7
DRIFTWOOD
Marisa Miller arrived at the Everdene Sands Hotel with one good suitcase and a smile for all the staff.
They all adored Mrs Miller. The doorman stood to attention, instead of wondering when he could nip off for a cigarette. The receptionist sat up straight and forgot her nagging period pains. And the manager came hurrying out of his office, where he had been agonising over his debts at the bookmaker, wondering how he had ever got himself into this mess, and greeted her with an outstretched hand and a wide smile.
Steven wished fervently that all the hotel’s guests were as charming as Mrs Miller. His life would be so much easier. And he wished he could offer her the service she deserved. He was ashamed that costs had been slashed recently at the hotel, thanks to the economic climate. The bath towels weren’t as thick and plentiful as when she last stayed. The number of staff had been cut, and they didn’t offer an evening turndown any more. Once, the rooms would have been discreetly tidied, the pillows plumped, the curtains drawn, the soft bedside lamps lit. Now, when a guest came back to his room of an evening, it was just how it had been left.
Steven had told the staff in advance that Mrs Miller was to be looked after properly. He knew she was coming, because she had written to him to tell him so. It was, she told him, six months since her husband had died, and she felt strong enough to return to the place where they had always had their annual holiday. The manager felt privileged, and he wanted to make sure that Mrs Miller didn’t regret her decision. It wasn’t often he took pride in his work these days. There was hardly any point, because you rarely got thanks. People were so swift to complain - they found fault with anything and everything in the hopes of getting a refund - so why bother going the extra mile? He hated himself for becoming so cynical. When he had trained as a manager, it was all about the customer. Now it was all about saving money.
For Mrs Miller, he was determined to make an exception. She would have the best. Extra-fluffy towels. Chocolates on her pillow. He had arranged for fresh flowers in her room. And he had reserved one of the hotel’s beach huts for her exclusive use. The hotel owned two for the use of guests, who could hire them on a daily basis. Mrs Miller was to have one for the whole week at no extra charge. She had, after all, been coming here for over thirty years. Stephen didn’t care if it caused a stink.
His outstretched hand was ignored. Instead, he found himself kissed on both cheeks, her skin cool on his.
‘Steven. How lovely to see you.’
He breathed in her scent. Jicky by Guerlain. He knew, because there was always a bottle on her dressing table. Not that he was a stalker, but the scent had haunted him since the day he had first met her and he wanted to know what it was. Women these days smelt so harsh and cloying. Mrs Miller left a lingering trace of lavender and vanilla that intrigued rather than assaulted you. Stephen had wondered about buying some for his wife, but she had left him before he had a chance to track down where to buy it. It wouldn’t have suited her anyway.
In the meantime, he braced himself to give his condolences.
‘Mrs Miller, I am so sorry about your husband. On behalf of the hotel, may I express our sorrow at your loss . . .’
He’d picked this expression up off CSI Miami. He hoped it didn’t sound insincere.
Mrs Miller took one of his hands in hers and smiled.
‘Thank you, Steven. Though, you know, it was for the best in the end. It was no life for him.’
He nodded. He knew about the stroke too, because she had written to him last year to cancel their stay and explain why they wouldn’t be coming. Life was so bloody cruel. In all his years as a hotel manager, he had never seen a couple so obviously still in love as Mr and Mrs Miller. A lot of husbands and wives who came here looked as if they would cheerfully push each other off the highest balcony. But the Millers knew how to keep the romance alive, even at the age of - what? He didn’t know, but they must be in their seventies. Yet they had more verve than most people half their age.
He picked up her suitcase and took the key from the receptionist.
‘Let me take you up to your room.’
She smiled graciously with no protest and followed him to the lift. Inside, he breathed in her scent again.
Maybe one day he would meet someone he could buy it for . . .
Marisa Miller had been born plain Mary Bennett, but when, at the age of nine, she determined on a career in ballet, she changed her Christian name in anticipation of a more glamorous life. Her single-mindedness, together with a supportive dance teacher, meant she landed herself a place at a leading ballet school at eleven, despite her parents’ misgivings that it would be a hard life. Marisa was certainly a talented dancer, but that wouldn’t be sufficient to succeed in a world that was renowned for being tough and competitive. Nevertheless, she found the drive and dedication needed. Ballet was her whole world. Her focus was unnerving, even to teachers who were used to girls with naked ambition. So it was very hard for them, when Marisa was seventeen, to take her to one side and tell her she wasn’t going to cut it. Not as a prima ballerina - and she would accept nothing less. She wasn’t the sort of girl to languish in the corps de ballet. No one could put their finger on it, as was often the case, but somehow she didn’t have that extra something. She was graceful, beautiful, technically correct - yet everyone who studied her agreed she was never going to be a Margot Fonteyn. And so it was gently suggested that she should find another career path.
She took it stoically. To look at her, you would never think her world had been taken away. From that day, she never had anything to do with the ballet again. She took a job as a secretary in a small auction house off Bond Street. She knew that something would come along to change her life, and in the meantime, she spent her wages on buying the very best clothes she could afford. She had a sharp eye for quality and a nose for a bargain, and she never looked anything other than immaculate. She went to the most expensive hairdresser, bought exquisite silk underwear and stockings, the softest leather shoes. She wore simple but eye-catching jewellery - none of it real, of course, but the class she radiated made even the cheapest string of pearls take on a lustre. And although she was discreet, not flashy, in her choice of dress, she knew she was noticed. She could feel eyes follow her wherever she went. Men where intrigued, women envious.
Marisa was always ready.
The first time she set eyes on Ludo Miller, she knew he was the one. She had begun the habit of going to lunchtime concerts - the ballet had given her a deep love of classical music, and she often slipped into the cool of a church or a concert hall for a stolen hour. And she liked to watch the people, watch them be transported by the music, taken on their own journey away from their cares for a short space of time.
Ludo Miller was the conductor. The string quartet was playing Puccini’s Crisantemi, lesser known than most of his operas-a tragically moving piece he had allegedly written in one night on hearing of the death of the Duke of Savoy. Ludo was wearing black-a black shirt and immaculately cut black trousers. His eyes were dark, his hair thick and slightly dishevelled, and his demeanour was intensely serious. He had no awareness of his audience, only the music. She could see him pulling the emotion from the strings of the players, making each note more exquisitely mournful than the last, until it nearly broke your heart. By the end, she had tears pouring down her face. No one had ever moved her like that. And although you could argue it was Puccini, not Ludo Miller, that aroused the emotion, she knew a lesser conductor would have made the piece quite forgettable.
As the last of the applause died away and the audience began to leave their seats, Marisa knew she didn’t have long. She made her way up the aisle to where Ludo was folding away his music. She positioned herself in front of him, so he would have to look her in the eye.
‘That was exceptional,’ she told him.
‘Thank you.’ He bowed his head in a gesture of appreciation, and went to pick up his baton.
He was used t
o praise and admiration. She would have to do something else to capture his attention.
‘I’d . . . like to take you out to dinner.’
His head jerked up. She smiled at the surprise in his eyes. That had certainly done the trick. Women never made the first move, not in those days. Her invitation was audacious.
He didn’t speak. He seemed quite nonplussed. She carried on smoothly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a twenty-two-year-old girl to ask a man at least five years her senior out for dinner.
‘I know a very good restaurant near here. Would you join me this evening?’
He surveyed her up and down, still not saying a word. She felt herself grow deliciously warm under his scrutiny, as his eyes travelled over her collarbone, her neck, her hairline, and then met hers. Their gazes locked, and there was a moment when the earth stood still on its axis, momentarily halted by the momentousness of their joint realisation that this was a point of no return.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, and for the first time she saw him smile. ‘That would be delightful.’
She walked back to work, her head dizzy, her blood several degrees warmer. She asked her boss if she could leave two hours early and he agreed quite readily - she was the most conscientious employee he had ever had, so he was happy to indulge her. She went to Fenwick, and bought a lavender linen dress, a new lipstick and a bottle of Jicky by Guerlain. Smell, she knew, was one of the most powerful of the senses. And if this was her only chance with Ludo Miller, she wanted to leave no stone unturned.
Of course, he was entranced. They barely ate, although the food was excellent. There was no polite, stilted conversation - they shared immediately their hopes and dreams, their passions, their secrets . . . And in the leafy square outside the restaurant, they kissed for the first time. The moon shone down on them, drenching them in its beams, a silvery cocoon that might never let them go.
They led a charmed life together. She left her job at the auction room soon after they met and became not so much his personal assistant as his manager. He had, until then, been scarcely able to manage his affairs, being virtually incapable of running a diary, being on time or remembering a commitment unless he had someone breathing down his neck. Sometimes it was a miracle he turned up to his concerts at all. His mind was on a higher plane. He thought of nothing but music; the mundane passed him by on its way somewhere else. Marisa, by contrast, thought of everything, from the taxi at the airport to take him to the concert hall to the tube of his favourite toothpaste in his sponge bag.
Being organised like this meant that Ludo could commit himself to twice, three times as much. His charisma and flair made him a popular choice with both audiences and the orchestras he conducted. He always found something in the music that other people had missed, and he enabled his musicians to find that extra something too. He became a minor celebrity, a heart-throb in a world that didn’t really deal in heart-throbs. He was one of the few classical personalities to be recognised by the general public, as he had done more for popularising classical music than any of his contemporaries. His passion was infectious. He was an engaging and witty chat-show guest. And instantly recognisable, in his trademark black clothing, which as his popularity increased was supplied by Armani, some said free of charge, as he was the perfect ambassador.
And Marisa felt fulfilled. She might not have been able to live her own dream, but she was instrumental in making sure Ludo fulfilled his potential. She became almost as well known as he was, as his constant companion, with her timeless chic. People often spoke of the chemistry they had as a couple. Perfect opposites, brilliantly matched. Her poise and organisation, his flamboyant chaos. It was as if they inhabited their own little world that no one else could enter. They only had eyes for each other. They need only exchange a glance and it was as if an entire conversation had taken place in the blink of an eye. It was unnerving. But it didn’t make them any less popular.
Of course, Ludo could be difficult, when he wasn’t oozing charm for the cameras. Other wives often asked Marisa how she put up with him. He was scatterbrained, unreliable, volatile. Rude, so rude - he never suffered fools gladly, and would speak his mind in public. Awkward silences after acerbic comments thrown across dinner tables were commonplace. Marisa never flinched with embarrassment as some wives might. To her, Ludo’s opinions were sacrosanct. She just smiled, like the indulgent mother of a naughty child. Marisa wouldn’t have had him any other way. Besides, he was a genius, and geniuses, as we all know, are allowed to behave as they like.
Initially she escorted him wherever he went, to ease his passage, but when the babies started arriving - one, two, three, four, in quick succession - it became impractical. And so she ran the centre of operations from a large office in their house on the outskirts of Oxford, and let him loose on the world without a chaperone but with a neatly typed list of everything he needed to know.
He had no shortage of female admirers. Of course not. Any woman who saw him conduct knew that he was hot-blooded. Marisa guessed that when he went on tour there was probably any number of knocks on his hotel room door. She shut her mind as to whether he ever answered those knocks. As long as none of them mattered to him, as long as these women were disposable, she accepted that he had to make love while he was away just as he had to eat and drink. After all, he always came home to her.
Their two-week holiday every summer was an immovable ritual. They could have holidayed anywhere in the world, from Antigua to Zanzibar, as the guests of the most illustrious hosts, but they loved the old-fashioned Englishness of the beach at Everdene, the fresh air, the endless horizon. And for that fortnight, they forgot all about music and aeroplanes and schedules and just enjoyed themselves. They took the same beach hut every year, and Ludo devoted himself to entertaining his wife and four children, scrambling over rocks, crabbing, flying kites, cremating sausages in the home-made barbecue he made out of a metal bucket. They were never happier, and always returned to the mêlée of the real world refreshed and safe in the knowledge that Everdene would be just the same next year.
As Marisa and Ludo grew older, and the children stopped coming with them, they continued the tradition, although they took to staying at the Everdene Sands Hotel. This afforded them a little more comfort, but they still spent their days in the beach hut, reading novels, listening to music and sipping chilled white wine.
As he approached seventy, it seemed impossible that Ludo would retire. He still had the vigour of a man half his age. His mind was even more questing, his interpretation of the most obtuse pieces of music even more brilliant. His mop of black hair became streaked with grey, making him look even more distinguished. He was awarded an OBE. He wrote his autobiography - or rather, Marisa wrote it; Ludo would never remember the details - and it was a bestseller. He had a Sunday morning radio show on a commercial classical music station. Ludo Miller’s star continued to dazzle.
And then tragedy struck, after a concert in Toronto. Ludo collapsed, the victim of a massive stroke. He was flown back home, sent to the best specialist in London, but the prognosis was grim. There was little hope of him recovering. He was virtually paralysed, and the doctors were not optimistic. He could do nothing for himself, couldn’t speak or communicate. In one moment their charmed life together had been eradicated; the bursting of one small blood vessel turned them upside down, inside out and back to front.
There was no question of Ludo coming home, once the hospital had established there was nothing more they could do. There was no way Marisa would be able to look after him herself. He needed twenty-four-hour care. She spent weeks researching care homes, but nowhere seemed good enough. Most of them were grand old houses that had been converted, houses that deserved better. It seemed these days only extortionate nursing fees could keep a house of any magnitude running. In the end she chose a purpose-built home with clean lines and state-of-the-art facilities. Yet its walls still reeked of sadness and desperation. Probably the sadness and desperation of the relati
ves who came to visit. The patients were largely unaware of their plights, quite possibly because they were tranquillised to keep them docile, existing in a twilight world of routine that ground on relentlessly until such time as fate intervened to release them. Marisa never met anyone’s eye when she went to visit. She didn’t want to take on board anyone else’s misery.
She visited every day, although it destroyed her. Watching Ludo being fed was the most traumatic experience, as a nurse shovelled what was effectively baby food into his mouth. Some instinct made him chew, though half of it was dribbled out again. Marisa felt repulsed. She could never bring herself to feed him. She thought it would be the ultimate humiliation.
The agony was that no one could tell her what was going on in his mind; whether his thoughts were completely lucid, but trapped. Was he shouting at her from inside to release him from his torture? Or was he perfectly happy, existing in some kind of haze? Was he still thinking of music? Were there miraculous combinations of notes swirling around his brain that he was trying to impose order upon? If his mind was intact, how on earth did he get through the day? Did you train yourself, eventually, to look forward to the arrival of the eleven o’clock custard cream? Shrink your world down into the trivial in order not to go screaming mad? Or was he screaming mad?
Every now and then a random word came out, but it seemed entirely disconnected to anything. She never knew how long it took him to summon up the energy to speak. When he had said ‘ticket’, what on earth had it referred to? Something that was bothering him at the time, or something that had happened years ago? Or had the twisted alleyways in his mind simply produced that word instead of another?
Until the day he had said, quite lucidly and clearly, ‘No more’. And then repeated it. In a tone that was so positive, so firm, that she couldn’t ignore it, or misinterpret his meaning.
The Beach Hut Page 17
