“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I gather you’ve moved in with Joe.”
“Yes.”
“It must be love.”
“Whatever it is, it’s very convenient.”
“Having trouble at home, are you?”
“When aren’t I?”
“Joe’s a good lad. He’ll look after you.”
“He was buried beneath the duvet this morning.”
“I didn’t feel like getting up myself. The trouble with having an affair with a married man is that you never get a cuddle in the morning.”
“I didn’t get so much as a ‘good morning.’”
“But at least he was there. I think I should trade Freddie in for a single man. A man who can give me all of his time and all of his attention.”
“Quite,” Clementine agreed, not really listening. Her mind was being pulled back to the hotel. She wondered whether Rafa was on the lawn giving lessons.
“I might go up for a drink at your hotel this evening.”
Clementine frowned. “Really? Why?”
“Everyone’s talking about your Argentine.”
“He’s not my Argentine.”
“Good. So the way is clear, then?”
“For you?”
“Of course. Latin men like curvaceous women, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. I know nothing about them.”
“Well, everyone’s talking about him. Sugar was up there last night, and now she’s absolutely smitten.”
“I know. I saw her. Flaunting herself like an old tart.”
“That’s not kind,” Sylvia chided. “She’s just playful.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. He was loving it.”
“I’m sure he was. She says he’s delicious. She’s going to ask your stepmother whether they can have painting lessons on the weekend.” Sylvia giggled. “Maybe I should learn how to paint.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I’m very happy to pose nude if he wants to paint me.”
Clementine tried not to feel jealous. It was always inevitable that Rafa would eventually sink into the perfumed posse of Dawcomb girls. With his good looks and charm he was like a honeypot to bees. She wished she hadn’t provoked a row. They had been getting along so well. Now she had blown it; they weren’t even friends.
Mr. Atwood finished his meeting and called Clementine into his office. He dictated a couple of letters, then gave her a tray of papers to file and a list of documents he needed for the afternoon.
“Good look,” he said with a nod.
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, glancing down at her suit in surprise.
“I like my secretary to look professional.”
“Well, I feel professional today. It’s a novelty.” She laughed joylessly. “Did your wife like the bracelet?”
“The bracelet? My wife? Oh, yes.” He coughed. “She was very pleased. Yes. Well chosen, Clementine.”
Clementine grinned as she went to the filing cabinet. Now she knew who his mistress was she could have fun with him. If she hadn’t been in such a grumpy mood, she’d have confided in Sylvia. For the time being, she decided to keep the information to herself.
Having organized the files so efficiently, she found the documents he required with ease. She swiftly typed the letters and envelopes and took them through to his office. “That was quick,” he said, taking the documents and looking them over to check they were the right ones. He murmured his approval. She placed the letters in front of him for his signature. He read them for errors, surprised to find none. He signed his name in his tight little writing at the bottom of each. “Well done, Clementine. You’re becoming quite a good secretary all of a sudden.”
“That’s high praise from you, Mr. Atwood.”
“Praise where praise is due.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d like you to come to the meeting this afternoon. It’s time you learned a little more about the business.”
“Sure.”
“And in that suit, I think you’re perfectly dressed to represent us.”
“Okay. Where is it?”
“It’s a massive property called Newcomb Bisset Manor, about half an hour away. If all goes well, Atwood and Fisher are going to put it on the market. The husband is a bit of a ladies’ man. He’ll like the look of you. If he has any doubt about being represented by us, he won’t by the end of the meeting.” Clementine grimaced. “All you need to do is smile,” he added firmly.
* * *
Back at the Polzanze, Rafa was giving a lesson to a group of twelve in the vegetable garden. Some were painting in watercolors, others with oils, a few drawing in charcoal. They all sat in front of the picturesque glass-and-iron greenhouse where Mr. Potter was busy washing potatoes.