Читать книгу The Night Of The Bulls - Anne Mather - Страница 8

DIONNE stared at him disbelievingly, unable to accept for a moment that this was not some crazy hallucination brought on by her intense longing to see Manoel St. Salvador again, a longing which until this moment had existed only in her subconscious.

But this was not the Manoel she remembered. Her recollections of him were acute, and this cold-eyed stranger bore little resemblance to the warm-blooded man she had known and loved. The features were the same, and yet not the same. They were arranged in the same order, grey eyes below dark brows, arrogantly carved cheekbones, a full and sensual mouth, dark side-bums growing down to his firm jawline. But he was leaner than she remembered, and the grey eyes were more deeply set in their sockets and tinged with bitterness. Deep lines etched nose and mouth, and he had a slightly bored and jaded air. His body was leaner, too, although the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the soft suede of his short jacket, and the strong thighs strained against his taut-fitting trousers.

Now she shook her head helplessly, aware that this moment had come upon her unannounced and unprepared and she could not cope with it. What possible hope of compassion could she expect from the cruel-looking man who was regarding her with something like hatred in his eyes? How could she begin to believe that she might ask anything of him? How could she have imagined so foolishly that the passing of the years should not have laid as much experience at his door as at hers?

‘Well, mademoiselle?’

It was the cold detached voice of a stranger, and Dionne turned away, unable to stand the accusation in his eyes. But what was he accusing her off? Why did he regard her with such obvious distrust, such aversion? Was the memory of the past so distasteful to him?

‘I – I – how did you find me?’ Dionne’s words were scarcely audible.

Manoel uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Is that important? Why are you here? What do you want of me now?’ He stepped towards her, swinging her round to face him, his hand a cruel pain on her shoulder. ‘So! Do not turn away, Dionne! Or is the sight of me so repugnant to you?’

Dionne quivered in his grasp and his gaze raked her face grimly and then travelled down the slim length of her body in the chunky green sweater and cream pants. His hand on her shoulder softened and his thumb probed the fragile bones at her throat before his jaw tightened and his hand fell away.

‘Well?’ he said again. ‘I repeat – why are you here?’

Dionne swallowed a choking breath. ‘I – I came to see you. I – I didn’t know – who else to turn to.’

Manoel’s eyes darkened. ‘You are in trouble?’ He glanced round impatiently. ‘We cannot talk here. You have a room?’ And at her nod, he said: ‘We will go there!’

‘No!’ The word was tom from her and she faltered desperately, ‘No – I mean – we couldn’t go there. It’s small – a bedroom, no more!’

‘So? And what do you imagine I intend to do in this room of yours? Swing you about, little cat?’ His mouth twisted harshly.

Dionne shook her head helplessly. How could she explain that she wanted no remembrance of his presence in that small bare room to haunt her through the long lonely reaches of the night?

‘There – there’s a lounge here,’ she stammered. ‘If – if it’s not occupied …’

She thrust open the door on to darkness that enveloped her like a shroud. She moved quickly into the room, switching on the lamps, illuminating the emptiness.

Manoel’s expression was grim. ‘Very well, it will do. Now—’ He followed her into the quiet room, closing the door and leaning back against it, his whole being emanating the kind of strength that she had only begun to remember could annihilate any defence she might erect. ‘Now, Dionne, what is it? What is wrong? Why do you need my help?’

Dionne moved about the room restlessly, unable to stand still under that piercing examination, unable to find words to say what she wanted to say. And presently he tired of her restiveness and said intensely: ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Dionne, I am not a patient man! Say what you have to say and be done with it!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want? Money?’

Dionne halted abruptly and stared at him, her lips quivering. ‘Why should you imagine I want money?’ She was stung by the cynicism of his tone.

‘Is that not what everybody wants?’ he inquired carelessly. He snapped his fingers. ‘If that is what this elaborate charade is about, then continue with it no longer. Such performances bore me!’ He straightened, looking at her contemptuously. ‘What puzzles me is why you should imagine I might give you money!’

Dionne stared at him, her tongue straying to the comer of her mouth. ‘Am I to take it from your remarks that you refuse to help me?’ she inquired tersely, summoning all her composure to confront him squarely.

Manoel returned her gaze insolently, forcing her lids to fall defensively over the jade green eyes. She found it incredibly difficult even after all this time to sustain a measure of confidence with him, and she was afraid her eyes might mirror a little of what she was feeling. There was a poignant kind of pleasure in just looking at him, but with the looking came memories which she had previously never allowed to enter her conscious mind. She knew every facet of that lean strong face intimately, she had kissed the firm skin of his cheek and felt the sensual curve of his mouth against her body, driving all coherent thought from her mind. Despite the passage of years it was impossible not to be affected by such recollections.

He hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants which circled his narrow hips. Without bothering to answer her question he said: ‘Tell me something, why do you need money?’

Dionne squared her shoulders. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she said. ‘Besides, as you so obviously are opposed to helping me, I don’t see that it matters.’

‘I do not recall stating categorically that I would not help you,’ he drawled, his eyes watchful. ‘You are too quick to take offence, Dionne. You cannot expect to come back here after three years and expect things and people to be the same now as they were then.’

Dionne pressed the palms of her hands against each other. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort,’ she said carefully. ‘I realize life goes on, nothing stays the same. The reason I am avoiding unnecessary complications is so that this situation should not impinge upon your privacy—’

Manoel swore violently, moving towards her menacingly. ‘Do you imagine you can come here without impinging upon my privacy, as you put it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good God, woman, we are human beings, not automatons! Anything you do would be bound to effect what has gone before and what is to come after!’

Dionne trembled in the grip of his angry emotions. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said chokingly. ‘I had to come to you! There was no one else I could turn to!’

‘And you need money?’ He was controlling himself with difficulty, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with suppressed violence.

‘Yes.’ Dionne managed to articulate with difficulty.

‘How much money?’

Dionne swallowed hard. ‘Two — two hundred pounds,’ she faltered.

His brows drew together. ‘Two hundred pounds? What is that? About twenty-five hundred francs?’

‘Something like that,’ Dionne nodded.

Manoel chewed his lower lip for a full minute, and then he said: ‘Two hundred pounds, eh?’ His eyes travelled insolently down the length of her slim body, coming to rest almost tangibly on her parted lips. ‘What is it you need this money for, Dionne? You are pregnant, perhaps?’

‘No!’ Dionne stared at him in horror. ‘No! How could you suggest such a thing?’ Her voice broke, much to her chagrin, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.

‘Why?’ he asked now, his grey eyes raking her body mercilessly. ‘Why should I not assume such a thing? Is it such an uncommon occurrence in your country? Are men there any different from anywhere else? I think not. You are a beautiful woman, Dionne, you always were. How many nights have I lain awake remembering exactly how beautiful you were when you lay in my arms?’ His lips twisted cruelly. ‘Surely some other man must have known the delights we shared—’

Dionne’s hand shot out before he could move and stung sharply across his cheek, and then with a little moaning cry she thrust past him, opening the door as though the devil himself were at her heels and fled up the stairs to her room.

Inside, she closed the door and turned the key, leaning back against it shakingly. But there was no sound of pursuit, no angry banging at her door, only the panting sound of her own breathing that took many long minutes to return to normal.

And when it became obvious that no one was going to follow her, she flung herself face downward on the bed, dry-eyed and utterly bereft.

It was with great reluctance that Dionne rose the next morning. She had slept badly and dark lines rimmed her eyes so that she went down to breakfast in dark glasses to avoid the inevitable comment from the friendly manager.

Over breakfast, which consisted only of several cups of strong black coffee, she tried to take stock of her situation. If only Clarry were here, she thought longingly, although Clarry would not approve of the way she was going about things. Clarry was all for telling the truth and shaming the devil, but in this instance Dionne could not agree with her. How could she confess to Manoel St. Salvador the real reasons behind her need for money? What reaction might he make to her confession? What small amount of compassion need she expect from him after his abasement of her last night?

But what will you do if he doesn’t come back? a small inner voice chided her. How will you manage? Will you sacrifice Jonathan’s chances of good health for the sake of pride?

Dionne rose jerkily from her seat. Such thoughts did not bear thinking about. She had to go on. She had to humiliate herself before Manoel St. Salvador, and if the ultimate was required of her she must give it – for Jonathan’s sake.

But what then? Her thoughts ran on. What then? What if, confronted with the truth, he wanted the child? What possible redress would she have? She, who had only her teacher’s pay to support her, and Manoel with his vast estate in the Camargue, the vineyards in the upper Rhone valley, wealth of a kind she had not even dreamed about. Who would win such a battle? She had no need to doubt the answer.

Her palms moistened. Had she been a fool to come here? To ask Manoel for money? Wasn’t she taking an appalling risk anyway? Would he be content to supply her with the money and not investigate its uses?

A sickly feeling rose in her throat. But who else could she turn to? Apart from Aunt Clarry she had no one. Friends were good, of course, but none of them could afford to lend her, let alone give her, that amount of money. And how else was Jonathan to recover from that horrible racking cough that kept him awake nights and Dionne awake, too, listening to him, praying for a way to take him out of that damp climate into a warmer, dryer place where he could regain his strength?

Tears pricked her eyes. Two hundred pounds meant so little to the St. Salvadors; two thousand pounds was a mere drop in the ocean, as she had learned to her cost. They had been keen enough to give her money three years ago, why couldn’t they give her so much less now? She made a helpless little gesture. She should never have tom up that cheque, but how was she to know she would ever need anything from them?

Heaving a shaking sigh, she emerged on to the steps of the hotel. It was another beautiful morning, the sun glinting on the spire of a church in the distance. A group of riders went by, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles of the square. There were some children amongst the riders, controlling their mounts with the skill that came naturally to them. These horses were not white but grey, but they had the thick switch of tail that was common to the horses of the Camargue.

Dionne watched them until they were out of sight, and then kicked a foot disconsolately. What was she to do? Wait all day and see if Manoel returned this evening? Or go out and look for him? If she waited until this evening and he did not come, that would be another wasted day.

She sighed. But how could she know where to look for him? She knew the way to the Mas St. Salvador, of course. She had been there many times. But it was private land, and she would be a trespasser now. She had no doubt that Manoel’s mother would take the greatest delight in having her forcibly ejected if necessary.

But she could not hang about the hotel all day just waiting. Already her nerves were stretched to screaming pitch and the only balm for her senses was action, action of any kind.

With decision, she went back into the hotel. In her room she changed from the dress she was wearing into slim-fitting navy slacks and a long-sleeved shirt blouse in a rather attractive shade of magenta. Her hair was secured in the rather severe chignon she had adopted and she hoped she looked businesslike. There was no point in dressing decoratively. No one was likely to be impressed by her appearance at the Mas St. Salvador.

After filling up the Citröen’s petrol tank, she drove out of the town, following the dusty track that wound its way between the river and the marshes, never out of the sight and sound of water that sucked greedily along its length. Overhead, a flight of terns and mallards, startled by her passage, shrieked noisily, while in the distance the pink plumage of a group of flamingoes shimmered like a mirage above the water. They were wading in the shallow waters of an étang, those lakes that teemed with water life of every kind, food for the thousands of birds that made the estuary their home. Patches of colour among the tall reeds revealed themselves as clumps of marsh samphire, and sea lavender whose fragile little flowers seemed incapable of surviving in such an area.

Further on she saw the sight that had once filled her with excitement, which had caused the adrenalin to course along her veins with palpitating haste: the black bulls of the Camargue. There were about a dozen of them, grazing together on the grassy mounds that grew out of the marshy soil. They raised their heads as she drove by, but showed little interest in her progress. Their horns were curved menacingly, and she realized these were Spanish bulls. Her fingers tightened on the wheel; they bore the Double S brand on their flanks of the St. Salvador herd. It could not be far now, she thought unsteadily. She was obviously already on St. Salvador land.

Further on a group of horses shied away from the road into a copse of plane trees, and almost hidden amongst the trees she saw the unmistakable colouring of a gypsy caravan.

Dionne pressed her foot on the brake and drew the car to a halt, staring curiously at the caravan. Despite its neglected air, there was something vaguely familiar about it, and then she realized what it was. This was Gemma’s caravan. The one she and Manoel …

She halted her wayward thoughts and pulling on the handbrake slid out of the car. What was Gemma’s caravan doing here? Why had it such an abandoned look? Surely she had not got another caravan. Unless she no longer needed it.

The idea came unbidden but convincingly to her mind, and Dionne thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers. Surely it was not possible. Gemma had been old, of course, but such an active woman, such a vital person. She could not be dead! Could she?

Dionne halted at the edge of the road. The land around the caravan was swampy and she was only wearing shoes that were entirely unsuitable for walking in mud. Besides, it was obviously deserted. The curtains at the grimy windows were drawn and dirty and there was no sign of life whatsoever.

Shaking her head, Dionne went back to her car and slid behind the wheel thoughtfully. Gemma’s caravan, her home that she had taken such pride in, that she had kept sparklingly clean, left to rust and rot.

She looked back at the caravan again, and a lump came in her throat. Was Gemma dead? Was that indomitable spirit quenched for ever? Was that part of the reason for Manoel’s bitterness?

She rested her arms on the steering wheel, staring unseeingly into space. Gemma had seemed the kind of person who would live forever, the only one of the St. Salvador clan who had shown her nothing but kindness. She had had an agelessness about her that defied the passage of time, and the realization that she was no longer there to support her made Dionne wish she had never embarked upon this journey.

She looked about her desperately. What was she going to do? Turn back now, or go on and risk confronting Manoel’s wife, the girl who had never made any attempt to hide her dislike of the English girl, and who Manoel’s mother had considered so suitable because her father’s property marched with that of the St. Salvadors?

Starting the engine abruptly, she forced herself to think about Jonathan. It was for his sake she was here, and if it meant suffering humiliation then she would have to suffer it alone.

The land to either side of the road was less marshy now, and in the distance a grove of trees shielded a cluster of houses. Small reed-fringed lakes sparkled iridescently in the sunlight, but in spite of her proximity to civilization there was no sign of human life. She might have been alone out in the vastness of unlimited space.

She drew the car to a halt again, and climbed out on to the bonnet, shading her eyes and staring into the distance. Vaguely something stirred out there on the horizon, and she strained to see what it was.

The movement materialized into men and horses, the famous gardiens of the Camargue who patrolled their herds of cattle and horses as they had done for many, many years.

As they drew nearer, Dionne could see that they were driving a herd of cattle before them, strong black fearsome beasts that caused Dionne to scramble down from her perch and seek the comparative anonymity of her car.

The St. Salvador mas, which is the Provençal name for a farm, bred Spanish bulls for the corrida, and not the smaller, less muscular beasts of the Camargue, used mainly in the course libre. On her previous visit here, Dionne had learned that the corrida displayed the kind of savagery that made one wonder how far civilization had progressed since the days of gladiatorial battles in the arena in Rome, whereas the course libre was a gentler, if no less dangerous, sport where the bull survived to fight another day.

But in spite of that, it was the Spanish bulls which were the most highly prized, and Manoel’s father, as the head of his household, could rightly be called a manadier, a rather grand title in this area. Certainly these finely bred cattle looked the fiercest Dionne had ever seen, and everyone was warned, from the moment they set foot in the area, to treat them with the utmost respect and never to underestimate their unpredictability.

The herd surged by, scarcely giving her a second glance, but the gardiens regarded her curiously, obviously wondering who she was and why she was here on St. Salvador land.

One of the older men reined in his horse and approached the car, taking off his wide-brimmed hat that so closely resembled that of a cowboy’s in the western states of America. Dionne had recognized none of the men and was taken aback that one of them should address her.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said politely. ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’

Dionne smiled more confidently than she felt. ‘Er – ou est Monsieur Manoel?’ she inquired casually.

The man frowned. ‘Le patron, mademoiselle? Il n’est pas ici.’

Dionne bit her lip. ‘Non, pas le patron, monsieur, mais Monsieur Manoel?’

‘Monsieur Manoel est le patron,’ retorted the man with dignity.

Dionne stared at him disbelievingly. Manoel was le patron, his employer! Then where was Manoel’s father?

But of course she could not ask such a leading question so she made a helpless gesture and said: ‘Pardon! Je ne connais pas bien la famille.’

The man’s frown deepened. ‘Vous êtes anglaise, mademoiselle, oui?’

Dionne inclined her head. ‘Oui. Vous parlez anglais?’

The man’s lips parted in a wide grin. ‘Un peu, mademoiselle, un peu.’

Dionne ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘Very well, monsieur, do you know where Monsieur Manoel is?’

The man glanced about him, turning in the heavy saddle. His eyes were the lightest blue that Dionne had ever seen, diluted by the wind and weather, his gnarled hands and face the colour of mahogany.

‘He could be anywhere, mademoiselle,’ he said at last. ‘There is much to be done at this time of the year. You wish I should tell him you await him at the mas?’

‘Oh, no.’ Dionne shook her head too quickly and the old gardien regarded her suspiciously. It was obvious now that he considered her an intruder particularly as she did not wish her presence here to be made known to his employer. ‘I – I have to go back to Arles,’ Dionne added lamely, unconvincingly. ‘You – you may tell your patron he can find me there.’

‘Bien sûr, mademoiselle.’ The old man inclined his head with controlled politeness, and realizing he was waiting for her to make some move to leave, Dionne started the engine again and thrust the gear into reverse.

But she took her foot off the clutch too tardily and in consequence the small vehicle jerked backwards, its wheels sliding on the uneven surface and causing them to skid to the side of the road and into the ditch that flanked it.

‘Damn!’ Dionne pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to panic, and thrusting open her door she climbed out to inspect the damage.

It was nothing serious, only her offside wheel was stuck in the mud, but without assistance she didn’t quite see how she was going to extract herself. She looked across at the gardien and he patted his horse and it trotted slowly over.

‘You have a rope, mademoiselle?’

Dionne controlled her annoyance with difficulty. She was strongly tempted to retort that she did not normally find it necessary to equip herself with a rope when she went out for a morning drive, but pettiness would help no one. So she shook her head vigorously, staring fiercely at the offending wheel, almost as though she believed her force of will power would be sufficient to make it lever itself out of the ditch.

The gardien climbed out of the saddle slowly. There was a passiveness about him which was in itself infuriating. It came from long hours spent out on the open marshland, communing with the earth and the sky.

‘I have a rope, mademoiselle,’ he said calmly, unwinding a length from the pommel of his saddle.

Dionne’s relief was such that she was able to banish the inevitable comment that sprang to her lips. Instead she smiled rather tightly, and said: ‘Where does one attach it to the car?’

The gardien raised his brows lazily, and then bent to tie the rope to the front fender. This done, he straightened, surveying her flushed appearance. ‘The wheel, mademoiselle; you will direct it – so?’ He showed her what he wanted her to do.

‘Of course.’

Dionne opened the car door and as he attached the rope to the horse and climbed back into the saddle, she began to push. It was hard work, and she was sweating by the time the car began to edge its way back on to the packed surface of the road. The task was almost completed when she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Glancing round nervously, she saw a lone rider approaching them. At first she thought it was a boy, but as the rider drew nearer she saw the mane of golden-brown hair tossed over one shoulder and she realized it was a girl. She straightened apprehensively as the girl reined in her mount beside them, but she was unprepared for the excited exclamation: ‘Dionne! Dionne, it is you! What in the world are you doing here?’

Dionne stared at the girl in astonishment, her momentary withdrawal banished by the absolute pleasure in the newcomer’s voice. ‘Louise,’ she said slowly. ‘Good heavens, I hardly recognized you. You were a child when – when I left.’

The girl laughed infectiously. ‘I was fourteen, Dionne. I’m seventeen now. What are you doing here? Are you coming to the mas to see Grand’mère?’

Dionne felt dazed. This was a contingency she had not planned for. Louise’s enthusiasm was so genuine, and she scarcely knew how to reply to her. Turning to the gardien who was climbing back into his saddle after untying the rope, she thanked him warmly, giving herself a moment to think of what excuse she could give Louise. But as the old man rode away, something Louise had said pierced the confused reaches of her mind.

‘You – you said Grand’mère?’ she questioned, in astonishment. ‘You mean – you mean Gemma?’

‘Of course.’ Louise’s smile disappeared. ‘You surely did not intend to leave without seeing her?’

Dionne shook her head helplessly. ‘I – I saw the caravan,’ she murmured. ‘I thought—’ She shrugged. ‘Never mind, I – look, Louise, this isn’t a social visit.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Surely you are not too young to realize that I would not be a welcome visitor at the mas.’

Louise’s eyes clouded. ‘Grand’mère gets very few visitors,’ she said sadly. ‘But why are you here, Dionne? I thought Manoel went to see you last night.’

Dionne frowned. ‘You know about that?’

Louise shrugged. ‘But of course,’ she said, with typical continental inconsequence. ‘I recognized your voice on the telephone. It was I who told Manoel you must be here.’

Dionne pressed her hands to her sides. ‘And does – does everyone know this?’

Louise grimaced and kicked at the scrub grass beneath their feet. ‘Oh, non, not everyone. Just Manoel and me.’

Dionne bit her lip. ‘Tell me something, Louise,’ she said. ‘Is – is your father no longer at the mas?’

‘Papa is dead!’ Louise spoke regretfully. ‘He died two years ago. Manoel is in charge of the manade now. This is his farm, these are his bulls.’

Dionne shook her head in amazement. ‘I never guessed,’ she murmured, almost to herself. Then: ‘Does your mother still live with Manoel?’

Louise nodded. ‘Of course. And Yvonne.’

A knife twisted in Dionne’s stomach. ‘Oh, yes, Yvonne,’ she agreed tautly.

Louise stared at her for a long moment. ‘You are looking thinner, Dionne. How have you been? Are you still teaching?’

Dionne compressed her lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said dully. ‘Yes, I still teach. And you? Are you finished school?’

‘Manoel wants to send me to a school in Switzerland, but I don’t want to go. I love it here. I can see no possible reason for him to send me away. Just because he finds life so impossible.’ She flicked a glance in Dionne’s direction. ‘You know of Yvonne’s accident, of course.’

Dionne’s attention was riveted. ‘No,’ she denied swiftly. ‘What accident?’

Louise shrugged. ‘She was gored by a bull. She is paralysed from the waist down.’

Dionne gasped in horror. Louise said it so chillingly, so carelessly. Almost as though she considered the accident was nothing more than Yvonne’s due.

‘But how terrible!’ Dionne spread her hands. ‘When – when did this happen?’

Louise shrugged again. ‘Soon after you left, I suppose. Is it important?’

‘You don’t think so?’ Dionne was horrified.

Louise played with the reins of the bridle. ‘Yvonne asked for all she got,’ she said coldly. ‘She was angry with Manoel, and she thought she could annoy him by teasing his bulls.’ She gave a characteristic movement of her shoulders. ‘No one can play with bulls!’

Dionne tugged at a strand of silky hair that had come loose from her chignon. No wonder Manoel looked so much older, so much more experienced. What a terrible time it must have been for him!

Now Louise touched her arm lightly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Dionne. I mean that. But why did you want to see Manoel? I thought — we thought—’ She halted abruptly, biting her lips. ‘Are you staying long in the Camargue?’

Dionne fingered the rim of the car door absently. ‘I don’t know, Louise. It – it depends.’

Louise sighed. ‘Did you come out here to see Manoel?’

Dionne hesitated and then she nodded. ‘Yes. Where is he?’

‘Actually he is away today,’ replied Louise, frowning. ‘At the vineyards.’ She stared at the other girl for a long moment. ‘What happened last night?’

‘What do you mean?’ Dionne pretended not to understand.

‘Between you and my brother? Dionne, you know what I mean. He came home in a terrible temper! Not even Yvonne dared to question him. Only I guessed you must have had a row.’

Dionne made a wry face. ‘I must go, Louise. If Manoel is not here, there’s no point – I mean – I have no reason to go to the mas.’

‘And Grand’mère? Do I tell her I’ve seen you?’

Dionne slid behind the wheel of the car. ‘I can’t stop you, of course,’ she said. ‘But perhaps it would not be kind, in the circumstances.’

‘Oh, Dionne!’ Louise clenched her fists, leaning on the bonnet of the car. ‘Why are you so secretive? Why have you come back after all this time? Surely you must have known what it would do to Manoel to see you again – now!’

Dionne started the car’s engine. ‘I’m sorry, Louise. I’m sorry if you think I’m secretive. And I would have liked to see Gemma.’ Her voice broke, and she shook her head. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Dionne.’ Louise straightened and then ran a few steps to catch up with her again. ‘May I come to see you at the hotel before you leave?’

Dionne’s fingers tightened on the wheel. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ she said. ‘Au revoir.’

Louise raised a hand in farewell, and Dionne reversed on up the track until she came to a wider point where she could turn the car. Then she drove swiftly away, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her.