by Jane Arbor
‘You think so?’ Carey’s tone was eager. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t have to be manned full time, would it? The library isn’t, and the deck shops in cruise ships are usually only open for a few hours each day.’
‘And staff? And stocks?’
‘Well’—Carey traced a figure 8 in the sand beside her, added a circle to its top, then an extra one, then scrubbed the whole lot out—‘I had been thinking in terms of Miss Corel ... for both.’
‘Denise?’ The echo was sharp. ‘Why on earth Denise? And how long have you been thinking of her?’
‘Only just—since you turned down the idea of a concession. From what I know of her she has a lot of taste and flair; I think she dresses beautifully to her petite type, and she claims to have picked up for a mere song some of the exquisite pieces she has in her room—the marqueterie and the rugs and the pottery. And at present she hasn’t much function, it seems to me. And she’s not very—content, is she?’ Carey finished a little lamely.
There was a pause. Then— ‘And you put down her discontent to her lack of function, is that it?’
‘Well, partly.’ Carey felt she could hardly spell out to him her estimate of his own part in Denise’s warped outlook.
‘Only partly? You seem to have given some thought to her. So what else, in your opinion, adds up?’
Carey knew she must not allow herself to be cornered. ‘Wholly then,’ she amended. ‘After all, everyone needs a bit of responsibility for something. She has none, and I think she would be a good deal more gracious and likeable if she had. She—holds people off.’
‘She holds you off?’
‘So far, yes. Michael Croft too.’
‘Ah, but Michael is her fool and lets her know it—in my view, a bad mistake in any man’s relation with a woman—’ Randal Quest stood, brushed off sand and nodded out to sea where, curveting and circling like dolphins, the young people were gradually moving inshore. ‘Perhaps, if you’re ready, it might be tactful to leave the scene to them,’ he suggested, and offered both hands to Carey to help her to her feet.
His firm clasp held after she was standing. ‘And you realise that if I decide to put up this project to Denise as coming from you, and she turns it down, you’re likely to be further at arm’s length than before?’ he queried.
‘I must risk that.’
‘Meaning you couldn’t care less if you are?’
‘No indeed. I’d give a lot to get on with her better than I do. And it should be possible, however little we have in common.’
‘And so I broach the scheme, and only give you the credit for it if Denise approves and decides she would like to try it?’
A slight smile curved Carey’s lips. ‘That would be— very diplomatic of you, Mr. Quest,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ He shrugged as he released her hands and turned with her. ‘Think nothing of it,’ he said easily. ‘In my job diplomacy needs to be my middle name. And talking of names,’ he continued as Carey collected the rest of her things from under the pine, and he took her beach-bag from her, ‘has it occurred to you, since you and I, willy-nilly, have been made relatives by marriage, that we might well drop the formality of “Miss Donne” and “Mr. Quest” in private? And “Miss Corel” from you to Denise is quite absurd.’
Embarrassed, Carey said, ‘But I do call her Denise to her face, and to Michael.’
‘It’s first names between you and Michael too?’
‘Well, yes. He suggested he should call me Carey the first time we met.’
‘And it’s taken me three weeks. I wonder why?’
Was he deliberately baiting her? She half suspected it. ‘Well, you’re my chief,’ she said. ‘The—the relationship is rather different, isn’t it?’
‘Though also, thanks to Martin and your sister, rather a special one, wouldn’t you say? However, please yourself. I have two names and I daresay I shall answer to either, whichever you choose.’
At the top of the path from the beach he left her, taking a different way back into the hotel. Carey did not move on for some minutes.
‘Randal.’ She was wishing she had had the honesty to admit that she already thought of him so, and that she would welcome hearing him call her Carey with ease. As, she was in small doubt, he meant to from now on whenever he chose. He hadn’t been asking her permission at all. He had been telling her, and he had certainly dealt with her raw reaction as it deserved.
Why had she been so gauche with him? In the same context she had responded quite naturally to Michael. What was the difference between him and Michael? What, for goodness’ sake? Then—Silly question, she chided herself. The difference was that she and Michael had recognised each other as equals and friends from the start. Whereas she wasn’t yet aware where she stood with Randal, nor he in relation to her.
She found herself wishing she could see further into the fog of not-knowing, and wanting to, quite badly.
There was already a crowd in the Calvins’ suite when she joined their party that evening. She chatted to one or two people and took a drink from a waiter’s tray while she watched her chance to approach her hosts, at the moment surrounded.
She sipped her drink, looking about her. Denise had said she would be there, and was. So, queenly in plunge-line midnight blue velvet, was Gerda Ehrens, holding court to two or three men. So was Randal, engaged in talk with a stranger to Carey—a young man of whom she wondered whether he was the Calvin nephew for whom the party was given.
He was big and florid; probably only in his early thirties, though his bulk, his bull neck and his too-prominent eyes made him look more mature. The type who in full middle life would be prosperously fleshy, Carey decided critically, comparing him with his companion’s lean tautness of figure which would age to spareness, would never be comfortably sleek.
Her doubts as to the identity of the stranger were resolved by some overheard talk near by. A man said idly.
‘Quest, one suspects, rather smart on the ball.’
Another man in the group, ‘Which ball?’
‘Well, that’s the visiting fireman we’ve been bidden to meet—Auden Calvin—marking time, one hears, until Uncle Theodore slips him the reins of the Calvin Group. Thirty-six directorships; perks; parent company, the lot. And so Quest—no fool and ambitious as they come— just could be trying a bit of early haymaking—no?’
A third man chuckled. ‘Not much doubt of the professional gutters you climbed from into an editor’s chair, Toddy! Talk of a nose for news! So now, suppose you tell us what hay Quest could be hoping to make, and why?’
The first man shrugged. ‘Obvious. Hard cash, what else? To finance that tatty airfield of his, of course. Sitting pretty as he may be, with this place and Auto-Maroc, that scale of development isn’t going to be done with chickenfeed, nor even with thousands. Not even—without other sources of supply—with the thousands one imagines he hopes to prise from the coffers of the Lovely Widow of Dusseldorf—verb. sap.!’
At that there was a concerted shout of laughter, under cover of which Carey moved away, disliking the gossips heartily, despising her own eavesdropping even more.
She should have moved off earlier. But just how petty-minded could even successful people get? She glanced across at Randal and Auden Calvin, still deep in talk—though couldn’t it be about any subject under the sun? And why should she care that Randal shouldn’t be as opportunist as the gossip had implied? And why should she care even more that, whatever his relationship with Frau Ehrens, it shouldn’t be the subject of cheap barroom sniggers?
Shelving both questions, she looked around for someone to join and found Mrs. Hobart, who was unashamedly grilling a young French fashion-writer about the backroom workings of haute couture.
With them for a time, and then being drawn into another group, Carey decided that when she had done her social duty by her hostess she might leave very soon afterwards. There were plenty of other people for the lion of the evening to meet. But when she penetrated at last to Mrs.
Theodore Calvin, he had just rejoined her, and was duly introduced. A minute or two and a few perfunctory words later, Mrs. Calvin swept away.
As his opening gambit her nephew said, ‘I’ve been hearing your praises sung, Miss Donne. This, then’—he indicated the crowded room—‘a kind of busman’s holiday for you, I suppose?’
‘A busman’s holiday?’ Carey did not much like the cold grey appraisal of his prominent eyes.
‘Well, isn’t it the kind of show you normally run professionally yourself? Getting some tips, or making a lot of critical notes—which?’
Carey looked away. ‘Neither, in fact,’ she said indifferently. ‘I just happen to be enjoying a private party—quite a lot.’
He was not to be snubbed. ‘Oh, come!’ he urged. ‘That—from the boy who was sated, from having worked in the jam factory! You can’t be enjoying a rout like this. I don’t believe it.’
Carey raised her eyes slowly to his. ‘I am, I assure you, Mr. Calvin.’
‘Oh, Auden, please. It’s Uncle Boss who is Mr. Calvin, and once acquainted, you surely aren’t going to stand on the dignity of “Miss Donne”, are you?’
‘It’s what the hotel guests call me.’
He grimaced. ‘Not giving, eh? Oh well, early days—Change the subject, shall we? Tell me, when you’re not organising people into Kiss-in-the-ring or Postman’s Knock frolics, what else do you do?’
‘Liaison between the guests and the management. Run the library. Act as secretary to any guest who needs one. Escort parties on organised trips. For instance, into the interior and to the markets in Tetuan and Tangier—’
Auden Calvin cut in, ‘Ah, a bit of slumming. That’s more to my taste than this sort of thing. If I’d known this place was going to be a kind of identical twin to, say, the Carlton or the Negresco, I’d have gone to the Cote d’Azur. I’d hoped for a bit of—for the want of a better word—atmosphere. And what is there? The same set, the same talk, the same or new toadies, trying to make a touch for hot tips or actual finance—’ He broke off at Carey’s drawn breath of distaste. ‘What’s the matter? Said something, have I?’
She shook her head. ‘No, go on. You were saying you’d expected the El Gara to be more Eastern in style, more exotic? But it’s run by an Englishman, and it caters mostly for Europeans, and the rest—the atmosphere, which is a better word than “slumming”, don’t you think?—is all around for the asking. The town of Hassi Ain is pure Morocco; a lot of Tetuan is too. So is Xauen in the Rif—’
Auden Calvin affected to shudder. ‘And one views them on organised trips? “Organised” the operative word?’
Carey held fast to her patience. ‘Not necessarily. A lot of people make up their own parties and go in their own cars or in hired ones—’
‘Auto-Maroc cars, of course? Good for business, eh? But if one hasn’t shipped one’s own car and one doesn’t fancy being shepherded flockwise by Miss Governess Donne, can one perhaps hire her services individually, by the hour, so to speak? Like a—’
Carey had had enough. ‘I'm afraid not, Mr. Calvin. Not like a hostess on a dance-floor. That was what you were going to say?’
He laughed on a short breath. ‘You take the words right out of my mouth! His glance travelled over her. ‘Beware, folks, she bites. And so, if I don’t choose to go native in a cosy huddle of people, what then?’
‘You travel alone, I suppose, or in whatever company you choose.’
‘And when do you plan your next safari into the hinterland?’
‘I’m going with a party to Tetuan tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. Just so that I can keep clear of the madding crowd, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So how do I go about hiring a car to take me in the opposite direction?’
‘You can do that in the office, through the hotel secretary.’ Carey set down her empty glass on a table and rather pointedly looked at her watch.
‘You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I’m afraid I must go,’ she said, and went to take her leave of Mrs. Calvin. ‘Thank you so much for asking me—a lovely party,’ she told that lady, and wished she could say so with more sincerity.
For as far as she was concerned, she had rarely enjoyed a cocktail party less. Not that she should blame the party or its hosts. The fault was in herself—for resenting too much the idle gossip about Randal and for taking too easy offence at Auden Calvin’s manner.
What, after all, were her employer’s business methods to do with her? And Auden Calvin probably thought he had a right to patronise her. But both the gossip—which he had confirmed—and the condescension left a very sour taste.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVIDENTLY Randal had lost no time in sounding Denise about the shop, for at breakfast the next morning Denise brought up the subject.
‘Randal says it was your idea that I should run it,’ she told Carey.
‘Well, I did suggest that you’d be the best person,’ Carey said, testing the ground gingerly.
‘Why should I? What makes you think so?’
‘As I told him—because you seem to have an eye for the tasteful kind of things that would appeal to discriminating people who want to buy typically Moroccan craftware, but who don’t want to sort it out from all the lumber of the cheap souvenir marts. Here, you could afford to be pricey; people will pay a lot for a service, and you must have enough experience to know where to buy for stocks. I imagine you shopped pretty shrewdly for your own things, didn’t you? You’ve got contacts?’
Denise shrugged. ‘Maybe I have. I’d know where to begin to look, anyway.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But what is it to you, this shop idea?’
‘Nothing to me,’ said Carey patiently. ‘I just thought it would be an outlet you might enjoy.’
‘So I have to have outlets found for me, do I? And what does Randal hope to get out of it? He wouldn’t be Randal if he didn’t see something in it for him.’
Carey sighed. This was hard going. ‘But of course there’d be something in it for him,’ she agreed. ‘If the demand is there, a service that meets it can’t be anything but good for the hotel. And for him personally, surely there’d be the satisfaction of seeing you make a success of it?’
‘Huh! That’s a laugh! As if he would care or notice or give me credit if I did.’
‘And that’s sheer nonsense,’ Carey countered briskly.
‘Is it? When, ever since that German hausfrau reappeared on the scene, I might as well be invisible where Randal is concerned?’
‘Which is even more absurd. And even if it were true, where is your pride? In your place, I know I’d want to show him. And also in your place, I imagine I’d see the way I might be able to do it.’
‘How would you?’ Denise looked away. ‘You mean— the shop?’
‘Exactly. The shop,’ Carey confirmed.
There was silence while Denise moved cutlery about on the table. Then, ‘Very well,’ she said glumly. ‘You win. I’ll tell Randal that I’ll try it.’
Carey said, ‘Good for you! And good luck.’ And then, feeling the climate between her and Denise had thawed a little, and because she realised she wanted to know the answer for certain, she ventured, ‘Randal’s opinion matters a lot to you, doesn’t it, Denise?’
Denis said sharply, ‘What makes you ask? Does it show?’
‘It does, rather.’
‘How?’
‘Well, partly by your truculence when he asks something of you—’
‘Randal doesn’t “ask”. He gives orders.’
‘But that’s his habit. Just as it seems to be yours to bend over backwards to prove your independence of him. If you cared less, you could afford to be more gracious, or at least less tense about co-operating. But it’s none too easy, is it, being so vulnerable to another person?’
‘And how would you know what it is like?’
Once more Carey experienced that flash of oneness with Denise, who cared so much about mattering to Randal. The flash passed. Carey said, ‘If I
didn’t, I doubt if I’d have recognised the signs in you.’
‘You mean you’ve been through the same thing?’
‘More or less.’
‘And so, if you don’t approve of the way I cope, how did you?’
‘Probably no better—at the time.’ Deliberately, for her own reasons, Carey emphasised the past tense in which Denise had pitched the argument as she went on, ‘For one thing, at the time, I don’t think I saw it as fair tactics to take it out of a third person, as you do out of Michael.’
‘Oh, Michael.’ Denise’s shrug dismissed Michael. ‘He was born turning the other cheek. He always comes back for more.’
‘And I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ counselled Carey with spirit.
Denise shrugged again. ‘I can hardly wait! But you said, “For one thing.” What else didn’t you do that I’m doing wrong, you consider?’
Carey said slowly, ‘You won’t like this. But I hope I didn’t give myself away quite as openly to my—enemies as you do.’
Denise blanched. ‘You mean—Gerda Ehrens? You think she is laughing at me? That they are both laughing—Randal too? Or doesn’t she even admit that I exist?’
Carey shook her head. ‘I don’t know Frau Ehrens enough to know what she feels about you. It was Michael who said you saw her as an enemy against whom you felt you couldn’t win.’
‘So Michael discusses me with you, does he?’
‘Well, he does care for you, Denise—’ Carey broke off, remembering her tacit promise to Michael that she wouldn’t plead his cause with Denise. But she needn’t have worried. There was no concern for Michael in Denise’s retort of, ‘Well, you can thank him for nothing when you next have a cosy chat about me. But still, thank you for the lecture on strategy. You’ve given me an idea.’
‘I’m glad. An idea about what?’ Carey asked.
‘Oh, just an idea.’ Denise rose from the table and Carey let her go. She felt she had persuaded Denise to the shop. But for the first she wondered whether she had done more harm than good.
The motorcade of Auto-Maroc cars reached Tetuan, the city of many minarets and seven gates, at about noon, setting down its passengers on the fine Andalusian Plaza de Espana, where they were taken over by the official guides to the European quarter, the mosques and the open market-squares of the medina.
