Hotel Mirador

by Rosalind Brett

  Sally managed to stand, but she was breathing as if the air in this vicinity choked her. “And you arranged this lunch, the two of you, so that Lucette could be discredited in front of Dane, and Dane made to show just how much the loss of Lucette meant to him! You wanted to sit back and enjoy the scene—only Pierre spoiled it by leaving the man in the hotel. I think you’re both despicable!”

  “Oh, look here,” growled Mike. “There’s something you haven’t considered, Sally. Cécile was terribly unhappy, and when I realized that Dane was causing it because he paid so much attention to that little harpy, I felt as if I’d do anything to help...”

  “Be quiet, Mike,” Cécile exclaimed. “We do not have to explain ourselves to Miss Yorke.”

  He turned on her. “I wanted to tell Sally from the beginning—you know that. It was you who kept it so devilish dark!”

  At that, Sally left them. She thought, ‘Even thieves fall out’, and walked dazedly into the hotel lounge and through to the lift. The vestibule, as usual at that hour, was deserted, and she could hear no sound from Pierre’s office. She had rung for the lift, but didn’t wait for it. Taking the stairs two at a time, she arrived in the upper corridor and stood still, listening again not far from Dane’s door. She thought someone was speaking in there, but could not be sure. In spite of their delicate pale blue and gold the doors were heavy and solid. Sally hesitated, and went to her own suite, let herself into the sitting room and stood there in its emptiness, painfully aware of a thickness in her throat and a physical pain that ran down her chest towards her heart.

  She clasped her elbows and walked over to the balcony and back again, saw her pink and white frock in the mirror and remembered dressing just over two hours ago, to the accompaniment of Lucette’s chatter. Lucette had been happy and nervous, snatching days, even hours, of nearness to Dane, talking about it incessantly. Sally now knew why, but she couldn’t think about it. She only wished she knew where Lucette was at this moment. Along the corridor with Dane and her husband? Her husband! It seemed so fantastic—Lucette married, and running away from marriage. Yet it was typically Lucette. She was a fantastic creature.

  Sally lit a cigarette, smoked it for a few seconds and squashed it out. She drank water from the bathroom tap, found it warm but hadn’t the energy to ring for ice. In any case, she didn’t want to see anyone but Lucette.

  For something to do she changed into a linen skirt and white blouse, combed up her hair, hung up the things Lucette had left lying across the bed. Then it occurred to her that Lucette wouldn’t want to remain at the Mirador, even if her husband were willing to do so. She would want to run away and hide from the people she had deceived.

  Sally got out one of the superb blue and white suitcases, opened it on the luggage rack and began to lay in it clean undies from one of the wardrobe drawers. She had half filled the case when the outer door of the suite opened noisily and Lucette came through to the bedroom; Lucette with swollen eyelids and chastened expression, her mouth moist and trembling, her fingers twisting the grubby little strings of lace which were all that was left of an expensive handkerchief.

  Sally straightened, was unable to speak first simply because she could find no words.

  Lucette gulped. “All right, I know I’m bad. You don’t have to tell me!” And she began flinging things into the case at a furious rate.

  Sally closed the case sharply, nodded towards a chair. “Go and sit down while I pack for you. I know you feel terrible, so if you’d rather not talk about it...”

  “But I have to talk about it! It’s ... it’s an appalling thing to do—to send for Karel without my knowledge. If they’d threatened me, I’d have left Shiran and got out of their way. But they didn’t say a word ... just sent for him and arranged that we should all be together when Karel came. They told him which plane to take ... do you know that? They even calculated how long it would take him to get from the airport to the hotel. That’s the sort of people they are! And I believe you knew about it, Sally. I believe that you and Cécile and Mike...”

  “You’re worked up. You know darned well I’d never have permitted anything of this sort to happen!”

  Lucette went off on another trail. “It’s hurt Dane ... hurt him so much that he could only push me into the room where Karel was waiting and leave me there. But as we walked along the terrace he did say he’d give me all the help I needed.” Her voice rose, tragically. “He was as near being in love with me as he’s ever been with any woman ... and between them they ruined it—for him and for me!”

  Sally’s nerves were tightening again. “How could they? You’re married already.”

  “But there might have been a chance, if I’d had time to test' Dane’s feelings—get him to propose.”

  “You mean ... divorce?”

  Lucette wiped tears from her face with a forefinger. “Divorce isn’t so disgraceful when you’re married to a man like Karel. He’s too solemn for me, too old in his ways.”

  “Then why did you marry him?”

  “I had to—my parents had promised him and we were almost broke. He’s been good to me, but there’s no excitement in being married to him, no thrills! He’d go away on business and leave me with my parents. That’s what he’d done when I came here. I was bored to death at home when your letter came, and I thought I’d have a little fun and no one the wiser.”

  Sally began to understand. “He was in Casablanca, wasn’t he? And you told your parents you were going to join him.”

  Lucette nodded miserably. “I’d done it once before, but if was just as dull with him as it had been at home. My mother thought it a good sign that I wanted to be with Karel for his last week or so in Casablanca, and she even helped me to pack. Sally, you don’t know how glorious it was to be Lucette Millar again, and to know I could play with the men without fear. And now,” her voice shook and she sobbed, “I shall never be able to do it again. They’ll watch me and make me take an interest in housekeeping and acting hostess.”

  “That might not be a bad thing,” pronounced Sally. “I’ve never heard of anything so irresponsible in my life. It’s certainly time you grew up and learned to do your bit.”

  Lucette’s eyes, brilliant with the tears she had shed, hardened resentfully. “You were jealous of me. You hated the way Dane laughed and talked with me, hated the fact that I was a guest in the hotel while you were only one of his employees. That was why you conspired with Mike and Cécile...”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “I believe you did.”

  “Because you want to believe it. In your heart you know that I’m no different from when we used to go to school together. But you’re different, Lucette. The muddles you got into then were mild and harmless, and you were always sweetly and abjectly sorry if you hurt anyone. You were loyal...”

  “If you’d kicked around the Continent for several years, trying to look good on practically no pocket money, you might have changed too!”

  “But you have a rich husband now. You can’t blame lack of money for the way you’ve behaved. I daresay you have a lovely house and garden, good friends if you’d care to cultivate them. You must have been a little fond of your husband to have married him.”

  Lucette said hopelessly, “I’m fond of Karel, but being fond isn’t the same as being passionately in love. I’ve been in love a dozen times, so I know what I’m talking about!”

  “Well, you got over it a dozen times, and you will again. But the man you married has the real right to your love—no one else. When you wrote to me in England about him, you called him old and horrid, but when I questioned you here, you said he wasn’t so old, so your ideas must have changed. I think you need a man of his age and type; he stands a better chance than a young man would of keeping you where you belong.”

  “But if I could marry Dane, I’d...”

  Sally thrust the filled suitcase on to the floor with a bang. “Put your shoes together in pairs, and we’ll pack them next. And you might open t
he largest case close to the wardrobe, so that we can hang the frocks straight into it.”

  Lucette dragged herself across the room and did as Sally asked. Neither of them spoke. Lucette sniffed often and let out despairing breaths, but she did try to help with the filling of the half dozen suitcases. Someone knocked at the outer door, and Sally opened it, to find a reception clerk there with a large envelope that bulged with Lucette’s jewellery. Legacy from a grandmother, indeed! Sally signed for it and thanked him, came back into the bedroom and placed the envelope on top of Lucette’s large travelling handbag. They continued the packing, tucked oddments into corners and eventually closed the cases and locked them. There were last-minute discoveries; nylon stockings hanging in the bathroom, a scarlet mule wedged behind the bedside table, a scarf which had found its way into the writing table drawer—all had to be stuffed into the pockets of the light silk coat Lucette was to carry.

  She washed her face, made up liberally and began to resemble an enamelled version of her vivacious self. But she was not herself with Sally. She ignored her. In her most bored tones she spoke through the telephone to the desk, and asked that someone be sent up for her luggage and that Monsieur Descamps be told she was ready. She replaced the telephone, took one last look at the crumpled bedspread and the scraps of tissue paper all over the floor, picked up the large handbag and dropped the jewels into it, threw her coat over her arm and walked out of the suite.

  Sally hesitated, and then followed her. Together they went down in the lift, and in the foyer Lucette paused while her cases were loaded. Her husband, a thickset man of average height and grave good looks, put her into the back of the blue and silver car. Dane appeared from somewhere, saw the unwelcome husband into the car beside her, and himself got behind the wheel. Sally’s last glimpse of Lucette showed a poised young woman who looked older but slightly forlorn. In the very last moment Lucette looked her way, without hate and without affection. Dane didn’t turn his head at all. He took the car at speed on to the esplanade and towards the airport.

  Pierre, at Sally’s side, said perplexedly, “It was quick, that. They will actually catch the plane on which Monsieur Descamps arrived this afternoon, and go back to Tangier. I have never known anything so strange!”

  Pierre was to good and simple to wish for gossip on the matter. He patted Sally’s arm, and moved away. Sally went along the terrace and sat down, ordered some tea. Mike had gone, of course, and Cécile was probably resting after her victory. Sally leaned back, exhausted. She felt as if she were disintegrating.

  * * *

  The rest of the day was ominously quiet. Sally did not go up to Mike’s villa, nor did she bathe alone or eat in the dining room. She walked some of the streets of Shiran, bought a couple of books at the hotel store—and insisted on paying cash for them—and spent the hours in her suite. She went to bed early, and was tired enough to sleep almost at once. But in the early hours she awoke, sweating and quivering, and thought about the one thing she had strictly excluded from her mind since Lucette had left.

  How was Dane feeling now? Did he dislike Lucette for her deception, or was he the more deeply hurt, because he had been in love with her? With Dane, it was difficult to judge. Falling in love happens quickly—Sally knew that, to her cost. It might have happened as precipitately to Dane, but he, of course, would have masked the emotion with mockery and banter till he was quite sure of himself, and of Lucette. Perhaps he had fallen, but despised himself a little for loving someone so volatile and undependable. Perhaps...

  Sally turned her pillow and dug her face into its coolness; but she could not shut out the last sight she had had of him. Erect, lean-jawed, at the wheel of his car; no vestige of humor in his expression or demeanor. Surely, if he were unhurt, he would inwardly have laughed a little at Lucette’s predicament? That would have been his reaction—sly amusement at the fact of her husband catching up with her, even though he would also be angry with Mike for the wretched situation he had created. But he had looked as though he would never want to smile again. Sally’s heart twisted.

  Some time she would have to talk to Dane, but she knew now, in the throbbing darkness of a Moroccan night that had lost its magic, that there would be only one talk between them, the final one. The thought of it was like dying a little.

  Next morning she had to make a decision—whether to carry on with Mike as if all were forgotten or to be candid with him and tell him she would be leaving in a day or two. She breakfasted in the dining room for a change from being alone, saw Dane as she came back through the vestibule and returned his distant greeting. She hadn’t looked above the opening of his white shirt, but she was as aware of his expression as if she had stared straight into his eyes. He was cold and full of a distaste that might linger even after Sally Yorke and Lucette were unremembered in Shiran. She lowered her head and went up the staircase.

  At a quarter to ten the car slipped round the drive of the villa and halted at its porch. Sally got out and entered the house, stood still in the small hall for a moment before walking slowly into the lounge. Mike was there, ostensibly absorbed in another chess problem.

  He looked up casually but with a furtive question in his eyes.

  “Oh, hallo,” he said. “I hoped you’d come. What about helping me with the problem?”

  “Chess?” Sally sat down into the chair he indicated, but took no interest in the board. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood.”

  “I’m not, either, but I had to get interested in something, or go berserk. I was afraid you wouldn’t turn up.”

  “I had to come at least once more.”

  Mike sat back and gestured. “Don’t talk like that. I disgusted you yesterday, and I’m sorry. The little tramp asked for it, but I should have held off, if only because she was your friend. I did it for Cécile—I swear it.”

  “Partly for Cécile, but a whole lot because Lucette was the kind of girl you’d have had an affair with in the old days, and she showed her aversion to your lameness too plainly. She reminded you of the girl who let you down, and it stung.”

  “Yes, it did.” Mike moistened his lips. “You’ve been thinking about it too much. What are you going to do?”

  “When I arrived here this morning I wasn’t sure whether to ignore the subject and give you exercises, or talk it out. But since you’ve waded right in, I think it’s best to tell you now that I’m through with this job.”

  Mike didn’t protest and exclaim as she had thought he might. He went gloomy and silent, and a few of the lines she had almost eradicated seemed to deepen about his eyes and mouth. He pushed a pawn across the board and a bishop after it, then rasped his bony chin with his fingers. The lock of hair fell forward and made him look rakish and unhappy.

  “So I shan’t be coming here any more,” she said in final tones.

  He nodded. “I see. It’s my own fault, of course, but I wish you really understood everything. I’ll admit that when I first saw Lucette I hated her brilliance and vivacity and the cowardice that wouldn’t let her look at my leg. I suppose I went on hating it, but I didn’t think about it much till Cécile came and told me that Dane was interested in the girl and it was making her feel wretched.”

  “I know it all, Mike. There’s no need to go over it again.”

  “But I liked Cécile. Before you came, she was the only woman I spoke to. In a way, I suppose, I was grateful for her naturalness with me, and possibly even a little flattered. And then she also assured me that after she and Dane were married I could go on living in this house. She and Dane would share a suite at the Hotel Mirador. It meant quite a bit to me.”

  “Yes, it must have.” Sally sighed. “It’s odd how foolish even a woman of Cécile’s experience can be. Making a public booby of the girl he ... was attracted to wasn’t the way to get Dane. Cécile need only have waited till Lucette left Shiran.”

  “She couldn’t afford to do that—she herself has to leave in a few days.”

  “But it was so ridiculous. What’
s love worth, if it depends on such things? If Dane realizes that Cécile was deeply involved in humiliating Lucette, he must loathe her now.”

  “He doesn’t know, and you won’t tell him, will you? Let someone get something out of it.”

  “I thought you quarrelled with her yesterday.”

  “I was a bit tight, and Cécile sat there smiling, though everyone else felt like hell. It got me at the time, but after I’d sobered up I decided she’d been the one who’d played it straight and I was the one who’d dithered. If anyone deserves Dane, she does.”

  Very coolly, Sally asked, “But does Dane deserve Cécile? I’d say he deserves someone a trifle more honest and loving.”

  “You may be right,” he said helplessly. “It’s a pity Lucette Millar ... Descamps, or whatever her name is, ever came to Shiran.”

  “It was through me. I haven’t done much good here, have I?”

  Mike met her glance squarely, for the first time. “You’ve done me good—plenty of it. You made me realize that all girls aren’t alike, that there are a few sweet, dedicated ones, who’ll see a thing through, even if it’s not too pleasant.”

  “You’ve been pleasant enough,” she said, “but I didn’t come here with the object of curing you. Dane told me to work on you both ways, but he stressed that the most important thing was to persuade you to go to England for treatment. I agreed with him.” She paused. “You’ve recovered from that girl who couldn’t bear to stay with you after your accident, haven’t you?”