Circles of Fate (17 page)

“The señor is in Madrid, for the bullfights.”

“I see. When does he expect to leave Madrid?”

“At the end of this week. Then he goes to Barcelona.”

“Well, thank you,” said Anita before turning and walking briskly away, like someone with a purpose.

So that ridiculous rush had been for nothing. She had engendered Miss Standish's wrath for no good reason. She could have stayed until a suitable replacement had been found, taken this step at a more sedate pace.

Tiredness suddenly overcame her. Because planes choose to fly at such inconsiderate times, she had been up before dawn. The hours prior to that, when she might have slept, she had been too excited. She thought longingly of her comfortable bed back at the hotel, and the long walk to get there. There wasn't a bus back for hours and she didn't fancy sitting it out by the roadside, waiting her chances of a lift, because this stretch of road didn't attract many motorists. She could walk to the cross-roads, but that meant a longer walk back if her mission was unsuccessful.

She could see a vehicle approaching the cross-roads, but, as she suspected, it angled swiftly to take the shorter mountain road back to town. But before she had time to take her screwed-up eyes away, it scrunched to a stop in its own dust, reversed, and came speeding down the road towards her.

As it stopped, as her eyes identified the driver, the smile slithered down off her mouth and ran into a frown. And yet she was too tired, too dispirited by recent events to protest when Claude Perryman reached over to open the passenger door for her to get in.

“How on earth did you recognize me from that distance?”

“Your hair, darling. It stands out like a Forsvthia bush in full bloom. I won't ask what brought you back. That way I can live in a fool's paradise and make believe it was my irresistible charm. Whatever, it's good to see you. Now, where would you like to go?” Not where shall I drop you, she noticed.

“Drop me at my hotel, if it doesn't make you too late for work,” she said pointedly.

“I've suddenly lost my desire for work,” he said.

“But I haven't lost my desire for sleep. I didn't get any last night. I've only just got here.”

He leaned forward and traced pretend-shadows round her eyes.

“Yes, Aunty. I'll be a good little boy and run along and play by myself, if you promise me a treat afterwards.”

“Translated, you'll take me home now, if I promise to meet you this evening?”

He pursed his mouth. “Girls have been known to want to come out with me.”

She considered him for a moment, her head on one side.

“All right.”

He went into first gear and they began to move off. “Not the most gracious acceptance I've ever had,” he reproved.

“I'd love to come out with you,” she rephrased. She had no exact idea why she took the line of least resistance. It was more than being bone-weary and striking a bargain to save herself a long walk. It was more to do with Claude himself. He was approaching her in a new sensitive way, one with an acceptable delicacy of feeling that did not set up in her a reactionary impulse to retreat. This was the charming, equable man whom Cathy, and others like her, saw and liked. A likeable, harmless companion who made her feel not quite so adrift. This time she didn't have Edward and Cathy, and Felipe was miles away, and the brooding waiting hours had to be filled in somehow. Also there was the matter of her curiosity to be taken into account. Claude could tell her the up-to-the-minute position with regard to his late wife's jewellery. Was that what her sudden capitulation was all about? Had she worked round the problem and arrived at its crucial centre? Did she have to be with Claude to find out about Felipe, because he wasn't here to tell her himself?

To ask outright would be little short of calculated needling. Claude, any man for that matter, would want the whole stage and as his guest she could not deny it to him. If nothing filtered into the conversation she would introduce the subject herself, but subtly, carefully choosing the right moment.

He stopped the car outside her hotel.

“Is nine o'clock too late for you? I've got into the habit of working during the early part of the evening, but if it's too late I can make some adjustments to my timetable.”

“No, don't do that. Nine will suit me fine. Do I eat beforehand? Or have you something planned?”

“Don't eat. Unfortunately there isn't the unlimited choice of London's West End, but there are several interesting alternatives.”

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Perhaps last time she had been raw and he had been raw and their rawness had triggered off a feeling of antagonism. Anyway, six months had wrought its changes and throughout the evening he remained the agreeable man who'd given her a lift home earlier in the day.

They went on a sort of pub crawl. Under his guidance she ate a variety of shellfish and some smoked, salted pork that went down well with a bottle of local wine. Then a moonlit drive along the coastal road.

He stopped the car to smoke a cigarette and she watched the reflections on the still water. The moon made a silver pathway that looked firm enough to walk on, and the peace and stillness of the night washed her with a feeling of content. With more perception than she would have credited him, Claude didn't utter one single word to shatter the peace and waited until she said: “Let's go,” before starting the engine.

Once again they were parked outside her hotel. And still she hadn't asked him.

“An insurance man came to see me one day. About Monica's jewellery.”

Oh, no, that was too bald, too abrupt. She'd meant to work it in gradually.

“Well, I wondered, have there been any new developments?”

“The goods haven't come to light. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, that's what I mean. I wondered ... well, Cathy mentioned that Felipe Sanchez was chief suspect.”

“Was is the operative word,” he said tersely. “The only thing they had on him was the money he couldn't account for.”

“Yes, I know about that.” She took a deep breath. “But it wasn't his money, surely? Wasn't it Pilar's?”

“That's right.”

Maddening silence.

“All right, don't tell me,” attempting to make light of it. “I suppose I'm too inquisitive by far.”

“A woman who admits to poking her nose where it doesn't belong,” he said, feigning disbelief. “Such a pretty nose, too.” He gave it a playful tweak, then lightly flicked her cheekbone with the knuckle of his index finger. “Don't worry, I'm not going to spoil it. A strictly platonic relationship is better than no relationship at all.”

“Thank you, Claude.”

“What for?”

“For sensing that's what I want. I think, deep down, that it's what you want as well. I think Monica left a deeper hole than anyone imagines, most of all you.”

“You're wrong there, because I do know. I didn't at first. I thought – at the risk of shocking you – we were all washed up anyway, so what the hell! I'm going to make a dreadful admission, I was glad that she had died, d'you hear?”

“I hear, Claude, but I don't believe you.”

“Then I'll explain and then perhaps you will. I was glad that no other man could have her. What do you think of that?”

“I think you've had too much to drink. I'm not even certain you're capable of driving home. Now what are you laughing at?”

“You. You're the most unpredictable female I've ever come across. When I'm deliberately setting out to be nice, you give me the square freeze. But when I'm being mean and despicable, you draw soft circles round me.”

“I've never heard that expression before, but it's rather nice, and in a way it's apt because it is how I feel about you. Not because you're mean and despicable, but because you are facing up to a truth in yourself. And now I must be going. Sure you're all right? I could phone for a taxi.”

“I'm fine. Do I see you tomorrow? I may have some more news.”

She frowned. “You're making it appear as though I only came out with you for what I could find out.”

“And you didn't?”

“Certainly not,” she denied hotly.

“In that case, you'll come out with me again? Oh, and by the way, officially I don't know where Pilar got the money from. She has written proof that it did belong to her. She showed it to my solicitor, but of course he couldn't tell me the identity of her generous benefactor.”

“Same time?”

“What's that?”

“Tomorrow. Shall I be ready at nine o'clock?”

It was alarmingly late by the time she got into bed, but because of her long sleep during the late afternoon and early evening, she didn't feel tired. Claude had said she drew soft circles round him; she wasn't sure he wasn't drawing them round her. Fitting her into a soft-padded cell of kind words, feeding her curiosity on titbits and at the same time challenging her mothering instinct. Business-wise Claude might be a brilliant and astute operator, but on the home-front he was a confused and hurt little boy. And everyone knows it isn't the secure child who has the devil inside him, but the child whose home-life has developed shaky foundations and he doesn't know how or why.

It was obvious where Pilar had got the money from. Felipe's father had been thoughtful enough to provide for her future. Nobody had said, but she had gathered the impression that he was dead. In a way, she thought it was a good thing it had come out, for Felipe's sake, that is assuming he didn't know about the money beforehand. It must give him a warm feeling to know that Pilar had been loved and respected, not used and discarded without a thought. And, oh! Suddenly she was so tired ... so ... tired.

Anita wasn't entirely disinclined to keep on seeing Claude. She was aware of the knowing looks and sharply bitten-off conversations when they came across a group of Claude's friends.

“They are talking about us,” she told him, and secure in the knowledge that there was nothing to talk about, she took it in, but didn't take it in. It was something to share a conspiratorial grin about.

When Claude said: “We could go to ground. We could spend evenings at my home,” her eyebrows went up. “But then they might have something to talk about.”

In a way she was sounding him; she didn't care what they thought, but she was concerned about what he felt and she thought his feelings were shifting slightly.

“Yes,” he agreed, “they might.”

She knew then that a pleasant interlude was over. She must not see Claude again.

Next day she heard that Felipe was coming back. She went into a shop for a sachet of shampoo. It was one of those interesting places that sell everything from bananas to beach equipment, and when she had handed over the money for the shampoo she didn't hurry out but paused to look at a silk after-six – on contemplation after-nine here – dress, when she heard the shop proprietress say to her young assistant: “You'd better start getting that order ready for Casa Esmeralda. Señora Sanchez called in this morning to say that her son would be home tomorrow, and there are one or two items she requires beforehand to prepare for his home-coming.”

Anita was so pleased to hear this that she bought the dress out of gratification.

She was going in to dinner, to the hotel staffs undisguised surprise, because the other evenings she had dined out with Claude, when she was called to the telephone.

“Anita, I must see you.”

“Oh, Claude,” she said, struggling to down her disappointment, although how could it have been Felipe when he wasn't due back until tomorrow?

“We've been through all this. We agreed it wasn't wise to meet again.”

“To agree suggests concord. You said we shouldn't see each other again and I unwillingly assented. In my book that's not an agreement.”

“All right, Claude. Now I must go.”

“Without hearing what I've got to say?”

“What do you have to say?” she said, humouring him. “There has been a surprise development regarding Monica's jewellery.”

“Oh?”

“Not over the telephone. I could pick you up. In ten minutes?”

“In half an hour. After I've eaten.”

A Spanish meal is not meant to be swallowed in half an hour, but by cutting several courses she managed it and was waiting on the hotel steps when Claude's car pulled up. She got in and he drove off without the usual consultation as to where they should go. It wasn't until the headlights of his car brushed the villa on its distinctive hillside setting that she realized he'd brought her to his home.

“It's the servants' night out. We can talk in privacy,” he explained.

“Is that really necessary?”

“I want your advice. That's necessary.”

She sighed resignedly, and allowed herself to be led inside. There was a bleak inevitability about all that was happening, as if events had been slowly leading up to this moment.

“You have a lovely home,” she said, trying to inject a note of naturalness into her voice.

“Do you think so? I helped to design it myself. The architect showed me his plans and I altered things to suit my requirements. We collaborated.”

She noticed that his speech had a slight inebriated slur.

“Tell me about the surprise development.”

“Soon. I could do with a drink first. What would you like?”

“Coffee, please. Shall I make it?”

“Perhaps you'd better. Mine's undrinkable.”

“Don't bother to come with me. I'm rather attracted to the idea of being let loose in your dream kitchen.”

She made the coffee strong and black. She thought Claude must have been doing some particularly heavy drinking. She hoped it would sober him up.

Reluctantly she left the safety of the kitchen to re-join Claude. He was keeping company with a large brandy. She took it from him and handed him his cup of coffee, saying lightly: “Exchange is no robbery.”