The Shell Seekers (8 page)

She had been brusque with Nancy, accused her of over-reacting, made little of her mother's illness, dismissed the country doctor's prognosis. This was because Nancy invariably made mountains of molehills . . . poor girl, what else did she have to do with her boring life . . . but also because Olivia, as though she were still a child, did not want to think of Penelope as anything but well. Immortal even. She did not want her to be ill. She did not want her to die.

A heart attack. That it could happen to her mother, of all people, who had never been sick in all her life. Tall, strong, vital, interested in everything, but most important, always there. Olivia remembered the basement kitchen at Oakley Street, the heart of that great rambling London house, where soup simmered, and people sat around the scrubbed table and talked for hours over brartdy and coffee, while her mother did the ironing or mended sheets. When anyone mentioned the word "security," Olivia thought of that comforting place.

And now. She sighed. Perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps Penelope should have some person living with her. The best thing would be for Olivia to go and see her, talk things over, and, if necessary, see if they could come to some sort of an arrangement. Tomorrow was Saturday. I shall go and see her tomorrow, she told herself and felt at once much better. Drive down to Podmore's Thatch in the morning and spend the day. With the decision made, she put it all out of her mind and allowed the resultant void to fill slowly with pleasurable anticipation of the evening that lay ahead.

By now, she was nearly home. But first she turned in at her local supermarket, parked the car, and did some shopping. Crusty brown bread, butter, and a pot of pate de foie gras; chicken Kiev, and the makings of a salad. Olive oil, fresh peaches, cheeses; a bottle of Scotch, a couple of bottles of wine. She bought flowers, an armful of daffodils, loaded all this loot into the boot of her car, and drove the short distance that took her to Ranfurly Road.

Her house was one of a terrace of small red brick Edwardi-ans, each with its bulging bay window and front garden and tiled path. From the outside it looked almost painfully ordinary, which only increased the impact of its unexpected and sophisticated interior. The cramped rooms of the ground floor had been transformed into a single spacious apartment, with the kitchen divided from the dining area only by a counter, like a little bar, and an open staircase leading to the upper floor. At the far end of the room, French windows led out into the garden, and these gave a strangely rural view, for beyond the garden fence was a church with its own half acre or so of land, where Sunday-school picnics were held in the summer-time, and a huge oak tree spread its branches.

Because of this it would have seemed natural had Olivia decorated her house in country style, with sprigged cottons and pine furniture, but the impact she had contrived was cool and modern as a penthouse flat. The basic colour was white. Olivia loved white. The colour of luxury, the colour of light. White tiled floor, white walls, white curtains. Knobbly white cotton on the deep, sinfully comfortable sofas and chairs, white lamps and shades. And the result was not cold, for this pristine canvas she had splashed with touches of primary brightness. Cushions of scarlet and Indian pink, Spanish rugs, startling abstracts framed in silver. The dining-room table was glass, the chairs black, and one wall of her dining room she had painted cobalt blue and hung with a gallery of photographs of family and friends.

It was, as well, warm, immaculate, and shiningly clean. This was because Olivia's neighbour, with whom she had had a long-standing arrangement, came in each day to wash and polish. Now, she could smell the polish, mingled with the scent from a bowl of blue hyacinths, bulbs she had planted last autumn and which had finally reached their peak of scented perfection.

Unhurried, consciously unwinding, she set about her preparations for the coming evening. Drew the curtains, lit the fire (which was gas with sham logs, but as comforting and genuine as a proper fire), put a tape on the stereo, poured herself a Scotch. In the kitchen, she concocted a salad, made a dressing for this, laid the table, put the wine to cool.

It was now nearly seven-thirty, and she went upstairs. Her bedroom was at the back of the house, looking out over the garden and the oak tree, and this too was white, with a thick fitted carpet and an enormous double divan bed. She looked at the bed, and thought about Hank Spotswood, deliberated for a moment or two, and then stripped and remade it, replacing the sheets with clean ones of shining, icy, freshly ironed linen. When she had done this, and only then, she undressed and ran herself a bath.

For Olivia, the ritual of her evening bath was her one indul-gence in total relaxation. Here, soaking in scented steam, she allowed her mind to drift, her thoughts to wander. It was an interlude conducive to pleasant reflections—holidays to be considered, clothes for the coming months, vague fantasies concerning her current man. But somehow this evening, she found herself back with Nancy, wondering if she was home by now in that dreadful house with her graceless family. True, she had problems, but they all seemed to be self-induced. She and George, with all their pretensions, lived far beyond their means, and yet managed to convince themselves that they had the right to so much more. It was hard not to smile at the recollection of Nancy's face, jaw sagging and eyes goggling, when Olivia had told her the probable worth of the Lawrence Stern paintings. Nancy had never been any good at hiding her thoughts, especially if you caught her unawares, and the blank astonishment had been, almost at once, replaced with an expression of calculating avarice, as Nancy doubtless envisaged school bills paid, the old Vicarage double-glazed, and security ensured for the entire Chamberlain clan.

This did not worry Olivia. She had no fears for The Shell Seekers. Lawrence Stern had given the painting to his daughter as a wedding present and it was more precious to her than all the money in the world. She would never sell it. Nancy—and for that matter Noel—would simply have to bide their time until nature took its course and Penelope turned up her toes and died. Which, Olivia devoutly hoped, would not be for years.

She mentally abandoned Nancy and let her mind move on to other, more attractive concerns. That clever young photographer, Lyle Medwin. Brilliant. A real find. And perceptive, too.

"Ibiza," he had said, and she had, involuntarily, repeated the word, and perhaps he had caught some question in her voice or expression, for he had at once made an alternative suggestion. Ibiza. Now, she realized, squeezing her sponge so that hot water trickled like balm over her nakedness, that memories had stirred and stayed, hovering around at the back of her consciousness, ever since that small and apparently insignificant exchange.

She had not thought of Ibiza for months. But, "Rural backgrounds . . ." she had suggested. "With goats and sheep and hardy peasants tilling fields." She saw the house, long and low, red-tiled, hung with bougainvillaea and trellises of vines. Heard cowbells and cocks crowing. Smelt the warm resin of pine and juniper, blown in from the sea on a warm wind. Felt again the nailing heat of the Mediterranean sun.

3

COSMO

On holiday with friends during the early summer of 1979, Olivia met Cosmo Hamilton at a party on a boat.

She disliked boats. She disliked the close quarters, the claus-trophobia caused by too many people crowded into too small a space, the constant banging of shin and head on davit and boom. This particular boat was a thirty-foot cruiser, moored out in the harbour and reached by means of a power dinghy. Olivia went because the rest of her party were going, but she did so reluctantly, and it was just as bad as she had feared, with too many people, no place to sit, and everybody being dreadfully jolly and bluff, drinking Bloody Marys, and discussing with much noisy laughter the momentous party they had all been to the previous evening, and which Olivia and her friends had not.

She found herself standing, hand clamped around her glass, in the cockpit of the yacht, along with about fourteen other people. It was like trying to be sociable in a very crowded lift. And another awful thing about being on a boat was that there was no way you could leave. You couldn't simply walk out of the door and into the street and find a taxi and go home. You were stuck. Jammed, moreover, face to face with a chinless man, who seemed to think that you would find it fascinating to be told that one was in the Guards, and how long it took one to drive, in one's fairly fast car, from one's place in Hampshire to Windsor.

Olivia's face ached with boredom. When he turned for a moment to get his glass refilled, she instantly made her escape, stepping up out of the cockpit and making her way forward, passing en route an almost totally naked girl sunbathing on top of the cabin roof. On the foredeck, she found a corner of empty deck and there sat, her back propped against the mast. Here, the babble of voices continued to assault her ears, but at least she was alone. It was very hot. She stared despondently at the sea.

A shadow fell across her legs. She looked up, fearing the Guardee from Windsor, and saw that it was the man with the beard. She had noticed him as soon as she stepped on board, but they had not spoken. His beard was grey, but his hair was thick and white, and he was very tall and spare and muscular, dressed in a white shirt and faded, salt-bleached jeans.

He said, "Do you need another drink?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you want to be alone?"

He had a charming voice. She did not think he looked the sort of man who would refer to himself as "one." She said, "Not necessarily."

He squatted beside her. Their eyes came level and she saw that his were the same pale, soft blue as his jeans. His face was lined and deeply tanned, and he looked as though he might be a writer.

"Can I join you then?"

She hesitated, and then smiled. "Why not?"

His name was Cosmo Hamilton. He lived on the island, had lived here for twenty-five years. No, he was not a writer. To begin with he had run a yacht charter business and then had a job as agent for a firm in London which ran package holidays, but now he was a gentleman of leisure.

Olivia, despite herself, became interested.

"Don't you get bored?"

"Why should I get bored?"

"With nothing to do."

"I have a thousand things to do."

"Name two."

His eyes gleamed with amusement. "That's almost insulting."

And, indeed, he looked so fit and active that it probably was. Olivia smiled. "I didn't mean it literally."

His own smile wanned his face, like a light, and caused his eyes to crinkle up at the corners. Olivia felt as though her heart, very stealthily, was stirring and turning over.

"I have a boat," he told her, "and a house and a garden. Shelves of books, two goats, and three dozen bantams. At the last count. Bantams are notoriously prolific."

"Do you look after the bantams, or does your wife do that?"

"My wife lives in Weybridge. We're divorced."

"So you're alone."

"Not entirely. I have a daughter. She's at day school in England, so she lives with her mother during the term and then comes out here for the holidays."

"How old?"

"Thirteen. She's called Antonia."

"She must love being here for holidays."

"Yes. We have a good time. What are you called?"

"Olivia Keeling."

"Where are you staying?"

"At Los Pinos."

"Are you alone?"

"No, with friends. That's why I'm here. One of our party was given the invitation and we all tagged along."

"I saw you come on board."

She said, "I hate boats," and he began to laugh.

The next morning he turned up at the hotel in search of her. He found her alone, by the pool. It was early and her friends were presumably still in their bedrooms, but Olivia had already swum, and had ordered her breakfast to be served on the poolside terrace.

"Good morning."

She looked up, into the sun, and saw him standing there in a dazzle of light.

"Hello."

Her hair was wet and sleek from her swim and she was wrapped in a white towelling robe.

"May I join you?"

"If you want." She put out a foot and pushed a chair in his direction. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes." He sat down. "A couple of hours ago."

"Some coffee?"

"No, not even coffee."

"What can I do for you then?"

"I came to see if you'd like to spend the day with me."

"Does that invitation include my friends?"

"No. Just you."

He was looking straight at her, his eyes steady and quite unblinking. She felt as though she had been thrown a challenge, and for some reason this disconcerted her. Not for years had Olivia been disconcerted. To cover this unfamiliar nervousness and give herself something to do, she took up an orange from the basket of fruit on the table and began to try to peel it.

She said, "What am I going to say to the others?"

"Just tell them you're going to spend the day with me."

The peel of the orange was tough and hurt her thumbnail. "What are we going to do?"

"I thought we'd take my boat out . . . take a picnic. . . . Here." He sounded impatient, leaned forward and took the orange away from her. "You'll never peel it that way." He reached into his back pocket, produced a knife and began to score the orange into four sections.