by Anne Weale
Her train of thought led her back to her sister’s cryptic warning on the telephone, a worry she had been trying to put to the back of her mind.
If she had had a phonecard, and the opportunity to use it, she could have rung Frances back at her flat this evening. Not that it was ever easy to catch her sister in—the flat wasn’t really a home. It was merely where she kept her clothes and slept, when she wasn’t spending the night with the current man in her life. Tracking her down was difficult at the best of times. From rural Majorca it would be virtually impossible.
But I have to know what she meant, Cressy thought worriedly. perhaps at the hospital tomorrow there will be a trolley-phone I can use. Then I’ll ask them to let me pay for it at once, so it doesn’t go on Kate’s bill.
The door was answered by their host, a distinguished-looking man with silver hair and silver-grey eyes in a lined brown face. He welcomed Nicolas warmly and was pleasant to Cressy.
The party was taking place outside. As they passed through the house she noticed many examples of modern art, both paintings and sculpture, and a lot of opulent furnishings. But the style of the house was international grand luxe, rather than predominantly Spanish like Ca’n Llorenc.
On a terrace, overlooking a magnificent garden with fountains and larger sculptures, about thirty people were drinking champagne while two or three local women handed round trays of cocktail snacks.
Cressy noticed that Nicolas’s arrival caused a lull in the conversation. Everyone there seemed to know him—if not personally, then by sight and reputation. However, their host was intent on steering them to meet his wife. People who thrust forward to greet Nicolas found it politely but firmly made clear that they would have to wait.
Their hostess, whose name was Alice, was as charming as her husband. Dressed in a simple frock of pale blue linen with a wide emerald suede belt cinching her still slender waist; and no jewellery other than small pearl earrings and a gold wristwatch, she made Cressy feel more comfortable about her own outfit.
‘Cressy needs some advice, Alice,’ Nicolas told her after a few minutes’ small-talk. ‘I’ll leave her to explain the situation to you while I do the rounds.’ He moved away, his tall figure easy to keep track of among people of average height.
‘Now I know why Nicolas agreed to come,’ said Alice, looking amused. ‘He’s not a party person. I always ask him, when he’s here, and he always makes an excuse unless it’s a small dinner party. He hates going out to drinks and meeting a lot of people with whom he has nothing in common. Have you known him long?’
‘Since yesterday morning,’ said Cressy. ‘But it feels much longer. He’s been so incredibly kind that I almost have the feeling I’ve known him all my life.’
She spoke without stopping to think, and then regretted her impulsiveness in case she sounded foolish.
But her hostess nodded. ‘I know what you mean. He had that effect on me the first time we met. But then I’m. older than his mother, so it’s rather different.’ Her pretty hazel eyes twinkled. ‘He isn’t noted for his kindness to young women of your age. Don’t lose your heart to him, will you? He’s in thrall to the world’s wild places and has incurable wanderlust. Such men make impossible’ husbands, as his mother discovered.’
‘You know her?’
‘Very well. She comes here every summer and we spend a lot of time together. She’s a lovely person, and Nicolas has a lot of her in him. But he’s also his father’s son. I never met Josh Talbot, but we know people who did. They say he and Marisa Alaró were as incompatible as an eagle and a dove.’
‘But they loved each other and were happy until he was killed?’
‘Yes, very happy,’ said Alice. ‘But, although it sounds a strange thing to say, perhaps it was best that he was killed. It brought an end to the agonies of worry she suffered while he was away on his climbing expeditions. Such men can be very selfish. When Nicolas was born his father was in the Himalayas, attempting to conquer a peak which had already claimed many lives. She has never mentioned how she felt, but I can guess, can’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Cressy. ‘I can.’
She thought it a little odd that Alice should tell. her all this on such short acquaintance. But perhaps her hostess was extremely quick on the uptake and knew that it didn’t take long for susceptible women to fall victim to Nicolas’s magnetism.
‘What is the problem of which you need advice?’ Alice asked.
When Cressy explained, Alice not only gave her opinion but appealed to other people present to add their recommendations.
This led, eventually, to her being drawn down onto a sofa to listen to a history of ailments suffered by and treatments prescribed for an elderly woman who had lived on the island for years.
Cressy had been lending a sympathetic ear to this catalogue of woes for some time when Nicolas loomed over them.
‘Good evening,’ he said to her companion. ‘I’m sorry to butt in, but we have to leave soon and I know Cressy particularly wants to see the swimming pool. Would you excuse us?’
It was gracefully done, and Cressy was relieved to make her escape. But, in the light of what Alice had said about him, she couldn’t help wondering if he had perfected ways of extricating himself, equally smoothly, from relationships with women which had begun to bore him. Perhaps that was what lay behind her sister’s dislike of him. Maybe either she or Anna had been given the brush-off and it still rankled.
On the far side of the terrace they were offered yet another tray of delicious nibbles by one of the helpers, and fresh glasses of champagne by another.
‘You are very good at hiding boredom,’ said Nicolas. ‘If I hadn’t known that old bird, and what a dead bore she is, I would have had the impression she was as interesting to talk to as someone like Freya Stark.’
‘Did you ever meet Dame Freya?’
‘No, but I greatly admired her... and all those intrepid women travellers who went alone, apart from their local guides, into places where few men had been. Did Alice have useful advice?’
‘She was very helpful. They all were. What a marvellous garden,’ said Cressy, admiring the flowering creepers twining up the supports of the pergola which was the approach to the pool.
‘It needs a lot of upkeep. They have as many gardeners as maids, and they only use the place for short periods. Does this lifestyle appeal to you, Cressy?’
She shook her head. ‘Kate’s house is more my style. I could make a lovely little garden on her patch of land. The millionaire life wouldn’t suit me.’
‘Wait till you see their pool before you dismiss it out of hand.’
A moment later, turning a corner, they came to it, and it did make her catch her breath. The water was as still as glass, revealing the intricate mosaic laid on the floor of the pool—a design of deep blues and greens with flashes of silver in a stylised representation of undersea life. Around the pool, like a broad frame, were herbaceous borders thickly planted with flowers in a similar range of colours to the delicately scented chiffon scarf Cressy had wound round her head the day before. They were not flowers she would have expected to find in a Spanish garden, and perhaps they only survived there by being assiduously tended. But the effect was beautiful.
‘It’s a dream,’ she said. ‘But I like your pool just as much. I prefer its more open setting. You can see for miles from your windows, but here, lovely as it is, the mountains are rather oppressive. If I lived here I’d feel hemmed in.’
‘That’s the effect it has on me. This area is very exclusive. Only the richest foreigners and a handful of Mallorquíns who have made their money from tourism can afford it. But to me it’s slightly unreal. All these magnificent houses have been imposed on the landscape, they haven’t evolved from the land. They don’t go back hundreds of years.’
Before leaving the party, which showed no sign of ending, they said goodbye to their host and hostess.
‘You must come to dine with us,’ said Alice. ‘I should like to meet yo
ur great-aunt, Cressy, if you can convince her we’re not entirely frivolous. Anyway, let me know if there’s any way I can help.’
‘They’re good people, those two,’ said Nicolas as they were driving away. ‘Alice has helped a lot of people in trouble. They always remind me of that verse “Hearts just as true and fair may beat in Belgrave Square as in the lowly air of Seven Dials.” Has your job ever taken you to Seven Dials? Is it a squalid part of London?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Where did you learn those lines?’
‘Possibly from my English grandmother. She knew lots of amusing or improving rhymes. An American one I like is, “And this is good old Boston, the home of the bean and the cod, where the Lowells talk only to Cabots, and the Cabots talk only to God”.’
They had supper in a small restaurant overlooking the sea at Puerto de Pollensa, a fishing port and one of the very first places to have rich people’s holiday villas built at the beginning of the century—and to remain comparatively unscathed through the worst excesses of the Sixties’ tourist boom.
When they were seated, and had been presented with menus, Nicolas said, ‘Shall I choose for you? You had better tell me what you don’t like.’
‘Only rare steaks,’ said Cressy.
‘I don’t eat those either...except in Argentina, where, as I said, it’s hard to avoid them.’
As he ordered the meal in Mallorquín she had no idea what was coming until a plate of artichokes in hollandaise sauce was set before her.
‘Is there a builder you rely on when Ca’n Llorenc, needs repairs?’ she asked as they started to eat.
‘I can put you in touch with a very good builder. Better still, he speaks English and German, having seen it would be an advantage with so many people of those nationalities needing things done in this area. But you mustn’t expect to get work done in a hurry. The mañana attitude applies here as much as on the mainland—if not more.’
‘Is the English side of you irritated by that?’
‘On the contrary, I’m more irritated by the obsessive hurry of the rat-race cultures,’ said Nicolas. ‘That outlook is coming to Spain, but obviously more in the cities than in the rural areas.’
Their main course was kebabs of lamb with an imaginative salad. He had ordered water, not wine, and this suited Cressy, as three glasses of champagne had left her slightly light-headed. No doubt his head was stronger, but she enjoyed the meal more because he wasn’t drinking. In her late teens she and most of her girlfriends had had some scary experiences after dates with boyfriends who’d drunk more than was sensible.
The only thing she had to worry about tonight was whether, when they got back, Nicolas would make another pass—which this time would not be interrupted by Juanito. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Star wasn’t the only one who had been confined to an outhouse before they set out.
For their pudding he had chosen home-made almond and honey ice cream.
The restaurant was crowded now and the noise level had risen.
‘Let’s have coffee at home, shall we?’ Nicolas suggested.
On the way back he didn’t talk, and if he had she would have found it hard to listen attentively when her whole body was tense with mingled apprehension and excitement.
The return journey seemed to take only a fraction of the time of their outward journey.
The house was in darkness, and in the deep shadow cast by the vine Cressy would have had to explore the door with her hands in order to find the keyhole. Nicolas found it easily and went in ahead of her to switch on the lamps. Then he relocked the door with a sound which intensified her awareness that they were shut in together until morning.
While he was attending to the percolator, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Nicolas, there’s been a misunderstanding which I ought to put straight.’
He turned to look at her, lifting one level dark eyebrow into an inverted tick.
‘Tonight you introduced me to those people as Cressy Dexter. I should have explained before that Kate is the sister of my father’s mother, not his father’s. My surname isn’t Dexter. It’s Vale. My mother is Virginia Vale, the Member of Parliament. You may have heard of her.’
Her mouth dry she waited for his reaction, dreading that it would confirm the truth of her sister’s accusation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘THE MP who thinks the whole of central London should be a pedestrian area, and owners of private cars should only be allowed to use them for a limited number of journeys?’
Although his tone was expressionless, Cressy was instantly convinced that he thought her mother a crank. If he did, he wasn’t alone. There were millions who thought that. Cressy herself felt some of her mother’s ideas were bordering on lunacy. At the same time, she was fiercely loyal when other people criticised Virginia.
She said defensively, ‘Why not? A lot of her constituents have children with asthma aggravated by traffic pollution. It’s an issue she feels very strongly about.’
‘She may well be right, but she hasn’t a hope in hell of convincing the rest of the House,’ Nicolas said dryly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me at once that I’d got your surname wrong?’
‘It didn’t seem important.’
He eyed her intently. ‘And it can be difficult being the daughter of an MP who raises a lot of people’s hackles, right?’
His insights into her mind always disconcerted her, especially when she found his character rather impenetrable.
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.
‘I’m more interested in Spanish politics than in what’s happening in Britain,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen your mother a couple of times on TV when I’ve been staying in London. She’s obviously popular with the media because she has forceful views and has mastered the art of the sound bite. You aren’t at all like her, are you? Either to look at or in your personality.’
‘No, I’m not. My sisters are like her, but I don’t take after either of my parents.’
The mention of her sisters caused no visible reaction. Either he had forgotten ever being involved with one of Virginia Vale’s daughters or he had exceptional control over his reactions.
‘Would you like brandy with your coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’ She hovered on the brink of saying, My sister Frances seems to know you, and seeing what effect that had. But, conscious that her mission would become a lot harder if he withdrew his help, she remembered one of Maggie’s maxims—let sleeping dogs lie.
Whatever had happened between him and one of her sisters a long time ago had no bearing on the reason she was here—to help Kate. It was better to hold her tongue until she knew more of the facts.
Nicolas said, ‘I bought some chocolates today. I like chocolates sometimes. Do you?’
‘It’s only incredible willpower that keeps me from being a raging chocoholic.’
Throwing her a look of amusement, he filled the cups and took them to the far end of the room where two throne-like oak chairs, now fitted with comfortable cushions, stood on either side of a large flat-topped trunk, patterned with brass-headed nails, which looked as if it had once been a marriage chest. Then from a corner cupboard he produced a cardboard box, broke the seal on it and offered her the contents.
Cressy recognised hand-made Belgian chocolates when she saw them, although she had never been given any and would not have bought them for herself. She chose a dark one.
Before biting into it, on impulse she said, ‘When I was reading your books, it never occurred to me that one day I’d be sitting in your house eating chocolates with you. Somehow one doesn’t think of wilderness travellers liking things like chocs.’
‘I like all the pleasures of the flesh,’ he said, before putting a hard-centred chocolate between his teeth and biting it in half. ‘Given the choice, I would have preferred some cheese, but apart from the ones we had last night Spain isn’t noted for its cheeses. Do you like French cheeses?’
She nodded. ‘They’re another of my w
eaknesses.’
Nicolas pushed the box closer to her. ‘Don’t stop at one. Go a little mad. Why not?’
There was a message in his eyes that she couldn’t interpret. Or was it a private joke at her expense?
He said, ‘Colette said that if she had a son who was ready to marry, she would tell him, “Beware of girls who don’t like wine, truffles, cheese or music.”’
‘Do you like her books?’ she asked, faintly surprised. Like chocolates, the works of the famous French novelist did not fit her idea of him.
‘No, but I remember that nugget of wisdom. I wonder if it’s good advice? What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever had a dish with truffles in it. I agree about the other three. To marry or shack up with someone and then to find out that one of you liked punk rock and the other liked medieval plainsong would be asking for disaster, wouldn’t it?’
He laughed, but his eyes narrowed slightly as he said, ‘But shacking up is not something you would ever do, is it? You will only surrender that “long-preserved virginity” after you’ve walked down the aisle to “Here Comes The Bride” and have a ring on your finger.’
She recognised the sardonic allusion to Andrew Marvell’s poem and felt a spurt of anger at his casual mockery of her values.
‘Yes, and what’s more I’ll stay married,’ she said with indignant emphasis. ‘It may seem laughable to you, but I believe in “till death us do part”. If I can’t find a man who shares that conviction I’ll live by myself, as Kate has.’
‘I doubt if she holds your views. I should think she’s single because she sees marriage as a form of servitude. Most militant feminists do.’
‘I’ve no idea how she sees it,’ Cressy said shortly. ‘I’m looking forward to talking to her. But whatever her views are, she won’t make me alter mine. I want “the world well lost”, not a series of tacky affairs with partners who, a few years on, might not even remember my name.’