“Are you?” he said noncommittally, and then she blushed a violent red, and fumbled for her handbag on the floor beside her. “I think I’ll just go and tidy myself- ” she mumbled, and immediately he got up and made way for her, and she hurried along the narrow aisle to lock herself gratefully into the tiny lavatory.
She sat on the edge of the basin for a moment, her hot cheeks between her hands, and then, as the tears started to climb up into her throat again with sickening familiarity, turned sharply to fill the basin with cold water and wash her face. She scrubbed it dry, and then with hands a little clumsy with tension, began to pull makeup from her bag.
Her face looked lugubriously back at her from the small mirror, and she stared at her reflection consideringly.
“Ah, look at you, girl!” she whispered. “Daft as a brush! Will you stop being so sorry for yourself? So it’s over. O-V-E-R. Over. He behaved fair and square, didn’t he? You knew when it started that there were no promises in it. He never promised anything - ”
But that made no difference. As she spread fresh foundation over her pale cheeks, filling the hollows under her eyes with colour, and then swept a little pale green shadow on to her reddened lids, she knew that no amount of talking sense to herself would make her feel much better.
Only time could do that. The memories came sweeping into her, and now she made no attempt to stem them.
A year. A year since Jason Chandos had come to the Royal as a Surgical Registrar, a year since that Sunday afternoon in the operating theatre where she had been preparing the week’s operating lists and he had come to “look round”.
“I always come and chat up the theatre sister,” he had said gaily. “Self-preservation, that. Get the Lady of the Knife on your side, and you’re home and dry, first thing a young surgeon learns. I’m lucky this time - you are a doll, do you know that? You should have seen the theatre sister at St. Dominics, now, my last job. She was the absolute end - but you look - oh, I’m going to enjoy this job, that’s for sure - ”
She had answered him pertly enough, used to the sort of chat young doctors liked to produce for nursing staff, but she had found herself surprisingly affected by him. Not his good looks; he wasn’t particularly good looking, really, she had decided, watching him as he sat there perched easily on the edge of the operating table, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets under his white coat, his face alight with amusement as he talked. Dark brown hair, a bit rumpled, a narrow lipped mouth that was almost alarmingly interesting, dark blue eyes that looked very directly at her. But not classic good looks, attractive though he was.
Attractive. She thought of the word now, rolling it round in her mind as she carefully brushed mascara onto her lashes. What did it mean, after all? Just that he was the most exciting man she’d ever met. That was all. Within a month they were going out together regularly, and within three months she had surrendered all attempts at pretending she wasn’t hopelessly, agonizingly in love with him.
Every time he had come into the theatres, it was as though the very walls of the place shook and lurched, as her belly contracted and her heart thumped. And when he touched her, kissed her - that had been the most devastating thing that had ever happened to her.
She remembered with an almost wry amusement the amazement she had felt; she, Isabel Cameron, cool sensible Isabel who had gone through her training days heart-whole and lightly remote from the torrid to-ings and fro-ings of the rest of her set. They fell in love and out of it as often as they had hot dinners, as she had told them often enough when they teased her about the medical students who obviously yearned after her, but got no more than a cool dismissing stare from her level green eyes. She, to fall so helplessly in love! It was a judgement on her, that was what it was. But even though she knew she was being as soft as a bairn she had let it happen. Let herself become more and more dependent on him for all her living, for her emotional needs, her intellectual needs, her physical needs. Above all, her physical needs. But that memory she had to push away, carefully concentrating on painting lipstick onto her stretched lips in an effort to control the shiver of feeling that rose in her as she remembered his arms about her, his mouth hard on hers -
And now it was over. He had told her honestly, and with obvious distress, that he’d thought about it all very carefully, and love her in his own way though he did, it wasn’t in her way, and she deserved better.
“I know what’s right for you, Isabel, and I care too much for you to go on like this. I’m not the marrying kind - if I know nothing else about myself I know that. And this - this arrangement - it’s unfair to you - ”
“But I’m not asking you to marry me, man!” she had cried. “When did I ever do that? I just want you, and if I tell you I don’t care about anything else as long as you love me and we’re together why should you want to change things? Don’t you - don’t you enjoy our - being with me, the way we are? Or are you really trying to tell me you love someone else - that you’re tired of me?”
“It’s not that - I just don’t think it’s right to go on like this - not married, nor intending to be, but - ”
He’d shrugged then. “It’s all right for me, but not for you. Not in the long run. You’d be better off forgetting me and finding someone who would be right for you - someone who’d look after you and settle down and - ”
It had gone on and on, the talking, the explaining, the discussing, until she was almost pleading with him, begging him to go on loving her, however little - it was enough just to be able to love him, to make love, to be together -
But it had made no difference, and in her pain and misery she had fled, leaving the Royal and Jason as far behind her as she could, taking this summer job in the sun of a Mediterranean resort, so that she could be free of her love for him.
“But you brought yourself with you, didn’t you?” she murmured at her reflection, and then grimaced, remembering the way she had lain in bed at the hotel last night, weeping and twisting from side to side, aching for him, sick with loss and anger and misery. She had thought in her stupid way, that just going away would be enough. The interest of a new job in a new place would be enough to get rid of Jason for good and all. Yet she had dreamt about him here, on the plane, on the way to her new experiences -
“The hell with it!” she thought, with a sudden flash of anger. “You’re a stupid fool, Isabel Cameron, that you are. Wallowing in your misery like some green girl! Grow up and be your age. At twenty three you should know better! Now, go back to your seat and be nice to that Biff man, and let him date you if he wants to. You’re going to Majorca to have fun, not to pine after Jason bloody Chandos, right? Right.”
With her head held high and her neck stiff she marched back to her seat, to buckle herself into her safety belt and ply a rather startled Biff with vivacious questions about the island, about Spanish customs, Spanish food and drink, and Spanish people. And by the time they landed, curling in over the windmills and cactuses and dusty pink and white houses of the plains that lay south of the island’s spine of mountains, she had agreed to have dinner with him at a barbecue in the country some time.
And by the time he had guided her expertly through passport control and customs, dealing effortlessly with the chatter of the blue overalled porters and the bustle of the crowded echoing halls of the airport, she felt much better. She had embarked on a new experience, an interesting experience, a fun experience, and she was going to enjoy it if it killed her.
2
She stood in the wide hallway of the hotel, blinking a little as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, for the light in the streets through which her taxi had driven her had been very strong.
She was dazed with the impact of so much that was strange. Strange sights of course - bright sunshine in February, when the England she had left behind had been so grey, was very startling to the eyes. So were the peeling and dusty terracotta and pink and white buildings with their tightly closed green shutters, the palm trees sitting squat to the
ground, the great pile of masonry that was the cathedral rising haughtily above the town, the policemen in dull khaki-coloured uniforms with gun holsters on their hips, and the dark green foliage of trees amidst which vivid gleams of colour showed the presence of lemons and oranges. Strange smells too, a dusty hot smell, and unusual but appetizing wafts from restaurants, wine and fish and fruit and oil. And the sounds, the loud lisping chatter of Spanish, and the screech of brakes which had terrified her as her taxi bucketed her from the airport, but which was, it seemed, normal on the island for every vehicle produced the noise as it leapt round corners; it was all almost overwhelming.
She took a deep breath now and as she grew accustomed to the new quality of light looked around her. And widened her eyes with surprise as she took it all in. She had never seen anything quite so picture-book-luxurious in her life before; the broad foyer in which she was standing was floored with marble, gleaming softly in the light thrown from the far windows. The windows spread fully across the wall, some sixty feet wide framing a view of the Bay with its dancing white-flecked blue water, red and white triangles of sails on fishing boats, nests of masts clustered at the edges, a sweep of shoreline edged with skyscraper hotel buildings that looked for all the world as though they were built of a child’s toy bricks.
The view was muted, however, for each window was shrouded in swathes of delicate blue but half transparent curtaining which gave the light the gentle dim quality that was so very relaxing to her eyes. In the great area of marble between the windows and the place where she stood were scattered clumps of furniture, huge leather covered sofas and deep armchairs, separated by long low tables on which bowls of flowers, arranged with consummate artistry, stood in elegant perfection. And the pictures on the walls, great canvases showing still lifes, and scornfully beautiful women and leaping horses and then the sculptures that stood in niches against the double row of marble pillars that marched across the hall towards great double doors at the far end - it was all so incredibly rich.
The doors were open and she could see beyond them into the restaurant to tables covered with gleaming white cloths and sparkling glass and silver, and people eating and laughing and drinking, and even from this distance she could see that these people were rich. The clothes she could see looked expensive, the women’s makeup and hairdressing looked expensive, even the children - and there were several - looked expensive.
Somewhere deep inside herself a soft giggle began to rise; she, Isabel, daughter of a canny Scots farmer, brought up to be suspicious of any fripperies and nonsenses of the sort that those effete Southerners went in for, to be spending a long summer in a place so outrageously, showily, unashamedly as extravagant as this hotel. It was ridiculous, and she could just imagine how her father would have looked if he had been alive to see her here. And the giggle exploded softly against her teeth, and came out as a snort of amusement.
Somewhere behind her there was a soft sound in answer, and she whirled to look, and now saw against the far wall, beside the smoked glass doors to the street, the reception desk. When her taxi driver had set her down she had just walked straight in, looking neither to right nor left, and she reddened now, feeling very foolish, for there was a man leaning across the desk, watching her with his face filled with amusement.
“Señorita - er - Cameron? Buenas tardes? Me alegro de verle - ah - entiende usted español? You comprehend Spanish?”
She swallowed, and then very carefully, her tongue tripping a little on the strange syllables, she said, “Uh - Io hablo un poco -”
“Ah - you speak a little - but you prefer I speak English, si? So - I am very happy to see you. I am waiting a little time for you, because I sent the hotel driver to the airport but the man comes back without you - he meets the wrong plane. Qué disparate, verdad? So, perdóneme, I am sorry and I welcome you to Majorca. And to the Hotel Cadiz. It is very beautiful, verdad? Is it not?”
“Er - very beautiful - ” and then, a little shyly added, “Me gusta -”
“You like it! I am delighted. Very happy. Now I introduce myself, hmm? I am Jaime Mendoza, the manager of this hotel. We work together very close, yes?”
He came out from behind the desk, and now she could see him more clearly. A slight man - not much taller than herself, so about five foot five - with a classic Spanish look to him, dapper, neatly dressed, dark sleek hair, tanned sallow skin and dark eyes. He looked at her with such clear admiration on his face that for a moment she felt a tingle of annoyance and then realizing how absurd the reaction was, put out her hand towards him with more warmth than she would normally have displayed.
“Mucho Gusto, Señor Mendoza.”
He held her hand a moment longer than she really liked, smiling at her very charmingly. “Please to call me Jaime - you can pronounce it your English way? Ch - it is a difficult sound for the English -”
“But not for a Scot,” she said, gently extricating her hand. “We use the same sound - like in Sassenach - Ch-ey-me - isn’t that it ?”
“Yes! exactly right!” He positively sparkled his delight at her. “Exactly! But of course, there are close contacts, between Spain and Scotland in the history, yes? I remember I learn at school. So, you call me Jaime, as you are a special member of our staff. The others - ” he lifted his shoulders a little pompously “the other staff must call me Señor, of course. But you will be different. Now, you are called - ?”
“Er - Isabel,” she said, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Damn it, this little man was making a pass at her! It wasn’t just her imagination. Two in one day - this was getting ridiculous.
“But a grand way to get over a spoiled love affair, you’ll grant that,” whispered her private voice a little wickedly.
“Isabella! Sin Mentera! A name of Spain, you know that?”
“I’d forgotten till now,” Isabel said a little dryly, and then turned towards the door. “Er - my luggage - it’s out there - the taxi driver left it.”
“Ah, of course - of course. So, I find a porter - ”
He bustled back to his desk, and disappeared into the room behind it, and she heard him call “José! Sirvace hacer subir equipaje la Señorita Cameron!” and was childishly pleased to find she understood what he said. Have the luggage of Miss Cameron taken up - the few weeks she had spent listening to Spanish records was going to prove very useful. But then, as a porter appeared, talking volubly and Mendoza talked even more volubly back, she realized that her grasp of the language was virtually nil, for she hardly understood one word in a hundred.
At last the porter, shrugging, went away to collect her luggage, and Mendoza muttering “Es una cara dura - ” took a key from the board behind him, and came hurrying back to her, once more wreathed in smiles.
“Such troubles we have with these porters - they hate to work, you know? But he is not so bad a man, after all. I can handle these people. Now, come, I show you your room, and tell you of the way the work is for you, yes?”
The lift was huge and mirror-bedecked and thickly carpeted and once more Isabel wanted to laugh at the absurd luxury of it all; and realized that she was more tired than she knew as once more a soft snort escaped her.
Mendoza looked at her sharply, and then smiled widely. “You are happy to be with us, yes? I am delighted - me alegro - you will be happy with us. And we will be happy with you - this I know,” and he reached across to squeeze her arm above the elbow, and she reddened, grateful that the lift arrived at the same moment.
“This is the top floor, a special section for special staff - I have my own little apartment up here, too, yes?” He bustled ahead of her, along thickly carpeted corridors lined with heavy doors, the walls again decorated with pictures, and a chambermaid in a crisp white uniform put her head out of a door to stare at them as they went by, bobbing back quickly at the sight of Mendoza.
“You see?” he said smugly, smiling at her in high good humour. “Me they are alarmed to see. Which is good for the hotel, yes? You of course, are different, verda
d?” and again he smiled at her, and again she felt embarrassed.
“Tell me about the work,” she said quickly as he reached a door at the far end of the corridor, and fumbled the key into the lock. “The nurse before me - why did she leave?”
She had asked the employment agency in London which had appointed her about this, but they didn’t know. All they could tell her was that the job was for the six months of the season, well paid, and with accommodation thrown in. Her employer was Señor Garcia, the owner of the hotel, and he would answer her questions, the girl at the agency had said. And desperate as she was to get away, and glad to get any offer of a job abroad without a true grasp of the language, Isabel had seized the opportunity and the job, risking it being a disappointment. Even that would be better than staying at the Royal near Jason.
“Oh, there was no nurse before you,” Mendoza said cheerfully. “This is why I am so very interested in you coming. It is a very new idea, this, of Señor Garcia.” He looked at her sharply. “You have met Señor Garcia?”
“No, not yet.”
“Ah.” He leaned against the wall, and folded his arms, looking at her very solemnly. “I must tell you he is a - he is a very difficult man. If you have problems, you should not to him talk. No. It is better to come always to me, as I am the manager, verdad? Yes? It is better always to come to me.” He put his hand out and realizing he was aiming once again for her arm she moved adroitly, and pushed against the door.
“This is my room? How nice - ”
He stepped forward so that she couldn’t pass him. “I tell you why there is no nurse before you, yes? Until now, Señor Garcia did not think we required so special a person. If we have illness, which the Good God should forbid, we send for a doctor. But last summer, there is trouble. We have much illness in the hotel, much problems, Señora Garcia says - no more. Next summer, Sebastian, she says, you have una enfermera - a nurse - she says! So, of course, Señor Garcia arranges it so!”
Nurse in the Sun Page 2
