she had insisted on in every contract she’d signed.
Her mother’s death had robbed her of much of her motivation, however. Without Mrs Harvey’s influence, she could be more objective about her life. She no longer had to accept roles because it was what her mother expected of her. She didn’t have anything to prove any more. In essence, she was free.
Not that Mrs Harvey had been the reason for her decision to leave acting, Julia acknowledged wryly as she spooned beans into the coffee-grinder. Without other forces to make those needs paramount, she might never have found the strength to walk away. She’d grown used to her image. Wealth, admiration—power—were addictive, after all. And she had been as guilty as anyone of using them to her own ends.
With the beans ground and transferred to the percolator, Julia stepped through the open doorway on to a vine-shaded veranda. Cane furniture, liberally strewn with cushions, was protected by a leafy screen of bougainvillaea, and beneath her feet the bleached boards were comfortably warm and brittle.
She stared unseeingly at the view that had initially sold the villa to her, aware that her current preoccupation with the past had been brought about by the appearance of that reporter. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake the conviction that she hadn’t seen the last of him. For God’s sake, he hadn’t recognised her! Why couldn’t she leave it at that?
She sighed, allowing her eyes to focus on the surf that creamed on the reef a couple of hundred yards out from the shore. It was so beautiful, she thought, as she had thought so many times since she and Jake had moved in. Unspoilt and peaceful. Exactly as it had always been. Nothing had changed.
She rested her hands on the hip-high rail that circled the veranda, and noticed that the paint was peeling again. She’d only painted it a few months ago, but the sun was an unforgiving master.
Still, the villa was much different now from the way it had been when she had first seen it. Without the view, she might have paid more attention to its scratched and peeling timbers, to a roof that had been leaking for years, and the uninvited tenants who had moved in. Not human tenants, she had discovered, but a whole menagerie of furry creatures, large and small, living off the woodwork and nesting in the roof. The whole place had needed gutting and restoring, but Julia had tackled it gladly. So long as she was going to be able to wake up every morning to that stunning vista of milk-white sand and blue-green water, she’d been prepared to do what was needed.
And she had. Ten years on, Julia owned to a certain possessive pride in her house and garden. It was hers. She had created it. Some divine power might have created its surroundings, but she had turned the house into a home.
And now it was being threatened, she thought tensely, her thoughts irresistibly returning to the man who had invaded her tranquillity. How had he found her? That was what she would like to know. Benny had kept his promise. He’d revealed her whereabouts to nobody.
Once she had been afraid. Once she had lived each day dreading recognition and discovery. She hadn’t believed she could escape her old life so easily. Someone was bound to find her. Somewhere she’d made a mistake.
But the years had gone by, and now Benny was dead, too. She’d been sure the world had long forgotten her. Well, forgotten Julia Harvey, at least, she reflected ruefully. Julia Harvey was long gone. She was Julia Stewart now: amateur artist and professional writer. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Why couldn’t they let it rest?
But something told her they wouldn’t. Even if she had convinced that man—what was his name? Neville something or other—that she didn’t know where Julia Harvey was, she felt sure he’d be back. He was only a minion, after all. He’d said he’d come from London, that he’d been given her address as San Jacinto. What if they sent someone else, who remembered her? Not a brash young reporter who’d still been wet behind the ears when she was young.
All the same, she had changed—quite a lot, she consoled herself firmly. Once she had thought nothing of spending a thousand dollars on a beauty treatment, but these days her hair was unstyled and bleached by the same sun that had aged her veranda. The skin that a generation had raved about was tanned a tawny brown and, although she was still slim, her hips were broader, her breasts much fuller since she’d had Jake.
She looked what she was, she decided grimly. A thirty-seven-year-old single mother, with no pretensions to glamour. Whatever that reporter had hoped to find, she hadn’t fulfilled his expectations. He’d been quite prepared to believe that she couldn’t possibly be his quarry.
Sweat was trickling down between her breasts now, and, lifting her arms, she swept the weight of her hair from the back of her neck. Although she wore it in a braid most days, today she had left it loose, and she tilted her head to allow the comparative freshness of the breeze to cool her moist skin. Perhaps she ought to consider having air-conditioning installed, she reflected, but she’d miss the freedom of leaving all the doors and windows open. Still, if the media was going to start beating a path to her door again, she might be forced to lock herself in.
If she stayed...
The percolator had switched itself off behind her and, refusing to worry about the matter any more, she went back inside. The terracotta tiles felt almost cold after the heat outside, and the air was fragrant with the trailing plants and pots of herbs she cultivated on her windowsills.
Looking at the herbs reminded her that she would have to go over to George Town before the end of the week. Although San Jacinto had its own thriving little market beside the harbour, most manufactured goods had to be brought from Grand Cayman, which was a three-hour ferry ride away. Julia owned a small dinghy, which she and Jake sailed at weekends, but it wasn’t suitable for carrying supplies. Generally she and Maria, the island woman who shared the housework with her, visited the capital of the Cayman Islands every couple of weeks. It was a pleasant outing, shopping for stores and having lunch in one of the many excellent restaurants.
George Town was where Jake attended school, too. He boarded there throughout the week with the headmaster and his wife, coming home at weekends, from Friday through to Sunday.
He hadn’t liked it at first. During his early years Julia had tutored him herself, and Jake hadn’t been able to see why she couldn’t go on doing so. But it was for another reason that Julia had insisted on his attending St Augustine’s. Although her son had friends on San Jacinto, she knew he needed the regular company of children his own age. Besides, her life was so solitary. It wasn’t fair to let him think that he didn’t need anyone else.
Carrying her mug of coffee with her, Julia trudged back to her office and resumed her seat at the word processor. A couple of weeks ago, Harold’s adventures had filled her with enthusiasm, but now it was difficult to keep her mind on her work. Anxiety, apprehension, fear; call it what she would, she was uneasy. A horrible sense of foreboding had gripped her, and she couldn’t quite set herself free.
* * *
By the end of the following week, Julia was feeling much better. Time—and the fact that she was sleeping again—had persuaded her that she had been far too alarmist about her visitor. So what if the man had come here? So what if he’d asked questions about her? She’d given him his answer. There was no reason for him to come back. After all, she was the only Englishwoman of her age living on the island, and he might think a mistake had been made. It was unusual, perhaps, to find a woman living alone out here. And people were always intrigued by non-conformity. Maybe that was how conclusions had been drawn. Conclusions which she hoped she had persuaded her visitor were incorrect.
But such thoughts were still depressing, and she avoided them. Only occasionally now did she wonder why anyone should have chosen to
