The Mermaid Garden(144)

Jake watched in astonishment as she stalked out into the hall.

Clementine sat in her bedroom mulling over what Jake had told her. Her instincts reassured her that he was wrong. Rafa wasn’t a burglar. He was gentle and kind and compassionate. If he was a burglar, he’d be ruthless and duplicitous, which she was sure he was not. However, she couldn’t ignore the niggling feeling that he was hiding something. Jake had brought that doubt into the open, and she now admitted that it had always been there, lying at the bottom of her happiness like clay. Was he too good to be true? And if he wasn’t the burglar, what was he?

More worrying than Jake’s suspicions about Rafa was the threat to the Polzanze and what such a loss would do to Marina. She found, to her surprise, that the thought of Marina being forced to give up what she treasured most gave her a sharp pain in the middle of her chest. She put her hand there. If only she could help, but there was nothing she could do. If her father really was in financial trouble and the Ruebens made a generous offer, he’d sell. Poor Marina would be devastated. She’d never get over it.

A sudden inspiration assuaged the pain: she’d stay with her and not go abroad. That’s what she’d do. She’d help Marina set up somewhere else. They’d build a new place together, a place more beautiful even than the Polzanze.

With that thought she felt happier. She turned her attention back to Jake and his ludicrous theory. As if Rafa could be Baffles; the very idea was absurd.

* * *

On Friday, June 12, Charles Rueben and his glacial wife, Celeste, arrived for the weekend. Marina had begged Grey to say they were fully booked, but he had refused her. As hard as it was for him to admit it, he needed them.

It poured with rain, which Marina hoped might put them off, for the place looked very gray in bad weather. Heavy black clouds hung low over the sea, and a cold wind whipped up the cliffs and over the roof, groaning as if in protest at the new guests.

Marina loathed Celeste on sight. She was almost six feet tall, and so skinny she nearly disappeared when viewed from the side. She had the remains of an icy beauty, with pale blue eyes, heavily made-up with kohl and mascara, and white hair blow-dried into a stiff shoulder-length bob. Her cheekbones were high and as sharp as the big diamond studs that glittered on her earlobes and long, wrinkled fingers. Her lips were thin and pursed into the disapproving pout of a very unhappy woman. In spite of her luxurious cream cashmere sweater, black crocodile Birkin, and matching Ralph Lauren shoes, she looked utterly disenchanted with her life.

“What a quaint little place,” she said in a nasal voice as she stepped into the hall, leaving Tom and Shane to stagger behind with her Louis Vuitton luggage. “And you must be Marina.” She looked down her nose and pulled a tight smile, as far as her recent face-lift would allow.

Marina extended her hand and smiled politely, though her eyes remained hostile. “You’re very welcome,” she said.

The Ruebens were the enemy, inveigling their way into her home to snatch it for themselves. Grey greeted her warmly, for nastiness was not in his nature. Marina glanced out of the open door to see Charles Rueben pacing the gravel with his BlackBerry pressed to his ear, while his driver walked behind him with a large golfing umbrella. He was short and portly, with the big belly of a man who spends a great deal of time in restaurants. His head was bald, his face fleshy and broad like a toad. When he came in at last, he shook the rain off his trench coat and complained in a strong cockney accent about the lack of signal.

“You’d have thought we were out in the sticks. You know, I was in the back of beyond in India last week and the reception was one hundred percent. What does that tell you about Britain, eh?”

“You’re welcome to use the phone in your room,” said Grey.

“It looks like that’s what I’ll have to do.” He shook Grey’s hand and smiled. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thank you,” Grey replied. “It’s Marina’s place, really.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said to Marina, shaking her firmly by the hand. “I’ve heard a lot about it, so I had to come and check it out for myself.”

“May I introduce you to the manager, my son, Jake.” Grey was aware of his wife’s mounting resentment and keen to keep her as far away from the Ruebens as possible.

“A family business, I like it,” said Charles. “Have you met my wife, Celeste?”

By contrast, his wife spoke in a croaky, upper-class whine. “Of course we’ve met,” she retorted. “You’ve been nattering on the telephone for ten minutes—what was I supposed to do, watch the flowers wilt?”