by Anne Weale
‘Am I? I don’t feel I am. I should have thought you could read me like an open book.’
‘Sometimes I can. But from time to time I come across a page which is still uncut—or “unopened”, as a book collector would say.’
‘Then why not ask me to open it?’
‘Perhaps because I might not care for what I read there.’
‘There is nothing in my mind which you would find disagreeable,’ she replied, with slight emphasis.
‘I hope not.’
They were interrupted by the telephone and, when the call was over, Cal did not resume the conversation.
Thinking over what he had said, Antonia could only conclude that his remark that he might not like all her private thoughts had been an oblique reference to Paco. But Paco was dead and Diana was very much alive and living in the same city so that, if she were sufficiently unscrupulous, she could make sure he did not forget her.
In the fortnight which followed, there was more than one occasion when Cal telephoned from his office to say he would be late for dinner, or out for dinner. In Spain it was still not uncommon for men to spend very little time with their families during the week but to compensate for this neglect by devoting all Sunday to playing with their children and being attentive to their wives. Thus, in the ordinary way, Antonia would have concluded that if her husband was out for the evening, he would be at his club talking politics, or otherwise harmlessly engaged with friends of his own sex. She, having bought herself another and more ambitious piece of canvas embroidery, would have been content to busy herself with her needlework and to make plans for Mulberry Lodge.
But because she knew about Diana, she could not help wondering if Cal’s lateness or absence—which he never troubled to explain and she could not bring herself to question—should make her suspicious and jealous.
Her second visit to the Lodge was with the interior designer whom Cal had commissioned to help her with the modernisation and decoration.
‘But don’t let him browbeat you into having anything you don’t want. His function is to help and advise, not to impose his taste on yours,’ Cal had warned her beforehand.
However, far from being overbearing, the designer was at pains to elicit Antonia’s preferences, and it proved an enjoyable expedition which enabled her, for a few hours, to put aside her emotional problems.
It was not long before Cal had to go on another business trip, this time to the United States.
He proposed that, while he was away, Antonia should visit her mother. He would join her in Valencia, after which they could spend a few days at the finca to put in hand various repairs and improvements.
As their flights left London within an hour of each other they went to the airport together.
‘You’re very quiet. You’re not nervous of flying by yourself, are you?’ he asked, as they neared the airport.
‘Not at all,’ she assured him.
In fact she was tense with nerves, but not for the reason he had suggested. She had made up her mind, when they said goodbye, to take a bold step towards a settlement between them.
Cal’s flight was the first to leave and, when it was called, he said, ‘Take care of yourself,’ and would have confined his farewell to a brief, light kiss on her cheek.
But Antonia slid her arms round his neck, closed her eyes and offered him her lips.
Although not expecting him to reject her gesture, she had not thought that, in so public a place, he would respond quite so vigorously. For several seconds she found herself crushed to his tall, lean, muscular body and her lips parting under his.
But when, still holding her close, he murmured, ‘I can cancel this trip if you’ve suddenly decided you want me to stay,’ she answered hastily,
‘Oh, no—no, let’s meet in Spain as we’ve planned. But when we go to the finca, I should like ... that is ... well, for things to be different between us.’
He put her away from him, keeping his hands on her shoulders. ‘You really mean that? You’re certain?’
‘Yes, Cal, I’m certain,’ she said quietly.
His grip on her shoulders was suddenly painfully hard. ‘You’ve picked a great moment to tell me. Why today? Why not yesterday?’
‘I—I don’t know. I wasn’t sure. We must say goodbye now ... darling.’
At her tentative use of a word she had never ventured before, his blue eyes blazed and he said, ‘To hell with this trip. How am I supposed to concentrate on business when—’
‘No, please, I want you to go. I don’t want to start our new life together in London. Let it be at the finca where I’ve always been happy.’
After some seconds of indecision, he dropped his hands to his sides. ‘All right, if that’s what you want. Goodbye. Take care.’
An instant later he was striding away from her. But until her own flight was called, and throughout the journey to Valencia, Antonia was sustained by the memory of his strong arms closing round her, his instant response to the invitation of her uplifted mouth.
It was a strange sensation to return to Valencia and to feel like a foreigner in a city which had for so long been her home.
As she had anticipated, she had been given the best of the visitors’ rooms. It had an adjoining sitting-room, two bathrooms and a large dressing-room with plenty of clothes storage for both occupants of the large, high cama de matrimonio.
Remembering the last time she and Cal had shared a double bed, Antonia felt a quiver of excitement at the thought of repeating the experience.
The first time she spent any of his money on herself was to buy a nightdress of pale sea-green silk and cream lace, a much more sophisticated affair than the virginal white chiffon she had worn on her wedding night.
The days of waiting passed slowly. Although Cal had said he would not telephone her, she had thought that the manner of their farewell would have made him change his mind, and was disappointed when no call came through from America.
On her third day in Spain she went to the hairdresser with her mother and, under the dryer, looked at a copy of Hola! an illustrated weekly specialising in gossip about film stars, pop singers and princesses. Half way through the magazine her eye was caught by a photograph of some people descending the steps of an airliner, not because she was particularly interested in the French actress smiling radiantly at the camera, but because she recognised one of the other faces. It was Diana Webster.
Only when she read the caption below the photograph did Antonia experience a sudden sharp twinge of unease. Diana had been photographed arriving at New York.
The manicurist came to do her nails and, after a swift glance at the date on the cover, Antonia put the magazine aside and gave her hands to the girl. Her eyes roved the busy salon, full of beautifully dressed and shod women most of whom, when they came in, looked as perfectly coiffed as if they were leaving, not arriving. Earlier it had amused her to compare them with the clientele of a fashionable salon in London, but now she was scarcely aware of the scene around her. The magazine was the current issue, but the photograph might have been taken as long as a fortnight ago. Was Diana still in New York? And was that why Cal had gone there? Or was it merely a coincidence?
What a fool I was not to say yes when he offered to cancel his trip, she thought. Maybe he didn’t plan to meet Diana in New York, but if she’s still there and they do run into each other, I’m sure she’ll do all she can to revive his desire for her.
That evening, Dona Elena said, ‘You miss your husband very much, don’t you? When you arrived you were happy and lively, but already I see you are lonely and restless without him. Never mind: there are only a few more days to wait. Why not ring him up?’
‘He’s out nearly all the time, Mama. If I leave a message he may think something’s wrong and be worried. As you say, there isn’t much longer to wait. Only four days.’
But in fact it was only two days later when she returned from a day at the country house of Amparo Vidal’s family to be told that her hu
sband had arrived while she was out.
Antonia’s heart lurched. ‘Where is he?’
Learning that he was with Dona Elena, she flew up the stairs and burst into her mother’s boudoir.
‘Oh, Cal—you’re back!’ She flung herself into his arms.
He held her against him, but when she raised her face from his shoulder to smile at him, he did not return her smile, nor did he kiss her. There was a look on his face which she had never seen before, and she knew that something was terribly wrong.
As she drew back he did bend to kiss her, but only a peck on both cheeks, as he would have greeted her mother and even Tia Angela.
‘I will leave you two young things alone,’ said Dona Elena tactfully. ‘These long air journeys are always very tiring. You will want to rest before dinner.’
When she had gone, Cal sank back into the chair where he had been sitting when Antonia entered. He picked up a glass of what looked like gin and tonic. ‘Yes, I do feel rather bushed. Cramming a week’s schedule into four days made for a very tight programme. What have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Nothing special. Talking to Mama, looking up one or two friends. I’m sorry I was out when you arrived.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect you to be here.’ He gulped down his drink. ‘It was hellishly hot in the taxi coming from the airport. We’ll talk when I’ve had a shower, okay?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll show you the room they’ve given us.’
She led the way along the gallery, her mind in a whirl of panic. This was not the reunion she had awaited so eagerly. It was as if what had happened at London Airport had never taken place, and they were back on their former uncomfortable footing.
In the privacy of their bedroom she turned to him, and said impulsively, ‘I’ve missed you. These few days have seemed like weeks.’
There was no mistaking the constraint in his manner as he answered, ‘I hoped to catch up my sleep on the plane coming over, but unfortunately I didn’t. I don’t think I’m going to be very good company until I’ve had at least an hour’s nap. I’m sorry about it, but this is how jet-lag hits one sometimes. I’ll have a shower and some sleep, and see you at dinner. All right?’
Again there was nothing she could say but, ‘Yes, certainly.’
Perhaps he was speaking the truth. Perhaps he really was exhausted after two transatlantic flights and between them a non-stop succession of business engagements. But somehow she knew this was not the only reason for the restraint of his greeting.
Since their parting, something had happened to change the mood in which he had left her; and what could have happened in New York which had any bearing on their marriage except an encounter with Diana?
CHAPTER SIX
She went away and, for two hours, she sat in the room which had been first her day nursery, then her playroom, and finally her sitting-room. Never had time passed more slowly than it did until, about forty-five minutes before dinner, she went back to the bedroom where her husband, a towel wrapped round his lean hips, was lying on his side in the centre of the cama de matrimonio.
He had his back to the door, and when Antonia walked softly round to the side of the bed which he was facing, his eyes were closed. But she did not think he was asleep.
She had seen him asleep on the second morning of their marriage, and remembered very clearly the expression on his sleeping face. It was not there now and although, as she watched him, he opened his eyes and appeared to be waking up, she suspected that he had been awake since she left him.
‘Do you feel better?’ she asked, as he swung himself into a sitting position.
‘Yes, much better, thanks.’ He glanced at the bedside clock. ‘Oh, good! There’s time for another shower before dinner. Are you having one?’
‘Yes, but this suite has two bathrooms, so you don’t have to wait until I’ve finished.’
He took longer to shower than she did and, when he emerged, was already half-dressed in a pair of pale pearl grey trousers.
Antonia was sitting at the dressing-table, making up her eyes. Deliberately she had not put on a peignoir and was wearing only a bra and a pair of bikini briefs.
She saw Cal glance at her, then turn away to the wardrobe. He had taken only one leather grip to New York with him, but she had brought a suitcase full of his clothes to Spain with her luggage. She watched his reflection as he put on and buttoned a shirt, and tucked it inside his trousers. In London he would not have worn a coat and tie for dinner at home, but he put them on now, knowing that Don Joaquin always dressed formally in Valencia.
By the time she had finished her face, Cal was ready to go down. It was fifteen minutes before the customary hour at which Dona Elena and any guests who were staying with the family assembled for dinner.
Antonia rose from the dressing stool and took from its hanger a loose, cool dress of blue and white voile. Before she put it on, she said, ‘Would you mind zipping me up?’
Cal was fastening the plain black strap of his unostentatious watch, and he glanced at her as he said, ‘Certainly.’
But his eyes did not linger on her half-naked body, and the briskness with which he fastened the dress for her was that of a long-married husband, not an eager bridegroom.
She had already made up her mind how to tackle this new impasse. During Cal’s rest—or supposed rest—she had suddenly remembered a conversation, overheard long ago, between her mother and Amparo’s mother. They had been discussing a mutual friend whose husband was interested in another woman. And Dona Elena and Senora Vidal had agreed that, instead of showing her distress, it was much wiser of their friend to give no sign of suspicion of her husband’s infidelity but, instead, to exert herself to be charming and attractive to him.
‘A wife always has an advantage over a mistress if she plays her cards cleverly,’ Senora Vidal had remarked.
That, Antonia had decided, was how she was going to behave in this situation. Cal had married her and made her fall in love with him, and tonight, in the cama de matrimonio, he would find, at least, an eagerly responsive bride.
Throughout dinner, as she did, he assumed an air of normality and she felt sure that none of their elders guessed that all was not well between them. Towards the end of the meal, the two men fell to talking politics in which neither Tia Angela nor her sister was interested. Presently they all withdrew to the sala adjoining the dining-room where, after about half an hour, Antonia said she was going to bed. She kissed her aunt and her mother, then crossed the room to her uncle.
‘Goodnight, Tio. You won’t be long will you, Cal? In spite of your nap, you still must be very tired.’
Her uncle had risen to kiss her, and Cal had also stood up.
‘No, I shan’t be long. I’ll just finish my brandy.’
But his glass was nearly full, she noticed. He could make it last a long time.
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t keep him talking till all hours, my dear,’ said her uncle. ‘Ten minutes and no more, I promise you.’
‘I do think you ought to have an early night after such a tiring trip, and if we’re going to set out in good time tomorrow. If Tio keeps you too late, I shall come down and rescue you. I know what he is when he starts on political matters,’ she said lightly, smiling up into her husband’s blue eyes.
On her way upstairs she met Nieves, one of her aunt’s old maids who had been with the family all her life.
‘What a pity about Don Caleb. How long has he had this trouble with his nose?’ she asked.
‘His nose?’ Antonia said blankly.
‘This sinus infection which makes him snore, and would disturb you. He told me about it when he asked me to make up the bed in the dressing-room for him. You should make him consult a specialist, Dona Antonia. Men neglect their ailments, you know, and then they become more serious. He says it will get better soon, but will it—without any treatment? You make him go to a doctor.’ With which advice Nieves continued on her way.
This w
as a turn of events which Antonia had not foreseen. There was an antique bed with high scrolled ends in the dressing-room, but it was never used as such but as a couch on which to sit while fastening shoes.
However, although the dressing-room was accessible from the sitting-room, Cal’s bathroom was not. He would have to pass through the bedroom before retiring to his makeshift bed.
She was sitting in a chair, looking at the glossy magazine he had bought for her to read on the plane, when he entered the bedroom.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d picked up a sinus infection in New York?’ she asked, standing up to give him the full impact of the clinging silk nightdress with its low-cut lace top and slit skirt.
‘I haven’t. That was an excuse for Nieves’ benefit. I thought you didn’t want to change the status quo until we were at the finca.’
They were on opposite sides of the room. She moved towards him, the slit slipping open almost to the top of her thigh. Less than a yard from him, she stopped. ‘I want whatever you want, Cal.’
Something flickered in his eyes—she was sure of it—but an instant later was gone.
‘I’m still pretty tired, Antonia. We’ve waited a long time. I think we can wait a little longer.’ He strode past her into his bathroom.
When he reappeared, she was sitting up in bed. ‘Goodnight,’ she said softly, invitingly.
‘Goodnight.’ He did not even glance at her.
In the morning she was still determined to pretend that it was only travel-fatigue which had kept him out of her bed the night before.
As they set out for the finca, she was not sorry to leave Valencia. After more than two months in England where the sun was a benison which people welcomed, her grandparents’ house seemed more dark and gloomy than before; and although the heat in Valencia was much greater than in London, she felt it should be possible to keep cool without sacrificing the more cheerful air of the English houses to which she had become accustomed.