by Anne Weale
'No, but he mentioned over lunch that Bury & Poole wanted to organise a shoot with a top photographer which Nick thought was rather a bore. So I said, Let me have a go. I think one of those should be OK for the back of his book, don't you?'
'They're excellent, but B & P will probably want a colour transparency.'
'I have a whole roll of them.'
'Did you get him to the airport on time?'
'Of course. Did you think I wouldn't?'
'No, but you hadn't been planning to do these.'
'It didn't take long. I'm probably going to Spain at the end of May or early in June. I can't wait to see his house.'
To see the house, or to see him again? Rosie wondered, with a pang. Spring came. Rosie threw herself into an orgy of work, taking on commitments which meant that she had to work late at night and most weekends.
By this means she managed, for quite long stretches of time, to convince herself that nothing was wrong with her life. But it was like papering over a crack in a wall. Every so often the paper began to split, the crack to reappear.
This happened on days when the fax machine transmitted a letter from Spain concerning the drafts of the various Press releases they would be sending out about Crusade. It happened when Nick telephoned her.
It happened when his name came up in conversations with Anna or the other people involved in launching his book.
Bury & Poole had their own paperback imprint and by now it had been decided to bring Crusade out as what was known as a 'trade' paperback. This meant it would be published in hardback for sale to libraries and people who could afford the high price of hardbacks. But the big sales would come from an extra-large paperback sold at half the price of the hardback, although not as cheaply as the 'mass market' standard-size paperback which would follow it a year later.
Bury & Poole had a very livewire marketing manager called Sherry and had recently taken on an equally sparky promotions manager called Janetta. Both Sherry and Janetta had been invited to El Monasterio and had come back with redoubled enthusiasm. Whenever Rosie was in contact with them about other titles on their list, invariably they had something to say about Nick. Both were fairly recently married so they hadn't fallen for him, but, as Sherry remarked, 'It gives one's enthusiasm an extra edge when the author is such a dish.'
They had not, it seemed, met Marie-Laure. Evidently Nick didn't believe in mixing business with pleasure and did not plan to introduce the women who were in his life in connection with Crusade to the woman who beguiled his leisure hours.
One evening when, as was usual now, she was working late, the telephone chirped and Nick's voice, instantly recognisable, said, 41 called you at home but Clare said you'd be at your desk. She thinks you're overworking.'
'Nonsense—I thrive on hard work.' Her pulse had begun to race. 'What can I do for you?'
'When Sasha comes down, why don't you come with her? Not to talk promo... to relax and enjoy. A break in the sun would do you good. When did you last do nothing for a few days?'
'I went home for Christmas.'
'But was that relaxing, with all your nephews and nieces in full cry?'
'They didn't bother me. The men looked after the kids and took care of the washing-up and the women produced the meals and then lolled round the fire, eating chocs and chatting.'
Rosie herself had not succumbed to the chocolates, but she had allowed herself a few indulgences, including a slice of her mother's home-made Christmas pudding, always served with a sprig of holly stuck in the top and twelve emblems, wrapped in greaseproof paper, hidden inside it.
Her slice of pudding had contained the tiny silver thimble—an heirloom used by her father's great-grandmother as a small child learning to sew—which represented spin-sterhood Rosie had laughed and not minded because that was before she met Nick again, before being single forever had changed from a possibility to a probability.
'Christmas was five months ago, and a girl who works as hard as you do needs regular breaks. Why not come with Sasha?' he persisted.
And, because he sounded as if he really wanted her to come, for a few seconds she wavered and nearly agreed to go.
But then Nick added, 'I think Sasha would feel more comfortable having you with her. You can chaperon each other.'
Instantly Rosie perceived the real reason for his invitation. It was not for the pleasure of her company that he wanted her there but so that the presence of an attractive unaccompanied girl in his house should not cause gossip in the village and in the expatriate community. Also he might think that having Sasha there by herself would not meet with Encarna's approval. It would certainly not please the Frenchwoman. No woman of mature years could be pleased at the presence of someone as stunning as Sasha in her lover's house. She would be as jealous as hell.
Thanks very much... it's kind of you. But as a matter of fact I have a break planned for around the same time as Sasha is coming to Spain. I'm going on a bicycle tour of Normandy and Brittany,' Rosie said briskly, borrowing the holiday plans of the person she had lunched with that day.
'I see. That sounds fun. Are you going in a group?' he asked.
'No, with a friend.'
'Another girl?'
It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes. Then she changed her mind and said, 'No... with a man. But that's off the record. I'd rather the word wasn't spread on the book world grapevine. I like to keep my private life private.'
There was a slight pause before he said, 'Your secret is safe with me. I hope you have a good time. Well, that's all I called about, so I'll let you get back to whatever I interrupted. Bye bye, Rosie.'
Most of Sasha's luggage for her trip to Spain consisted of photographic equipment. Two swimsuits, an uncrushable evening outfit, one pair of shorts, a couple of T-shirts and the clothes she was wearing to travel was the extent of her wardrobe.
'Anything else I might need, I can buy when I get there,' she said, stuffing her personal gear into a roll-bag.
Since the night of Nick's telephone call and her fib about cycling through northern France with a male companion, Rosie had often wondered what had possessed her to lie to him. As she didn't want him accidentally to find out that the trip had been a spur of the moment fabrication, she said to Sasha, 'Nick seemed to feel you ought to be chaperoned and cast me in that role. But I'm sure you can cope with any passes he may make at you, and I'm far too busy to take time off. So I made an excuse about going on a jaunt with Carl later in the month. If he asks, don't let on it was a white lie, will you?'
Sasha looked slightly puzzled but agreed not to. 'You haven't seen Carl for ages, have you?'
'I suppose it is quite some time. I must give him a buzz this week.' Rosie changed the subject.
Sasha's visit to Spain coincided with her car's need for a major service so she took it to the garage the day before she left and Rosie ran her to the airport. The roll-bag containing her friend's clothes would go in the hold with the tripod and other less precious equipment so that Sasha could take her cameras and lenses—one of which had cost more than a thousand pounds—in the cabin with her.
'Have a great time,' Rosie said, as they hugged goodbye.
'I will. See you next week. Bye, Rosie.'
Her dark eyes shining with pleasurable anticipation—did they also have the extra sparkle of a woman on her way to meet a man in whom she had a special interest?—Sasha wheeled her laden luggage-trolley the direction of the check-in desks.
Everyone, seeing someone off on a journey to somewhere lovely, felt a bit depressed at being left out of the adventure, Rosie told herself as she drove back to London. She began to wonder if it would be a good idea to go cycling with Carl. Two days before Sasha was due back, Rosie returned from the office to be greeted by Clare with the news that her friend had changed her plans and would be staying in Spain for a second week.
'She sounded very excited and said something had come up and she needed at least another week there,' said Clare. 'I asked why and she laughed and said it was fa
r too complicated to explain on the telephone. But I expect she didn't want to make an extended long-distance call on Nick's phone. You could give her a buzz if you're curious to find out what's happening.'
'I could but I don't think I will,' Rosie said lightly. 'We'll hear all about it in due course. I seem to spend my life on the telephone. I'm beginning to get PR consultant's shoulder.' She hitched her shoulder into the position needed to hold a receiver in place while using her hands for some other task. 'Also the telephone bills are really going through the roof. I must try to cut out some of the unnecessary calls, especially the long-distance ones.'
Neither of these excuses was the real reason why she didn't want to call Sasha. She was acting on instinct, and instinct told her that whatever Sasha had to tell was not something she would want to hear.
It was the first time since they had set up house together that they had been apart for so long and, although she had Clare to talk to if she wanted companionship, Rosie missed Sasha even more than she had anticipated.
The week seemed to pass interminably slowly but at last the day of Sasha's return arrived. Before setting out to meet her, Rosie checked that the flight had left Spain and was due to arrive on time.
She had left her car in the short-term park and was among the crowd waiting behind the barrier outside the Customs hall when people with brown or lobster-red faces, dressed for a spring night in Benidorm, began to emerge from the hall.
Sasha was one of the last and, with her naturally dark colouring, she had acquired a beautiful deep, even tan. Rosie had never seen her look as glamorous, or as happy.
CHAPTER NINE
HI! HOW are you?'
As soon as she was clear of the barrier, Sasha gave Rosie a big hug and kissed her on both cheeks, Spanish fashion.
'I've got so much to tell...I don't know where to begin.'
'Let's get your gear in the car first,' Rosie suggested.
'No, we can't leave yet,' said Sasha. 'I'm afraid we're going to have to stick around for an hour.'
'What for?'
'I haven't come back alone. At least I have, but I haven't... if you see what I mean.' She was grinning from ear to ear.
'No, I don't.'
'Someone is with me but not on my flight. Rosie, you'll never guess what's happened in a million years. I can't believe it myself. Darling, sweet, adorable Nick—'
'Is also coming back,' Rosie interrupted her. 'What time is his flight due?' She felt as if someone had kicked her hard in the stomach.
'Not Nick. Why should he come back? It's Tom who's coming. You can't have forgotten Tom. He was there when I arrived at the monastery. Nick had invited him down. Look, I can't tell you all about it here. Let's go to the restaurant or somewhere.'
They managed to find a table for two in the cafeteria. Leaving Sasha to mind the luggage, Rosie queued for a couple of beakers of airport coffee. She wasn't thirsty, but she needed a breathing space to get back on balance after the horrible shock she had just had. She had foreseen it, of course, had been dreading it all this long week. Even so, it had hit her like a punch in the guts.
Now it seemed she had misunderstood. It wasn't Nick who was responsible for Sasha's radiance. It was Tom. But how could that be? Tom was married... had been married for ages. However, as she discovered a few minutes later, Tom was not married after all. His engagement had been broken off and he was still a bachelor, although he would not remain in that state for long. He had applied for an editorship in Australia, had got the job and was leaving in a few weeks' time. Sasha was going with him, as his wife.
'We wanted to fly back together but it wasn't possible. He flew to Valencia because it's a city he's always wanted to see,' Sasha explained. 'Apparently he and Nick have always kept in touch. That day Nick and I had lunch, I admitted to Nick that Tom was the reason I've never got serious with anyone else. Suspecting that Tom felt the same way, although he had always denied it, Nick decided that, as I was coming to Font Vella anyway, he would try his hand at matchmaking.'
'And couldn't have been more successful. I'm very happy for you, Sasha. I shall miss you dreadfully, but—'
'You'll have to come and stay with us... and don't worry about replacing me as co-owner of the house because Nick has put up a scheme for that too.'
'You're not proposing to sell your share to him, are you?' Rosie exclaimed, aghast.
'I did suggest it,' said Sasha. 'I thought he-might like to have pied-a-terre in London instead of having to stay at hotels. But he says he doesn't want a property here. If he had a flat anywhere it would be in New York. He wants to lend the money to Clare so that she can buy my share of the house. He thinks she's had a tough life and ought to have the security of being a house-owner, or at any rate a half-house-owner. Don't you think it's a good idea?'
'Yes, I do,' Rosie agreed. 'If I've got to lose you, there's no one I'd rather share with than Clare. But will she agree?'
'Why not? I think she'll jump at it. Anyway Nick is coming over for our wedding, which will be as soon as we can arrange it. You and Clare can discuss the house situation with him then.'
* * *
Having helped to drink the bottles of cava which Sasha and Tom had brought back to accompany the meal Clare had prepared for Sasha's homecoming, and which had easily stretched to become a celebration a quatre, Rosie did not lie awake when she went to bed that night.
But, having neglected to drink a glass or two of water last thing, she was woken up in the small hours by a terrible thirst. By the time she had crept downstairs to quench it with refrigerated spring water, and crept back to her room, she was wide awake, with much to keep her that way.
Her predominant emotion was relief that Sasha was in love with a man who had no other commitments to cast a blight on their happiness. An involvement with Nick would not only have been marred by his association with the Frenchwoman, but for Rosie, if not for Sasha, it would also have tarnished their friendship.
It was Tom who, some hours later when the three of them were having breakfast, said, 'Nick is bringing Marie-Laure over for our wedding. You haven't met her yet, have you, Rosie? Except in the sense that everyone who's read Crusade has met her?'
'She was in the clinic at Benidorm the weekend I was at Font Vella. So she is the model for Laure in Nick's book? I wondered about that.'
It was Sasha who said, 'There's no question about it. Laure is drawn straight from life... with one or two adjustments.'
Rosie swallowed the lump in her throat. 'I'll look forward to meeting her. Anyone who can inspire a character like Laure must be delightful.'
'She is...you'll adore her. I wanted to photograph her in her blissful little house but she wouldn't let me. She has this deep, sexy voice which sounds so odd coming from a person you feel might blow away in a strong gust of wind. "I much regret, Sasha darleeng, you 'ave come too late... far too late," she said to me. "I want to leave for posterity only the portraits painted of me in my prime. At fiftee, even at sixtee, I was not bad... but soon I must veil all the mirrors so as not to catch even a glimpse of what time 'as done to me."'
'In fact she's a knockout still,' Tom said, smiling.
'But how old is she?' Rosie demanded.
'Oh, eighty at least, I should think. Possibly more. But as sharp as a razor menially.. .and funny! She has you in fits.'
'I thought... I had the impression she was Nick's mistress.'
The other two roared with laughter.
'I should think she probably would be if she were younger,' said Sasha. 'She adores him and he her. I have actually seen her watching him with a rather wistful look in her eyes, as if she were wishing they hadn't been born about forty-five years out of sync. It's a good thing she is an old lady. I've seen a portrait of her, painted in 1960, and, believe me, she was ravishing. Had she still been fif-tyish, I shouldn't have stood a chance. Nick and Tom would have been fighting over her.'
'Not I,' Tom told her fondly. 'But she would have suited Nick. They're two of a kind. I
t's too bad he can't find someone to share that great house with him, and all the money he's going to make from the book.'
There was a pause. Aware that Sasha was looking at her, Rosie concentrated on picking up pieces of shell peeled from the top of her boiled egg and dropping them tidily inside the intact shell. Then Tom said, 'Do you think he's interested in Clare? She seems very nice, and this plan to lend her the money to buy you out does suggest that he might be.'
Clare was not in the house. Normally she did have breakfast with them but today, with her usual tact, she had breakfasted early and now was busy in the garden. Sasha said, 'She is nice, but she's several years older than he is and I'm sure his offer was made out of kindness, no other motive.'
Her tone of voice was, to Rosie, a clear signal that Tom should get off this subject. His masculine ear being less finely attuned to such nuances, he went on, 'With a big place like El Monasterio to keep up, he needs someone really capable... keen on cooking and gardening. A girl like either of you would be useless.'
'Charming! Thanks very much,' Sasha said tartly.
'I only meant useless domestically. It's not that you two couldn't cook and garden if you put your minds to it. But neither of you wants to, or only as a sideline, the way men do those things. You'd both rather do your own thing. I used to disapprove of that. Now I've come to terms with it.'
'Nick may never have shared your prejudices. I think we should leave him to sort out his life for himself and concentrate on the plans for our wedding,' Sasha said firmly. Presently, leaving them to make all the decisions a wedding involved, Rosie left for the office.
Throughout the morning she worked in her usual quick, methodical way. After lunch, last night's excess of champagne and waking up in the small hours and not getting back to sleep until about five began to take their toll.
Although it was rare for her to leave early, at half-past three she knocked off and took a taxi to South Molton Street. There, or in St Christopher's Place on the other side of Oxford Street, she would be sure to find something to wear at the wedding.
