by Anne Mather
Rebecca shook her head, unable to accept what the other woman was saying. It was ghastly, like a nightmare!
Adele heaved a sigh. ‘So now you know the whole story. Pitiful, isn’t it? I was only a girl then, and Jennifer only a little older.’
But Rebecca could feel no pity now for this shrivelled-up shell of a woman who was prepared to use her own nurse in an attempt to gain a vicarious revenge on her own sister—and on Piers. She was sickened, repelled by her viciousness, unable to stay in the same room as Adele St. Cloud. Grasping the tray, she made her way to the door, and somehow got outside. Stumbling a little, she made her way to the kitchen, thrusting the tray on to the kitchen table and collapsing weakly into a chair. The awful pallor of her face attracted Rosa’s concern, and she came round to her anxiously.
‘Miss! Miss!’ she cried. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Are you ill?’
Rebecca shook her head dazedly, and then looked up into Rosa’s kind, normal face. ‘Just tell me something, Rosa,’ she murmured huskily. ‘Is—is Monsieur St. Clair married, do you know?’
Rosa stared at her frowningly, and then looked knowingly towards the kitchen door. ‘Monsieur St. Clair?’ she echoed. ‘I—I don’t know, miss. I never met him before he came here a couple of weeks ago.’
Rebecca nodded resignedly. ‘I—I see.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Do—do you have any more coffee, Rosa? I could surely do with some.’
Rosa moved quickly. ‘Of course I have,’ she exclaimed. ‘Just a minute!’
Over several cups of strong black coffee Rebecca tried to make sense of everything that had happened. But it was difficult in her confused state and time and again she had to tell herself that it was not just some crazy dream. But Adele’s maliciousness was real enough, and so was the aching pain in the pit of her stomach when she considered the outcome of her abortive relationship with Piers St. Clair.
Was this why he had controlled himself this morning? Was this why he had called her innocent? Did he know that she was uninformed of his marital arrangements? Or did he think she was the kind of girl to indulge in an adulterous affair with him? The implications were legion. What must he think of her? If Adele had purposely avoided telling her that he was married, she was almost bound to have told Piers that Rebecca did know. After all, she couldn’t risk his telling her and thus ruining the potentialities of their involvement with one another. And what did she think she had seen this morning? What imagined construction had she put upon those moments when she was in Piers’ arms? Did she believe that their lovemaking had exceeded the bounds of what was right and what was wrong? And did it matter what she thought, when she could so easily make her own explanations so convincing?
Rebecca buried her face in her hands, and Rosa came to the table and touched her arm gently. ‘What is it?’ she asked softly. ‘Can I help?’
Rebecca managed a faint wistful smile, but she shook her head. ‘No one can help, Rosa,’ she said quietly. Smoothing the flesh over her cheekbones, she rose determinedly to her feet. ‘I’m going out, Rosa,’ she said with dignity. ‘You can tell Miss St. Cloud that I will return later for my things.’
Rosa was aghast. ‘You’re leaving, miss?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Rebecca bit her lip. ‘Something has happened, something that makes it impossible for me to stay.’
Rosa shook her head, folding her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, miss?’ she asked worriedly. ‘You look mighty queer to me. Oughtn’t you to wait a while, a couple of days maybe, until you have time to think?’
Rebecca shook her head again. ‘I—I couldn’t stay in this house,’ she averred swiftly. ‘Excuse me, now. I must go and change.’
Before changing, however, Rebecca rang Dr. Manson and told him of her decision. Naturally he was shocked at her decision, particularly as she would give him no reason for this abrupt departure. He said she was placing him in an intolerable position, but Rebecca knew that it would be an easy matter for him to send a nurse out from his clinic for a few days until Adele was able to obtain a replacement.
Then she rang for a taxi, and while she waited for its appearance she changed into a slim-fitting shift of ice blue cotton and secured her hair in a pleat at the back of her head.
Once she was ready, she was impatient for the taxi to arrive, for she had packed an overnight case and she had no desire to have to explain her actions to Adele. But presently the cab purred smoothly up the drive and she ran out and climbed in without speaking to anyone. She gave the address of a hotel in Suva and then sank back against the soft upholstery. She was not surprised to find she was crying and taking a tissue from her handbag she dabbed impatiently at her eyes. This was no time for tears. What she had to do must be done before she lost the courage to do it.
The Hotel Avenida was in a quiet street off the main thoroughfares of the city, and Rebecca had passed it often on her trips here. She was able to book a single room for one night, and then called the airport and made enquiries about reservations to London.
Over a sandwich in the hotel restaurant, she considered how she was going to get in touch with Piers. She had no idea which hotel he was staying at, and there were dozens in Suva itself. Apart from anything else, it was unlikely that any hotel receptionist would tell her if he was staying there. Men like Piers St. Clair were not troubled by unnecessary phone calls, and no one would believe she knew him and did not even know where he was staying.
Finally she came up with a solution. He had said he was meeting the minister this morning. Might she possibly catch him there? It was only twelve-thirty. He could conceivably be lunching with the minister.
She searched the phone book in the hotel lobby for the number, and then, with controlled tones, asked for Monsieur St. Clair. The receptionist at the ministry was very polite, and explained that Monsieur St. Clair had left several minutes earlier. Perhaps the caller would be able to contact him at his hotel. Rebecca searched her mind wildly for some excuse not to know the hotel, and the receptionist said: ‘Excuse me, madam, I have a call on the other line.’
With a sinking heart, Rebecca banged down the receiver. So much for her bright ideas. Now what was she to do?
She walked dejectedly across the hotel lobby, and the young receptionist eyed her curiously. ‘Is something wrong, Miss Lindsay?’ he enquired politely.
Rebecca smiled faintly. ‘Not really, thank you.’
‘I could not help but overhear you asking for a guest of the minister’s,’ said the young man deferentially. ‘Have you tried the Suva Nova Hotel? The minister’s guests invariably stay there.’
Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘Oh!’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘Oh, do they? Well, thank—thank you!’
Turning back to the kiosk, she flicked through the book again and found the number of the Suva Nova Hotel. When the receptionist there answered, she said: ‘Could I speak to Monsieur St. Clair, please?’
‘I am sorry. Monsieur St. Clair is lunching with some friends today,’ replied the receptionist regretfully. ‘Can I give him a message as soon as he comes in?’
Rebecca hesitated. At least she now knew where he was staying. ‘No—no, that won’t be necessary,’ she declined quickly.
‘Who shall I say was calling?’ enquired the receptionist persistently.
Rebecca panicked a little. ‘It’s of no importance,’ she replied, and replaced her receiver.
When she walked back across the hall, she handed the receptionist a coin. ‘Thanks,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘We try to be of assistance,’ answered the clerk smilingly. ‘And—thank you, Miss Lindsay.’
Rebecca left the hotel at about two o’clock in the afternoon. A somnolent heat haze hung over everything, and the streets were markedly quieter. Few people shunned the rest period at this time of the day, but Rebecca could not rest, and she decided to walk to the Suva Nova Hotel.
The Suva Nova was an enormous place, the kind of international ho
stelry found in most large cities to cater for the businessman who demanded excellent service allied to an efficient communications system. Shallow marble steps led up to a series of swing glass doors, and after a moment’s hesitation Rebecca mounted the steps and went inside.
The air-conditioned reception lounge stretched ahead of her, cool and mosaic-tiled, an abundance of flowering plants and shrubs on a network of trellises providing colour and fragrance. Polished leather chairs and couches looked cool and comfortable, and the only sounds were those that emanated from outside the building. Rebecca crossed the hall determinedly, conscious of the disturbing click of her heels on the tiles, but no one took any notice of her until she attracted the attention of one of two receptionists. The dark-skinned young man in his immaculate bronze suit regarded her distantly, and said:
‘Yes, madam? Can I help you?’
Rebecca gripped her handbag tightly. ‘Yes, yes, you can. I rang earlier, enquiring about Monsieur St. Clair. I was told he was out for lunch. Has he come in yet?’
The receptionist frowned. ‘And your name, madam? If you’ll give me your name, I’ll see if he’s in.’
Rebecca pressed her lips together for a moment, and then sighed. ‘It’s Lindsay—Miss Lindsay.’
‘Very well, Miss Lindsay. If you’ll just take a seat I’ll see if Monsieur St. Clair is available.’
Rebecca gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders and went and sat down. It was obvious Piers was in, otherwise she would have been told he was out by now. A few moments later the young man came across to her.
‘Monsieur St. Clair will see you now, Miss Lindsay. If—you’ll just follow me?’
Rebecca got to her feet. ‘Oh, but—isn’t he coming down?’ she asked awkwardly.
The young man frowned. ‘Monsieur St. Clair will see you in his suite, of course.’
‘Of—of course.’ Rebecca nodded. She should have guessed. Men like Piers St. Clair did not have hotel rooms; they had suites.
She followed the receptionist across to one of the many lifts and they rode upwards for a considerable number of floors, emerging on to a corridor carpeted in dark grey pile. The young man escorted her to a white door whose number was picked out in gold letters and then bowed himself away. Rebecca looked after him, and then, with determination, knocked.
Almost at once the door was opened by Piers himself. He was wearing a dark lounge suit and looked superbly attractive, his linen contrasting sharply with the tan of his skin. He had obviously just come in and was in the process of loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
He looked at Rebecca with curious eyes, and stepping back indicated that she should enter. Rebecca did so, not without some misgivings. Confronting Piers St. Clair in his suite was rather like confronting the tiger in his lair. When the door was closed behind her and Rebecca was taking in some of the beauty of the blue and silver appointments of this most luxurious of lounges Piers came round her to regard her intently. Rebecca coloured under his gaze, aware that several tendrils of hair had loosened themselves from her pleat and strayed about her neck, while the cotton dress was a little limp with the heat. Compared to his cool assurance she felt hot and untidy and very much aware of her own limitations.
‘I—I’m sorry to come here like this,’ she began tightly, ‘but—but as I’m leaving Fiji tomorrow I thought—’
Piers stared at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re leaving Fiji?’ he snapped, interrupting her abruptly.
Rebecca swallowed hard. ‘That’s right, and in—in spite of everything—’
‘A moment, Rebecca.’ Piers ran a hand round the back of his neck. ‘Suppose you start at the beginning. Exactly why are you leaving Fiji?’ His eyes suddenly darkened and he snapped his fingers. ‘Naturellement, I have it! Adele saw us this morning, am I not right?’
Rebecca’s colour deepened. ‘Yes—she saw us,’ she agreed tonelessly.
Piers frowned. ‘And she has—how do you say it?—fired you?’
‘No.’ Rebecca clenched her fists. ‘No, I am leaving of my own accord.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Mon Dieu, Rebecca, what has happened, then?’
‘Enough.’ Rebecca trembled a little at the remembrance of it all. ‘Piers, I want to know—are you married?’
His expression changed. ‘You know I am,’ he replied bitterly.
Rebecca’s legs went weak, and she swayed a little. So it was true. Adele had not been lying. She stared at him despairingly. How could he stand there and admit it so indifferently?
Piers watched the colour drain out of her face, and with an ejaculation he cupped a hand round her neck and pulled her close to him, finding her mouth with his own. The demanding pressure of that kiss robbed Rebecca of the will to resist and for a moment she responded, but then as the hardness of his body penetrated her consciousness she dragged herself away from him. Rubbing her mouth with her hand, she shook her head wildly. ‘No,’ she choked, ‘no! Don’t you understand? I didn’t know. I never dreamed you were married. I thought your wife was dead.’
Piers’ expression was grim. ‘What do you mean, you didn’t know?’ he snapped harshly. ‘Of course you knew. Adele told you the whole story.’
Rebecca continued to shake her head. ‘Is that what she told you?’ She gave a mirthless, brittle laugh. ‘How clever she’s been! Playing each of us off against the other!’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Piers grasped her shoulders in a cruel grip. ‘Rebecca, look at me! What is this all about?’
Rebecca stared at him, gulping chokily. ‘I’ve told you. I didn’t know you were married!’
Piers’ eyes narrowed. ‘And this means much to you?’
Rebecca looked incredulously at him. ‘Means much to me? Of course it means much to me! Piers, whatever you may think, I am not the kind of girl to—to get involved with another woman’s husband!’
Piers shook her impatiently. ‘Rebecca, listen to me! My marriage means nothing to me—don’t you understand?’
Rebecca’s eyes were tortured. ‘How can you say that?’ she exclaimed wonderingly. ‘How can you say that to me!’ She choked back a sob. ‘This—this morning—Adele saw us, as you said. I don’t know what she thinks she saw, but she took great pleasure in telling me afterwards everything she thought I should know about you!’
Piers heaved a sigh and released her. ‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t see.’ Rebecca chewed her lower lip. ‘You don’t seem to understand exactly what she did say!’
Piers gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders. ‘I know Adele well enough to know that anything she might say about me would not be complimentary.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘If you have come here to hear me deny what my dear sister-in-law said about me, then I am afraid you are to be disappointed.’
Rebecca shivered. ‘Don’t you care what she said?’
His eyes darkened slightly as he surveyed her slender form. ‘Non,’ he answered huskily. ‘All I care about is what you are going to say.’
Rebecca gave a helpless gesture. ‘What can I say?’ She bent her head. ‘Oh, Piers, why did you have to be married?’
He allowed his hand to slide caressingly along her wrist, his thumb moving rhythmically against its inner vulnerability. ‘I have asked myself that a dozen times—since I met you,’ he said, rather thickly. ‘Rebecca, I meant what I said this morning—’
‘No!’ Rebecca wrenched her hand away from him. ‘No.’
Piers’ eyes surveyed her penetratingly, their depths dark and enigmatic. ‘No—what?’
Rebecca spread her hands. ‘You’re married, Piers. Anything that might have been between us—is over.’
‘You don’t believe that.’ His tone was grim, but matter-of-fact.
‘I’ve got to believe it.’ Rebecca turned away, clenching her fists. ‘You—you’ve never divorced…’
‘Non!’ Piers uttered a curse. ‘Rebecca, we are Catholics. There has never been a divorce in my family!’
&nb
sp; Rebecca’s nails bit into the palms of her hands. ‘I see.’
Piers’ hand grasped the back of her neck suddenly, his fingers unloosening the pleat of hair so that it tumbled over his hand in a silky mass. Bending his head, he touched the back of her neck with his mouth and she quivered violently. ‘Non,’ he groaned against her flesh, ‘non, you do not see, Rebecca. Let me tell you about my wife—about Jennifer—’
Rebecca closed her eyes in agony, willing herself not to lean back against him and allow him to continue making this gentle love to her. She moved away compulsively at last, and said: ‘Adele told me about—Jennifer.’
Piers’ face grew remote. ‘And what did she say, I wonder? You would rather believe her than me, is that it?’
Rebecca spread her hands helplessly. ‘What can there be said? You’re married. I just wish you had never come to Fiji!’
Piers’ face tautened as though she had struck him and he walked past her to the window, standing there with his back to her. Rebecca shook her head miserably. Why was it that she, the innocent party to all this, should feel guilty?
Finally he turned and said in a cold, expressionless voice: ‘You say you’re leaving?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca nodded.
‘Where will you go? To England?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course,’ he echoed bleakly. ‘You will take another nursing post?’
Rebecca lifted her shoulders. ‘In a hospital, if I can.’
He inclined his head. They might have become two strangers standing talking, exchanging trivialities. ‘I suppose I should wish you luck,’ he said. ‘Will you see—Adele again?’
‘No!’ Rebecca spoke quickly. ‘No. I shall telephone Rosa. She will pack my things and send them to me.’
