Kitabı oku: «Eclipse», sayfa 2

Chapter Two

‘No Serena, I will not go.’

His mouth closed to a narrow line, Nicholas Frazer-West was adamant.

His wife glared at him. ‘You’re being ridiculously stubborn, Nicholas.’

Serena was experiencing great difficulty controlling her temper; but control it she knew she must, if she was to win the day. They had been arguing intermittently ever since Royole Fergusson’s note had arrived two days ago, thanking them for their hospitality, and inviting them to dinner at his house.

Staring up at the sky, she yawned and watched a lone egret wing its way across a cloudless brilliant blue horizon.

Pale pink hibiscus flowers swayed across her vision. She reached out to pick one, almost toppling out of the hammock she had been snoozing in for the last two hours.

Tickling her left ear with the stem of the flower, she sat up; and, with one long, tanned leg lolling over the side of the hammock, she deliberately fixed a cajoling smile on her face.

‘For me Nicky, darling.’

She hated herself for pleading, but had no alternative. ‘At least think about it,’ she added in a hopeful voice.

‘I might think about it, but that won’t change my mind.’

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. ‘You’re impossible Nicholas.’

‘I’m sorry, my devious little darling, but this time you cannot have your own way. I flatly refuse to spend another evening in the company of Mr Royole Fergusson the second. How he has the bloody audacity to call himself the second,’ he snorted.

‘He probably has the audacity because his father was called Royole Fergusson,’ Serena quipped.

Jumping out of the hammock, she joined Nicholas in the white-painted, wooden gazebo, where he was stretched out full length on a day-bed with an assortment of cushions stuffed behind his head and under his bare feet.

Serena perched on the edge of the bed and studied her husband. He was pretending to read Tolstoy, but she knew that he would much rather be reading a good spy thriller.

Why not simply admit that he wasn’t an intellectual, she wondered. After all, Nicholas had everything that mattered: the advantage of good breeding; the best schools; and a shrewd father who had held on to his inherited wealth before conveniently dying five years ago, leaving everything to his only son.

She knew her parents had been delighted, and relieved, when the newly titled Earl of Ettington, Lord Frazer-West, had proposed marriage to their beautiful yet totally irresponsible daughter on the eve of her twenty-first birthday.

Eager to escape both her boring job in Christie’s and the tyranny of her over-protective father, Serena had gladly accepted. She didn’t love Nicholas, but had the advantage of knowing that he adored her. And marriage to him meant she could do exactly as she pleased; which she duly did … most of the time.

‘Anyway, I think that your Mr Royole Fergusson is a fraud. I don’t believe all that stuff he told us the night of the storm.’ Nicholas spoke from behind his book. ‘Joseph told me the man’s a philanderer and a notorious womanizer; got girlfriends all over the place apparently.’

‘Joseph’s such an old woman,’ commented Serena. ‘Always gossiping about something or other. I’d take anything he says with a pinch of salt.’

‘No smoke without fire, darling.’ Nicholas dropped his book. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, my naïve little wife, that he probably wants to ingratiate himself with people like us for all the wrong reasons?’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Nicholas,’ she snapped, irritated. ‘Royole Fergusson simply wants to reciprocate our hospitality; no more, no less. Can’t you see that?’

She stood up. Two angry red spots had appeared on her lightly freckled cheeks. Nicholas tried to grab her by the waist.

‘Come on Bunty, let’s forget all this nonsense. Come and lie down next to me.’

He kicked a cushion on to the floor and, wriggling to one side, made space for her on the day-bed. Irritated by the use of his pet name for her, usually a prelude to lovemaking, Serena took a step back and out of his reach. Standing with legs apart and hands firmly clasped by her sides, she took a deep breath before she spoke.

‘I am going to dinner at Royole Fergusson’s house this evening, Nicholas, with or without you. I’ve made up my mind. Now you can join me if you wish; if not, I do hope you have a wonderful evening doing whatever you choose to do.’

She turned to walk away but Nicholas leapt up and grabbed her by the shoulders. His face had suddenly drained of colour, the muscles around his mouth were taut, and she knew that she had pushed him too far.

‘Why is seeing this man so important to you, Serena?’ he demanded, as his fingers pressed into the flesh of her upper arm.

‘Stop it Nicholas, you’re hurting me!’ Serena cried out in pain. He didn’t hear her. A vacant look had entered his eyes and he began to shake her furiously, uttering a name she had never heard before.

‘No Robbie, please don’t hurt me Robbie.’

Nanny Roberts was holding both his arms so tight that he thought he would pass out from the pain. He was sobbing and begging her to stop but she continued, repeatedly telling him what a bad boy he had been and how she was going to have to punish him.

‘Nicholas, stop it please!’ Serena screamed, shaken.

In the two years they had been married she had never seen him like this. Wrenching one arm free, she slapped him hard across the face. He desisted immediately, dropping both hands by his sides.

‘I’m so sorry, Serena.’ Nicholas hung his head; his long, straight hair fell in a blond curtain, hiding his face. ‘Please forgive me.’ He had adopted his ‘little boy’ voice; childish and penitent.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds until Serena broke the silence. ‘I do forgive you Nicholas, but only on condition that you take me to supper at Royole Fergusson’s house tonight.’

The humid West Indian night was overcast and blacker than black, making the journey down the unmade road towards San San beach all the more difficult. There was no welcoming moon, no twinkling stars to light the narrow dirt-road. Nicholas cursed as the jeep hit a jagged pothole, and he had to swerve violently to avoid careering into a gully.

‘This is bloody treacherous,’ he swore, and gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles shone white.

‘I think we’re almost there,’ Serena said with more confidence than she actually felt.

Nicholas slowed the car down to a crawl as the road narrowed. Dense vegetation pressed in on them and thick tamarind branches thrashed the windscreen, dropping brown, lumpy pods on to the bonnet.

‘I think we might have made a wrong turning,’ confessed Serena eventually, looking at him helplessly.

‘Now she tells me,’ Nicholas bellowed.

She was about to tell him not to shout, when the road turned abruptly and the jeep bumped into a clearing, where an old Triumph sports car was parked at the end of a gravel drive leading to a long, low dwelling.

‘Is this the place?’ Nicholas asked as he cut the engine.

‘I think so.’ Serena looked unsure, then catching sight of Royole at the doorway she exclaimed, ‘Yes it is!’ then added quickly. ‘Thank you for bringing me, Nicholas.’

Serena grabbed his hand. It was hot and clammy, nevertheless she held it very tight for a few seconds before saying, ‘I really appreciate it.’

A raffish expression crossed her husband’s pale face, and he winked. ‘You know me; I’d do anything for you.’ He meant it, and the rangy smile he gave her was full of love.

They both climbed out of the jeep.

Tiny, circular stepping-stones threaded a path through thick clumps of allamanda and frangipani to the entrance of Coralita Cottage, where Royole Fergusson stood, a dark silhouette in the light from the open door.

‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, holding out his hand to Nicholas, who felt tempted to ignore it.

Serena stood on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on Royole’s cheek.

Built into the side of a bluff and spectacularly, but precariously, suspended 150 feet above Turtle Cove, the entire house was constructed of wood. Intricately carved fretwork, painted bright blue and pastel pink, hung over sun-bleached shutters.

Exposed limestone boulders bordered the living room on two sides, and a deep verandah ran the full length of the house, overlooking the sea. It crossed Serena’s mind that she would love to come back during daylight hours, to enjoy what she knew would be a wonderful view of Alligator Head and Monkey Island.

All the furniture was painted white; big, beige cotton cushions in various shapes were heaped casually on the timber-decked floors, next to several low Indonesian carved tables and an assortment of earthenware pots, each containing tropical flowers of every hue. The house was lit by huge candles, flickering under glass hurricane lamps. The air seemed heady with the scent of incense and marijuana.

Royole led them out on to the terrace, where his girlfriend Caron was browsing through a well-thumbed copy of Vogue. She rose to greet them; a tall, elegant figure swathed in a long off-the-shoulder dress in cream.

‘Caron, I’d like you to meet Lord and Lady Frazer-West.’ Royole introduced them formally.

A warm breeze drifted on to the terrace, stirring the flowers and lifting the hem of Caron’s flimsy dress.

‘Delighted to meet you both! Welcome to Coralita Cottage. Royole tells me you were wonderful hosts the other evening, sheltering him from the storm.’

Her voice, as soft as a caress, had an unusual accent, with only a slight hint of Jamaican intonation, and the hand she held out to them was the colour of dark honey. Her face, especially when she smiled, had an almost feline quality; and her small, even teeth were as white as pure ivory.

Serena thought she was very beautiful.

Caron opened her arms and gestured them to sit on the deep cushions that acted as sofas. Sliding into a cushion herself, she curled long, slender legs under her body, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was completely naked under her dress.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Royole asked, his voice bubbling with obvious pleasure.

Serena watched him carefully. He seemed agitated or excited, she couldn’t decide which, and hoped it was the latter. She sat down next to Caron and asked for dry white wine.

Royole turned to Nicholas, who shrugged and refused the offer.

‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’ve got to try and get us back to Mango Bay in one piece. The road was bad enough sober.’

Nicholas looked stiff and uncomfortable, out of place; like a bit-part actor who’d wandered on to the wrong set. He refused to sit down and, instead, chose to stroll to the far end of the terrace, which was suspended at least twenty foot out from the cliff. He felt slightly dizzy as he looked down to where the Caribbean was breaking below. Suddenly a feeling of vertigo gripped him and, taking a deep breath, he stepped back, almost bumping into Caron who had walked across to join him.

Silver beads gleamed in her long, black braided hair, and a scent of patchouli clung to her. Her amber eyes held steady as she absorbed every detail of Lord Frazer-West’s aristocratic face; alien in its insipid colouring, yet extremely attractive in contrast to her own.

His strong chin didn’t fit with the rest of his thin, almost gaunt face; and his brown eyes to her revealed a haunted look. Caron had noticed his eyes as soon as she’d seen him.

Nicholas Frazer-West was not what he seemed, she decided. There was a hidden depth; the bland surface, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his dark side. She was quite sure of that.

‘Do you smoke?’ She offered him the joint she was holding.

He shook his head. ‘Like I said, I’ve got to drive.’

Caron insisted. This won’t hurt. It’ll make you relax; might even help you get through the evening.’ She paused. ‘Without it, I fear this may be quite an endurance test for you.’

Smiling wryly at her perception, he nodded slowly. Several strands of long silky hair fell across him as she placed the cigarette between his lips, a glazed expression on her exotic face.

Nicholas inhaled deeply. It was strong grass; the smoke burned the back of his throat and his mouth felt dry. She gestured for him to have more.

‘I’ll be stoned,’ he warned.

‘That’s the general idea.’ Caron laughed; a low, throaty sound.

‘Go on, finish it,’ she urged.

Nicholas nodded and gave her a languid smile, now relishing the attention of this intensely sensual woman. ‘I feel much better already.’

Caron returned his smile. ‘I thought you might,’ she said, before excusing herself to prepare the finishing touches to their dinner; which she then served on a low table, set with an assortment of chopsticks and hand-painted bowls depicting Oriental scenes.

One long-stemmed white anthurium decorated the centre of the table, and the wine was served in pink frosted glasses. They ate Akee soufflé followed by three types of local fish: snapper, grunt and butter fish; each one prepared differently, and each with a distinctive flavour. Warm banana bread accompanied two different rice dishes and baked paw-paw with a subtle hint of ginger. It was all delicious.

Serena struggled with her chopsticks. Royole helped her, and they both laughed as she repeatedly dropped her food.

Nicholas and Caron giggled during the entire meal, much to Serena’s annoyance; she was pleased when Caron disappeared into the kitchen to collect the dessert and Royole went to open more wine.

As soon as they were both out of earshot, Serena hissed: ‘You’re being very silly, Nicholas.’

She had admonished him as a schoolteacher would a child.

He fixed a comic grin on his face and retorted by sticking out his tongue. ‘I’m enjoying myself. I didn’t want to come here, and now I’m jolly pleased I did, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.’

‘You’re stoned, that’s why.’ She was angry and a little confused. This was not quite how she’d imagined the evening would develop.

‘Are you having a good time, my darling Serena?’

He slurred the ‘darling’, and she glared at him as Royole returned, carrying a freshly opened bottle of Chablis and a bottle of local cane rum. He was closely followed by Caron, bearing a tray of china dishes containing fresh mango and papaya soaked in rum and coconut juice.

‘Mmm, this mango is wonderful,’ enthused Serena, between mouthfuls of the succulent fruit.

‘The entire meal was a triumph,’ Nicholas announced. His eyes firmly fixed on Caron, he raised his glass in a toast. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

In response, a warm flush crept into Caron’s face, enhancing the lustrous, honey tones of her flawless skin.

Serena drank silently and looked across at Royole who, to her chagrin, was also looking at his beautiful girlfriend. She stood up and, excusing herself, went to the bathroom. Returning a few moments later, she found Nicholas and Caron curled up together in deep conversation, oblivious to anything but each other.

Serena joined Royole who was leaning over the side of the terrace, staring out to sea. She stood next to him, studying his profile.

The incessant whistling of the tree-frogs mingled with Royole’s words, and a scent of jasmine filled the air as he spoke of his surroundings. ‘Quite beautiful, don’t you think?’ he asked, as if he was speaking about his very own piece of heaven on earth. Without waiting for a reply, he went on ‘The West Indies is in my blood. I have this great love for the Caribbean and, of course, a dream.’

He turned to face her and she was just about to ask him about his dream when something in his expression made her decide to bite back her curiosity.

His next question came as a total surprise.

‘Would you like to go swimming, Lady Serena? The sea’s fantastic at this time of night.’

Glancing in her husband’s direction, she watched him light another joint; then, throwing back his head, Nicholas burst into private laughter.

‘I’d like that very much,’ Serena replied.

Before she could change her mind, Royole had ushered her out of the cottage, making no noise. An earlier shower had cleared most of the clouds and a fat, full moon now lit up the sky.

Holding her hand tightly, Royole picked his way down an overgrown pathway towards the sea. He was as surefooted as a mountain goat and knew the path backwards. Serena was fascinated by the sight of hundreds of fireflies, twinkling amongst the trees like a host of dancing candle-lights. She had never seen so many together at the same time.

At the foot of the hill they had to jump from a grassy ledge on to the beach. Royole went first, and then turned to hold out his hands for Serena, conscious of the ankle that she had injured a little over a week ago.

She landed awkwardly, but fell into the soft sand with no further mishap. Rolling over and laughing, she clambered to her feet and ran into the warm shallows, gasping as the salty sea-spray stung her face, and the wind whipped her long hair across her glowing cheeks.

‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea Royole,’ she called to him, ‘the sea looks very rough.’

He smiled and shouted above the waves, ‘Not where I’m going to take you. Come on.’

He led her by the hand to the end of the long white beach, not stopping until they reached a tightly packed rock formation covered in rambling seagrape bushes. Here, they had to turn sideways to slide through a narrow space between the rocks. Scrambling over a few slippery boulders they eventually emerged on to a crescent-shaped cove lying on the edge of a small circular lagoon.

‘It’s amazing,’ gasped Serena, staring at the completely calm surface of the water; so flat that it resembled a sheet of gleaming, black marble.

Undoing the buttons on the thin shoulder straps of her cotton dress, she let it fall in soft folds on to the sand. She then stepped out of it, and slipped her panties swiftly down her legs; hooking them with her big toe, she gave them a little flick. She aimed well and they landed where she had intended, on top of her dress.

She was aware of Royole’s probing gaze eating into her naked flesh, yet felt no embarrassment nor, strangely enough, arousal. Instead she felt like a child again; free and uninhibited.

Diving sleekly into the lagoon, her body cut neatly through the glassy surface of the water, sending out ripples in ever-growing circles. The water was very warm and came to just below her neck. She stood very still on the sandy ocean floor, watching Royole take off his cotton shirt and trousers. Unabashed, she stared at his body; he was so tall and perfectly proportioned. His skin, a golden mahogany colour, gleamed in the moonlight.

A moment later he was at her side, towering above her.

She ducked underwater and held her breath, before emerging to his laughter.

With sensitive fingers, he gently lifted her hair up and out of her face, smoothing it flat to her crown. His hand then caressed their way slowly down the length of her back, stopping at the base of her spine; lingering there, as if undecided, before spanning her tiny waist and pulling her body towards his own. He could feel her resistance.

‘Don’t you want me, Lady Serena?’ he asked, and seemed surprised. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you did.’

His voice, in soft enquiry, was neither passionate nor pressing.

‘Yes I do; but not here and not now,’ she replied firmly.

Pushing him gently away, she dived under his arms and with long, smooth strokes swam towards the lagoon’s one jagged rock that rose spectrally out of the water.

By the time she reached it, Royole was already there, lying in wait to catch her. As she swam past, he grabbed both her ankles and pulled her beneath the surface.

Kicking and spluttering, she managed to fight free and find her feet. She was still giggling when he burst from the water like a huge whale, letting out a loud roar.

‘Careful, you’ll wake the neighbours,’ she squealed, and splashed him with long sweeps of water before swimming back to the shore and running on to the beach, panting, and shaking with laughter.

‘That was wonderful,’ Serena told Royole, as she wriggled into her dress, struggling with the awkward straps.

Royole helped her with the buttons. His fingers longed to linger; to trace the pointed tips of her erect nipples, rising and falling under the gauzy fabric. Forcing himself to stifle his feelings of arousal, and holding her chin in the palm of one hand, he moved several wet strands of hair out of her face with the other.

‘You must call me soon, Lady Serena. I have to see you before you leave Port Antonio.’ He placed a fleeting kiss on her brow, as a father would a child.

She said nothing, not wanting to break the mood, and they both walked back in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

It was after midnight when they slipped quietly into the cottage.

Nicholas was sleeping like a baby, curled up on several cushions, in a cramped foetal position. And Caron had left a scrawled message on the messy dinner table, to inform Royole that she’d call him tomorrow.

‘Caron works as a hotel receptionist; she has to get up early,’ Royole explained to Serena. ‘She rarely stays with me.’

Serena shrugged and, looking at Nicholas, said, ‘It looks like I’ll be the one driving back.’

Royole nodded and began to clear the dirty dinner plates. ‘I think there’s little doubt about that.’

Nicholas woke twenty minutes later, whilst Royole was busy making coffee in the kitchen. Serena was sitting on the opposite side of the terrace; her hair, freshly washed, hung several inches past her shoulder blades, shining like newly spun silk.

Nicholas was still trying to focus as she slid down on to the cushions next to him, snuggling close to his warm body.

‘So, my darling, awake at last? Royole and I were debating as to whether we should put you to bed here …’

Blinking, he noticed how her skin glowed, and a subtle teasing light danced in her eyes. He touched her cheek, tracing a line with his index finger across her mouth and down to her throat. He was about to tell her that she looked beautiful when Royole walked into the room, carrying a tray containing three steaming mugs.

‘Coffee is served,’ he announced with a flourish, placing the tray on a low table next to them.

Nicholas stood up, a little shaky on his feet. Running his tongue over parched lips, he asked, ‘Could I have a glass of water, please. I’ve got a rather dry throat.’

Serena looked at her dishevelled husband and grinned. ‘I really can’t think why.’

It was almost one-thirty when they said their goodbyes and left Coralita Cottage. Serena drove slowly and sedately back to Mango Bay, whilst Nicholas snored and muttered unintelligibly for the entire twenty-minute journey.

She was pleased to have the time to herself. It allowed her to think about Royole Fergusson, and the fact that in four days’ time her holiday would be over and she would have to leave Jamaica.