Silver Fruit Upon Silver Trees. Anne Mather
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to take aeons to reach the seventh floor and her key stuck in the lock and wouldn’t immediately turn. It seemed to take her ages to gather her things together and reach the foyer again, and she was amazed to discover she had only taken fifteen minutes.
Leaving her suitcase in the charge of a bellhop, she quickly crossed the foyer to the reception desk. A swift glance around had assured her that Edge St. Vincente was nowhere to be seen, and when the girl presented her bill Sophie paid it without even bothering to check it. Then she turned back towards the bar.
Edge St. Vincente was still seated at the long bar, but now he was not alone. A woman was draped on the stool which Sophie had previously occupied, a slim red-haired woman dressed in a long chiffon gown in shades of yellow. Sophie approached them nervously. Neither of them appeared to have noticed her presence and she didn’t quite know whether she ought to interrupt. The woman had her back to the entrance, but Edge had not, and just when Sophie was considering turning away he caught sight of her and slid abruptly off his stool. Casting a wry glance at his companion, he said: “Here is my niece now, Sandra. Eve Hollister. Eve, come and be introduced to an old friend of mine.”
As Sophie approached the woman turned rather languidly in her seat, resting an elbow in the bar to support herself. She was older than Sophie had at first imagined, about thirty, she thought, but maturity had added to rather than detracted from her beauty. There was something vaguely oriental about her classically moulded features, and she gave Edge a slanted glance from between slightly almond-shaped lids that belied a wholly European ancestry.
“I didn’t know you were an uncle, darling,” she murmured.
“Didn’t you?” Edge half smiled. “Well, one learns a little something every day.”
“Does Piers know he has a cousin?”
“I imagine he’s as aware of that fact as anyone,” returned Edge smoothly. Then, as though realizing that Sophie was standing listening to this with a certain amount of perplexity, he said: “Eve, allow me to present Mrs. March. Her husband and I share an interest in a small company on the southern coast of the island.”
“How do you do?”
Sophie shook hands with Sandra March rather reluctantly. There was something about the older woman which repulsed her a little, although she wasn’t quite sure what. It couldn’t have anything to do with the rather proprietorial looks she was bestowing on Edge St. Vincente. His private affairs were nothing to do with Sophie. All the same, she didn’t think it was right that a married woman should treat any man but her husband with such provocative intimacy.
“So you’re Jennifer’s daughter.” Sandra March spoke consideringly. “And is Brandt killing the proverbial fatted calf in your honour?”
“Brandt?” For a moment Sophie felt blank. “Oh, you mean – my grandfather.”
“That’s right. He must be softening in his old age. He always swore he’d never forgive your mother for what she did.”
“That’s enough, Sandra.” Edge’s tone was incisive, and Sophie was amazed at the way his words could explode Sandra’s bubble of confidence. “Now, you must excuse us. We have to be going.”
Sandra put long fingers with purple lacquered nails on the fine material of his sleeve. “Oh, Edge darling, surely you can stay in town for dinner,” she appealed.
“I’m afraid not.” Edge moved so that her hand fell to her side.
“But it’s ages since I’ve seen you –”
“I’m sorry, Sandra.”
Sandra compressed her lips and looked coldly in Sophie’s direction. “Aren’t you lucky you’re only his niece,” she asked, with scarcely veiled sarcasm. “He’s such a pig where women are concerned, aren’t you, darling?”
Edge ignored her and looked compellingly at Sophie. “Are you ready?”
Sophie nodded. “Yes. One of the bellboys is looking after my suitcase in the foyer.” She spoke quickly, wanting to get away, conscious of the other woman’s humiliation, almost pitying her for it.
“Good. You go ahead. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
As she walked towards the doorway, Sophie heard the brief interchange between them. She heard Sandra’s almost tearful appeals and Edge’s cruel rejection, and then he was beside her, walking carelessly through to the foyer, and when she stole a glance in his direction he seemed totally indifferent to what had just occurred. She shivered. If ever any man spoke to her as Edge had just spoken to Sandra March she felt she would want to curl up and die. And yet Sandra was married. Didn’t her husband mean anything to her?
The bellboy willingly carried Sophie’s suitcase out to where Edge’s car was parked, and Sophie realized why when Edge handed him a five-dollar bill. She wondered whether she should have tipped the boy, but then forgot about it in the other interests of the moment.
Dusk had fallen while they were having their drinks in the bar and now the coolness of evening had a velvety warmth about it. Even the traffic in the busy street seemed to have ebbed somewhat, although there seemed no lessening in the crowds of people thronging into the shops where silver and wood-carvings, Indian silks and Chinese jewellery attracted attention.
Edge’s car was an enormous Mercedes station wagon, sleek and powerful, despite its covering film of dust. He unlocked the passenger side door, threw her case inside on to the back seat, and then indicated that she should get in. Sophie did so willingly. She would be glad to get away from the hotel and all the pitfalls it represented. Edge slammed the door behind her and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her. He held on to the roof of the vehicle as he got in, sliding into his seat with lithe, supple movements. He pressed the keys into the ignition, but before starting the motor he said:
“You don’t have to act as if I were some kind of monster, you know. I assure you, Sandra is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
Sophie’s cheeks flamed and she was glad of the shadows in the car to hide them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –”
“Oh yes, you do.” He adjusted his clothes more comfortably. “I do have some small knowledge of your sex, and I’m quite aware that you feel a certain amount of sympathy for her.”
“It’s nothing to do with me.”
“I agree. It’s not. Nevertheless, save your sympathies for someone who deserves it!”
He flicked the ignition then and the powerful engine roared to life. He turned the wheel with smooth expertise and the large vehicle moved smoothly out of the parking area and into the stream of traffic.
Now Sophie could hear the rhythmic beat of a steel band playing somewhere close at hand, and the pulsating sound caused a sudden and uncontrollable surge of anticipation to run through her body. There was something wholly primitive about that drumming, a wild and stirring penetration of the depths of her consciousness arousing a desire to keep time with the music. She was used to modern music at home, used to moving to the thrumming of electric guitars, but this was different. This was the real thing played by people with generations of African culture behind them. She turned her gaze in Edge St. Vincente’s direction, but he seemed totally unaffected by the sounds that came clearly even over the roar of the traffic. No doubt he had heard it all many times before and it was no novelty to him. But to Sophie it was all new and exciting and for a few moments she forgot that she was the interloper here and sighed in pure enjoyment.
The sound drew Edge’s attention. “You’re tired?” he asked.
Sophie shook her head. “No.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “Isn’t that music marvellous?”
Edge’s lips twisted slightly. “I wonder if you’ll be saying that in a few weeks’ time.”
“Why?” Sophie frowned.
“It’s Carnival in three weeks.