Once the finer details of the sale were settled, Mr. Rhys-Kerr insisted on showing them around the house. Mr. Atwood had already seen it, but Mr. Rhys-Kerr was keen for Clementine to appreciate the merits of a big country pile. Clementine rolled her eyes at his childish innuendos: bath “wide enough for two”; shower “that’s seen a lot of loving”; bedroom “if these walls could talk, I’d blush to the roots of my hair.” The two men clearly shared the same sense of humor as well as the same golf course, because Mr. Atwood laughed at everything Mr. Rhys-Kerr said.
“You were terrific, Clementine,” Mr. Atwood gushed as he drove out of the electric gates. “He really liked you.”
“Must be the suit,” Clementine replied drily.
“You’re a pretty girl, no doubt about it. We’ll make a fortune on that house.”
“It’s very naff.”
“Naff?”
“Yes, no taste at all.”
“That’s beside the point. The fact is, it’s twelve thousand square feet with a sea view. Splendid.”
“It’s still naff.”
“Are you telling me that if you had the money to burn, you wouldn’t like to live there?”
“I’d hate to live there. The house is new, with no character or charm.”
“But it’s big.”
“And soulless.”
“I can’t work you out, Clementine.”
Clementine sighed and stared out of the window. “You’re not alone, Mr. Atwood. Neither can I.”
When they returned to the office, Sylvia was talking on the telephone to Freddie, doodling love hearts onto her notebook. She waited until Mr. Atwood had left the room, then she told Clementine that her Argentine had come looking for her.
“What did he say?” Clementine asked, perking up.
“Just that he popped by to see you.”
“Oh.”
“He’s gorgeous. It’s the smile. Full of naughtiness and his accent is as delicious as toffee banoffi pie.”
“I suspect he wanted to apologize.”
“About what?”
“Long story.” She sat down, disappointed that she had missed him. “What do I do?”
“Go home to Joe. Rafa’s a man who is bound to break a girl’s heart.” Sylvia knew she should tell her that he expected to see her at the hotel that evening, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the words out. They hung on her lips, refusing to budge. She knew jealousy didn’t become her, but she convinced herself that Clementine wasn’t interested in him. As she settled grumpily behind her desk, Sylvia decided that she’d probably decline his invitation anyway.
19.
That evening Sylvia changed into a red dress, reapplied her lipstick, and motored up to the Polzanze, fighting her guilt that she hadn’t invited Clementine to come with her.
She was greeted at the door by a porter who escorted her into reception.
“Good evening. Can I help you?” said Jennifer, smiling politely from behind the desk.
“Yes, I’ve come to have a drink with your artist, Rafa …” She hesitated, not knowing his last name.
Jennifer recognized the buxom redhead, but couldn’t place her. “Sure, he’s in the drawing room, straight through the hall.” She watched her slope off in the direction of the drawing room, her gait slow and sexy, as if she were walking through a saloon in a cowboy movie. And then she remembered where she had seen her, through the window of Atwood and Fisher, and she breathed deeply, relieved that she had taken the incriminating bracelet off.
Sylvia found Rafa in the sitting room, talking to a group of old ladies and a ruddy-faced codger in a gold-buttoned blue blazer. He looked up as she walked over and acknowledged her with a smile. She noticed his eyes stray past her, expecting to see Clementine. She wasn’t used to that.
“I’m on my own, I’m afraid; Clementine’s busy,” she said carelessly, as he stood up to greet her. His face darkened with disappointment. She wasn’t used to that, either. Normally, she eclipsed other women like a big, beautiful moon. “You don’t mind having a drink with me, do you?”
“It would be a pleasure. Let’s go outside. Will you be warm enough?”
“I have a wrap,” she replied, flapping it in front of him. “It’s come all the way from India.”
“When were you there?”
“Oh, I haven’t been. It was a gift.”
“It’s pretty.”
She savored the suede texture of his foreign accent and followed him through the conservatory. “I could listen to your accent forever,” she sighed. “But I suppose all the girls have told you that?”