Innocent Obsession. Anne Mather
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her question sounded innocent enough, it was disturbingly pointed.
‘Margot is—not ill,’ Sylvie answered now, looking somewhat defiantly at the man opposite. ‘Surely you know—surely Leon has told you—Margot is an actress, or rather she was before she was married.’
‘I understood Margot’s acting career was sunk some months before she and Leon were married,’ Andreas inserted now, his tone cold and precise, and Sylvie felt her cheeks begin to burn again.
‘Well, it might have—floundered a little,’ she agreed, in some confusion, ‘but it wasn’t—sunk. And—and when her agent learned she was living in London again—–’
‘Do you not mean—staying in London?’ asked Andreas harshly, and Sylvie felt hopelessly out of her depth.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Staying in London, then. Anyway, he—he offered her a part, a good part, the kind of part she has always wanted.’
‘You mean he made her an offer she could not refuse?’ suggested Andreas contemptuously, and Sylvie sighed.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’
‘I—I was going to. But—but then, when you told me Leon had been ill—–’
‘—you were ashamed!’
‘I was—shocked!’ she amended indignantly. ‘I was,’ she added, meeting his cynical gaze, visible even in the subdued lighting from the street outside. ‘Honestly, Mummy and I had no idea Leon had been ill.’
‘I said I believed you,’ Andreas retorted, drawing a heavy breath. ‘But it occurs to me that perhaps you ought not to tell Leon so.’
Sylvie swallowed convulsively. ‘Not tell him?’
‘That is correct.’ Andreas contemplated the traffic beyond the windows with narrow-eyed concentration. ‘He has suffered enough shocks for one day. Your arrival instead of Margot was an immense disappointment to him, as you can imagine. To further add that you were unaware of his condition—that Margot had chosen not to tell you—had regarded it so lightly—–’ He broke off with a grim tightening of his mouth. ‘I suggest you refrain from admitting so damning an indictment.’
Sylvie bent her head. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘Later on, perhaps—–’ Andreas moved his shoulders indifferently, ‘we shall see.’
‘Poor Leon!’ Sylvie, who had almost forgotten Eleni’s presence, started as the Greek girl offered her condolences. ‘He should never have marr—–’
She broke off at this point, but not before Sylvie had interpreted what she had intended to say, and although she gazed at Andreas in some consternation, Sylvie had no doubts that Eleni had intended her to understand.
‘I agree,’ she said now distinctly, regarding the Greek girl with a cool arrogance she was far from feeling. ‘But they are married, aren’t they? And there’s nothing any of us can do about it. And besides, there is Nikos to consider.’
Eleni looked somewhat taken aback by the younger girl’s candour, and Sylvie was pleased. It was only as she looked at Andreas, and met his cold appraisal, that she realised how unforgivably she had abused the Greek girl’s discretion.
The Petronides’ house was in Syntagnia Avenue, one of the most fashionable areas of the city. Although many of the old town houses, occupied by the wealthier families of Athens, had given way to tall modern blocks of flats, Syntagnia Avenue retained its individuality, and all the houses here stood in their own grounds. It was set on one of the northern slopes overlooking the city, and Sylvie’s eyes were wide when they approached tall iron gates that opened electronically to admit them. Margot had told her a little about her in-laws—their wealth, and influence, their power and their possessions; but nothing had prepared her for this palatial mansion, with its classical architecture and stately Doric columns.
As she followed Eleni out of the car, she was conscious of the scent of magnolias, the source of which soon became evident. Trees of magnolia and bushes of hibiscus brushed her sleeve as she looked about her, their perfume overlying the warmth of the night air with a sweetness that was almost cloying.
Heavy wooden doors had opened upon their arrival, and now a white-coated manservant was waiting to escort them indoors. Andreas, however, strode on ahead, and Sylvie followed slowly, absorbing her surroundings.
Beyond the heavy doors was a wide square hallway, marble-tiled and cool, brilliant with huge bowls of blossoms from the garden. The walls were plain, but adorned with softly-woven tapestries, in a multitude of colours, their jewel-bright radiance competing with the more conservative patina of polished silver and brass. A darkly carved staircase gave access to an upper story, lit by lamps of beaten bronze, and there were other lamps in the window embrasures, highlighting the jewelled icons with their sombre iron crosses.
Andreas had disappeared, and Eleni with him, but as Sylvie looked about her with some apprehension she saw a young girl watching her from an open doorway. She was small and plump, with curly black hair and dancing eyes, that sparkled in anticipation when she saw their guest.
‘Sylvana!’ she exclaimed, coming forward, and now Sylvie could see they were much of an age. ‘It is Sylvana, is it not?’ she repeated, smiling encouragingly. ‘You do not remember me, do you? I am Marina. Remember? I came to England when your sister married my brother.’
‘Marina! Of course.’ In truth, Sylvie could only vaguely remember the two little Greek girls who had accompanied their parents to London. But it was good to know that Marina remembered, and she smiled at Andreas’s sister with genuine sincerity.
But before they could continue their conversation, a group of people emerged through an archway that evidently led to another part of the house. Behind them, Sylvie could see Andreas and Eleni, but confronting her were her sister’s mother and father-in-law, and Leon himself, in a wheelchair.
Immediately she felt defensive, even with Marina standing beside her. Leon’s mother and father looked anything but welcoming, and even Leon himself seemed lost for words.
‘Hello,’ she said, taking the matter into her own hands and crossing to her brother-in-law’s chair. Taking the hand he offered, she shook it gently, then bent deliberately and kissed his cheek. ‘How are you, Leon?’ she asked him warmly. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been unwell.’
Leon’s pale face cracked, and he offered her a slight smile. Sylvie suspected he didn’t smile much these days, and unconsciously her heart went out to him. He looked so thin and frail, emaciated almost, and although she knew he was almost as tall as Andreas, he seemed shrunken sitting in the canvas chair.
‘It is good of you to come, Sylvie,’ he told her firmly, and she was glad that at least one member of the Petronides family knew of the shortening of her name. That would be due to Margot’s influence, she supposed. Margot never addressed her as Sylvana.
‘I—I was glad to,’ she said now, glancing rather defiantly at Andreas. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Nikos again. Where is he? Is he here? Will I get to see him soon?’
‘Soon enough,’ declared Leon’s father rather harshly, as he and Leon’s mother came forward to offer their own greetings. ‘So little Sylvana has grown up, eh? You are welcome, child. Nikos will be happy to see you.’
Madame Petronides looked less enthusiastic. ‘I trust you had a good journey, Sylvana,’ she said, in heavily accented English, her dark eyes appraising Sylvie’s pants suit without approval. She, like Eleni and Marina, was wearing a dress, its simple lines belying its undoubted exclusiveness. ‘Your mother is well, I hope. We seldom correspond these days.’
Sylvie smiled, and assured her hostess that her mother was fine, all the while aware that what they really wanted to ask was: Where was Margot? and Why hadn’t she come?
But discretion