Beware the Beast

by Anne Mather

  It was an enormous room, but dominated by an equally enormous four-poster bed which occupied a central area. Easily six feet across, and longer than average, it was flanked by furniture of comparable size — a huge tallboy, a massive double wardrobe, and a dressing table with carved legs. Long windows stood wide to the scents from the garden at the side of the house, long wild silk curtains in a delicious shade of green moving slightly with the breeze. The floor was wooden as before, but the rugs here were white and soft, matching the silken covers on the bed.

  "Is good, kyria?" suggested Maria shyly, and Charlotte could not deny her. It was the most beautiful room she had ever been expected to sleep in.

  "Thank you, Maria, it's delightful," she said, dropping her bag and the vanity case on to a chair and moving across the room. A bowl of arum lilies occupied a position on the table beside the bed, and she touched their waxy petals with a certain sense of poignancy.

  Maria bustled across the room and opened two more doors. "Bathroom, dressing room," she indicated smilingly, obviously pleased by Charlotte's appreciation. "When suit­cases arrive, Sophia will unpack for you."

  "I can unpack my clothes," Charlotte protested, peering into the dressing room which was easily as big as her bedroom had been at Glebe Square. It possessed a bed too, and she wondered why.

  "Sophia will unpack for you," said Alex's voice, unexpect­edly deep and male after Maria's gentle tones. "Can we have some coffee, Maria? I'm sure my wife is tired after the journey."

  Charlotte moved awkwardly back into the bedroom as Maria smiled and went away, and Alex dosed the door behind her with a definite little click.

  "Well?" he said, surveying her unsmilingly. "So you like rny house."

  In this at least Charlotte did not have to dissemble, and she nodded, glad of the respite from other, more terrifying topics. "No one could do otherwise," she answered truthfully. "It's exactly the sort of place people dream of owning."

  "Is it?"

  Alex flexed his shoulder muscles rather wearily and then, to her dismay, sat down upon the side of the bed. He took off his jacket and tie, throwing them carelessly aside, and then stretched back on the silk coverlet, his arms above his head.

  Then he became aware of how apprehensively Charlotte was watching him, and a certain cynicism invaded his ex­pression; "Not yet, Charlotte!” he told her, with infuriating perception. "Not when Maria might come back at any moment. I shouldn't like to shock her."

  Charlotte glared at him frustratedly. "Oh, you - you - I'm going to take a bath !"

  "There's no lock on the bathroom door," he remarked lazily, closing his eyes. "But don't worry, I won't come in."

  "See you don't." Charlotte snatched up her vanity case and marched towards the bathroom door. Then she hesitated, some of her assurance dwindling away. "You — you really won't come in, will you?"

  Alex's eyes opened impatiently. "No, I really won't come in. This time!"

  It was marvellous to strip off her clothes and get into cool water. The glass shelves above the vast circular bath were filled with crystal flagons of bath essence and body lotions, boxes of talc and dusting powders, all manner of fragrances intended to make bathing a more delightful experience. Charlotte sprinkled the bath essence sparingly. She wanted no tempting perfume clinging to her skin, inviting Alex to sample that silent inducement. Nevertheless, she did linger in the scented water, hardly daring to look beyond the evening ahead.

  She heard sounds from the bedroom, and presently there was a tap at the bathroom door. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she snatched up the sponge to hold against her breast. "What - what do you want?"

  Alex's voice was cool and flat. "The coffee's arrived. I just thought I'd let you know."

  "Oh! Oh, well, thank you." Charlotte cleared her throat. "I - I shan't be long."

  "Be as long as you like," replied Alex, without interest. "I'm going to get something rather more stimulating."

  Charlotte frowned. What did he mean? Where was he going? She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of the bedrooom door slamming behind him warned her that she would be wasting her time.

  By the time she emerged from the bath and had dried herself on one of the thick towels, and then dressed in the clothes she had just taken off, the coffee had cooled considerably. But it was still very refreshing. It was the Turkish variety, very strong and very black, and it was exactly what she needed after the enervating relaxation of the bath. Maria had also provided sweetmeats, tiny sticky confections, made of sugar and marzipan, to have with the coffee, but Charlotte couldn't face them.

  By the time she had drunk two cups of coffee, and unpacked the contents of her vanity case, setting out her few cosmetics rather incongruously, she felt, on the dressing table, the light was beginning to fade. Walking to the long windows, she looked out on the shadowy garden, smelling the perfume from some night-scented blossom, and hearing the murmur of the sea from the cove. Dozens of insects were visible in the light that streamed from windows back along the villa, and when one particularly large moth with soft velvety wings flew close to her window, Charlotte stepped quickly backward and closed the panes.

  Immediately the room felt airless, and she looked round anxiously. Near the door, a switch intimated the presence of electric lighting and she walked towards it with relief and turned it on. But no light ensued, only a curious humming sound, and after a moment's panic she realized she had turned on the air-conditioning. Breathing deeply, she noticed a lamp beside the bed. Surely she could not go wrong there.

  The lamp cast pools of shadow in the lovely room. She started as an army of insects began throwing themselves at the window panes, and feeling tension increasing inside her she went and quickly drew the curtains.

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost eight o'clock and she had not eaten since early that morning. Alex had arranged for a champagne lunch to be served aboard the plane, but apart from a glass of the bubbly liquid, which she had not really enjoyed, she had had nothing. If Alex had noticed her lack of appetite, thank goodness he had not commented upon it in front of the other men, but now she was beginning to feel decidedly faint.

  When a knock came at the door, she jumped once more, and instead of inviting whoever was outside to come in, she went and opened the door herself. One of the young women she had met earlier stood outside, either Sophia or Tina, she wasn't sure which.

  "I have come for the tray, kyria" she said politely, her dark eyes appraising Charlotte anew. "And Kyrios Alexandros asks that you join him in the saloni."

  "Alexandros?" Silently, Charlotte repeated the word. Then realizing she was still being observed rather closely, she said: "Thank you. Will you show me where the - er - saloni is?".

  Inclining her head, the girl gestured along the halL "If you go to the hall, kyria, you will find it easily."

  Charlotte nodded, stepping back into the room as the girl excused herself to pass her and get the tray. She didn't seem half so friendly as Maria, and Charlotte was not easy in her presence. After the girl had gone, Charlotte examined her appearance critically. Apart from eyeshadow and lipstick, she was wearing no make-up, but in this heat too much make­ up would soon cake upon her skin. Besides, she seldom wore a foundation base and usually only creamed her face night and morning. .

  Lamps were lit along the corridor which led back into the main hall. The table was laid in the dining area, and Charlotte couldn't help admiring the finely woven lace mats and shining

  silver and crystalware. She could smell food, and her stomach was protesting noisily as Alex appeared through the arched doorway to the right of the shallow stairway.

  To her surprise she saw that he had shed the dark suit he had worn for their wedding and their subsequent journey, and was now coolly relaxed in cream silk pants and a dark blue silk shirt. The shirt was open at the throat to reveal a tiny gold medallion suspended on a fine gold chain, and she could see the brownness of his skin.

  Apprehending her astonishment, he said: "Y
ou forget, this is my home."

  Charlotte, still embarrassed by the uncontrollable impulses of her stomach, managed to shake her head. "I didn't realize you had changed, that's all."

  Alex gestured to her to enter the lounge ahead of him, and as she passed him, he said quietly: "The room you are occupy­ing was never my room. I usually sleep in much less elaborate surroundings.''

  Charlotte glanced at him over her shoulder, her heart at the look in his eyes. But then he moved away from her: to where a tray of drinks resided on a low carved aisle, and she was able to regain a little of her composure.

  “What will you drink?'' he enquired, raising dark eyebrows. "Gin, scotch, vodka? What do you prefer?"

  Aware of lie emptiness of her stomach and the fragility of her control over the blind panic which was threatening to engulf her, Charlotte refused to consider anything alcoholic. "Er - do you have a fruit juice?"

  Alex regarded her with exasperation. "Surely you do drink something! Sherry perhaps, or Martini?"

  "I do - occasionally I have a drink," she conceded jerkily, "but right now I'd prefer a fruit juice, if you don't mind."

  "But I do mind very much. And as you're my wife now, perhaps I should insist that you join me in having a gin and tonic." Then, noticing the tautness of her whole body, the stiff way she held herself, as if afraid to relax in his presence, he sighed. "All right. Orange or lemon?"

  "Orange juice, please." Charlotte twisted her hands to­gether. "Er — do you think my luggage will be long?"

  Alex handed her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, clinking with cubes of ice. "Not long. Vittorio and Dimitrios should be here soon after dinner. I'm sorry you couldn't change, too, but there'll be plenty of time for you to wear the clothes Verna chose for you."

  Charlotte took the glass he proffered and sipped at it nervously. It was very cold and faintly sharp. Alex indicated the couch beside her.

  "Sit down," he directed, turning from the tray with his own glass in his hand, liberally filled, she saw with dismay.

  Charlotte sank down weakly on to the couch. In truth her legs felt none too steady at that moment.

  "Did you enjoy your bath?" he asked, taking up a position before an ornamental trellis where jasmine twined. His alien ancestry seemed peculiarly pronounced this evening in these lamplit surroundings, his darkness accentuated by the white walls of this particularly Greek apartment.

  Charlotte concentrated on the liquid in her glass as she replied: "Very much, thank you. I - I used some of the bath essence. I presumed that would be in order."

  "Use what you like. This is your home."

  "My home!"

  She echoed his words bitterly, but Alex chose to ignore it. "You are at liberty to go wherever you choose, to treat this place as you think fit. If you have been used to going out a lot - to night clubs and theatres, no doubt you'll find it dull. But I own quite a comprehensive library, and George had orders to obtain the latest best-sellers from both sides of the Atlantic so that should you enjoy reading, you would not be short of books." He paused, swallowing half the liquid in his glass. "Apart from that, during the day there is swimming and sailing, walking if you feel so inclined, and always the sun."

  Listening to him, Charlotte thought his words spelled a prescription for the kind of life she would have happily accepted with the man she loved. But always here, overlaying everything with its ominous presence, was the real reason for her being here, and no amount of reassurance could make her forget it.

  To her relief, Maria appeared a few moments later to announce that dinner was served. They carried their drinks up to the dining table, and were seated opposite one another, across that gleaming expanse of polished oak.

  It was Charlotte's first taste of Greek cooking and it smelled so appetising that she was able to ignore for a while at least the tortuous turnings of her mental processes. Stuffed tom­atoes, and tiny sardines, proved sufficient hors d'oeuvres to lean meat kebabs, served on a bed of vine leaves filled with rice. It was rich food, and the meat was oilier than she was used to, but it tasted delicious. Fresh fruit and cheeses were served as a dessert, and Charlotte decided to choose a peach to sweeten her mouth. She had had a glass of glowing red wine with the meal, noticing overtly that Alex had drunk several glasses himself, but she refused the liqueur he suggested with their coffee. The approach of night caused Charlotte to spill some of her coffee into the saucer, and she was aware of Alex watching her with undisguised impatience.

  The launch arrived as they were drinking their coffee, and Alex excused himself to go and speak to the men. Presently the other young woman she had been introduced to earlier appeared with her suitcases, but when Charlotte got half out of her seat to take them, she shook her head.

  "I have the keys, kyria" she said rather more amicably than her contemporary had spoken before dinner. "I will at­tend to it," and Charlotte had subsided again rather resignedly.

  She was left alone for fully half an hour, and by the time Alex reappeared, she had left the table and returned to the room they had occupied earlier. She couldn't sit down, how­ever, and wandered about restlessly, her mind filled with a sense of dread.

  It was a beautiful room, as were all the rooms she had seen so far, with its soft goatskin couches covered with attractively embroidered cushions. A wall cabinet revealed a collection of wood carvings which seemed strangely alien to this en­vironment, but which nevertheless blended into the scheme of things. The jasmine-covered trellis cunningly concealed loudspeakers from another hi-fi system, and remembering their ubiquitous presence at the London apartment, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of music Alex enjoyed.

  When he at last came back he found her standing hesitantly beside the tray of bottles, pondering the advisability of taking something for her nerves. His suede-booted feet had made little sound, but still she swung round, sensing his presence.

  "I apologise for taking so long," he said, leaning against the framework of the doorway, watching her. "Sophia has unpacked your suitcases now, though, and you can go to bed when you like." His lips tightened as he took in her wary alertness. "What are you doing? Thinking of getting drunk to face the ordeal?"

  His voice was harsh, and Charlotte quickly put some space between her and the alcohol. "I - no," she denied abruptly. Then, rather ludicrously, she realized: "I've noticed you like music. Who are your favourite composers?"

  Alex stared at her as if she had suddenly taken leave of her senses. Then he straightened away from the wall, shaking his head. "Would you believe - Brahms and Liszt?" he de­manded savagely. "Oh - go to bed, Charlotte. Get out of my sight ! Before I decide to really give you something to stare at me like that about !"

  Charlotte sustained his cold gaze for perhaps thirty seconds, fighting the desire to run from this place. But finally it was too much for her, and with a muffled sob, she brushed past him and out of the door, walking jerkily up the steps from the hall and down the corridor to her room.

  Once she was there, the painful humiliating tears would not be denied, and she sank down on to the bed and sobbed until her whole body felt drained and aching. Then she dragged herself up- again and stared about her. Her suitcases had dis­appeared, but inside the huge wardrobe the row of her clothes almost filled the empty space. A nightgown had been ten­tatively laid across the bed where the silken coverlet had been folded back to reveal real satin sheets.

  Her breathing ragged, Charlotte slowly undressed, alert to every sound outside the door. But no one came as she washed and cleaned her teeth, and then put on the flimsy garment. Fortunately it was not transparent, but its clinging folds left little to the imagination. She ran a swift brush through her hair, and careless of which side she slept, climbed between the sheets of the huge bed.

  She hesitated a long while over turning out the light, but eventually decided that she did not want to see him come into her room. If she closed her eyes very tightly, he might even believe that she was asleep and allow her twenty-four hours' grace
. She thought it was strange that his pyjamas had not been laid out on the bed, too. After all, everyone expected him to sleep with her.

  Then she closed her eyes, too tired to think any more, too weary of her own cowardice and his brutality to care what happened to her. And when she opened her eyes again, sun­light was streaming brightly through the green silk curtains.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Charlotte had bathed, and was dressing in white cotton pants and a sleeveless yellow shirt, when Tina brought her breakfast on a tray. The Greek girl greeted her politely as she had the night before, but her prohing eyes sought the scarcely-tumbled covers of the bed. Charlotte guessed that within a very short time everyone at the villa would know that the master of the house had not spent the night in his wife's bed.

  She took the tray and dismissed the girl rather abruptly, irritated by her knowing stare. After she had gone, Charlotte carried the tray to the bedside table, and sitting down exam­ ined its contents. The meal provided was a mixture of English and continental dishes, there being cereal, and bacon and eggs, as weir as warm croissants with honey. She chose to sample the croissants, her still-uneasy stomach rejecting the grilled food, but she was hungry and she enjoyed what she had.

  Since awakening, she had firmly refused to consider why Alex had chosen to stay away from her the night before, but now, with breakfast over and the day stretching emptily ahead of her, her curiosity could no longer be denied. Getting up from her bed, she walked across to the windows and thrust­ing them open gazed out with troubled eyes.

  It was a beautiful morning, the air still deliciously fresh and cool. Even so, the distant headland was already shrouded in mist heralding another hot day. The sky was the palest of blues, shading to turquoise as sea and sky melted into one another. The water in the bay looked green and inviting, and even as she watched a small craft with white sails drifted out from the shelter of the cliffs. It was a narrow-hulled racing vessel, the kind of single-handed craft her father had been sailing the day he met his death. A lump came into her throat. She must never forget that tragedy, or her husband's part in it.