Summer Madness

by Susan Lewis

  ‘OK,’ Louisa said. ‘I’ll have to rack my brains a bit, but I expect I’ll come up with someone. My guess is Jean-Claude could come up with even more.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Mmm, just so long as they’re not all gay. Anyway, Danny’s going first because she knows the most people. Got your black book, kiddo? Then get dialling.’

  Danny was on the point of picking up the phone when suddenly it rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Oh hi, Jean-Claude, yes she’s right here.’

  Louisa turned back from the kitchen as Danny put her hand over the receiver and mouthed, ‘are you sure he’s gay?’

  Rolling her eyes Louisa took the receiver. ‘Hi, Jean-Claude,’ she said.

  ‘I ’ope I am not calling too late,’ he said, ‘but I want you to go outside and look at the sky.’

  ‘The sky?’ Louisa said, looking curiously at Danny and Sarah.

  ‘Can you take the phone to the terrace?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s a radio phone,’ Louisa answered, walking around the dining table to the french windows. ‘OK,’ she said, stepping out onto the terrace, ‘I’m looking at the sky.’

  ‘And what do you see?’

  ‘I see stars, lots of stars and a moon, is it a blue moon?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, it is a blue moon, but do you not find something unusual about the stars?’

  Louisa was working very hard to try to remember the constellations, but wasn’t having much success. ‘Unusual in what way?’ she asked.

  ‘You can see them,’ Jean-Claude chuckled. ‘That is what is unusual. It is the first time we ’ave seen them for over two weeks. Do you understand what this means?’

  Louisa had already broken into a smile. ‘It means there are no clouds.’

  ‘That’s right. Tomorrow I think will be a fine day.’

  ‘Yes,’ Louisa said, turning back to Danny and Sarah, ‘I think it will.’

  ‘So maybe now your life down ’ere begins at last.’

  4

  JAKE MALLORY WAS used to people stopping and staring whenever he brought the magnificent, twin-masted Valhalla into port. She was a beautiful, one-hundred-and-twenty-foot handcrafted vessel, built in Scotland, and was one of the two great loves of his life. She was flying two flags as she inched her way into the busy harbour at St Tropez – Jake’s native American and the French tricolor. Following the instructions Jake gave mainly with hand signals, the six-man crew were busy paying out the anchor, hauling and winching lines, flaking the sails and moving swiftly and efficiently about the deck.

  Jake’s dark, expressionless eyes moved between the rudder indicator and Bob, the first mate, who was at the bow controlling the anchor. St Tropez was not an easy port to negotiate, particularly at this time of year when its oddly horseshoe-shaped harbour walls were so crammed with vast and luxurious motor cruisers.

  Eight feet from the dock with the engine and anchor chain balanced, the yacht glided gently into the mooring. The aft crew leapt onto the dock with the stern lines. Jake looked back over his shoulder. For a fleeting moment his eyes rested on a woman lying on the deck of the cruiser they were moving in alongside. She was watching Jake and raised her eyebrows slightly as he looked her way, but wasn’t quick enough to wave before he’d turned away. It wasn’t that he was averse to semi-naked women giving him the come on, it was just that he had other things on his mind right now.

  Getting up from the steering station he moved down the deck, gazing up at the russet, pink and yellow houses with their wide open shutters and red-tiled roofs that clustered around the old bohemian fishing port. After the recent heavy rains everything looked twice as bright and sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight. For a moment he allowed himself to think of happier times he had spent there and almost smiled as he dropped his eyes to the bustling cafés, gift shops, street art and the parading peacocks of French fashion. It made a pleasant change from the great, sprawling marinas of the West Coast.

  Maybe it was the claustrophobia of St Tropez that he enjoyed the most, with its narrow, shady streets where laundry hung from upstairs windows and friendly, noisy bistros spilled onto the cobbles. After the infinite, silent expanse of the sea, the isolation, the eerie calm and the howling winds that made his heart throb with fear and exhilaration, the cluttered pandemonium of St Tropez made a striking and welcome contrast. This time they’d sailed only from Corsica, but for a while the wind had registered seven on the Beaufort. His black hair was still damp from the sea-spray, and his thin, white cotton shirt and tattered jeans were stained with salt and sweat.

  Time now for some relaxation, at least for his crew. They’d been on board for over three weeks, making brief calls into French and Italian ports, but never for more than an hour or two.

  As he moved on along the deck towards the stern the humour in his watchful eyes was affecting the men. He was popular with his crew and was almost sorry he wouldn’t be around much over the next day or so. But at least he knew where they’d be, which was more than they could say about him. He was an intensely private man and those who knew anything about him at all knew it mainly from hearsay – with the exception of Bob, the first mate. But Bob was as closed about Jake’s personal life as Jake himself and had never entered into the speculation as to how Jake had come by the vicious, disfiguring scar around the socket of his left eye. It wasn’t unusual for Jake to cover the scar with a patch, as he was doing at that moment, for glaring sunlight caused the eye problems.

  Bob knew why they had come into St Tropez now, knew too that it would have been more convenient for Jake to have anchored off Cannes or in the marina at Golfe Juan. But Jake didn’t want the crew too close to hand over the next few days, so he’d chosen a port where he knew they would have a good time even though it surely to God must give him more pain than pleasure to be there himself.

  Scratching the thirty-six hour stubble on his chin, Bob came alongside Jake at the stern where a couple of crew were connecting up the passerelle. At five foot ten Bob was by no means as tall as Jake, nor was he so muscular, but he did have a certain something that appealed to the ladies. Possibly it was the shyness that he concealed with a gruff disinterest, or maybe it was just that they used him to get to know Jake. What the hell did he know? What the hell did he care even? He was as confirmed a bachelor now at forty-six as he has been at twenty-six, for when it came to women and the sea there was no contest. He occasionally wondered if Jake could say the same.

  ‘Any sign of her?’ he said.

  ‘She’ll be here,’ Jake responded tonelessly. Then his mouth relaxed in a smile as he registered Bob’s anxiety. ‘Nothing’s going to happen this time,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Bob grunted, not for the first time wishing that he and Jake were preparing for the Transpac or the Sydney–Hobart or just sitting on one of the quays in San Diego chewing over victories and near misses, new techniques and how many millions Jake and his old man were about to sink into the building of yet another marina. In fact Bob wished they were anywhere right now rather than the south of France, even though he knew they had no choice in the matter.

  ‘You taking them up to the Café des Arts?’ Jake asked

  Bob nodded.

  ‘I might join you later,’ Jake said, swinging himself up on to the passerelle as a familiar black Mercedes sports car inched its way through the crowds.

  ‘Just keep in touch,’ Bob called after him. ‘And for Christ’s sake don’t do anything rash.’

  As the car came to a halt Jake turned back, grinning. Then opening the door for the driver to get out, he slid behind the wheel himself, waited for the blonde to get in the other side then drove away.

  ‘OK, you lot,’ Bob shouted to the crew, ‘finish up here, then let’s go have ourselves some fun.’

  Consuela de Santiago Santini was strolling through the gardens of her palatial estate on the Cap d’Antibes. Her thick blonde hair was clasped at the nape of her neck by an intricate tortoiseshell slide, her flimsy silk sarong parted in the breeze t
o reveal long, exquisite legs that could easily belong to a woman half her age. Dark glasses shielded her gentle, green eyes from the sun, a subtle pink gloss protected her wide, generous lips. With her was Rosalind Carmichael, a woman who whilst not quite so beautiful as Consuela was nonetheless striking. She was younger than Consuela by almost ten years, but then Consuela could have passed easily for being in her early to mid-forties.

  Consuela gave a cry of surprised laughter as Rosalind finished telling her about an incident on Capri a few weeks before, when mutual friends had become embroiled in an unfortunate confrontation with the locals.

  ‘Ah, Capri,’ Consuela sighed, stopping beside a fountain and sitting on the edge. ‘It is so long since I have been there.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go, darling?’ Rosalind said, gently.

  Consuela shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she smiled. ‘But I like to hear about it. About all the places you visit.’

  Rosalind reached out for her hand. ‘You know how I hate nagging,’ she said, ‘but you have turned yourself into a virtual prisoner here.’

  ‘A prisoner?’ Consuela laughed, covering Rosalind’s hand. ‘Is that how you see me?’ She looked back at the sprawling white stucco villa that housed eight luxurious bedrooms, six of which overlooked the sea, three sitting rooms, two dining rooms and a collection of the most tasteful antiques and paintings on the entire coast. Seeing Frederico, one of her six young gardeners, poised ready to dive into the pool, she smiled fondly. Unlike the others Frederico rarely used the private beach, he didn’t like to swim in the sea.

  ‘They have all been working so hard these past two days,’ Consuela murmured, almost to herself. ‘There has been so much clearing up to do after the storms. You are lucky you missed them, chérie, it has been quite dismal here. But the sun is shining now and the sky is so beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re changing the subject, Consuela,’ Rosalind chided. ‘How do you see yourself, if not as a prisoner? You so rarely go out, you stay here all the time, shut up behind these walls …’

  ‘Ssh, ssh,’ Consuela soothed. ‘You know I don’t like to discuss this. I am happy here, Rosalind, very happy. I have my boys to take care of me, I have my music, my lovely garden, and all my wonderful friends who come to visit. What more could I ask for? Now come, I want you to see the new olive press the boys have made. It is quite an accomplishment, I think.’

  Smiling and shaking her head in fond exasperation Rosalind followed Consuela along an oleander-lined walkway towards the vast stable block that Consuela had had converted into a Greco-Roman bathhouse on the ground floor and living quarters for her staff on the upper floor. Whether Consuela ever indulged in the sensuous delights of the bathhouse herself Rosalind didn’t know, though her friends were certainly always welcome to avail themselves of its pleasures.

  It was almost heartbreaking to see the way Consuela lived now when compared to the jet-set life she’d led before. Of course, no one could wish for a more perfect setting in which to lock oneself away from the world, but it was so terrible to see the sadness that seemed to flow through her every movement and the despair that stole the joy from her lovely smile. She had been known to leave the house once or twice since it had all happened, but she never ventured further than the Côte d’Azur, hadn’t left France at all in almost three years.

  ‘I am thinking of having a few friends for dinner at the weekend,’ Consuela said, as they walked around the bathhouse to the hidden work area behind. ‘Will you still be here, chérie? I’d like you to come.’

  ‘I’ll still be here. We aren’t leaving until the end of next week. Shall I invite Peter?’

  Consuela’s eyes held a mischievous sparkle as she turned to her friend. ‘Do you want to invite Peter?’ she asked.

  Rosalind laughed. ‘Maybe not.’ she said. ‘Who else are you inviting?’

  ‘I thought perhaps Mathilde, Caro, Serena, Olivia …’

  ‘Olivia is here?’ Rosalind interrupted. ‘I didn’t know. When did she arrive?’

  ‘Just yesterday. She called me this morning. She and Gino are sailing to Morocco next week. Now, here, see my new olive press, aren’t they magicians, my boys?’

  Never having seen an olive press in her life Rosalind made what she hoped were the right noises. She knew how proud Consuela was of her boys, how she treated each one as though he were a cherished son – the son perhaps that she’d never had.

  When Consuela had first left Argentina and moved permanently into this house where she had spent so many summers with her husband, Rosalind, just like everyone else, had been curious about the absence of any females on her staff, but Rosalind had been the one insensitive enough to ask. The grief that had clouded Consuela’s eyes had been answer enough, and Rosalind had wanted to bite out her tongue. But seeing Rosalind’s distress Consuela had comforted her with another answer, an answer that was also true, but certainly not the sole reason for surrounding herself with handsome young men.

  ‘You know how I enjoy the company of young people,’ Consuela had smiled. ‘It keeps me young too, but girls they always come with so many problems, their lives are so complicated in comparison to the boys. And they do so like to gossip. So that is why I don’t employ them. I have plenty of female company in my friends, it is enough.’

  There had been a great deal of gossip concerning Consuela and her household, but Rosalind doubted that even half of it was true. She had never seen a sign of anything even remotely sexual between Consuela and the boys, had never detected as much as a glimpse of anything that would suggest that Consuela had a sex life at all.

  The olive press admired, Consuela and Rosalind started back towards the house.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you some lunch?’ Consuela said. ‘I like the boys to take a break at midday, but I can easily prepare something myself.’

  ‘No, really, I’m not hungry,’ Rosalind insisted. ‘But I could use a drink and perhaps a swim. Do you think Frederico would mind if I joined him?’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be delighted,’ Consuela answered with a laugh. ‘And while I go to the kitchen perhaps you can think of someone else I should invite on Saturday. It has been some time since we ladies got together. What will you have to drink? Maybe a fruit punch?’

  ‘Sounds heavenly,’ Rosalind said, stopping at one of the sunbeds and kicking off her shoes. She turned to where Frederico was doing steady, strenuous laps of the pool. ‘Do you think he’ll mind if I go in topless?’ she whispered to Consuela. ‘I only have my bikini bottom.’

  ‘My darling, I’m sure you won’t be showing him anything he hasn’t seen before,’ Consuela laughed. ‘Now go ahead, I’ll bring you a towel.’

  Consuela was on the point of walking up the steps to the house when the telephone rang. Turning back she picked up the phone beside the pool.

  ‘Yes, this is Consuela Santini,’ she said, admiring Rosalind’s perfect but as yet untanned body as she stepped out of her dress.

  ‘Consuela, it’s Ricard.’

  ‘Darling, how are you?’ Consuela cried. ‘It has been so long since we’ve spoken. Where are you?’

  ‘On tour with the band. We’re in London at the moment, off to Amsterdam tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you coming down this way? It is the jazz festival here next month, are you taking part?’

  ‘Sadly no, but I’ll try to get down when the tour is over. Anyway, how are you? Still spoiling yourself rotten with all those wicked young boys?’

  ‘You rascal,’ Consuela laughed. ‘You know you are the only one I love.’

  ‘If I thought for even a moment that were true I’d give up everything and come to you now.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, but it’s nice to hear. How is Lucinda?’

  ‘Terrific. About to give birth again actually.’

  ‘Oh là là. How many does that make?’

  ‘Just three. Will you be godmother?’

  ‘If you mean it then of course I will.’

 
‘So you’ll come to London for the christening?’

  ‘Ah-ha, you are trying to trick me.’

  ‘And failing. But I’ll get you out of there one of these days. You’ve got to start living again, sweetheart, the world misses you.’

  Consuela laughed.

  ‘OK, look,’ Ricard said, ‘I’ve just popped out of rehearsals so I’ll have to come right to the point. There’s this actress friend of mine, Danny Spencer, who’s staying somewhere near Cannes for the summer and I wondered if you could, well you know, sort of introduce her around a bit. I know you don’t go out, but since everyone who’s anyone comes to you … She’s a great girl, you’ll like her a lot. She’s got a couple of friends with her, I don’t know much about them except that if they’re with Danny they’ll be OK. Don’t feel obliged, but if you could help out I know they’ll be for ever grateful.’

  ‘How old are they?’ Consuela asked.

  ‘Thirtyish.’

  ‘Then I don’t see there’ll be any problem at all. Do you have a number where I can call them?’

  ‘Sure. I was going to tell them to call you, but if you’re happy to do the phoning …’ He read out the number, blew kisses down the receiver and rang off.

  ‘Danny Spencer,’ Consuela said thoughtfully, wandering over to Rosalind who after two lengths was now lying on the edge of the pool making a start on her tan.

  ‘Danny who?’ Rosalind said, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Spencer. That was Ricard on the phone asking me to take Danny Spencer and her two friends under my wing for a while. Do you think Danny could be Suzannah’s and David’s daughter? Isn’t her name Danielle?’

  ‘Yeah, it is. She’s an actress, quite well known in England.’

  Consuela looked up as Frederico’s shadow fell over them. She hadn’t noticed until then that he was no longer in the pool.