The Mermaid Garden(7)

“Of course.” But Marina doubted she had any gems to share.

Just as Marina’s spirit began to plummet, Grey walked out onto the terrace. “Ah, my husband,” she said, smiling at him gratefully.

Elizabeth took in his stature, his broad shoulders, his thick, curly hair and genial face, and thought how incredibly attractive he was. An intellectual, clearly, and noble, too, one could always tell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she gushed, giving him her hand.

“I thought I’d come and join you,” he replied, shaking it. He noticed her weak grip and the cold, thin feel of her fingers. “Are you warm enough out here?”

“Perfectly,” she replied. He pulled out a chair and sat down. A waiter hurried to the kitchens to fetch him some coffee. “We were just saying how lovely it is to see the sea.”

“I agree, the view is spectacular.”

“I’d love to paint it.”

“Well, perhaps you shall,” he said. Then he caught his wife’s eye and deduced from her expression that Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes would not be coming back to paint anything.

“So, this position of artist-in-residence, what does it involve, exactly?”

Marina felt the familiar tug in her stomach, an internal warning system that never failed. She didn’t want Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes in her hotel, name-dropping all summer. Once again, she found herself having to go through the motions in order not to be impolite. “Last year we had a charming man who resided with us for three months, teaching the hotel guests painting. It’s something different I like to offer our residents.”

“What a brilliant idea—and such lovely surroundings to paint.”

“I think so. Last summer Paul taught us all how to paint.”

“You as well?” She directed her question at Grey.

“Not me, I’m no artist. Marina had a go, didn’t you, darling?”

“Yes, though I’m no good at it, either. It was fun to experiment, and he was such a nice man. It was a pleasure to have him to stay all summer, and we missed him when he left. He’d become part of the family.”

“As shall I. One loves nothing more than to roll up one’s sleeves and get stuck in. All hands on deck.”

“Absolutely,” said Grey, finding her heartiness comical. The waiter placed his coffee on the table along with herbal tea and a glass of grapefruit juice.

Elizabeth rested her cigarette on the ashtray. “Now let me show you what I do.” She delved into her bag and pulled out a black photo album. “I’m afraid my art is too big to carry around. Some of my paintings are hanging in royal households, so you can imagine, one can hardly go asking to borrow them, can one? This will give you a good idea.” She handed Grey the book. Marina pulled her chair closer to her husband and nudged him with her elbow. “I’m jolly good with people,” Elizabeth continued. “You see, it’s one thing knowing how to paint, but quite another knowing how to teach. I’m fortunate enough to be adept at both.” Grey nudged his wife back.

They leafed through photographs of horses sketched in charcoal, to still lifes in oil. There was no doubt that Elizabeth had talent. However, her work had nothing of the heart of Balthazar Bascobalena’s melancholy boats, nor his flair. She was extremely good, but she had no soul. “You’re very talented, Elizabeth,” Marina said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Thank you. One loves what one does, and I think it shows, don’t you?”

“Oh, it really does,” said Grey, but Marina could see no traces of pleasure in her work at all.

Elizabeth finished one cigarette and lit another. As she sipped her tea, Marina noticed her face fall in repose. She suddenly looked old and sad, like an actress weary of playing her role. Marina felt a twinge of compassion, but she couldn’t wait to be rid of her.


“She was dreadful,” she exclaimed to her husband once Elizabeth’s car had disappeared up the drive.

“You have to kiss many frogs before you find your prince. Perhaps the same applies to your artist.”

“Oh really, Grey. I suppose you think this is all very funny.”

“I’m amused.”

“Well, at least one of us is.”

He put his arm around her and squeezed her affectionately. “Darling, you have to keep your sense of humor. The world is full of wonderful people—wonderfully ghastly and wonderfully pleasant. Elizabeth Pembridge-Hughes was certainly entertaining.”

“I’d enjoy it like you if I didn’t feel so anxious.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about. It’ll all work out in the end. Consider this a study in human nature.”