Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
She set to work, losing no time. Went back to the bathroom, stripped off her clothes, put on one of the towelling robes and then started in on the unpacking. Which consisted of emptying the contents of the backpacks onto the bedroom floor. At the bottom of her own backpack were her wash-bag, her brush and comb, her sketch-pad, a book or two, and the envelope from her father, which had contained his cheque, his letter, and the invitation to a dance from Verena Steynton. She took this out of the envelope and propped it on the empty dressing-table. By now it was a bit dogeared but bestowed, she decided, a personal note to the room, as though Lucilla had put her name to it and claimed it as her own.
Lucilla Blair
Mrs. Angus Steynton
At Home For Katy
Why did it seem so ludicrous? She laughed. Another life, another world away. She gathered up armfuls of dirty socks, shorts, jeans, pants, and T-shirts and headed back to the laundry. Without bothering to sort any of these garments (her mother would have a fit if she could see red socks going in with white shirts, but her mother was not here to remonstrate so what did it matter?) Lucilla stuffed the open face of the washing
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machine, poured in detergent, slammed the door, and switched it on. Water gushed and the drum revolved, and she stood back and observed this with as much delight as if it had been a longed-for programme on television.
Then she kicked aside the remainder of the dirty clothes, went to find her bikini, and joined Jeff in the pool.
She swam for a long time. After a bit Jeff got out and lay in the sun to dry off. Another two lengths and she saw he was gone, had taken himself indoors. She came out of the pool and wrung the water from her long dark hair. She went indoors. She found him in the bedroom, flat out on one of the beds. He looked as though he might be going to sleep. She did not want him to go to sleep. She said his name and took a running jump, and landed flat on top of him.
"Jeff."
"Yeah?"
"I told you she was beautiful."
"Who?"
"Pandora, of course." Jeff did not immediately reply to this. He was drowsy and on the edge of sleep, and not inclined to conversation. His arm, out-flung, pillowed Lucilla's head. His skin smelled of chlorine and swimming pool. "Don't you think she's beautiful?"
"She's certainly one sexy sheila."
"You think she's sexy?"
"But too old for me."
"She doesn't look old."
"And a bit too skinny as well."
"Don't you like skinny ladies?".
"No. I like my women with big tits and fat bums."
Lucilla, who had inherited her shape from her father and was tall and thin and almost breastless, gave Jeff a thump with her fist. "You do not."
He laughed. "Well, what do you want me to say?"
"You know what I want you to say."
He pulled her face towards his own and kissed her soundly. "Will that do?"
"I think you'll have to shave that beard off."
"Now why should I do" that?" "Because my face is going to start looking as though it's been cleaned off by sandpaper."
"I'll have to stop kissing you then. Or start kissing you someplace where it doesn't show."
They fell silent. The sun was dropping in the sky, and soon, quite suddenly, it would be dark. Lucilla thought of Scottish summer twilights that went on until midnight. She said, "Do you think they're lovers? Do you think they're having a raging affair?"
"Who?"
"Pandora and Carlos Macaya."
"I wouldn't know."
"He's terribly handsome."
"Yeah. A real smoothie."
"I thought he was nice. Rather cosy. Easy to talk to."
"I liked his car."
"You have a one-track mind. What do you think it was he asked her?"
"Come again?"
"He said, 'Let me know if you change your mind.' And she said, 'I won't change my mind.' He must have asked her something. He must have wanted her to do something with him."
"Well, whatever it was, she didn't look too bothered."
But Lucilla was not satisfied. "I'm certain it was something terribly significant. A turning-point in both their lives."
"You have a runaway imagination. More likely he was trying to fix a tennis game."
"Yes." But somehow, Lucilla did not feel that this was so. She sighed, and the sigh turned into a yawn. "Perhaps."
At half past eight they were ready to join Pandora, and Lucilla decided that, after all her anxiety, they didn't look too bad. Both of them had showered and scrubbed and now
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smelled sweetly of the gratuitous shampoo.
Jeff had neatened up his beard with a pair of nail scissors, and Lucilla had ironed his one clean shirt* and salvaged from the pile of clothes on the laundry floor his tidiest pair of jeans.
, As for herself, she had washed her long dark hair and brushed it dry, pulled on a pair of black leggings, and now buttoned up the borrowed shirt. The heavy silk felt deliciously cool against her bare skin, and the sequined embroidery, viewed in the mirror through half-closed eyes, was not nearly as outrageous as she had first imagined. Perhaps it had something to do with these unaccustomed surroundings. Perhaps the ambience of enormous luxury helped absorb such small vulgarities. It was an interesting notion and one that she would have liked to discuss at length, but right now there was no time.
"Come on," Jeff told her. "Time to be off. I need a drink."
He made for the door and she followed him, first making sure that all the lights in the guest-house were switched off. She was fairly certain that Pandora would not give a damn if every light was left burning, but, brought up by a thrifty Scottish mother, such small housewifely economies were engrained in Lucilla, as though her subconscious were a programmed computer. She found this strange, because later strictures had left as little impression as water on a duck's back. Another interesting thought worth chewing over at a later date.
Out of doors, they stepped into a blue night, star
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bright and soft and warm as velvet. The garden was headily fragrant, the swimming pool floodlit, and lamps lit the way along the stepping-stones of the path. Lucilla heard the incessant chirp of the cicadas, and there was music coming from Pandora's house.
Rachmaninoff. The Second Piano Concerto. Banal, maybe, but perfect for just such a Mediterranean night. Pandora had set the scene and now she was waiting for them on the terrace, lying in a long chair with a wineglass on the table beside her.
"There you are!" she called as they approached. "I've already opened the champagne. I couldn't wait any longer."
They went up the steps and into the pool of light that illuminated their hostess. She had changed into something black and cobwebby and wore gold sandals on her bare feet. The smell of Poison was even stronger than the scents of the garden.
"Don't you both look sleek! I can't think why you were so worried about yourselves. And Lucilla, the shirt is divine on you, you must keep it. Now, find chairs and settle down. Oh, blast, I've forgotten the glasses. Lucilla, darling, go and get some, will you? The little bar's just behind the door, you'll find everything there. There's a second bottle of bubbly in the fridge, but we'll leave it there till we've finished this one. Now, Jeff, you come and sit here, beside me. I want to hear all about what you and Lucilla have been up to. . . ."
Lucilla left them and obediently went in search of the wineglasses, stepping indoors through wide, curtained doors. The bar was immediately at hand, no more than a large closet fitted with everything that any human being could need to fix a drink. She took two wineglasses from the shelf but did not at once return to the terrace. This was the first time she had actually been inside Pandora's house, and she found herself in a room so spacious and spectacular that she was momentarily diverted from her errand. All was cool and creamy, sparked here and there with touches of brilliant colour. Sky-blue and turquoise cushions, and coral-pink lilies massed in a square glass vase. Alcoves, cunningly lit, displayed a collection of Dresden figures and Battersea enamel. A plate-glass coffee-table was stacked with books and magazines, more flowers, a silver cigarette box. There was an open fireplace faced with blue-and-white tiles, and above this hung a mirror
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framed flower painting. At the other end of the room the dining-table-glass again-was set for dinner with candles and crystal and yet more flowers, and to Lucilla's bemused eyes it all seemed more like a stage set than a room designed for living in. And yet, she realized, there were homely touches too. An open paperback tossed onto a sofa; a half-finished tapestry lying close at hand for an empty moment. And there were photographs. Archie and Isobel on their wedding day. Lucilla's grandparents, sweet old things in their tweeds, standing in front of Croy with their dogs beside them.
Lucilla found these evidences of nostalgia immensely touching. For some reason, she had not expected them, perhaps not imagining Pandora capable of such sentiment. Now she pictured Pandora taking them everywhere with her, all through her wayward love affairs and her turbulent nomad's life. Saw her unpacking them from her suitcase in houses in California, hotel bedrooms, apartments in New York and Paris. And now, Majorca. Setting the seal of her past and her identity upon yet another temporary home.
(There did not seem to be any pictures of the men who had owned these apartments and occupied so much of Pandora's life, but perhaps she kept those in her bedroom.)
Warm dark breezes blew through the opened windows, and Rachmaninoff emanated from some unseen stereo, concealed by a gold-latticed trellis. The piano solo dripped its notes, pure as raindrops. From the terrace came the low murmur of comfortable conversation, Pandora and Jeff sounding peaceful and unimpatient.
There were other photographs on the mantelpiece, and Lucilla crossed the floor to inspect these more closely. Old Lady Balmerino, resplendent in a feathered tam-o'-shanter, apparently opening a village fete. A snapshot of Archie and Edmund Aird, two very young men sitting in the boat at the edge of the loch with their rods and their creels stowed on the thwarts. Finally, a studio portrait of herself and Hamish, Lucilla in smocked Liberty lawn and Hamish a fat baby on her knee. Archie must have sent that one to Pandora with one of his letters and she had framed it in silver and set it in the place of honour. Tucked into this silver frame was an invitation whose format was instantly familiar.
Pandora Blair
Mrs. Angus Steynton
At Home For Katy
Lucilla's first thought was, how nice. And then, how ridiculous. A waste of a card, a waste of a stamp, because there was not the slightest possibility that Pandora would accept. She had gone from Croy when she was eighteen and never returned. Resisted all pleading, first from her parents, and then from her brother, and stayed resolutely away. It was scarcely likely that Verena Steynton, of all people, would achieve what Pandora's own family had so abjectly failed to do.
"Lucilla!"
"Coming . . ."
"What are you doing?"
Lucilla, bearing the wineglasses, joined them on the terrace. "Sorry. I've been snooping round that beautiful room. And listening to the music . . ."
"Oh, darling, don't you love Rachmaninoff? It's one of my most favourites. I know it's a bit hackneyed, but I seem to go for hackneyed things."
"I'm just the same," Lucilla admitted. "Songs like 'Oh, Lovely Moon' and The Barcarolle' leave me quite weak-kneed. And some of the old Beatles records. I've got them all at home at Croy. And if I'm feeling really blue, I've got a tape of a Fiddlers' Rally in Oban and I play it and I can feel my spirits rise visibly, like mercury in a thermometer when you've got a temperature. All those dear old men and little boys in their kilts and their shirt-sleeves, and an endless round of jigs and reels, as though they didn't know how to stop and didn't want to anyway. I usually end up dancing all by myself and leaping around the room like an idiot."
Jeff said, "I've never seen you do that."
"Well, if you hang around long enough, you probably will. But seriously, Pandora, this is the most beautiful place you've got. And our guest-house is perfection."
"It is rather sweet, isn't it? I was so lucky to snap it all up. The people who lived here before had to go back to England; I was looking for somewhere to live and it seemed that it was just waiting for me. Jeff, you're meant to be pouring champagne . . ."
"And the furniture? Is that all yours too?"
Pandora laughed. "Oh, darling, I haven't got any furniture, just little bits and pieces that I've gathered on my travels and cart about with me. Most of the furniture here I took over with the house, but of course I've changed almost everything. The sofas were the most hideous blue, and there was a carpet with swirls on. Got rid of that pretty sharpish. I took Seraphina over with the house as well, and she's got a husband who does the garden. All I'm missing out on is a little doggie, but doggies in Majorca are inclined to get shot by youths with airguns, or else they get ticks, or they get stolen, or run over. So there's not really much point." All the glasses were now brimming full. Pandora raised hers.