The Mermaid Garden(10)

They clung to each other. Marina unburdened her sadness and stopped crying. She closed her eyes, soothed by his hand gently stroking her hair and his lips tenderly kissing her temple, and inhaled deeply until she felt a calm wash over her, like warm honey poured onto the wounds in her heart. The sorrow was slowly replaced with gratitude that she had found in Grey, a man who loved her unconditionally, in spite of all her faults.

“I came down to tell you that you have another candidate for your artist-in-residence. A man called Rafael Santoro just called and asked whether the position has been filled. He sounded very pleased when I told him it hadn’t.”

“I don’t think I have the energy to see anyone else,” she sniffed.

“You will tomorrow. You’re exhausted right now, so don’t think about it.”

“Where’s he from? Italy?”

“Argentina.”

“Did he sound … normal?”

Grey laughed into her hairline. “What’s normal?”

“He’s not a mad tango dancer, or a fancy polo player?” She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, smiling tentatively.

“I don’t know. But as far as I can tell he sounded normal enough.”

“What time is he coming?”

“Ten.”

She sighed heavily, regaining her strength. “Okay. So all is not lost.”

“It’s not lost until you say it’s lost, darling.”

“I wish Paul would come back.”

“We’ll find another Paul. This Rafa, as he likes to be called, might even be better than Paul.”

“You’re as optimistic as Harvey.” She laughed, the sparkle restored in her eyes. “If you ask me, Rafa Santoro sounds like a brand of dog biscuits.”


Clementine met Sylvia, her lover, Freddie, and Freddie’s friend Joe in the Dizzy Mariner pub in Shelton, surrounded by model boats and what looked like rusted relics of the Mary Rose.

“Shelton must be the sleepiest village in Devon,” said Clementine, looking around at the empty tables. A couple of old people sat in the corner, tucking into steak-and-kidney pie, without saying a word to each other. An elderly man, in a tatty tweed suit and cap, perched on a stool chatting up the barmaid, who leaned on the counter, grateful for the company.

“Most people go to the Wayfarer in Dawcomb, but I like it here. It’s cozy and less noisy,” said Sylvia.

“I like it quiet,” said Freddie, putting his arm around Sylvia’s waist. “I don’t have to share you.”

“Or risk bumping into your wife,” Sylvia added, raising a plucked eyebrow.

“I bet it’s a culture shock coming down here from London,” said Joe, gazing on Clementine admiringly.

“It is. I didn’t want to come. I don’t get on with my father’s wife.”

“So, why did you?”

“Because I have to earn some money.”

“I thought the likes of you would have a trust fund or something.”

Clementine laughed bitterly. “There was a time when Dad threw money at us. You know, the classic father trying to win his children’s affection with treats to make up for the divorce. But he’s not so rich anymore. Submarine—that’s his wife—is very high maintenance, and I know they’ve been hit by the financial crisis as I pick up fag ends when they don’t know I’m listening. Then there’s Mum, married again to Michael, hopeless with money. They’ve had to sell their house in London and move up to Edinburgh so that he can join the family business. He’s lost loads in the credit crunch. I think I’d rather be poor, living in London, than rich, living in Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh’s more happening than Dawcomb and Shelton put together!” said Sylvia.

“Perhaps, but it’s cold. At least it’s sunny down here.”

“Sometimes. You’ve just had it lucky.” Sylvia arranged her dress, pulling the neckline lower to expose her cleavage. Freddie lost himself there a moment. “I couldn’t live in a city for all the world. Much too noisy, and the people, oh, I couldn’t bear having to fight for space on the pavement. It’s bad enough in Dawcomb during the summer when all the tourists come down and fill the place to bursting. I like it now, when it’s quiet. Just us, the locals, empty beaches, empty sea, long, empty days.” She giggled as Freddie put his hand on her upper thigh. “And you, dear Freddie, with your empty head!”

“Not empty. Full of you, Sylvia.”

She wriggled with pleasure. “Fancy coming out for a ciggie?”

Sylvia wandered slowly through the pub, her hourglass figure squeezed into a tight blue dress, causing the man in tweed to spill his beer as he swiveled around to follow her with lusty eyes. “Close your mouth, dear, you’re much too old,” said the barmaid with a cackle, reaching for the cloth to wipe the counter.