“Too much vodka at the Dizzy Mariner,” Clementine mumbled.
“I’ll make you a strong coffee. Take a cold shower, you’ll feel better.”
“I want to sleep.”
“I’m not going to phone and pretend you’re sick.”
“Please.”
“No. That’s beyond the call of duty. Now hurry, or you’ll be late.”
Clementine dragged herself into the bathroom and peered at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Her face was gray, the circles beneath her eyes as dark as purple storm clouds, and she had an unsightly spot on her chin. Her shoulder-length hair was tangled and knotted, as if a bird had spent the night in it, trying to scratch its way out. Her lips were swollen from too much kissing. No amount of eye drops would restore her bloodshot eyes, and as for her self-respect—she fumbled for the paracetamol—nothing could restore that.
At last she made her way down to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee and hot croissants revived her flagging spirit. Marina was at the table, reading Vogue. She looked poised and polished in a pair of beige trousers and bright floral blouse, her small feet tucked into a pair of high wedge heels. She raised her eyes over the magazine and smiled sympathetically. “That’s better.” But only marginally. She had tried to cover up with too much foundation and kohl.
“I should never have drunk so much.”
“We all do silly things.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Marina. You don’t look like you’ve done a single silly thing in your entire life.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Yes I would.” Clementine didn’t imagine her stepmother had ever gotten drunk and allowed a coarse odd-job man to have his wicked way with her. She poured herself a cup of coffee and gingerly nibbled the corner of a croissant. Shame clawed at her stomach. She would have liked to share her worries, but knew that Marina was the last person on the planet who would understand. As she chewed, her fears mounted. What if he hadn’t worn a condom? What if she was pregnant? What if he had a disease? Should she go to the doctor? She felt the blood drain into her feet.
Marina glanced at her, sensing her misery. “Are you all right? You look sick.”
“I’m fine. Just hungover.”
Marina wasn’t convinced. “If you really are unwell, you shouldn’t go into work and you certainly shouldn’t drive. I’ll call Mr. Atwood and let him know.”
“Stop fussing. I said I’m fine.” Clementine hadn’t meant her voice to sound so sharp, but she was too frail to apologize. She looked at her watch. “I’d better go.”
“You’ve barely eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.” She stood up.
“Take the croissant to eat in the car.”
“I’ll get something in town.”
Keen not to fuss, Marina did not insist. She looked at the barely eaten croissant discarded on the table and felt a rush of maternal angst. It wasn’t healthy to start the day on an empty stomach.
“See you later, then. Have a good day.”
Clementine didn’t reply. She left the room, taking her darkness with her. A little later the front door closed with a loud bang. A gust of wind swept into the kitchen, but then the air settled and the place felt light again.
Marina turned her thoughts to Rafa Santoro. She was not looking forward to meeting him. Her spirits felt heavy with dread and anticipated disappointment. If only Paul Lockwood would come back, everything would be all right. She drained her coffee cup and cleared the table. As she stacked the plates she heard the door open again and the loud, habitual sigh that always accompanied Bertha’s arrival.
“Morning,” Bertha groaned. “Another lovely day at the Polzanze.” She bustled into the kitchen, heaving her heavy body across the room. A porcine woman with mottled pink skin and pale blond hair tied into a ponytail, Bertha worked at the hotel, doing a couple of hours every morning for Marina at the stable block.
“Morning, Bertha. How are you today?”
“Well, my cold’s definitely on the way out, but my back. Well …” She handed Marina a postcard then sank into a chair and helped herself to Clementine’s half-nibbled croissant that still sat on the table. “Come all the way from Canada. Pretty writing.”
“Katherine Bridges,” Marina replied with a smile. “My old teacher.”
“Funny to still keep in touch with your teacher.”
“She was more than a teacher. She was special.”
Bertha pulled a face. “The doctor has suggested I try those needle things. What are they called?”
“Acupuncture,” Marina replied absentmindedly, scanning her eyes down the postcard.