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Nadine looked down on it all grimly. She had come here for a holiday, to relax and forget her workaday problems. She hadn't counted on meeting Sean here. Now, her mind and heart were in turmoil. She kept swinging between one mood and another, one decision and another—she didn't know what to do. The only thing she did know was that the man drove her crazy.
There was a crisp London newspaper on the table beside the coffeepot. When she had finished eating she picked it up and glanced at it without much interest. The date at the top of the front page caught her eye. Thursday... Absently she thought, They get the London papers the same day, how amazing! But how do they get it here so fast?
Then she did a double-take. This couldn't be today's paper, surely?
She went back into her room and rang down to the desk. 'What day is it today?'
The desk clerk sounded startled, then amused. 'What day? Time passes very quickly here. Friday, Mrs Carmichael. It's Friday...' He gave her the full date and Nadine blankly thanked him and put the phone down.
Friday. Friday! That was the day the plane was coming to pick her up and take her to Miami to do the TV interview.
She had forgotten all about it. Too absorbed in other things, she thought grimly. She stood there, dithering, thrown into absolute disarray. What did she have to do before she left?
Shower, dress, pack some things for the couple of days she would spend in Miami. She went into the bathroom and showered, back into the bedroom, dressed in a comfortable green cotton tunic dress with a bolero jacket you could wear over it in cooler weather.
She got down her suitcase, opened it. What should she take with her? How much would she need for a few days in Miami? She looked into the crowded wardrobe, then stared at nothing for a moment.
That was when she decided—she wasn't coming back. She would fly to London from Miami. So she had to pack everything and take it all with her. And she had better pray that she didn't run into Sean before she managed to get on that plane.
She packed hurriedly, locked the cases, feeling very thirsty after her haste, so she went out to the balcony to finish the orange juice she hadn't drunk during her breakfast.
While she was drinking it she caught sight of Sean in white shirt and shorts heading out with a set of golf-clubs towards the hotel's golf-course with several other men.
Nadine stared after them, her eyes riveted by Sean's dark head, the long, lean body moving gracefully and easily over the smooth turf. She might not see him again for a long time. She needed to fix his image on her heart. Her mouth twisted bitterly. What did she mean? His image was already indelibly printed on her heart and mind.
Sadness welled up within her.
Sean and the other men vanished out of sight and Nadine walked slowly back into her room and rang the desk clerk.
'I'm flying to Miami today for several days; would you send someone up to bring my cases down?'
The plane would be landing at ten—in half an hour. She would get someone to drive her to the private landing strip now. When Sean got back from playing golf she would be long gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE met Luc in the reception lobby as she was paying her bill. 'What's all this about you leaving?' he asked, and Nadine explained that she had to leave at once.
'Bad news?' he frowned and she shook her head.
'Work, actually.'
'The boat has already gone, I'm afraid, Nadine. You'll have to wait until tomorrow now.'
'A plane is coming to fetch me, from your landing strip.'
He looked astonished. 'So that plane is coming for you! I knew one was landing around now, but I had no idea it was for you! I suppose Sean has a private jet?'
'This isn't Sean's plane, it has been chartered, I think—it's an air taxi operating out of Miami. I'm very sorry about your class and the portrait. I've enjoyed doing both, I learnt a lot and I'll certainly enjoy painting more now that I know a bit about what I'm doing—and maybe I'll be able to get back some time soon if you need me for any more work on the portrait.'
He smiled at her. 'I think I'll be able to finish it if you send me some photographs of yourself in a similar pose.'
'I'll do that, then. Thank you for everything, Luc, I've had a lovely time here. Say goodbye to Clarrie for me, she's a wonderful cook.'
'I will. She'll be sorry to miss the chance to say goodbye to you herself, but she's marketing at the moment.' Luc frowned again, looking around. 'What about Sean? I thought I saw him going off to the golf-course. Isn't he going with you?'
'No,' she said, and was saved from having to explain any further by the arrival of the taxi which was going to take her to the landing strip.
As she took off later, soaring over the palm trees and blue gleams of water, she saw the level green golf-course and little figures moving across it. One of them was Sean. She bit her lip and ached with misery, but she knew it was wiser to look away.
What she hadn't expected was to find Jamie waiting for her when she reached Miami airport. He waved as she came through the barrier, following the porter who was pushing her luggage.
'Hi, Nadine!'
'Jamie, what on earth are you doing here!'
They hugged, kissed each other on the cheek. 'I'm on the show tonight,' he told her. 'I've got a car waiting—you'll love it, bright pink, like bubblegum, and several blocks long!'
'You're on the show?' That startled her; she stared at him, open-mouthed, and he grinned at her.
'Greg Erroll didn't tell you? Yes, the TV people here wanted us both. It made a good show because they have Cara Marquez, too... remember her? I discovered her working in a McDonald's in London when she was a student, and after I'd done some work with her she became a top model in the States. She's a Florida girl, born here in Miami, so the TV people want to link the three of us in this show.'
'It makes sense,' she agreed. She had met Cara several times and liked her. A dark, dramatic girl with Latin colouring and a fabulous figure, Cara was still only twenty-two; she would be earning top money for quite a while yet.
'We'd better hurry, I'll take you to the hotel to book in and leave your luggage, and then the TV people want time to talk to you before the show,' Jamie said, steering her towards the exit.
He was attracting attention from a party of girls who had just flown in to Miami for a beach holiday. They were staring at Jamie, whispering and giggling, but it was unlikely any of them had recognised him as a famous photographer. Jamie was just so sexy: a live-wire of a man, electrically magnetic with his black eyes and hair, and that terrific energy. He was dressed with tremendous style too— his thin, graceful body sheathed in black and white; a black shirt and white tie, white jeans, black trainers. It was hard to believe his real age; you had to look very close to see the faint lines in his heavily tanned face.
Greg had booked them both into the Grand Bay hotel in Miami's Coconut Grove, an expensive, fashionable area of the city.
'I must have time to freshen up,' insisted Nadine, and went up to her room at once to shower and change out of the clothes she had worn during her flight. Jamie headed, meanwhile, for the bar lounge. Before going down to join him Nadine stood at her window and gazed out, entranced, over the panoramic views across the bay. Biscayne Bay was a busy place: white-sailed yachts skimmed like dragonflies across the blue water, speedboats buzzed between landing stages, and across the bay she could see the homes of millionaires, mock-Tudor residences, or Spanish gabled houses, set in immaculate gardens running down to the water's edge; mostly with luxury yachts tied up at their private landing stages. Around the hotel stood an intriguing mix of expensive boutiques, high-rise apartment blocks, and much older houses built, Jamie had told her, of coral rock, a local material she had never seen before.
The phone jangled, making her start. She ran to answer it. It was Jamie.
'Nadine, can we get on our way? I promised to get you to the TV studios half an hour ago!'
'I'm coming,' she promised.
&nbs
p; Cara Marquez was already there with the production team, drinking black coffee out of paper cups. She kissed Nadine on each cheek.
'Hi, you guys!' It was always a surprise to realise she didn't have a Spanish accent, she looked so Spanish—and was, of course, a hundred per cent Spanish by blood but second-generation American, Miami-born. Nadine often envied her—Cara had it all: beauty, charm, and brains. She had not only made a fortune with modelling since she met Jamie in London three years ago, she had actually managed to get a degree in English and French literature at the same time!
The producer's researcher led Nadine off into a little office to ask her a string of questions scribbled down on a clipboard. Outside she could see Cara and Jamie dancing together while the show's little band rehearsed their music.
The presenter arrived and was introduced, stared at Nadine, took the clipboard from the researcher and skimmed down the answers Nadine had given.
'You were married to Sean Carmichael?' Her eyes lifted, narrowed.
Nadine nodded, her face tightening in anticipation of questions about Sean. He was the last thing she wanted to talk about.
The presenter looked at the researcher. 'We should have got him too, he's in the news at the moment. His film company just bombed.'
'It has done nothing of the kind! Where did you hear that?' Nadine flared, a dark red colour coming into her face.
The presenter shrugged. 'A friend works for the company in London and she's scared for her job, she told me the other day.'
'Well, she needn't be. His company is just fine, I ought to know, I'm about to invest a very large sum of money in it. I wouldn't do that if there was any risk attached.'
'All the same, we might talk about that on the show,' said the presenter to the researcher.
'No!' Nadine said shortly.
The other two ignored her. She bit her lip and from then on was haunted by the fear that they would bring up the subject of Sean and his company on the air without warning. It could cause him terrible damage if his financial problems were talked about on American television, and although Nadine had run away from him she couldn't help feeling protective towards him. It hurt her to see Sean failing, losing face. She knew how his ego would get dented and Sean's ego was a vital part of him.
In the event, Sean was barely mentioned on the show, except in passing, when the presenter introduced her, saying that she had once been married to Sean Carmichael, the film producer. Nadine wasn't the main focus of the show at all, as it turned out. Cara was: she was the local girl and she was a very big name in Florida. Nadine's name was nowhere near as well known, so the interview with her was cut short in order to make more time for Cara and Jamie.
'I don't really know why they had me on the show at all! It was a waste of money for Gieg to get me over here in an air taxi!' she said to Jamie next day at an early breakfast in the hotel.
He was eating waffles with maple syrup. Nadine was eating a bowl of fresh fruit muesli and looked at him in disbelief as, having finished his waffles, he ordered wholegrain toast and when it arrived spread it with golden butter and honey.
It was infuriating that he could eat so much without putting on an ounce, especially at that hour in the morning, when Nadine never felt hungry; but then he burnt up energy at a terrific rate.
'Oh, there's method in Greg's madness—he likes to co-operate with American TV companies, hoping they'll buy his shows one day. It may have cost him a lot of money but it's seed corn for the future.' Jamie poured himself more of the excellent coffee and added cream. 'Now, what shall we do today? I'm not going home until Monday, and Greg said you were booked in here for several days.'
She nodded. 'I want to look at the shops—Greg said they were fabulous.'
Jamie grimaced. 'Oh, shopping! How boring. Why do women love to do it? That can wait. Come sightseeing with me. I'm longing to see Key West again. I was here years ago and loved it. There is a tedious long drive across the causeway which links all the keys; you can't pass other cars and tend to drive in convoys led by the slowest car—you know what that can be like! But the scenery is breathtaking.'
'I remember a film with Humphrey Bogart in it... and Lauren Bacall, I think... I'm sure it was called Key West, but all I remember of it is storms lashing around a harbour.'
Jamie laughed. 'I know the film you mean. It was called Key Largo, I think. Key West is right at the tip of the archipelago, and it's unique, you'll love it. I've hired a car—no, not the bubblegum limo I met you with at the airport! This is a small Ford and doesn't eat petrol. We'll go right after breakfast, shall we? Meet you in the lobby in half an hour. We'll need to leave early—it's a very long drive, there and back. We'll eat lunch in Key West.'
The drive across the causeway was a long, slow one, as Jamie had warned; but while they drove Nadine was fascinated by the view on either side. Jamie had bought a guidebook and Nadine skimmed through it as they drove.
'There are forty-two islands along the Keys, and forty-two bridges linking each island into the chain. And those strange trees sticking up out of the water are mangroves.. .they have roots like stilts, and sort of float on the water, it says in here—aren't they weird?'
'Look at that—I'm sure it's a brown heron!' Jamie said, staring at a large brown bird nesting on a telegraph pole high above them.
Nadine screwed up her eyes in the fierce sunlight. 'I'm not a bird expert, but it does look sort of heron-like. If it would unfold its legs we could see it better.'
'Audubon, the American bird painter, lived out here for some years,' Jamie casually murmured, 'working on paintings of Florida birds. If we had time we could visit the house where he lived, in Key West.'
Nadine gave Jamie an amused look. 'Is that why you were so set on coming out here? To see Audubon's house?' She knew Jamie was a fanatic about birds and pursued glimpses of them in all the wild places of the countries he visited.
He grinned sideways at her. 'It was one reason, but Key West has a lot more to offer than that. If you like, while I'm visiting the Audubon house you could take a ride on the Conch Train.'
'On the what?'
'It's a tram, more than a train, actually, but they call it the Conch Train,' he said, laughing. 'The local people call themselves Conchs, by the way; after the conch shells, I suppose. You can buy them everywhere in Key West.'
'Don't tell me the Conch Train is shaped like a shell?'
Jamie roared. 'No, that's just the name they give it.'
Once she had seen the Conch Train she had to have a trip on it around the streets of Key West. It was more of a tram than a train, open on all sides, but with a fluttering canopy overhead, making the ride a pleasure on such a hot day, as a little breeze kept fanning Nadine's flushed cheeks.
The driver talked them round the sites of the town as they slowly navigated their ways between the extraordinary houses, most of them frame-built, of painted wood, with wooden painted gingerbread decoration along the gabled roofs, and the balustrades of terraces. The gingerbread had been carved by generations of deep-sea fishermen while they were away for months; it was brought back as a present for their wives when they returned and the wives had competed with each other: each wanting to have the most gingerbread decoration along their houses because it symbolised their husband's love for them.
Jamie and Nadine met up when she got off the Conch Train, and they decided to lunch in Old Mallory Square, choosing local dishes—a delicious chowder made with tomato and sweetcorn, very spicy and hot, locally caught fish steaks served with salad, followed by Key lime pie, which turned out to be yellow rather than green, but, the waiter assured them, was meant to be that colour.
After lunch, they visited Ernest Hemingway's house, stared at what they were assured was original furnishing, and talked about the books he had written during his time there—7o Have and Have Not, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. Then they walked around tracking down the places where various other famous American writers had stayed—the town had obviously been a magnet for
writers—Tennessee Williams, Dos Passos, Robert Frost, all had been drawn there at one time or another. Jamie took photos everywhere they went; he never travelled without his camera.
Before they drove back to Miami they followed the crowds of tourists on to the wooden boardwalk beside the ocean to watch the sun sink below the horizon, colouring the sea and sky with flame. Jamie took lots more photos. He had plenty of material to choose from. There was a carnival atmosphere around them: artists sold their canvases, craftspeople sold jewellery, leatherwork, hand-dyed clothes. Entertainers danced, or sang, or played instruments. There were several mime artists with the traditional white-painted faces in black suits.
Nadine felt pleasantly sleepy as they set off on the journey back to Miami. 'You were right, Key West was fascinating,' she told Jamie, who smiled.
'I'm glad you liked it. Then tomorrow you can do your shopping!'
She was so tired after all the walking they had done in Key West that she fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, and didn't wake up until late next day. She had breakfast with Jamie, who had come down late too, and then they separated— she went shopping, and Jamie went off with his camera to take some pictures.
Next day they both flew back to London on Concorde. The flight took half the time the usual jet took, but they still felt stiff and weary when they arrived.
As they walked through the barrier on their way out to get a taxi, Nadine suddenly saw Sean, in a white jacket, standing among the crowds thronging the barrier, waiting for arriving passengers. You couldn't miss him; his black head showed above those around him, his brooding blue eyes narrowed and angry as he looked from her to Jamie.
Her pulses skipped and she became breathless. What was he doing here? Had he come to meet her? But how would he know which plane she would be on? Maybe Greg Erroll had told him? But maybe he was meeting someone else? Or had he just arrived, himself, from the West Indies? If so, where was his luggage, though?
Charlotte Lamb Page 12