reader, but not of the serious stuff the rest of her family read and discussed. She had lowbrow tastes which, if the others noticed her with her nose in a popular novel, would make them exclaim, ‘How can you waste your time on that trivia, Cressy?’
‘I’m enjoying it,’ she would say sheepishly, making the others sigh and shake their heads, having long given up any serious attempts to make something of her.
At twenty-three it was too late. She was never going to amount to anything. The truth was she didn’t want to be somebody. She was content to remain a happy-golucky nobody. In any other family her lack of ambition wouldn’t matter, or not as much. But in hers, where everyone else was outstandingly gifted and strongly motivated, it was uncomfortable to be the only one without a brilliant brain.
While Nicolas was intent on the books she couldn’t help wondering if, should they be stuck in a situation where there was only the two of them—say, marooned on a desert island—he would quickly get bored with her conversationally. But on a desert island all the things she was good at—what her family teasingly called ‘Cressy’s Girl Guide skills’—would be particularly useful. So perhaps her practical abilities would compensate for her intellectual shortcomings.
The thought of being alone with Nicolas—alone in a situation which might go on for a long time—sent a curious shiver through her.
He startled her out of her daydream by suddenly looking up and saying, ‘This is very boring for you, Cressy. I shan’t be much longer.’
‘I don’t mind in the least,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve got plenty to think about.’
She felt guilty that she hadn’t been thinking about what should have been on her mind—Kate’s situation.
When they returned to the house, Nicolas said, ‘Would you like to have a swim?’
‘In the sea?’
“No, in the pool.”
She hadn’t realised Ca’n Llorenc had one. ‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit,’ she said regretfully.
‘No problem. There are several spare suits in the women’s changing room. I’m sure one of them will fit you. This way.’
The swimming pool was not visible from the terrace because it was in a walled enclosure beside an enormous barn, its walls thickl
y clad with purple bougainvillea and pale blue plumbago.
‘This was my mother’s workplace,’ said Nicolas, pausing by the entrance to the barn. ‘She was, and is, very artistic. She could have been a professional painter if she had concentrated on it. But she didn’t have the necessary dedication. She allowed her creative energy to be diffused by the other claims on her time...her household, her family and friends, a lot of lame ducks and good causes. It’s impossible to say whether she could have been an important artist, but she’s certainly greatly loved by everyone who knows her. That’s not a common achievement.’
‘Are there any of her paintings in the house?’ Cressy asked, looking round the cool, dim interior of the barn. Now, apparently, it was used for large parties. There were several massive country tables arranged in a long row, with cushioned wooden benches on either side and, at one end, a smoke-blackened chimney over a barbecue grill.
‘They’re in my workroom,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you later. We’ll have our pre-dinner drinks there.’
Beyond the shallow end of the large pool was a seating area with sun umbrellas over tables and lots of chairs and loungers. Behind it was a stone building, largely overgrown with flowering creepers, and two doors, each with a window beside it.
These were the changing rooms. In the women’s room, Cressy found shelves stacked with cornflower-blue pool towels and, hanging on hooks, half a dozen swimsuits ranging from an outsize floral number with reinforced cups to the skimpiest possible bikini. At the back of the changing room was a shower compartment and a lavatory.
Cressy undressed and selected a stretch seersucker one-piece in green and white stripes. Although her face, neck and forearms and part of her legs were still lightly browned from her walking holiday, she was conscious that the rest of her was an unattractive off-white.