Follow a Stranger

by Charlotte Lamb

  wondered what she looked like. Very beautiful, suavely

  dressed and sophisticated, she decided. With hard eyes.

  He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

  “There is someone else,” he said. “I have a rival!”

  She heard the roughness of his tone, and felt a knife

  twist in her heart. He was jealous of this girl. He must

  love her very much to reveal his pain to a comparative

  stranger like this. She forced herself to continue to talk,

  although she was feeling dull and miserable.

  “I’m surprised you allow that,” she said teasingly.

  “I would have expected you to sweep him away.”

  “Oh, I would like to,” he said harshly. “But I am not sure

  of her ...”

  “You’re not sure you love her?” she asked in-

  voluntarily.

  “Oh, I love her,” he said, in a deep shaken voice,

  “more than I thought possible. But it is she who ...” he

  paused, taking a deep breath.

  “Who can’t make up her mind?” she suggested

  brightly. “I’m sorry.” A thought struck her. “She won’t

  mind about us, will she? About us being here, like this,

  alone?”

  He laughed bitterly. “I wish I could believe she did

  mind. But she would be totally indifferent.” He paused,

  then added contemptuously, “As indifferent as your

  Peter.”

  Kate flushed and did not answer. They said nothing

  more, and she gradually fell asleep.

  When she woke she found the fire out, the room cold

  but filled with cool grey light. Marc had gone, but her

  clothes, now bone dry, were laid out for her on the little

  table.

  She dressed quickly, shivering a little, and looked

  down with a grimace at her clothes. They were dry, but

  needed ironing, and the salt had stiffened them so that

  they crackled slightly as she moved. A pale sheen

  covered them, a salt bloom which flaked away as she

  brushed at it with her hands. It was lucky she had been

  wearing practical denim, she thought.

  She found Marc outside, walking to and fro with his

  hands in his pockets. He, too, wore his own clothes

  again. His white towelling shirt and blue jeans were as

  crumpled as hers, but she felt a quick tug of the heart at

  the sight of him. It was strange how quickly she had

  grown accustomed to being with him. There was a

  dangerous sweetness about being here, alone, with

  Marc.

  “Giorgiou came back two hours ago,” he said. “He

  woke me and I sent him to fetch Jake. He only has an

  old donkey which wouldn’t carry two of us, and it is too

  far to walk.”

  “I’ll tidy his house for him,” she said.

  “There’s no need,” Marc said brusquely. “I will

  compensate him for everything.”

  She felt herself going hot. “Money isn’t the answer to

  everything, you know!” she snapped. That unconsidered

  remark of his somehow brought all her old resentment

  rushing back. Last night, in their shared danger and

  discomfort, she had forgotten how wide the gulf between

  them was, but she remembered now.

  Marc gave her a long, hard stare. “Giorgiou will be

  quite satisfied,” he said harshly. “Do you think he would

  like you to act as an unpaid servant in his house,

  sweeping and washing? He would be embarrassed and

  bewildered.”

  “Who do you think does all the housework in my

  home? We have no servants. We do it ourselves.” She

  turned towards the house, but he caught her wrist.

  She looked down at his long brown hand meaningly.

  “Let me go!”

  His eyes were savagely angry. “You are not going to

  do any housework while you are on Kianthos! I will not

  allow it!”

  “You? What gives you the right to order me about?”

  she gasped furiously. “You live in a private dream of

  your own, but I live in the real world, and a little

  sweeping and washing up will do me no harm at all.”

  “It will do me harm,” he said forcefully. “You are my

  guest. I will lose face with my own people if they think I

  have guests who work like domestic servants.”

  Kate was almost in tears, yet could not help laughing

  wildly. “I can’t believe it! What a Victorian attitude!

  You’ve got to be joking!”

  The blare of the car horn made them both jump. Marc

  dropped her wrist with a contemptuous glare. “There’s

  Jake,” he said, and she wondered if she was wrong in

  fancying there was a note of relief in his voice.

  She looked at the little hut, hesitantly. Marc saw her

  glance and took her by the elbow, propelling her towards

  the waiting jeep.

  “There isn’t time now, anyway,” he said, with

  satisfaction.

  “I ought to kick your ankle for that!” she hissed, as

  they marched towards the jeep.

  He laughed, with one of his bewildering changes of

  mood. “Try it, my girl, and see what happens!” He

  looked down at her. “Your jeans have shrunk a little. I’ll

  get you some new ones. The sea-water always ruins

  cloth.”

  She flushed. “There’s no need, thank you. Denim is

  meant to stand up to salt water.”

  “What a proud, stubborn creature you are!” he

  murmured. “I am responsible for ruining them, re-

  member? It was my yacht that you were on when you

  fell in the sea ...”

  “I’m responsible for myself,” she retorted, “and they’ll

  be fine when they have been washed.”

  Jake greeted them with a broad grin, which dis-

  appeared when Marc curtly told him to get a move on

  back to the villa. “I’ve some business calls coming

  through.”

  The journey passed in total silence. Marc stared out of

  the window, his profile rigid. She glanced at him under

  her lashes, wondering what he was thinking about. He

  looked angry.

  She was angry with him. His automatic gesture of

  money had offended her. Did he think he could buy

  everything? They had come through threatened death,

  spent the night alone, eaten a scratch meal, cooked by

  both of them in harmony, and yet now he spoilt it all by

  offering to buy her new clothes. It seemed to be an

  attempt to reduce her to a lower level once more—to

  make her a subordinate, an employee, one of his small

  responsibilities.

  It stung badly. All right, she thought, he’s a million-

  aire and I’m just a schoolteacher whose salary wouldn’t

  keep him in shoe leather! But I won’t stand for a

  situation in which he is King Cophetua and I’m just the

  beggarmaid.

  She brooded all the way back to the villa, ignoring the

  rugged scenery through which they passed, the tangled

  glory of yellow furze, the grey rock and tumbling green

  slopes. The cool mists rolled away and the sky grew

  bright, burning blue.

  “Going to be a great day,” Jake said hopefully as they

  climb
ed out of the jeep.

  Marc ignored him, but Kate gave him a warm smile.

  “A lovely morning,” she agreed.

  Jake shot a wary glance at Marc’s back, then winked.

  Kate followed Marc up the steps on to the verandah.

  As he held open the door for her to pass into the house,

  she looked up with a deliberately cool expression and

  said, “By the way, we never did fix how much we were to

  pay you for our holiday. You’ll let us know, won’t you?”

  His face looked first amazed, then black with rage.

  She felt her nerves leap at the look he gave her. “You

  little ...” he began violently, grabbing hold of her

  shoulders and shaking her.

  “Marc! My son, what are you doing? Have you taken

  leave of your senses, to shake a young girl like that?”

  Marc’s hands dropped from Kate like stones, and he

  turned to confront his mother stiffly.

  She stared from one to the other of them, frowning,

  very pale and fragile in a black satin housecoat.

  “Well?” she demanded. “What is the matter? Will

  neither of you tell me?”

  “I’m sorry. Mrs. Lillitos,” Kate said quietly. “It was

  my fault, I’m afraid. Marc offended me and I insulted

  him to ... to get my own back.” The words sounded

  childish and stupid as she said them, and she flushed

  hotly.

  His mother threw up a protesting hand. “I am at a

  loss for words! But I am too relieved to see you both to

  be angry. Come, my son, kiss me!”

  Marc obeyed, and she clung to him.

  “I hope you were not too anxious, Mama,” he said

  gently. “We were quite safe once we reached land, but I

  had no means of letting you know.”

  Sam tumbled down the stairs, dressed in a sweater

  and jeans. “Glad to see you, Sis,” he muttered, hugging

  her clumsily. “We began to think you were in Davy

  Jones’s locker.” Then he threw a nervous look at Mrs.

  Lillitos and bit his lip.

  She held out a hand to Kate. “My dear, I hope your

  holiday has not been totally ruined by such an

  unpleasant accident. I am so sorry this happened.”

  Kate smiled, shaking her head. “I’m pretty tough,

  Mrs. Lillitos. I was frightened at the time, but I’m fine

  now.”

  “But there is a bruise on your forehead. How did that

  happen? It looks very painful.”

  “I’ll ring the doctor,” Marc said brusquely.

  “There’s no need,” Kate protested.

  He turned on her, his dark face savage. “You’ll see

  him! Even if you pay him yourself!”

  There was an astounded silence as he slammed out of

  the room. Kate forced a laugh, conscious of her burning

  cheeks.

  “I’m afraid he’s cross this morning. The boat is a total

  write-off, you know.” She looked at his mother

  nervously.

  Mrs. Lillitos watched her thoughtfully. “Don’t worry

  about it, my dear. Marc is a man of great depths of

  emotion. He is quickly angry, quickly calm. Next time

  you see him he will be his usual self, I’m sure.”

  Kate doubted that. After what she had said to him,

  Marc would dislike her intensely. His expression had

  been dangerously violent when he turned on her just

  now. She had had the impression that he could almost

  have killed her.

  She went to her room, meeting Pallas on the way, had

  a short chat with her, and then, with relief, had a long,

  hot bath. She lay soaking in the water, thinking back

  over the events of the last few hours. She must try to

  keep her temper. Marc couldn’t help treating everything

  as a commodity to be paid for, could he? It was the way

  he had grown up, in a mercenary world.

  I must see Peter again, she thought. Already the day

  she had spent with him seemed an eternity ago, as

  though she had travelled hundreds of miles and changed

  totally in the meantime.

  She must reassure herself. She got out of the bath,

  dripping wet, and stared at herself in the full length

  mirror on the wall. She even looked different. She could

  not be sure what it was, but her eyes had a new

  expression. They were more alive, more secretive, as

  though concealing something, even from herself. That

  look of youth was beginning to go. Her mouth had an

  adult bitterness in its curves.

  She shivered, and began to dry herself vigorously.

  Slipping into her new dressing-gown, she padded

  towards her own room, and met Marc coming out of his.

  He still wore his jeans and sailing shirt. They looked at

  each other in silence for a moment.

  “I’ve rung the doctor,” he said curtly. “He’ll be here in

  four hours. He has to come over from Epilison and this

  is not his usual day for visiting Kianthos.”

  Kate shrugged, “There’s no hurry.” She went past

  him, in a cloud of perfumed talcum, and he caught her

  arm.

  “Kate,” he said huskily, “why do you fight me all the

  time?”

  She couldn’t look up at him. She was too painfully

  aware of him, big and dark and dominating, standing

  very close to her. He waited for a moment, then dropped

  her arm and stalked away down the stairs.

  He did not appear at lunch, nor did his mother, who

  was recovering from the shock of believing them both

  drowned yesterday. Sam, Pallas and Kate lunched

  quietly together. Then the doctor arrived, examined her

  and pronounced her perfectly fit, but slightly shocked.

  “No more excitement,” he ordered. “Rest, relaxation.”

  He spoke little English, but Pallas translated for him,

  while also acting as chaperone.

  Kate spent the afternoon on the stone patio, with

  Sam and Pallas, lying on well-sprung canvas loungers

  enjoying the sunshine.

  The storm seemed to have blown quite away, leaving

  the island calm and peaceful. Out of the wind the air

  was warm and still. The sun seemed almost hot on her

  bare back and legs.

  She wore her new bikini, two delicate scraps of black

  cotton which emphasised her slender waist. Sam rubbed

  sun lotion into her skin, offering to perform the same

  task for Pallas.

  “My complexion is intended for this climate,” she

  claimed triumphantly. “The sun is kind to me. I never

  use those things.”

  Kate was very tired this afternoon. Her experiences

  of yesterday had left her weary, and she drifted into

  sleep as she lay on the lounger. She did not hear Sam

  and Pallas get up and go off to play tennis, and they,

  considering her, decided it would be kinder to leave her.

  She slept on for several hours, her skin beginning to

  redden as the sun poured down upon it, then woke with

  a stifled cry of pain as a hand touched her red shoulder.

  Marc was crouching beside her, his face set grimly.

  “Now look at you!” he said furiously. “You have given

  yourself sunburn! I can’t take my eyes off you for five

&
nbsp; seconds without you getting into some scrape or other!”

  She turned and sat upright, wincing at the agony of

  her reddened back and shoulders. It felt as though red-

  hot needles were stinging along her skin. Her head

  swam dizzyingly. She looked at Marc, her eyes filling

  with tears.

  “Oh, good God!” he groaned, and the next minute had

  picked her up into his arms and was carrying her, like a

  child, into the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The doctor was back next day and tut-tutted over her,

  waving his small hands and talking rapidly in Greek to

  Pallas.

  “He says you have been very silly,” Pallas translated,

  smiling sympathetically.

  Kate had had a bad night. She had tossed restlessly,

  her whole body apparently on fire. “I didn’t realise the

  sun was so hot,” she said wearily, on the point of tears

  again. She could not understand why she felt so

  emotionally disturbed. The slightest thing made her

  burst out crying.

  The doctor bent over, shaking his head and spoke

  again.

  Pallas translated again. “He says that the sun was

  unusually hot yesterday, but you should never go to

  sleep in the sun at any time. And he says,” she paused,

  listening, “he says that the lotion should help, but the

  pain will be bad for another day or two. And you are to

  stay in bed and do absolutely nothing until he comes

  again. It is an illness which makes you depressed, like

  influenza, so try not to cry.”

  Kate looked up at the doctor and smiled faintly.

  “Thank him for me,” she told Pallas.

  The doctor nodded, as Pallas spoke and smiled back.

  Then he left, and Pallas tucked her up again, gently.

  “Would you like to sleep now, or shall I stay and talk?”

  “I think I’ll try to sleep,” Kate said. “This lotion has

  made me more comfortable. I didn’t sleep at all last

  night.”

  “Poor Kate,” sympathised Pallas.

  When she had gone Kate lay, in the semi-darkness of

  her room, gazing at the white shutters which Pallas had

  closed. Faint beams of light struggled through them and

  lay in bars across the floor. Her headache was better

  now, but her eyes felt hot and dry, and she was grateful

  for the cool shadows around her.

  Marc had carried her up here yesterday and laid her

  gently on the bed. Through the hazy mist of pain she had

  stared up at him, wondering why he looked so savagely

  angry. She couldn’t help getting sunburn. Then she had