‘Be my guest. It gives me the chance to snatch a quick forty winks.’
Her eyes closed, she thought of the weekend ahead and of her disappointment that she wouldn’t be seeing Romily. It was very unlike Romily to miss a familyget-together. All Isabella knew, based on the telegram she had received, was that ‘something unexpected had cropped up’ and Romily would be home a week later than planned.
Well, that was Romily all over, the unexpected was her speciality. She coped with it better than anyone Isabella knew.
Chapter Eight
Palm Springs
October 1962
Romily
Romily had asked Clara the maid where she should go to have her hair done and having taken her advice, she was now back from the salon. The hairdresser, who had wielded the tools of his trade as though conducting an orchestra, had made an excellent job of trimming and setting her hair into a stylish wave that was swept back from her forehead. She felt better for going.
However, the slapdash nature of Red St Clair’s note earlier that morning still rankled. She wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for meeting him, but she couldn’t. Even so, she was determined to look her best, and most businesslike. This was a business lunch after all. She put on her favourite cream Chanel suit and silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. She applied hermake-up with care, slipped on herbutterfly-wing sunglasses, and then scooped up her handbag to go across to the main house.
But the moment she stepped outside she realised the dry arid heat of the day had increased and she was going to be far too hot. Back inside the guest house, she threw off her suit and put on the red and whitecandy-stripeboat-neck dress she had earlier dismissed as being too informal. She then hunted for the handbag that matched the dress and her redpeep-toe sandals, then reapplied her lipstick. This time a deep red.
‘All set,’ she declared, reaching for her sunglasses once more and appraising her reflection in the mirror. ‘Showtime for Mr St Clair.’
She apologised to the taxi driver who had patiently waited for her, and following a short drive to La Bella Vista, she was told by the maître d’ – a suave Italian with an impressive moustache – that her dining companion had called to say he was sorry, but he was running late. Resisting the urge to turn on her heel, Romily politely allowed the man to show her to the table that had been reserved for them. It was outside in the garden in the shade of avine-covered pergola.
‘Would theSignoralike anaperitivowhile she waits?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, theSignorawould indeed like an aperitif while she waits. She would like a vodka martini with a twist of lemon. Shaken not stirred.’
He smiled. ‘Subito, Signora. Subito.’ He hurried off, clicking his fingers ostentatiously to attract the attention of a waiter.
While waiting for her drink, Romily turned her attention to the other diners. They were mostly couples enjoying what appeared to be a romantic lunch. Seated at the table nearest to her was a young woman about Isabella’s age staring adoringly into the eyes of her dining companion, a man old enough to be her grandfather. She was talking about them playing tennis later that afternoon and him taking her dancing that night at somewhere called the Thunderbird Country Club. The man looked the sort to want a nap after lunch, never mind exerting himself on a tennis court, or dance floor.
It was a sight Romily had often witnessed in Hollywood, young girls throwing themselves at older men who they believed would further their careers. Or those who hoped for marriage and a life of wealth and luxury. But there were, of course, plenty of rich and powerful men who took advantage of thesewide-eyed ingenues for their own ends.
Romily recalled her own relationship with a much older man all those years ago and thought of the many people who had believed that she married Jack for his money. She smiled to herself thinking of the old biddies in Melstead St Mary, long since dead, who had considered her a scarlet woman. They had most assuredly assumed the worst of her. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
God how she had loved Jack! And what a passionate romance they had shared together. There had been no one like him since. Yes, she had been involved with a number of men in the intervening years, but no man had possessed her heart, body and soul the way Jack had. Now, at the age offifty-five, she was content to live as a single and carefree woman. She had her work and her friends and a family whom she loved; what more did she need?
As though in answer to that question, the young waiter who had been assigned the task of bringing her vodka martini took that moment to materialise. ‘Signora,’ he said deferentially, setting down the tray containing her drink, along with a dish of plump olives and salted almonds.
‘Grazie,’ she responded, although she could see with his pale freckled complexion he was about as Italian as she was.
Her drink had been perfectly mixed with just the right amount of vodka and she relished the sublime dryness of it while reading the menu.
Her glass was almost empty, and she was contemplating ordering a second drink, when she was aware that she was no longer alone.
‘I bet you’ve been sitting there wondering what kind of a worthless fellow has the audacity to keep you waiting so long.’
From behind her sunglasses, she raised her gaze to the man before her. He was so tall and broad in the chest and shoulders he eclipsed everything around him. ‘And you would be who exactly?’ she asked.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, that is somewhat ingenuous of you, but just so as you know, I’d get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness if I could.’ He held out an oversized hand. ‘Red St Clair at your service. Can you forgive an ignorant Yank such appalling behaviour?’
She shook hands, her own disappearing into his. ‘If you really are such an ignorant Yank,’ she said, ‘I doubt we have any business to conduct.’
He smiled and pulled out the chair to the right of hers. His enormous body instantly dominated the space, making her back away from him.
‘Have you decided what to eat?’ he asked, indicating the menu in front of her. ‘I can recommend the sardines followed by thelinguine al frutta di mare.They’re both favourites of mine.’
‘I thought I’d have theravioli e limonefollowed by the veal escalope,’ she said, perversely changing her mind from her first choice of sardines and linguine.
