whether Irini behaved like an angel, or turned into a whining, spiteful, needy devil, as she could do at the drop of a hat, it made no noticeable difference. So, without any real incentive to be good, she usually chose the other option, with nerve-shattering results.
‘And to think her name means peace,’ Stavros had commented sourly one day, after a particularly spectacular row with screaming and door-slamming. ‘She should have been named Hecate of the Three Heads, because she whines like a dog, bites like a snake and looks like a horse.’
He’d been punished for his unkindness, but Natasha knew that he and Andonis had still used the name on the quiet to torment their sister.
And for all she knew, they might be doing so to this day, which could be why the other girl’s mouth had thinned into a line of ill-natured grievance, and her dark eyes snapped at the world with undisguised suspicion.
As she’d got older and more perceptive, Natasha had often wondered why Thia Theodosia, who must have realised the reason for Irini’s tears, tantrums and sheer bad temper, didn’t intervene—point out to her husband the damaging disparities in his treatment of his children.
But perhaps it was because Madame Papadimos had her own personal battle to fight. She had always seemed frail, a shadow to her husband’s larger-than-life vibrancy, but now, since Basilis had died suddenly of a heart attack two years ago, she seemed to be slowly but deliberately fading out of the family picture, apparently content to live quietly in her own wing of the villa with Hara, her devoted nurse-companion, in close attendance.
Nor had she joined tonight’s dinner party, which Natasha felt was a bad sign in more ways than one, as neither Stavros nor Andonis ever willingly discussed business matters in front of their mother. If this had been a purely social occasion, she would have been there.
Their wives, of course, were a different matter. Both Maria and Christina Papadimos were present—and both clearly on edge, their smiles too forced, their bursts of laughter far too shrill.
I suppose, Natasha thought, sighing inwardly, it’s up to me to get the ball rolling, or we’ll be here all night and tomorrow, too, and I need to get back to London, and my real life.
She looked round the table. ‘So, let’s drop the social niceties and have the truth—shall we? I presume that I’ve been summoned to discuss the recent well-publicised problems of the Arianna line.’
‘There is nothing to discuss.’ Irini might not have said much so far, but the familiar basilisk glare was suddenly back in full working order. ‘Decisions have already been made. You are only expected to agree. To sign where you are bidden. No more than that.’
Natasha bit her lip. This, she knew, had always been a bone of contention—that Basilis had decreed in his will that she, the foster child, should have a place on the Papadimos board, with full voting rights and the same level of salary as the rest of the family.
She had waived the salary, and rarely attended any of the board meetings, but, in view of the stories that had been appearing in the newspapers over the past months, she realised ruefully that this might have been a big mistake.
Because the Arianna line had been stalked by disaster of late. The Arianna Queen had suffered a serious outbreak of food poisoning, affecting almost two thirds of her passengers. The Princess had been detained at Malta when the crew had gone on strike in a dispute over late payment of their wages, and two of the smaller boats had experienced engine faults, resulting in their cruises being curtailed. And the Empress, their new flagship, had been deluged with complaints after the maiden voyage, about poor workmanship in the staterooms and bathrooms that didn’t work properly.
And that, she thought, was only the passenger line. The cargo vessels that comprised the Leander fleet had experienced problems, too, with an oil tanker running aground and the inevitable spillage, and a fire on board another ship.
Natasha had read all these horror stories, appalled, knowing that none of these things would have happened when Basilis was alive and in charge, because he was a man with a nose for trouble.
In fact, just before his heart attack, he had been talking about instituting a mass refit on the whole fleet of cruise ships, particularly the galleys, which were showing their age, and the engine rooms.
She could only assume that after his death, in an act of blatant unwisdom, these eminently sensible—indeed necessary—plans had gone quietly into abeyance. Certainly she’d never been consulted about any cancellation or postponement to the modernisation of the Arianna line, or she’d have fought tooth and nail for Basilis’s wishes to be adhered to.
It was the only course of action that made economic sense. How could the brothers not have seen it?
Not that Stavros and Andonis often listened to advice, especially from women. And in this, she was forced to admit, they resembled their father, who took the unenlightened view that the female of the species was of more use in the bedroom than the boardroom. And who had shocked Natasha rigid on her eighteenth birthday by summoning her to his study to outline his plans for her own forthcoming marriage.
Apparently, she’d learned with horror, her pale blonde hair, creamy skin and wide, long-lashed green eyes had found favour among a number of the susceptible young men in the wealthy social circles that the Papadimos clan moved in. The question of whether or not she had a brain had not come under consideration by any of her would-be suitors.
She was regarded solely by them all as a trophy bride.
But, Basilis had announced magnanimously, she would be permitted to make her own choice among them. Nor would she go to her husband penniless, the sum of money which her father’s will had left in trust for her having multiplied in value under his stewardship. All this, she must understand, in addition to the dowry that he would settle on her himself.
Which, in his assumption, made everything all fine and dandy.
My God, Natasha had thought, trying to suppress the appalled bubble of laughter welling up inside her, looks and money. I’ve suddenly become the catch of the season, if not the year.
It had taken, she recalled, hours of patient persuasion to convince Basilis that his plans for her were doomed. That she had her own vision of her future, that clashed fundamentally with his on a number of points, and that marriage didn’t feature—or not for some years, anyway. And any future husband would be expected to respect her intelligence and her need for independence.
Hours of standing her ground against his roared disapproval and voluble reproaches. Hours, too, of resisting the more subtle emotional blackmail he used as a last resort, when anger and pleading had clearly failed.
And hours of assuring him with perfect truth that she loved him dearly, and that she would be eternally grateful for his care of her while she was growing up. That she owed him more than she could ever repay.
But that she was now in charge of her own destiny, which she was sure rested in England rather than her country of adoption. And that it was there that she would try to carve out a life for herself.
Also she had been very careful not to hint, as she might have done, that it was Irini who could be in need of his matchmaking abilities, as no queue of hopefuls appeared to be lining up to woo her.
Now, she looked away from the other girl’s glare and said quietly, ‘I see. And may I ask what exactly is on this dotted line that’s been prepared for me?’
Stavros
