Lucy shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘But I don’t know any one,’ she said tentatively.
‘My dear, as soon as you say you are Martin’s wife people will be only too willing to help. Anyway, the Counsellor’s wife always does cakes. I dare say Belinda left a file of notes about how to organize the stall. She was so efficient. Good, that’s settled.’ She picked up a large navy blue notebook. ‘I’ll just jot it down – Lucy to do cakes.’
Having read several novels in which the young heroine married a widower, Lucy had been prepared to live with the shadow of Anne, Martin’s first wife. Martin, who refused to discuss ‘relationships’ even in general terms, was particularly silent about her. Lucy thought other people would try to be equally discreet, but they might inadvertently talk about poor dead Anne from time to time, and that it would not be easy. But no one spoke about Anne at all. Instead they raved on about this Belinda woman, this paragon of a diplomatic wife.
Martin laughed when she complained about the Belinda syndrome and told her that everyone in the Service had to live with tales of their predecessor at post.
‘But it’s nearly two years since she left,’ moaned Lucy. ‘And as soon as I say who I am at the Embassy, people ask me if I know her and say how wonderful she was. And Somjit won’t do anything I tell her. She just does things Belinda’s way. She arranges Belinda’s favourite flowers by her favourite chair. We eat according to Belinda’s menus. I even have to keep my underwear in the same drawer as Belinda did.’
Martin laughed again. He seemed to regard her struggles with intense amusement, as if she were a soap-opera heroine, an entertainment to him. ‘Well, I never met Belinda Crew, but she does sound like an efficient woman and Somjit certainly has been well trained. If I were you, I’d enjoy myself and just let the servants get on with it. You’ll have plenty of scope to do housework your way when we go home.’
But Lucy was one of those unusual young women who actually liked domesticity. During all the years she lived in the Salisbury flat tending her ailing mother, she had been dreaming of a house of her own, ideally a country cottage with a garden, and, of course, a loving husband and a baby in a pram under the apple tree. Married life with Martin lived up to only one of these ideals. He certainly loved her, even more thoroughly than she’d anticipated. Thoroughly, though, it seemed, spasmodically. When he remembered she was there, he was kind and attentive. But Martin was not a companionable husband. On the rare evening that there was not an official cocktail party or dinner, he would retire to his study to read or write. When he did sit and talk to her, he tended to discuss island politics or international affairs. And if she gently turned the conversation to her own concerns, he would merely say she’d get used to Maising. Everything was bound to be different from Salisbury and living with Mother.
Her mother was another of Lucy’s worries. She was so far away. Were they looking after her properly at the nursing home? Mother was now too ill to write, but the matron sent reports about her patient being a little unsettled. Lucy felt full of guilt. Martin said she’d be fine eventually, but Lucy knew that nothing would ever be fine again for Mother.
When Lucy was born, her mother had been over forty, and when she had later been afflicted by multiple sclerosis, Lucy’s father had disappeared, leaving the only child, teenage Lucy, to cope.
Martin didn’t understand about any of that. He said he did, but she could tell that most of the time his mind was elsewhere. Not that she resented this. Lucy felt it was proper that men should concentrate on the world’s problems, which were far more important than her own concerns, daughterly or domestic.
*
The Number One, as the senior maid was customarily called, always had an anxious frown on her flat beige face. She was the only gloomy islander that Lucy had met, and the only unbeautiful one.
Today Somjit looked self-important as well as worried. ‘Sir say you give big cocktail party on twel’ June, madame,’ she began, blinking through her thick glasses.
This was the first that Lucy had heard about any such party. Why did Martin arrange these things without consulting her? Red in the face, she rummaged in the drawer for her diary, but could not find it. ‘I’m not sure about that date, Somjit. I forgot to write it down,’ she lied. ‘I will check with him.’
‘Cook want to know what food you like for party.’
‘I will talk to Nee myself.’
‘Nee she say she no understand madame. Madame speak too fast.’ Somjit smiled, baring her protruding teeth like a sorrowful chipmunk. ‘Better tell me, madame.’
‘I’ll talk to my husband, then I will speak to Nee.’
‘Sir alway say he like food same Missus Belinda like. Everyone say Missus Belinda choose velly nice food. Better I tell Nee you like food same Missus Belinda. Then she no make mistake.’
Lucy gave way immediately. She did not want there to be any mistakes in the catering at her first big party.
Later that evening as they were changing for dinner, Martin was only faintly apologetic. ‘Darling, don’t get in such a state,’ he said. ‘Of course we have to give parties. It’s my job. And Somjit knows what to do. Just leave it to her. That’s the advantage of these older servants, bossy though they may be. Sorry I forgot to consult you before I mentioned it to Somjit. But I don’t have any choice about the date. H.E. asked me to give this reception for some visiting agricultural chaps.’
‘But I won’t know anyone. I’ll get the names all muddled if I have to introduce people.’
‘No one expects anything of you, but to cheer you up you can ask some of those people from the yacht club like those girls you met, Claire and Deborah. Always good to have pretty women at a party even if they’re not useful contacts for the British farmers. Now stop fussing, darling.’ He smiled. ‘I must say, you’re looking rather sexy this evening. Is that a new dress?’ He took her in his arms and began to kiss her ear. ‘Go away,’ muttered Lucy, averting her face.
But, as he nuzzled her neck, she felt herself sinking towards him. He began to unzip the dress she had just put on.
She pulled back, giggling. ‘Teddy bear, it’s nearly dinner time. You know Somjit always likes to serve the meal promptly at seven thirty, that’s when Belinda had dinner.’
‘To hell with Somjit and to hell with Belinda,’ he murmured as Lucy’s dress fell to the floor.
She felt guilty about the martyred expression on Somjit’s face when they eventually strolled down to dinner half an hour late.
Ten
Claire had been surprised and pleased to receive an invitation from Lucy and Martin. The Counsellor of the British Embassy and Mrs Martin Williamson requested the pleasure of her company at a reception, which according to the impressively stiff card, was being held to mark the visit of a United Kingdom agricultural delegation.
She was looking forward to visiting the Embassy. Set in a park-like compound, it had been constructed at a time when Britain still had influence in the world and wished to demonstrate the fact, according to Lucy. Each of the three houses was large, white and imposing. The first building held the chancery and consular offices. The Ambassador and his Deputy lived in respective splendour in the other two.
The guard at the gate would not permit her taxi to enter the Embassy grounds, so Claire walked nervously down the drive and rang the bell on the great front door of No.2 House. A manservant in a white uniform ushered her along a marble-floored verandah into an enormous room full of people.
Martin and Lucy stood by the door shaking hands. Dressed in floral silk in a rather unbecoming shade of green, Lucy looked less plain now that she had acquired a suntan, but she had such a strained expression on her face that Claire’s heart went out to her. She hoped that Deborah was right about their hosts’ happy marriage.
Claire shivered. With powerful air-conditioning and two huge ceiling fans, the room seemed cold compared with the tropical air outside. She looked at the impenetrable crowd of noisy dark-suited men, punctuated here and there by a few
decorative women. The only people she recognized were Jean-Louis and Pel, both conspicuous in unconventional colourful clothes, Pel particularly resplendent in a bright red shirt. As she had no desire to talk to her boss, she began to wander around the edge of the room and soon found herself cornered by one of the visitors. He was a large middle-aged man with a Norfolk accent and a red face who announced that he was the sales director of a firm called Taurus.
‘What do you actually sell?’ asked Claire, to make conversation.
‘Semen,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Bull semen, that is. And it’s been a good evening because I’ve just done a deal to flog litres of the stuff to that bloke with the glasses.’
‘Oh.’
He took a large gulp of his beer and laughed at her expression. ‘I expect you’re wondering what he’s going to do with all that semen.’
‘Well, I . . . I suppose it’s for cows.’
‘Brilliant! You certainly catch on quick. I’ve known young ladies puzzle for hours over that one. You must be a farmer’s daughter if you’re familiar with AI.’
‘Artificial insemination? I don’t know the first thing about it, and I hope you won’t mind if I say I don’t really want to be enlightened any further. But why don’t you actually sell the bull himself?’
He moved closer towards her and leant forward. ‘I expect you think it’d be nicer for the little Asian cows to meet a real Hereford bull, eh?’
She backed away. ‘I don’t think I have an opinion on the way animals feel about these matters.’
He laughed again, so heartily that his fat cheeks trembled. ‘To tell the truth, I don’t think they care one way or t’other. They don’t react much, don’t cows. Bulls, though, that’s another matter. I could tell you a thing or two about bulls.’
‘Are you staying here long?’ interrupted Claire, wishing to change the subject. ‘Maising isn’t a great place for sightseeing, but there are some impressive temples.’
‘Not much of a man for temples, prefer something a bit more meaty, I do. Now, a bloke I know told me told me the nightlife’s quite exciting here. Quite exciting, he said. Why don’t you show me round the town tonight? I’m sure a pretty woman like you knows her way around.’
Claire declined his invitation politely and made a quick retreat. Aiming for the opposite corner of the room, she weaved her way through the crowd looking for someone she knew. Howard had been invited and was taking her out to dinner afterwards, but he said he would be late. Maybe she could try to find Deborah.
Then she saw the person she had subconsciously been searching for. Drew was standing talking to three men. He had his back towards her, but, as if he sensed her presence, he suddenly turned round.
Detaching himself from the group, he came towards her. His face creased into a delighted smile, causing her knees to shiver. In a dark suit, he looked lean and elegant, and had somehow grown even taller than before.
‘Nice surprise! Good to see you, Claire, all blonde and brown and lovely.’
She smiled. ‘Have you been back from Rome long?’
‘No, only a couple of weeks.’
Two weeks, thought Claire, and he hasn’t bothered to ring. It all went to prove he wasn’t really interested. She said aloud, ‘I hope you had a successful trip.’
They talked for half an hour. Claire kept telling herself that she should move on, circulate, find Howard. But Drew’s eyes held hers and she stayed.
‘Shall we go now?’ he asked eventually.
‘Go where?’
‘Out, you and I. We’ve got some catching up to do.’
‘But I’ve arranged to meet Howard here.’
Drew smiled his unsafe smile. ‘Just tell good old Howard you’re having dinner with me instead.’
‘But he’s a friend. I can’t just stand him up.’
‘Always the polite English person. Just do what you feel like for a change. Thought you were pleased to see me.’
‘Yes, I am, but I can’t go out with you tonight.’
‘But I need to see you now, this evening.’ He took hold of her hand.
She pulled away. ‘For God’s sake, Drew, why didn’t you phone in advance? I hardly know you. I can’t keep every night free in case you should deign to appear.’
‘That’s what I want to explain when we’re alone.’
‘Go ahead, explain here and now,’ said Claire.
But as she spoke a tiny, beautiful Maising woman in a tight blue dress came up and took Drew possessively by the arm.
Obviously discomfited, he muttered, ‘Uh, Claire, this is a colleague from the Ministry of Agriculture, Mrs Liana Son. Liana, this is Claire Downing, an art historian.’
‘Privileged to meet you,’ said Liana. Her English was good, with strong American-style overtones. Immaculately coiffed and smartly dressed, she smiled, drawing back her glossy red lips to display a set of perfect teeth. ‘Hey, Drew, one of the delegates is just longing to speak with you. Will you excuse us, Ms Downing?’
The woman buzzed around him like a shiny little beetle. Claire stood staring after them. She had been on the island long enough to know that modest Maising females were not in the habit of clinging on to the arms of business associates. Liana’s appearance explained everything that Claire wanted to know about Drew and a lot she did not. Her instincts had been right. He was a mistake of the type she’d made in the past and would not make again. All that sob-stuff about his ex-wife, and now this woman. She should have known, should have steered clear from the very beginning.
Grabbing a glass of wine from a nearby waiter, she went in search of Howard.
*
Howard was gratified when, rather than go out, Claire offered to cook him dinner after the Embassy cocktail party. She had never before been enthusiastic about inviting him to her apartment. The omelette she prepared was leathery, the toast slightly burnt, and the wine Bulgarian, but Howard didn’t mind these shortcomings. Apart from her cooking, she was perfect in every other way, as he had known the moment he met her.
But he had lost confidence – she hadn’t appeared to take his proposals of marriage seriously. If he talked about the future, she always changed the conversation.
And she was physically cool. Howard wanted to touch her and kiss her. He very much wanted to make love to her, but she always kept him at arm’s length. It was hopeless really. He should have taken her polite hints.
Tonight she seemed more desirable than ever, her arms so smooth and brown and languid, her bare legs so slim under the short skirt, her toenails pink in the gold sandals.
A small, strangely coloured cat weaved about her ankles and then came to inspect his shoes. He stroked its white chest. ‘What a beautiful cat,’ he said tactfully.
Claire smiled indulgently at the animal and he had the feeling he had passed a small test.
Leaning over and displaying a discreet amount of tanned bosom, she poured him some brandy that was slightly better than the wine but not much. He was surprised when she gulped down a glass herself – she was normally a modest drinker. It occurred to him she had also drunk quite a generous amount at the cocktail party before he arrived. One could say, if one weren’t a polite sort of bloke, that she was just a tiny bit pissed.
Claire put on some soul music and invited him to dance. He was glad of the excuse to hold her in his arms. Howard’s method of slow dancing consisted of rocking from side to side, more or less on the spot. Tonight, to his surprise, Claire danced close to him. He noticed anew how small and light she was, so slim but seductively rounded in the right sort of places.
She put both her arms around his neck. He found that his hands, more or less involuntarily, had come to rest on her bottom. Amazingly, she danced even closer. It became obvious, even to Howard, that she wanted him to kiss her and so, willingly, he obliged. He kissed her for a long time. She kissed him back, enthusiastically, until his head reeled and his desire became impossible to disguise.
Murmuring something he did not catch,
she took him by the hand and led him along the corridor into the bedroom, where he found himself sitting on her narrow bed. She smiled at him, a mischievous, expectant expression in her blue eyes.
At that point he knew that his earlier suspicions had been correct. He hadn’t dared to hope, but she had now made matters quite clear: he was being seduced. In a blaze of lustful happiness Howard gave his full cooperation.
*
The morning after Claire awoke late to find the cat miaowing indignantly. ‘Yes, I’m pleased to see you too and I’m sorry I kept you waiting for your breakfast.’ Her voice sounded bleary and thick. Let’s face it, she wasn’t feeling her best.
She opened a tin of cat food for Grace, and poured herself a large black coffee which she took to the bathroom. After her shower, she felt a little better but not much. Thank God it was Saturday. She plonked herself down on the sofa with another cup of coffee.
Grace came to inspect, and, after some thought, decided the most comfortable place for her after-breakfast nap would be Claire’s stomach. She sprang up and then paddled about a bit before settling down.
‘Please don’t dig your claws in and, please, don’t purr too loudly. My head is buzzing enough as it is.’
After a pause she said, ‘Grace, yes, I do like him . . . Yes, the sex was fine, if you must know . . . But it was nice just to be held, that’s what you miss when you’re single: normal human contact.’ Claire stroked the cat’s shiny tortoiseshell back absent-mindedly. ‘Have I done the right thing? Probably not, I don’t know. As I said, he’s a very nice, kind man, but . . . Do you think I am protesting too much? Don’t stalk off again when I am talking to you, pusscat. It’s important, love and sex and marrying the right man. Don’t want to make a mistake. As I told you, it’s better to stay serenely single than go for the wrong person.’
Eleven
There being little to do after dinner in Maising, Lucy and Martin had also made love that night. After the stress of the party, Lucy found it hard to relax. As soon as Martin had given his final groan, signifying that it was all over as far as he was concerned, Lucy returned abruptly to the subject on her mind.
Tropical Connections Page 7
