“You mean
...
divorce?”
Lucette wiped tears from her face with a forefinger. “Divorce isn’t so disgraceful when you’re married to a man like Karel. He’s too solemn for me, too old in his ways.
”
“
Then why did you marry him?”
“I had to—my parents had promised him and we were almost broke. He’s been good to me, but there’s no excitement in being married to him, no thrills! He’d go away on business and leave me with my parents. That’s what he’d done when I came here. I was bored to death at home when your letter came, and I thought I’d have a little fun and no one the wiser.”
Sally began to understand. “He was in Casablanca, wasn’t he? And you told your parents you were going to join him.”
Lucette nodded miserably. “I’d done it once before, but if was just as dull with him as it had been at home. My mother thought it a good sign that I wanted to be with Karel for his last week or so in Casablanca, and she even helped me to pack. Sally, you don’t know how glorious it was to be Lucette Millar again, and to know I could play with the men without fear. And now,” her voice shook and she sobbed, “I shall never be able to do it again. They’ll watch me and make me take an interest in housekeeping and acting hostess.”
“That might not be a bad thing,” pronounced Sally. “I’ve never heard of anything so irresponsible in my life. It’s certainly time you grew up and learned to do your bit.”
Lucette’s eyes, brilliant with the tears she had shed, hardened resentfully. “You were jealous of me. You hated the way Dane laughed and talked with me, hated the fact that I was a guest in the hotel while you were only one of his employees. That was why you conspired with Mike and
Cécile
...”
“I did no such thing!”
“I believe you did.”
“Because you want to believe it. In your heart you know that I’m no different from when we used to go to school together. But you’re different, Lucette. The muddles you got into then were mild and harmless, and you were always sweetly and abjectly sorry if you hurt anyone. You were loyal
...”
“If you’d kicked around the Continent for several years, trying to look good on practically no pocket money, you might have changed too!”
“But you have a rich husband now. You can’t blame lack of money for the way you’ve behaved. I daresay you have a lovely house and garden, good friends if you’d care to cultivate them. You must have been
a little fond of your husband t
o have married him.”
Lucette said hopelessly, “I’m fond of Karel, but being fond isn’t the same as being passionately in love. I’ve been in love a dozen times, so I know what I’m talking about!”
“Well, you got over it a dozen times, and you will again. But the man you married has the real right to your love—no one else. When you wrote to me in England about him, you called him old and horrid, but when I questioned you here, you said he wasn’t so old, so your ideas must have changed. I think you need a man of his age and type; he stands a better chance than a young man would of keeping you where you belong.”
“But if I could marry Dane, I’d
...”
Sally thrust the filled suitcase on to the floor with a bang. “Put your shoes together in pairs, and we’ll pack them next. And you might open the largest case close to the wardrobe, so that we can hang the frocks straight into it.”
Lucette dragged herself across the room and did as Sally asked. Neither of them spoke. Lucette sniffed often and let out despairing breaths, but she did try to help with the filling of the half dozen suitcases. Someone knocked at the outer door, and Sally opened it, to find a reception clerk there with a large envelope that bulged with Lucette’s jewellery. Legacy from a grandmother, indeed! Sally signed for it and thanked him, came back into the bedroom and placed the envelope on top of Lucette’s large travelling handbag. They continued the packing, tucked oddments into corners and eventually closed the cases and locked them. There were last-minute discoveries; nylon stockings hanging in the bathroom, a scarlet mule wedged behind the bedside table, a scarf which had found its way into the writing table drawer
—
all had to be stuffed into the pockets of the light silk coat Lucette was to carry.
She washed her face, made up liberally and began to resemble an enamelled version of her vivacious self. But she was not herself with Sally. She ignored her. In her most bored tones she spoke through the telephone to the desk, and asked that someone be sent up for her luggage and that Monsieur Descamps be told she was ready. She replaced the telephone, took one last look at the crumpled bedspread and the scraps of tissue paper all over the floor, picked up the large handbag and dropped the jewels into it, threw her coat over her arm and walked out of the suite.
Sally hesitated, and then followed her. Together they went down in the lift, and in the foyer Lucette paused while her cases were loaded. Her husband, a thickset man of average height and grave good looks, put her into the back of the blue and silver car. Dane appeared from somewhere, saw the unwelcome husband into the car beside her, and himself got behind the wheel. Sally’s last glimpse of Lucette showed a poised young woman who looked older but slightly forlorn. In the very last moment Lucette looked her way, without hate and without affection. Dane didn’t turn his head at all. He took the car at speed on to the esplanade and towards the airport.
Pierre, at Sally’s side, said perplexedly, “It was quick, that. They will actually catch the plane on which Monsieur Descamps arrived this afternoon, and go back to Tangier. I have never known anything so strange!”
Pierre was to good and simple to wish for gossip on the matter. He patted Sally’s arm, and moved away. Sally went along the terrace and sat down, ordered some tea. Mike had gone, of course, and C
é
cile was probably resting after her victory. Sally leaned back, exhausted. She felt as if she were disintegrating.
* * *
The rest of the day was ominously quiet. Sally did not go up to Mike’s villa, nor did she bathe alone or eat in the dining room. She walked some of the streets of Shiran, bought a couple of books at the hotel store
—
and insisted on paying cash for them—and spent the hours in her suite. She went to bed early, and was tired enough to sleep almost at once. But in the early hours she awoke, sweating and quivering, and thought about the one thing she had strictly excluded from her mind since Lucette had left.
How was Dane feeling now? Did he dislike Lucette for her deception, or was he the more deeply hurt, because he had been in love with her? With Dane, it was difficult to judge. Falling in love happens quickly—Sally knew that, to her cost. It might have happened as precipitately to Dane, but he, of course, would have masked the emotion with mockery and banter till he was quite sure of himself, and of Lucette. Perhaps he had fallen, but despised himself a little for loving someone so vol
atile and undependable. Perhaps
...
Sally turned her pillow and dug her face into its coolness; but she could not shut out the last sight she had had of him. Erect, lean-jawed, at the wheel of his car; no vestige of humor in his expression or demeanor. Surely, if he were unhurt, he would inwardly have laughed a little at Lucette’s predicament? That would have been his reaction—sly amusement at the fact of her husband catching up with her, even though he would also be angry with Mike for the wretched situation he had created. But he had looked as though he would never want to smile again. Sally’s heart twisted.
Some time she would have to talk to Dane, but she knew now, in the throbbing darkness of a Moroccan night that had lost its magic, that there would be only one talk between them, the final one. The thought of it was like dying a little.
Next morning she had to make a decision—whether to carry on with Mike as if all were forgotten or to be candid with him and tell him she would be leaving in a day or two. She breakfasted in the dining room for a change from being alone, saw Dane as she came back through the vestibule and returned his distant greeting. She hadn’t looked above the opening of his white shirt, but she was as aware of his expression as if she had stared straight into his eyes. He was cold and full of a distaste that might linger even after Sally Yorke and Lucette were unremembered in Shiran. She lowered her head and went up the staircase.
At a quarter to ten the car slipped round the drive of the villa and halted at its porch. Sally got out and entered the house, stood still in the small hall for a moment before walking slowly into the lounge. Mike was there, ostensibly absorbed in another chess problem.
He looked up casually but with a furtive question in his eyes.
“Oh, hallo,” he said. “I hoped you’d come. What about helping me with the problem?”
“Chess?” Sally sat down into the chair he indicated, but took no interest in the board. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not, either, but I had to get interested in something, or go berserk. I was afraid you wouldn’t turn up.”
“I had to come at least once more.”
Mike sat back and gestured. “Don’t talk like that. I disgusted you yesterday, and I’m sorry. The little tramp asked for it, but I should have held off, if only because she was your friend. I did it for
Cécile
—I swear it.
”
“
Partly for
Cécile
, but a whole lot because Lucette was the kind of girl you’d have had an affair with in the old days, and she showed her aversion to your lameness too plainly. She reminded you of the girl who let you down, and it stung.”
“Yes, it did.” Mike moistened his lips. “You’ve been thinking about it too much. What are you going to do?
”
“
When I arrived here this morning I wasn’t sure whether to ignore the subject and give you exercises, or talk it out. But since you’ve waded right in, I think it’s best to tell you now that I’m through with this job.”
Mike didn’t protest and exclaim as she had thought he might. He went gloomy and silent, and a few of the lines she had almost eradicated seemed to deepen about his eyes and mouth. He pushed a pawn across the board and a bishop after it, then rasped his bony chin with his fingers. The lock of hair fell forward and made him look rakish and unhappy.
“So I shan’t be coming here any more,” she said in final tones.
He nodded. “I see. It’s my own fault, of course, but I wish you really understood everything. I’ll admit that when I first saw Lucette I hated her brilliance and vivacity and the cowardice that wouldn’t let her look at my leg. I suppose I went on hating it, but I didn’t think about it much till
Cécile
came and told me that Dane was interested in the girl and it was making her feel wretched.”
“I know it all, Mike. There’s no need to go over it again.”
“But I liked
Cécile
. Before you came, she was the only woman I spoke to. In a way, I suppose, I was grateful for her naturalness with me, and possibly even a little flattered. And then she also assured me that after she and Dane were married I could go on living in this house. She and Dane would share a suite at the Hotel Mirador. It meant quite a bit to me.”
“Yes, it must have.” Sally sighed. “It’s odd how foolish even a woman of
Cécile
’s experience can be. Making a public booby of the girl he
...
was attracted to wasn’t the way to get Dane.
Cécile
need only have waited till Lucette left Shiran.”
“She couldn’t afford to do that—she herself has to leave in a few days.”
“But it was so ridiculous. What’s love worth, if it depends on such things? If Dane realizes that
Cécile
was deeply involved in humiliating Lucette, he must loathe her now.”
“He doesn’t know, and you won’t tell him, will you? Let
someone
get something out of it.”
“I thought you quarrelled with her yesterday.”
“I was a bit tight, and
Cécile
sat there smiling, though everyone else felt like hell. It got me at the time, but after I’d sobered up I decided she’d been the one who’d played it straight and I was the one who’d dithered. If anyone deserves Dane, she does.”
Very coolly, Sally asked, “But does Dane deserve
Cécile
? I’d say he deserves someone a trifle more honest and loving.”
“You may be right,” he said helplessly. “It’s a pity Lucette Millar
...
Descamps, or whatever her name is, ever came to Shiran.”
“It was through me. I haven’t done much good here, have I?”
Mike met her glance squarely, for the first time. “You’ve done me good—plenty of it. You made me realize that all girls aren’t alike, that there are a few sweet, dedicated ones, who’ll see a thing through, even if it’s not too pleasant.
”
“
You’ve been pleasant enough,” she said, “but I didn’t come here with the object of curing you. Dane told me
to work on you both ways, but he stressed that the most important thing was to persuade you to go to England for treatment. I agreed with him.” She paused. “You’ve recovered from that girl who couldn’t bear to stay with you after your accident, haven’t you?”