by Anne Hampson
'But you don't know anyone!' Sophia looked almost crestfallen. It suddenly struck Martine that a large part of what she felt for Kelvin was the result of satisfaction at having stolen him from another girl. There was nothing deep between them, and Martine, watching Sophia's expression, rather thought that it was very possible that Kelvin himself might be thrown over before very long.
'You're not serious,' he said with conviction.
'I'd scarcely say I was getting married unless it was true.'
He shook his head from side to side, slowly, as if endeavouring to gather his thoughts. 'Who is the man—No, there isn't any man! You are joking—being nasty to get your own back!'
'Have it how you will,' shrugged Martine. She turned and began to walk away. Kelvin came after her, gripping her arm and forcing her to face him.
'Is this true?' he demanded looking grey about the mouth.
'I shan't waste time trying to convince you, Kelvin,' she said, wrenching herself from his hold. 'I'll invite you to the wedding instead.' And on that parting shot she hurried away, not stopping until she had entered her apartment. Then putting her head in her hands she wept bitterly.
Contrary to her expectations, the evening out with Loukas was most enjoyable. He was a charming companion, attentive in every way, his whole attitude a revelation to Martine who, with no experience of men other than Kelvin, now realised that the man she loved possessed the kind of disposition that left a lot to be desired. Loukas took her to a restaurant some distance from Olympia, a superb place elegantly equipped, where the food was as exceptional as the white-coated waiters who served it. Loukas was known there, and treated with both cordiality and deference.
He suggested they sit in the lounge first, where they could have an aperitif and look at the menu. A bouzouki band was playing and there were flowers everywhere. It was a lovely, intimate setting and Martine wondered why Kelvin had never brought her here.
'You are not drinking, Martine.' Loukas's voice came to her and she managed a smile.
'I was thinking,' she said.
'About my suggestion?'
'About Kelvin. I was wondering why he never brought me here. It's a most attractive place.'
'I like it.'
'You've brought many women here?'
Faintly he smiled and for a space he seemed far away. 'Only one,' he answered at length. 'Besides you, that is.'
One other…
'Have you never been in love?' she heard herself asking on impulse.
'I believe I have already told you my views on love.'
'That isn't an answer to my question.'
Leaning forward, Loukas picked up the menu left by the waiter. 'Choose what you are having to eat,' he urged and she coloured, aware she had been snubbed.
However, the meal was a huge success, with Loukas chatting to her, sending her admiring glances, flattering her and laughing if she showed the slightest sign of embarrassment.
'My friends call me Luke,' he told her eventually. 'I shall expect my wife to do the same.'
'Your wife?' with assumed surprise.
'You,' briefly, and with a look of censure at her play-acting.
'I can't—'
'I believe you have already made up your mind,' he broke in softly. 'You see, Sophia was speaking to me just before I called for you. She came up to my house to see one of my servants who is rather good at sewing. Sophia wanted her to make a dress for her. Sophia asked me if I knew whom you were marrying. She seemed rather angry that you had found yourself another fiancé so soon after she had been clever enough to entice your first one away.'
'Sophia is a—!' Martine pulled herself up hastily.
Luke glanced at her with perception and said, in some amusement, 'A cat. Yes, you are quite right, that's exactly what she is.'
'I ought not to think rotten things about her. It's not her fault; she's no more than a child.'
'Sophia's nineteen—'
'Nineteen! But she looks only seventeen.'
'And acts like fifteen. How old are you, Mar-tine?'
'Twenty-three.'
'Seven years younger than I. It's sufficient. I'd not want it to be more.'
'I haven't said I'll marry you,' she began when Luke silenced her with an imperative flip of his fingers.
'Drink your wine,' he urged.
'So you are thirty. I had guessed correctly.'
'You were interested enough to take a guess at my age?'
'It was automatic.'
He laughed and she caught her breath. The scar was scarcely visible, so everything about him was handsome. She had previously noted his clothes—the white linen suit, the shirt of pale mauve, fashionably frilled; she had noted too the gleaming hair brushed back as if he would curb the waves, the faint yet pervasive odour of his after-shave lotion. She wondered if he had noticed her perfume… But what did she care if he had or not?
'I must tell you about myself,' she heard him saying as she lifted her glass in obedience to his order. 'I'm in shipping mainly—running cruise ships in the Mediterranean and sometimes in the Caribbean. I also have two hotels in Athens and one on the island of Skiathos. I must take you there soon. You'll like it. But first of all I want you to see Mykonos.'
'You're taking far too much for granted.'
'I have spoken with Sophia, remember. Or, rather, she has spoken with me.'
'What answer did you give her when she asked whom I was—er—supposed to be marrying?'
'I said she would hear soon enough. I also assured her that it was no rumour; you were definitely getting married.'
'It seems strange that she should ask you.'
'I have known Sophia since she was twelve.'
'But she didn't know that you were acquainted with me.'
'She knew that I'd have heard the gossip.'
'Gossip?'
'Your forthcoming marriage.'
'Only yesterday I was engaged to Kelvin.'
'Then people will say you're a fast worker,' he returned in a voice which held a mingling of mockery and humour.
'There hasn't been any gossip,' she said, replacing her glass on the table. 'Sophia learned about my marriage—you know what I mean— from me. I never mentioned your name so what made her ask you whom I was marrying?'
'She didn't ask it outright,' he admitted after a pause. 'She merely said that the girl who had been engaged to Kelvin Gresham had said she was getting married to someone else. Sophia's curiosity was well and truly aroused and she asked me if I knew anything about it.'
'Sophia has a sister,' mentioned Martine, and then wondered why, for it was totally irrelevant. But her eyes widened when she looked up from her plate and saw the harsh expression on her companion's face. His lips were compressed; his eyes glittered and his nostrils seemed to flare. 'Is—is something the matter?' she asked, her knife and fork idle in her hands.
'Nothing,' he said curtly and then with an abrupt change of subject, 'You haven't yet told me about yourself. Have you parents—brothers and sisters?'
'My parents died within six months of each other when I was twenty. I sold the house and bought a flat close to where I was working, as secretary to the Managing Director of a paint firm. At week-ends I used to help at an archaeological site and that was where I met Kelvin.'
'Love at first sight, I suppose,' remarked Luke cynically.
'He asked me to be his secretary.'
'And you left an excellent post to accept his offer? It must have been love at first sight.'
'According to you there is no such thing as love.'
'But according to you there is—and it's you we're talking about.'
'I must admit he attracted me.'
'But not in the same way that I attract you?'
She had to laugh at his audacity. 'You don't happen to attract me at all,' she began.
'Liar,' softly and admonishingly. 'You and I attract one another; we cannot do without each other, Martine, and the sooner you are as honest as I the happier you will be.'
'I'd never be happy without love in my marriage.'
An impatient breath escaped him. 'Even if there was such a thing as love it's so fragile that it's doomed from the start.'
'What a cynic you are!'
'I'm practical, not prone to living in the clouds and looking down at life through rose-coloured spectacles. Be realistic, child, and see things as they really are, not as you would like them to be.'
'I want romance,' she said wistfully. 'You wouldn't understand.'
'Romance!' he scoffed, beckoning the waiter to have him top up their glasses. 'Be satisfied with physical enjoyment,' he advised. 'It is tangible; this thing called romance is not.'
'Because you haven't experienced it—' Mar-tine broke off, not at all sure that he had never known what romance was.
'It's time we changed the subject,' decided Luke. 'We must fix a date for our wedding.'
She frowned at him across the table, trying to look severe and aloof when in reality she felt trapped… and very young and helpless. Somehow she was being driven along a path she had no wish to take and she was shocked to realise that resignation was gradually creeping into her consciousness. But surely she could fight! There was no one on earth who could force her into a marriage unless she really wanted it.
'I'm not marrying you!' Determination in her tone and a glitter of resolution in her eyes.
Luke said quietly, 'There's no need for such vehemence. We shall talk outside, when we've finished our meal.'
An hour later they were walking in the moonlit gardens of the restaurant. 'There's a seat over there,' said Luke pointing. 'Among the trees.'
Where he had taken the 'other one,' she decided, unwilling to visualise him sitting there with someone else. She put the matter from her and said, as he took her hand, 'You'll not persuade me, Luke.'
'On Friday we shall go to Athens for the engagement and wedding rings. We'll stay the night in a cosy little hotel I know of.'
'I wish you'd listen to me!'
'Martine,' he said softly, 'do not keep up this absurd attitude; it annoys me.'
'But—'
'Be quiet!' he commanded and she found herself obeying despite the urge to throw him a tart rejoinder and then turn on her heel and run.
They sat down; Martine stared at the sky through the spidery foliage of the tall palms, watching the clouds unfold so that the moon could emerge again after it had disappeared for a space. Stars came out, too, millions of them spangling the heavens. Restless, she stood up and moved away from Luke. What did she want? She knew without any doubt at all that, should he decide to leave her, to say good night and go, she would want to sit down and cry.
She was conscious of him behind her, felt his fingers cobweb light and tantalising on her neck; they moved to her ears and a quiver passed through her, a feeling of rapt, all-pervading ecstasy. His hands moved again and now it was her shoulders they were caressing, and the insides of her arms. She tried to fight off the natural reaction to the temptation, tried to remain immune, but he was too clever, for her or any other woman; he had had too much practice for him to fail, she decided, as a kind of delicious invigoration swept like an avalanche over her body. She turned without being coerced, turned willingly in exquisite eagerness, vitally aware of him as a man, aware that he was communicating his passion to her, his fierce pagan ardour as, sweeping her into his arms, he rained kisses on her mouth and throat, the tender soft valley between her breasts. She tried to murmur a protest but refrained, admitting it would not only be insincere but also futile. His hands strayed, one cupping her breast while the other slid down to her waist and further, possessively, arrogantly, as if his explorations were a challenge that she might or might not care to accept. She smiled a knowing smile and decided to resist, just a little. She caught his hand, said a firm 'no' and found her own hands imprisoned and held behind her back.
'Fight me if you want,' he said mockingly, 'but I shall always win.'
'You have an inflated opinion of yourself!' 'I understand women. All females, whatever the species, are susceptible to male dominance. He drew her to him again, this time making sure her arms were imprisoned at her sides. She was soon lost once more in the whirlpool of his passion; she joined him in the rhythmic swaying of his body, pressed herself in rapturous seeking against his masculine strength. She, too, be-came primitive, fierce in her desire to be fulfilled.
He said raggedly against her breast, 'You'll marry me? Say it, because if you don't you know full well you'll become my pillow friend.'
'And that is not really what you want.' A statement, and he made no response. And after awhile, as his hands and eager mouth began to roam again, she heard herself say in husky, whispered tones, 'Yes, Luke, I will marry you— just as soon as you want me to.'
Martine sat on a fallen column and stared fixedly at the magnificent spectacle of the Parthenon, its weathered, ochre-tinted stonework mellowed by time and the elements of nature. She tried to imagine what it had been like when it stood in its pristine beauty—when its columns were glistening white, for they were made of Pentellic marble, used by the builders of the age.
She glanced up as Luke's tall, distinguished figure came into view. He had told her to wait here for an hour as he had some business to do—this after they had visited the jewellers in the city and she had chosen the rings, chosen them almost against her will because so many doubts were running riot in her mind. That she was being coerced and used was evident, and yet she seemed to have no will to fight the wave of Luke's dominance. Will…? She felt that perhaps it had nothing to do with willpower after all; desire was her paramount emotion… and she knew she desired Luke as a lover. Shame gave way to a sort of defiance as she thought of what was natural to males and females of every species… mating.
'A drachma for your thoughts, Martine.' The voice, so attractive with its alien accent, the half smile that was yet undisguisedly mocking, the enigmatic expression in those black eyes… Was it any wonder she was attracted to such a man? Tall and straight, his shoulders broad, his very stance gave the impression of superiority and she felt that had he lived in those ancient times of tribal warfare in Greece he would have been a king.
'I cannot tell you what I was thinking,' she replied, picking up the drachma he had dropped into her lap. 'So I will return your money.' She held it up. His hand enclosed hers and she was brought to her feet. 'The people,' she began, glancing around at the numbers of tourists surrounding tired and hoarse guides, cameras at the ready. 'You can't…' She trailed off to silence as he laughed.
'Why do you always assume that I want to kiss you?' he asked, looking down at her in some amusement.
'You said we were going to have lunch in the Plaka,' she said, averting her eyes. 'It's half past one.'
'Changing the subject, eh?' He tucked her arm in his. 'I think this occasion calls for something special. We shall lunch at the Grande Bretagne.'
It was Athens' most elegant hotel and Martine felt pleased that Luke should decide to take her there on this special occasion.
After lunch they went up on the roof, and there, with the spectacular view of the city spread before them, with the heights of Lycabettus shining in the sun, Luke took her hand and slid the diamond and emerald ring on to her finger. She stared at it, fascinated by the dark clarity of the stones, her mind in a daze and her sensations muddled. For while on the one hand she accepted that all this was madness, on the other hand she had the strange conviction that Fate dominated the situation, that on the day she was born it had been laid down that she should marry this tall, handsome Greek, be his wife and lover for as long as Fate decreed.
'It's beautiful,' she breathed, passing a finger across the ring. Luke tilted her face with an imperious finger beneath her chin, bent his head and kissed her parted lips.
'You chose it,' he reminded her a moment later. 'You have excellent taste.'
She smiled faintly. It was easy to have good taste when the cost did not come into it.
'Have
what you really like,' Luke had said. 'You have to live with it for the rest of your life.'
'Let us have a bottle of champagne in the lounge,' he suggested and she felt that, for once in his life, he was acting solely on impulse.
'I feel I have had enough wine already,' she demurred.
'Nonsense. Come, let us go down… and celebrate.'
Why the hesitation? she wondered, then thought that perhaps there had been no hesitation, that she had only imagined it.
The champagne was brought to them as they sat in a corner of the lounge; the bottle was half empty when, having picked it up to refill their glasses, Luke's attention became fixed and his whole expression changed so dramatically that Martine felt her heart give a little lurch. His face looked almost evil, the features twisted, the nostrils flaring. And then, just as dramatically, his face resumed its former serenity as a smile came to his lips. He put the bottle down and rose to his feet. Following the direction of his gaze Martine saw a tall, incredibly beautiful and sophisticated girl coming towards their table, a Greek girl whose poise was almost intimidating, whose air of self-confidence made Martine feel like a child just out of school.
'Odette,' softly and with a deepening of his smile. 'I thought you were travelling in Europe to recover from your traumatic experience.'
Martine's eyes darted to his. The subtle, undercurrent of sarcasm, of contempt… Surely the girl must have recognised it! If so, she chose to assume a pose of affable ignorance as she stretched out her hand to place it in the lean brown one extended to her while her alert dark eyes slid with swift appraisal to Martine, sitting there and feeling totally out of place.
'Divorce is no longer a traumatic experience,' she said with a light laugh that reminded Martine of the tinkle of sheep bells in a meadow. 'It was so simple, Luke; you have no idea!'
Her glance slid again to Martine and Luke said, his tone void of expression, 'Odette, meet Martine, my fiancée. Martine—Odette Manolis —daughter of your landlord, Mr. Sotiris.'
