grim countenance, Martha’s pale desperation, and the handbag and square of linen lying like a gauntlet on the floor between them. Then, with the discretion born of years of boardroom diplomacy, he said calmly:
‘A cold buffet has been prepared. Martha …’ he addressed the young woman holding weakly to the back of a chair, ‘if you would like to come with me …’
Martha wanted to refuse him. She did not want to take anything from the Myconos family. But it was an escape from Dion, from the suffocating menace of his presence, and with a little helpless shrug of her shoulders she turned towards the door.
The corridor stretched ahead of her, endlessly, and as if sensing her uncertainty, Aristotle offered his arm. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘My son will follow. We will walk together, and you can tell me about your life in England, and about that sister of yours of whom you were so fond.’
It was a polite way of gaining her compliance and Martha, much against her better judgment, took his arm, and they walked slowly down the cool, arched passageway. When Helene’s boys were here, or Nikos, with his family, these halls rang with the excited laughter of children, but today they were cloistered, quiet, echoing the brooding violence of Dion’s anger.
It was a relief to get outside, beneath the perspex awning, whose slatted leaves shaded the noonday sun. The scent of mimosa mingled with the perfume of the flowering vines that overhung the trellises, and the blue-green tiles of the swimming pool, were visible between their blossoming stems. A circular, glass-topped table was set with dishes of meats and salads, savoury eggs and stuffed tomatoes, lobster and anchovies, and various other Greek dishes, that Martha had once found much to her taste. There was a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, and another of grapefruit juice, and tall frosted glasses beside a bucket of ice containing a bottle of champagne. She had forgotten Aristotle’s love for champagne, she realised, trying to concentrate on the moment, and dreading the inevitable dénouement that Dion was sure to make.
‘Kathiste, parakalo,’ Andros invited politely, moving from his stance beside the table to offer Martha a chair, and she sank into it gratefully.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him the benefit of a wavering smile, and his eyes warmed her after the cold brilliance of Dion’s.
Aristotle seated himself opposite her, and while Andros offered the various dishes for Martha’s selection, he opened the champagne. The cork burst from the neck of the bottle, but he caught the Dom Perignon expertly in his glass, raising the frothy wine to his lips, and toasting her in its potency.
Martha accepted only a slice of ham flavoured with honey from the slopes below Parnassus, and a little of the Greek salad, that mainly comprised huge slices of tomato and cucumber, tossed in a little light oil. She was not hungry, but she was feeling a little faint, and she hoped the food might restore her equilibrium. Right now, she felt confused and unbalanced, and completely incapable of anticipating what might happen next.
Dion appeared as she was sipping a glass of orange juice. She had refused Aristotle’s offer of champagne, realising anything alcoholic might aggravate the sense of unreality that was gripping her, but her husband’s appearance had an intoxicating mesmerism all its own. She felt like a rabbit, hypnotised by a snake, her limbs frozen into attitudes of helplessness and supplication.
‘Ah, Dionysus! We were beginning to wonder if you intended to join us,’ his father observed, with mild acerbity. ‘As you can see, we have started without you. Will you have some champagne? Or would you prefer a less stimulating substitute, like Martha?’
Dion’s glance flickered over his wife’s bent head, and then he walked to where a low stone wall provided a manmade barrier between the patio area and the terraces that fell away gently below them. He leant against the low wall, resting his hips on its weather-worn stones, and ignoring his father’s offer of refreshment, he said:
‘Where is Alex? I wanted to speak with him.’
Martha’s nerves stretched as she heard Aristotle explaining that his youngest son was waiting for a telephone connection to Athens. ‘There has been some difficulty in getting through,’ he remarked, moving his shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘And I wanted those figures from Stavros for you to work on this evening.’
‘Mum.’ Dion’s response was less enthusiastic, and listening to him, Martha waited in agonised expectation for him to tell his father what he had just learned. But he didn’t. Instead, he left the wall to take a seat at the table, near enough to Martha for her to be constantly aware of him, but not near enough to intimidate her.
‘Endaksi.’ His father handed him a glass of champagne, and dismissed Andros with a flick of his fingers. ‘Now, you can tell me what you have decided.’
Martha looked down at her plate, pushing the ham round with her fork, but Dion did not immediately reply. He leant across the table and helped himself to a circle of toast, liberally spread with the dark brown roe his father found so palatable, and then, with his mouth full, he queried in a muffled voice: ‘About what, in particular?’
Aristotle’s greying brows descended, and for the first time since Martha had joined them he displayed a little of the Myconos temper he normally controlled so well. ‘You know the subject to which I am referring, my son,’ he essayed brusquely. ‘What arrangements have you made? Did you explain to Martha that the settlement need not be ungenerous, in spite of all the circumstances, providing she does not defend the suit, ne?’
Dion took a taste of his champagne, emptied his mouth, and then rubbed his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I think I need more time to consider the matter,’ he said finally, leaning back in his chair, and studying the sparkling liquid in his glass with thoughtful deliberation. ‘You understand, Papa?’
‘Yon are saying that Martha has refused to give you a divorce?’ Aristotle demanded, in ominous tones, and Martha, bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, hastened to deny it.
‘We didn’t discuss—divorce,’ she said tightly, unwilling to suffer the suspense any longer. ‘We spoke about——’
‘—many things,’ broke in Dion, sharply, cutting her off before she could commit herself. ‘Enough to know there is more to the destruction of a marriage than a few words written on a sheet of paper!’
‘Dionysus!’ His father rose to his feet with quivering dignity. ‘What are you saying? What foolishness is this? What hold does this woman have over you, that you cannot be in her presence for more than fifteen minutes without you change the decision of weeks—months! Have done with it! Do not allow her to bewitch you once again. Make the incision! Break loose from those chains that have bound you to the past for five long years!’
Martha was trembling as he spoke. She had guessed Dion’s father had only tolerated her for his sake, and she had known of the initial opposition both his parents had raised to their marriage. Yet their love had seemed so strong then, so worthy of any strains which might be put upon it. That was before she learned of the demands the Myconos corporation put upon its executives, before she had found herself alone for days—weeks—on end, with Dion at one side of the world and herself at the other. Of course, even that would not have been so bad if she had been free to do as she wanted. But she was not. She was expected to conform, like all the other Myconos wives, and her prevailing streak of stubborness and independence had eventually been her downfall …
She came back to the present with a start to find Dion was on his feet too now, and although the exchange he was having with his father had reverted to their own language, Martha was able to understand most of what was being
