Читать книгу Chris - Sally Wentworth, Sally Wentworth - Страница 8

FRANCESCA had told the boutique to send not only evening gowns but a choice of day clothes too. The assistant who had brought them was deferential to say the least. ‘The Princess told us your size, senhorita, and that you were fair. I am sure you will find something here that you like.’

Tiffany was sure of it too; all of them looked good on her, and any one of the dresses, she was equally certain, would have put her in hock for the rest of her life. Not that any of the clothes had anything so vulgar as a price-tag attached. Wondering fleetingly if she was supposed to pay for the dresses, and deciding not to worry about it, Tiffany chose a chic blue shorts suit to wear for the rest of the day and a stunning black velvet cocktail dress to wear that evening. Luckily the boutique had also sent shoes and evening bags, so she was able to put a whole outfit together.

Francesca came in just as the assistant was packing up all the clothes, and applauded Tiffany’s choice. ‘Mmm. Nice. I wish I could wear those shorts suits, but my legs are so long I look ridiculous in them.’ Patently untrue, of course, but it was a kind thing to say. ‘Put the things on my account,’ Francesca said offhandedly as the woman left.

‘Oh, but really…’ Tiffany made a half-hearted protest, comfortably sure that it would be overborne.

It was. Francesca lifted a hand to silence her. ‘No, please. My pleasure. Let’s go down, shall we?’

She was still wearing the flame outfit, and strode ahead down the corridor towards the stairs. After they’d gone about twenty yards, Tiffany called out, ‘Hey! Do you always walk this fast?’

Pausing at the head of the staircase, Francesca laughed. ‘Sorry. All my family are so tall that I suppose I’m not used to slowing down.’

‘From what you said earlier, you don’t seem to see much of them,’ Tiffany remarked, coming up to her.

‘Not as much as I’d like to. Especially Chris; he always seems to be somewhere I’m not, if you see what I mean.’

‘Don’t you live in Portugal?’

‘No. I have an apartment in Rome, but at the moment I’m renting a house near Paris. And you?’ she asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards the sitting-room again. ‘Do you live in Oporto?’

‘Yes, I’m sharing a place with friends,’ Tiffany returned, wondering what Francesca would think if she knew that ‘sharing a place’ really meant that someone she used to work with smuggled her in and out of an attic room shared with three other girls, and that Tiffany had only a sleeping-bag on the floor to call her own.

The room was empty, but the windows opened on to the garden and they could see Calum outside on the terrace, talking to the caterer again. The two girls went out to sit at an ornamental table and Calum brought the woman over to them.

‘Francesca, do you have any further instructions for Mrs Beresford on the party at the quinta?’

‘Yes. Would you excuse me a moment, Tiffany?’

The other girl moved away and Calum sat down beside Tiffany. He smiled. ‘I see you found something to suit you.’

‘Yes—much better than the bathrobe.’

‘But you looked very pretty in it.’

She smiled at him under her lashes, having got the answer she wanted from him. ‘Thank you.’ Resting her chin on her hand, she looked at him attentively and said, ‘Tell me; what is a quinta?’

She already knew, of course, but it was a good enough opening gambit.

‘A quinta is the Portuguese word for farm or estate. It’s where we grow the grape-vines for the port wine. I’m surprised you haven’t come across it before.’

‘But you see, my phrase-book only gives English to Portuguese; when it’s the other way round I’m stuck.’

Calum laughed. ‘I’ll have to find you a two-way dictionary. That’s if you’re going to be here for very long?’ He made it a question, which was a good sign.

‘I don’t have any immediate plans to leave. But you were telling me about your quinta; does it have a name?’

‘The company owns several in the Alto Douro—that’s the Upper Douro valley. Er—you do know that the river that runs through Oporto is the Rio Douro?’

‘Oh, yes, I do know that,’ she assured him with amusement in her eyes.

He nodded and gave a small smile. ‘Our principal vinegrowing estate is called the Quinta dos Colinas—the farm of the hills. That’s where we’re holding another bicentennial party, for all our workers and their families.’

‘Do you actually make the wine at the quinta?’

‘Yes, but by very modern methods. We no longer have workers treading the grapes to extract the juice.’

Tiffany’s nose wrinkled a little. ‘Why not?’

Reaching out, Calum tapped the end of her nose. ‘For the very reason that you just did that! No one would buy the wine if they thought it had been trodden by the great feet of peasant workers. People are too particular today; everything must be done by hygienic methods.’

There was a slightly disparaging note in his voice which Tiffany picked up and used as a cue to say, ‘I suppose so, but treading the grapes sounds much more romantic. Have you done it yourself?’

‘Yes, but many years ago now.’

‘Do you stand in a big tub to squash them? How high do they come up?’

‘Not a tub, a big stone trough or tank. And on most people the grapes would come up to their knees, but on you I think it would be a little higher,’ he remarked, looking at her legs.

‘How unkind of you to remind me.’

‘Do you dislike being short?’

‘It’s often a great disadvantage,’ she admitted.

‘I really can’t see why you should think so.’

It was a nice reply, a compliment without going overboard. Tiffany began to realise that Calum must be more experienced with women than she’d thought. His reputation in Oporto wasn’t that of a playboy—that title was reserved for Chris. From what she’d heard of him, Calum was the serious type, hard-working and rather reserved. He was also one of the most eligible bachelors in the town. Rich, very good-looking, well-bred—what girl could ask for more? And he was in his thirties—high time he went looking for a wife. But that wife would have to be fair, to carry on the Brodey tradition. Everyone knew that, so all the dark-haired girls, the brunettes and the redheads, sighed and left him alone, certain they would be wasting their time if they made a play for him. And there weren’t too many blondes in Portugal, which was why Tiffany had thought him inexperienced. But that, of course, was stupid: even if the girl he eventually married had to be a blonde, that didn’t stop him gaining experience with all the others.

He started to describe the first grape-treading he had been taken to, as a baby, still in his mother’s arms. ‘It’s a tradition, you see. It’s supposed to get wine-making into our blood.’

Behind them, Chris came out on to the terrace and overheard. Pulling out a chair, he turned it round to sit astride it, his arms along the back. ‘But all it did was to give us a taste for wine from an early age. At least, it did in my case.’

Annoyed that he’d interrupted her tête-à-tête with Calum, Tiffany hid it behind a smile. ‘I’m not surprised. But obviously it didn’t work with your father.’

Chris raised an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Someone at your party said he was an artist, that he wasn’t part of the family firm,’ she said quickly, inwardly cursing herself for making such a stupid slip.

Calum nodded. ‘That’s so, but he still appreciates a good wine.’

Chris gave her an amused look. ‘Who was it told you he was an artist?’ he asked, guessing her thoughts, wanting to needle her.

But Tiffany was a match for him. ‘Wasn’t it you?’ she said sweetly. A glint came into his eyes, but she turned quickly back to Calum. ‘Are you interested in art, Calum? I’m afraid I know very little about Portuguese painters but I went to an exhibition recently at the museum. Did you go to it?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact our company was one of the organisers. A group has been formed to try to sponsor and encourage contemporary painters. Not that I agree with everything they do.’

‘You don’t like modern art?’

They got into a discussion on the subject, and she was on safe ground here because she really had been to the exhibition—when she’d read that Calum was one of the sponsors—and had also done a lot of reading since. She didn’t overstate it, but could see that Calum was impressed by her knowledge. It was hard, though, to keep up her end of the conversation when out of the corner of her eye she could see Chris watching her, a sardonic curl of amusement to his lip, knowing exactly what the score was.

It was almost a relief when Francesca came back to join them and the conversation became general. She sat in between Calum and Chris, and they began to swap family stories and information, talking about people Tiffany had never heard of. Tiffany got to her feet. ‘What time is dinner?’

‘Oh, dear, don’t let us drive you away, Tiffany. I’m sorry; it’s just that we haven’t seen each other for so long,’ Francesca said, putting up a hand to stop her. ‘We didn’t mean to bore you. Chris, why don’t you take Tiffany for a walk round the garden while I catch up on Calum’s news? I’ll get round to you later.’

‘Oh, no, please. I’d just as soon——’

‘But I insist,’ Chris broke in. ‘Francesca can tell me all her secrets later.’

‘What makes you think I have any secrets?’

Chris bent to kiss her cheek. ‘You always have—and until some man comes along who can tame you you always will.’

‘Hark at the man! A psychologist now,’ Francesca scoffed. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve decided to marry Michel.’

‘Congratulations. I’ll give it six months.’

‘Six months!’ Francesca exclaimed indignantly.

Chris gave her a contemplative look. ‘No, perhaps you’re right. Three months should have you bored to tears and walking out on him.’

Picking up a cushion, his cousin threw it at him, then pointedly turned her back. Chris chuckled and walked away, but Tiffany noticed that Francesca turned her head to look after him, a strange, desolate kind of look in her eyes.

Tiffany didn’t want to be alone with Chris, was afraid that he would taunt her again, and had already decided that as soon as they were out of sight of the others she would make an excuse and leave him. But when they reached the far end of the lawn he said, ‘I don’t think you’ve seen the rest of the garden, have you? Let’s go this way.’

‘Thanks, but I’d really like to have a bath and change before dinner.’

Tiffany went to turn away but he reached out and put a firm hand under her elbow. ‘There’s plenty of time yet. Come and see the fruit garden.’

His grip was firm and Tiffany knew he wasn’t about to let her go. She gave him an angry glare but had to go with him.

At the end of the ornamental garden there was what looked to be a very high, dense hedge sloping down the hill on which the house stood, but she was amazed to find that it was actually two hedges with a path that descended by flights of stairs between them. The hedges met overhead, giving a cool, shady walk, with occasional shafts of sunlight where there were openings into the garden. Stone seats were set into arbours and there were marble statues of wood-nymphs on plinths, the white stone standing out against the deep green of the hedges.

Tiffany gave an involuntary exclamation of surprise and delight. ‘These gardens are magnificent! It must have taken years for these hedges to grow.’

‘About a generation, I think,’ Chris answered. ‘My great-grandfather planted them for his wife. She was a Scot and found the climate of Portugal far too hot in the summer. Our ancestor, the original Calum Lennox Brodey who founded the House of Brodey, came from Scotland; that’s why the names Calum and Lennox are always passed down the generations.’

Tiffany was silent for a moment, then said on a wry, wistful note, ‘You and your cousins; you’re really into ancestors and family traditions, aren’t you?’

‘You have something against that?’ Chris turned his head to look at her, his eyes fixed on her face.

She gave a small shrug. ‘Not really. It’s just hard to understand when—when you’ve never experienced it before.’

‘You have no family of your own?’

They reached the end of the green tunnel and emerged on to another terrace that looked out over the rest of the hill. In every direction the slopes were covered in fruit trees and bushes in neat rows, facing south, facing the sun, which was turning red now, beginning to set.

‘Is all this your ground?’ Tiffany asked, ignoring his question.

‘It belongs to the house, yes. We’ve started diversifying by growing fruit for jam-making and preserves, that kind of thing.’ Walking over to a nearby tree, Chris reached up to pick a bunch of cherries and brought them over to her. ‘Here, try some.’

The cherries were deep red and fat. Tiffany put one into her mouth and bit through the skin. Juice, hot and sweet, spurted into her mouth, tasting like nectar. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the sensual pleasure of the taste on her tongue. She couldn’t remember ever having had fruit straight from a tree before; it had always come cold and tasteless from a supermarket, when it could be afforded at all.

‘Mmm, delicious.’ She opened her eyes, took the stone from her mouth, and found Chris watching her with a look of sexual awareness in his eyes. It was a look that she had seen many times before and knew how to use, or not use, as she chose. And she certainly didn’t have any use for it now, she thought with annoyance.

Flicking the stone away, she turned to go back, but Chris said, ‘Wait,’ and caught her wrist. ‘You have juice on your mouth.’ Tiffany lifted a finger to wipe it off, but he said softly, ‘No, let me.’ His eyes darkened and he bent to lick the juice away with his tongue.

Immediately Tiffany shoved him away. ‘Keep away from me. And don’t get any ideas,’ she warned, blue eyes sparking angrily.

‘But you looked so sexy.’

‘How I look is no concern of yours.’

‘Ah, saving yourself for Calum, are you?’ Chris stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘You’re aiming high, Tiffany.’

She tossed her head. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing, I suppose. But you’re not the kind of girl that Calum goes for—even if you are a blonde. Is that what gave you the idea of making a play for him; did you hear about the family tradition?’

Tiffany didn’t answer, knowing there was no point in telling him she’d never heard of the tradition until she’d started reading up on the family. But she felt a surge of guilt because, once having read about it, she had thought that being blonde herself might help her to get to know Calum.

She flashed him a furious look that Chris immediately took as an answer in itself. He laughed shortly. ‘I thought so. Do you know how many blonde girls—natural and dyed—have thrown themselves at Calum’s head? A dozen of them. You can bet your life after an article mentioning the tradition has appeared in the Press some blonde will—accidentally—bump into one or other of us. It’s become a family joke.’

Tiffany bit her lip. So much for a brilliantly original idea, she thought wryly. But then she remembered that she and Calum had seemed to get on well when they were alone together. When they were allowed to be alone together. Her chin coming up, she said, ‘What makes you so sure of the type of girl he likes? You may be surprised.’

‘I doubt it. Calum always plays it straight, and he abhors deceit. When he finds that you tricked your way into the party today, and slapped that poor American’s face for nothing…’ he shrugged eloquently ‘…you’ll be out of here so fast you’ll be choked by your own dust.’

‘Just what are you saying?’ Tiffany demanded. ‘What do you want?’

‘Why should I want something?’

‘Men always want something,’ Tiffany said with the certainty of long experience. She gave Chris a look of dislike. ‘You tried to kiss me earlier and you didn’t like it when I said no. You’ve telling me all this to threaten me. So that I’ll beg you to keep quiet.’

‘You did before,’ Chris reminded her.

She shook her head. ‘No, I asked you to give me a chance. But now you’re trying to blackmail me. And what would the price be, I wonder?’ she said jeeringly. ‘For me to go to bed with you? To give myself to you so that you can get your own back for me saying no before?’

His head came up and Chris’s eyes fastened on her. His jaw tensed, in anticipation, she thought, and for a moment he was silent, then he said, ‘And your answer?’

The loathing in her eyes deepened as she said curtly, ‘The answer’s no! It always will be no. Go ahead, tell your cousin. I’d rather leave and walk all the way back to Oporto than go to bed with you!’ She stood, short and fragile but full of defiance, her eyes alight with fury and her cheeks flushed as she faced up to him.

Chris’s eyes were still fixed on her but he had taken his hands from his pockets and clenched them at his sides. Conflicting emotions seemed to chase across his face and it was a moment before he said tersely, ‘You must know some very strange men, Tiffany.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ he said curtly, ‘that I also happen to play things straight, just like Calum. I said I’d give you a chance with him and I meant it. I have no intention of telling him about your scheming.’

Her mouth fell open. ‘You—you won’t tell him?’

‘No! And for your information I don’t have to resort to blackmail to get a girl I want. And, surprising as it may seem to you, I’m also civilised enough to take no for an answer without feeling any resentment.’

He stopped, as annoyed as she had been a moment ago, and all Tiffany could find to say was a faltering, ‘I’m sorry.’

Chris ran an angry hand through his hair. ‘Just who have you mixed with to make you think the way you do?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

He looked at her for a moment, then said, ‘Come on, let’s walk along here.’

He turned to the right, to a paved walk where a long, high brick wall divided the garden, shoring up the earth of the upper level and providing a sun-soaked backing for espalier fruit trees and climbing roses, all mixed in together. On the other side of the path were stakes that held up vines that spread themselves across wires attached to the wall, the bunches of grapes, still green and unripe, hanging down, waiting for the sun. The last bees of the day buzzed around the flowers, and butterflies in breathtaking colours fluttered against the deep flame of the setting sun. A beautiful, dream-like time and place.

The walk seemed to go on forever, but after a couple of hundred yards they tacitly decided to stop to look at the sunset. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Chris asked after a while.

‘About why I’m broke, you mean?’ He nodded, and Tiffany sighed. ‘It isn’t a nice story. You really wouldn’t want to hear it.’

‘Try me.’

She hesitated, still not trusting him, then gave him an expurgated version. ‘I was offered a job out here, down in the Algarve, as a kind of organiser and hostess at a swanky golf centre where a lot of English-speaking people came over on corporate hospitality trips, that kind of thing. It was OK for a while but then the hospitality company got hit by the recession and went bust, so I was out of a job with a couple of months’ salary owing to me.’ She paused, wondering if it would click in his mind, whether he would realise that it was the Brodey Corporation which was responsible. But his face showed absolutely no reaction; it didn’t mean a thing to him that so many people had lost their livelihoods. Something close to hatred filling her, Tiffany added tersely, ‘Then I got a job selling time-shares on a commission basis but I became ill and had to give it up.’

‘What was the matter with you?’

She gave a short laugh. ‘I got glandular fever of all things. I’d saved enough money for my fare, but the airlines said I was contagious and wouldn’t fly me home. I was too ill to make the journey overland. So all my money went on the rent for a room, and by the time I was well enough to work again the time-share company had also gone into receivership.’

‘So how did you end up in Oporto?’

‘A girl who worked at the time-share development, a Portuguese girl, got a job here and thought there might be an opening for me as a guide. So I used up the last of my money to come here, but it didn’t work out. Most of the tour companies want home-grown guides. I’ve been able to get a little work but it only pays enough money to live on.’

‘So you thought you’d find yourself a rich husband,’ Chris said with irony.

It was natural he should think that, Tiffany supposed, and she had to admit that seeing Calum, seeing this magnificent house, it had also been natural for the possibility of marriage to cross her own mind, too. But how to explain that to Chris? He wouldn’t understand; what man would? To a man it was degrading for a woman to go in search of someone with money and deliberately set out to marry him. There were all kinds of phrases to describe it: running after a man, getting your hooks into one, selling yourself, gold-digging. But when you were in a strange country, without a job, hungry and desperate, it seemed like a very good idea. Especially when there was only one other easy way to make money that was open to an attractive girl. But to Tiffany the latter just wasn’t an option, even though she was as low as she’d ever been. It wasn’t as if she would sell herself short; if she married a man she would give darn good value for money, and be as loving and attentive as she knew how. He would have no cause to complain.

‘Marriage is an older profession than prostitution,’ she pointed out shortly.

He gave her a sharp glance, then said, ‘If I offered you the fare home, would you go?’

Tiffany laughed. ‘What would be the point? I have no place in England to go to, any more than I have here. Getting a job would be just as hard, finding a place to live probably impossible.’

‘Don’t you have any family?’ he asked for the second time.

‘No.’ Tiffany turned and began to stride back along the path and through the garden, not looking to see whether Chris followed her or not, not giving him the chance to ask her any more questions.

They walked back to the house and Chris glanced at his watch. ‘I suppose we might as well get ready for dinner. We meet for drinks in the drawing-room from seven-thirty.’ He stayed by her side as they climbed the wide marble staircase and stopped at a door only three down from her own. ‘See you later.’

There was a Jacuzzi in the bathroom opening off the guest room. Tiffany spent a good hour in it, only coming out when her skin began to wrinkle. She washed her hair again and took her time putting on her make-up and slipping into the beautiful black velvet dress. When she was ready she stood in front of the full-length mirror and knew that she had seldom in her life looked as good as this. Excitement filled her, all mixed up with optimism and hope, emotions that she hadn’t felt for a very long time. But they frightened her. Experience had taught her not to hope because then the disappointment wouldn’t be so great. But it was in her nature to be optimistic, and she looked so good now that it was impossible to stifle it.

It was almost eight when she left her room. There was the sound of voices echoing up from the hall as some guests arrived. Tiffany walked to the top of the staircase and stood there a moment, watching as Calum and his grandfather greeted their guests. It was like watching a film: the richly dressed people, the voices and laughter, the beautiful setting; Tiffany could hardly believe that she was to play a part in it, be a part of it.

Then Chris and Francesca came into the hall, arm in arm, laughing. Francesca let go and ran to kiss an elderly guest on the cheek. Chris followed, but something made him glance up and he saw Tiffany. He stood still, just as Calum followed his glance. For a supremely wonderful moment both cousins seemed frozen, gazing up at her. But then Tiffany smiled and came lightly down the stairs towards them.

Chris stepped back and let his cousin greet her. Calum took her hand and held it. ‘You look enchanting.’ His eyes smiled, were warm.

‘Yes, that dress suits you.’ Francesca came over and put a familiar hand on Calum’s shoulder. ‘Grandfather wants to know who Tiffany is. What shall we tell him, Tiffany?’

Outwardly Francesca was as warm and friendly as ever, but Tiffany’s feminine intuition was tuned as finely as a Stradivarius and she immediately sensed a hidden antipathy in the other girl. Easy to sense but not easy to explain. Is she jealous because I look good? Tiffany wondered. Is she so vain that she doesn’t like it if someone outclasses or equals her in looks? Tiffany decided it must be that, although Francesca, in a stunning silver sheath-dress, was just as eye-catching as she’d been that afternoon. Tiffany could understand feminine jealousy and dismissed it from her mind; she was determined to enjoy herself for once and wasn’t about to let Francesca’s petty emotions spoil it.

Calum took her over to meet his grandfather, introducing her merely as a friend, and then took her into the drawing-room where he got her a drink. She met his other cousin, Lennox, with his wife Stella, who was wearing a rich red maternity gown that really looked good on her. ‘I suppose I would have looked more respectable in a dark colour,’ she confided to Tiffany, ‘but those might give my baby a sombre feeling and I want him to be warm and happy.’