nodded. ‘I understand that.’ She paused. ‘But don’t you think it would be better if—if I just went away again—–’
‘No!’ He spoke vehemently, expelling his breath as he did so, enveloping her in its wine-sweet odour, creating an intimacy she had never experienced before. How old was this man? she wondered. Thirty-five, thirty-six? Married, no doubt, judging by the rings he wore on his long brown fingers, and yet he aroused her awareness of him as a man, more strongly than Brian, or any of the boys she had known, had done.
‘You will stay here,’ he advised her now, indicating the building behind her. ‘This is my apartment. Oh, do not worry—–’ this as her eyes widened in surprise, ‘—my housekeeper, Madame Kuriakis, will take care of you until I return.’
Sylvie looked doubtful. ‘Is there any point? I mean—if Nikos doesn’t need me—–’
‘But he does,’ essayed Andreas flatly. ‘My parents are old, too old to have the care of a six-year-old. And if Margot does not intend to fulfil her responsibilities, it may be that you will be required to fill them for her.’
The chauffeur, who had been waiting patiently outside, responded to Andreas’s curt nod and swung open the door. He helped Sylvie out on to the pavement, then stood aside to allow his master to alight, his dark eyes veiled and enigmatic. Sylvie wondered what he was thinking. If he understood no English, did he know who she was, and what she was doing here? And what interpretation might be put upon this visit to Andreas’s apartment?
Apparently her luggage was to remain in the car, for Andreas indicated that she should accompany him, and they mounted the shallow steps and passed through the glass doors into the building. A row of lifts confronted them, and they entered the first that answered Andreas’s summons, confined in the small cubicle as it accelerated swiftly upward.
Sylvie was intensely conscious of his nearness in the lift, of the hard muscularity of his body, encased in the dark grey lounge suit, of the strength he had exhibited so painfully at the airport. He was not like Leon. Her memories of her brother-in-law were of a smaller man, a gentler man, and certainly a much less dangerous man. It was amazing how one’s opinions could change, she thought inconsequently. At eleven years of age, Andreas had been only another dark stranger at her sister’s wedding. Seven years later he was a man, and she was a woman—although she guessed he might dispute the designation.
It was deliciously cool when they stepped out into the corridor and found themselves confronting white-panelled doors, with the Petronides name spelt out in letters of gold. Andreas brought a handful of keys out of his pocket and inserted one in the lock, then urged Sylvie forward into the apartment.
Her first impression was of light and space, but almost immediately following on these thoughts was her breathless reaction to the view. She could see the Acropolis, the milky-white columns of the Parthenon towering over the city, and viewed over the rooftops of Athens, it had an almost fairytale beauty. She was drawn to the long windows, as if by a magnet, and for several seconds she was unaware that Andreas had left her to find the housekeeper.
When she eventually dragged her eyes away and looked about her immediate surroundings, she felt an uneasy sense of disorientation. Her experiences so far had not prepared her for the luxurious appointments of the apartment, and she drew her skirts aside from bronze miniatures on narrow plinths, and furnishings with the unmistakable veneer of age and antiquity.
It was a spacious room she was in, the floor softly tiled in russet and gold mosaic, and strewn with Bokhara rugs. A copper-shaded lamp was suspended over velvet-soft hide sofas, dotted with jewel-bright cushions, and a custom-built unit housed books and television set, stereo, and radio equipment. Strangely enough, the accoutrements to contemporary living blended well with their latter-day counterparts, and the atmosphere was one of comfortable prosperity—and understated opulence.
The door behind her opened, and she turned to find Andreas re-entering the room, accompanied by a woman, plump, and black-clad, who regarded Sylvie with some suspicion.
‘This is Madame Kuriakis,’ Andreas introduced them briefly, his dark eyes lingering longer than necessary, Sylvie thought, on hers. ‘Apo dho i Thespinis Scott, kiria.’
‘Hero poli, thespinis,’ Madame Kuriakis murmured politely, and then turning to her employer, she evidently asked him some question concerning Sylvie’s presence there.
‘Mia stighmi,’ Andreas responded, with a quelling gesture, before continuing in English: ‘My housekeeper wishes to know whether you would like something to eat or drink. And then, I am afraid, I must leave you. I shall endeavour not to be too long.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘Perhaps some coffee,’ she ventured, unwilling to admit that she felt too churned up inside to eat anything. Then: ‘Are you sure I should stay here?. Your wife—–’
‘I have no wife, Miss Scott,’ he advised her, with a wry look. ‘Fere ligho kafe, kiria,’ this to Madame Kuriakis. ‘Herete, thespinis. Sto espanidhin!’
He left her with a faint smile, and after indicating that Sylvie should take a seat, Madame Kuriakis left her also. It was slightly unnerving being left in such magnificent isolation, and Sylvie felt a growing awareness of her own incongruity in being here. Margot had done this, she thought angrily. Margot had sent her here, to be insulted and humiliated, and the temptation to get to her feet again and escape from this luxurious confinement was almost more than she could bear.
The return of Madame Kuriakis, with a tray on which reposed a silver coffee pot and cream jug, a silver sugar bowl, and a dish of sticky sweetmeats, steadied her. The Greek woman put the tray down on the low table in front of Sylvie’s sandal-clad feet, and then knelt to pour the thick black beverage.
‘Krema, thespinis?’ she suggested, pointing to the jug, ‘zahari?’
‘No, no, nothing, thank you,’ answered Sylvie, waving her hand in negation, and with a little bob of her head the woman rose to her feet again and left the room.
The coffee was treacly-rich, and very strong, and after tasting it Sylvie was glad to resort to the cream and sugar. She added several spoonfuls of sugar to hide the bitter taste, and still grimaced behind her hand after swallowing a mouthful. Still, it was something to do, and she toyed with the tiny silver spoon, and admired the fragile china cup and saucer.
The sweetmeats were more to her liking, although their cloying texture stuck to her teeth. They were probably extremely fattening, too, she reflected, although Andreas didn’t appear to have suffered by it.
Thinking of Andreas brought her up from her seat again, and across to the windows. She didn’t know why, but she was curiously loath to allow him to occupy her thoughts, and she could only assume it was his attitude towards her which aroused such strong feelings. Margot had been right about one thing, Greek men were not like Englishmen, and she was not altogether sure she liked the distinction.
She wondered now what Leon’s letter to Margot had really said. She doubted her mother knew that Leon had been in hospital. Mrs Scott might be partisan in some things, but if she had suspected Leon was ill, surely she would have urged her daughter to return to Greece.
As for herself, Sylvie was still too disturbed to know how she felt. Caring for Nikos while his father was going about his normal business pursuits was one thing; becoming nurse, as well as nursemaid, for his father, too, was quite another. Besides, Leon would not want her there. It was Margot he wanted, Margot he had expected, Margot who should be here.
The
