The Mermaid Garden(26)
“I’m meeting some friends for dinner tonight. D’you want to come?” Sylvia asked her.
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you bring Joe?”
Clementine’s shoulders slumped. “Well, I kind of gave him the idea that I’d hook up with him tonight, so I suppose I should.”
“Give him a chance. I don’t know what you want—heart flutters and stomach cramps, I expect—but life isn’t like that. The point is, does he make you laugh and is he a good lover? Anything more than that is a bonus, or restricted to romantic novels. You wait around for that sort of hero, and you’ll grow old alone.”
“What a happy soliloquy first thing in the morning.”
“Sorry, lovely, but I’m just giving you a dose of realism.”
“I’ve had far too much realism recently. I’m going to go to Buenos Aires, to while away my days dreaming.”
“Now Argentines, apparently they’re the worst.”
“How do you know?”
“Everyone knows. They’re notorious for being irresistibly charming and compulsively unfaithful.”
“You’re thinking of polo players, but go on, repeat the old cliché.”
“They make good lovers but bad husbands.”
“I’m not planning on marrying one. I don’t intend to marry at all, ever.”
Sylvia looked bewildered. “Why not?”
“I come from a broken home. I never want to do that to a child.”
“That’s silly. You can break the cycle.”
“Don’t want to.”
“I’m divorced, and yet I’d give it another go. I’d marry Freddie, if he ever left his wife. They rarely do, though.”
“My father left my mother,” said Clementine bitterly. “I’d never want to be the wedge that drives a family apart like Submarine.”
Sylvia shrugged. “Maybe their love was so strong—”
“Weren’t you just saying that kind of love is reserved for romantic novels?”
“And the very lucky few.”
“Ah, so you do believe in love?”
“Yes, I do. But I don’t believe it happens to each and every one of us. That’s all. You might grow to love Joe if you give him a chance.”
“Do you love Freddie?”
“I love the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he makes me laugh. I love who I am when I’m with him. But do I love him? Like, would I die without him? I’d be sad, of course, but I wouldn’t be brokenhearted.”
“Don’t you want something more?”
“Of course. Every little girl wants to find her prince. But there’s no point hankering after something you can’t have. I’m realistic enough to know that I’m not one of the lucky ones.” Sylvia grabbed her handbag. “I think I’ll go out for a ciggie. Will you man the phone?”
Clementine watched her leave. She didn’t imagine she was one of the lucky ones, either, but deep down inside, she hoped there was more to love than Joe.
“I think we’ll put Rafa in the suite at the top,” said Marina, sitting at her desk, sipping her espresso thoughtfully. “No one’s booked it for months, and it’s a shame to let such a beautiful set of rooms go unused.”
Harvey was up a ladder in his blue boiler suit and cap, screwdriver in hand to mend the curtain pole that had come away from the wall at one end. “That’s the nicest bedroom in the house,” he said, pausing a moment. “Used to be young William’s room when he was a boy.”
Harvey remembered the Duke of Somerland’s children fondly: three rambunctious boys with big blue eyes and smiles that held within them the promise of a whole heap of mischief. He had been just a lad himself, employed to help the estate manager, Mr. Phelps, chopping logs and sweeping leaves. He still felt nostalgic when Mr. Potter burned the leaves in autumn. It took him back to an innocent time in his life when things had been less complicated.
Ted and Daniel did the heavy work these days as Mr. Potter was too old—older than he was, and he was as old as the hills—so he delegated, and his sons dug and planted and cut back. Harvey suspected that Marina kept him on out of compassion, because she knew how much the place meant to him and understood the need to deny the years for as long as possible. After all, retirement for Mr. Potter would be as good as putting him in his coffin and placing it in the ground.
Now the gardens looked as good as they had when the duke had owned the property—better, even, because Marina had such a clear vision of what she wanted and the determination to see it done. He watched her fondly from the window. She was always neatly dressed, with crisp white shirts and slacks, or pretty dresses in summer, never jeans. Being short, she always wore heels to give her height. He felt paternal towards her, a feeling he relished, having never married or fathered children. The funny thing was, she blossomed beneath his praise, and that made him feel good. This glamorous woman, who seemed to have the world at her feet, needed him.