as Helen was about to agree with her. ‘Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to hear about the man we met at the airport. He said his name was Aitken, didn’t he, Helen?’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Do we know anyone of that name?’
Tricia stared first at her husband, then at Helen. ‘Aitken?’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you say Aitken?’
‘That’s what he said,’ said Andrew maliciously, enjoying Helen’s discomfort. ‘The name is familiar, but I can’t imagine why.’
‘I can,’ said Tricia suddenly, and for an awful moment Helen thought she had made the connection between Chase Aitken and her mother. But then, as the other woman began to speak again, she realised how unlikely that was. Her mother had left her father almost twenty years ago.
‘Well, you won’t know,’ Tricia explained patiently. ‘It’s the name of the man who owns the house beyond the point. I asked Maria who our neighbours were, and she said his name was Aitken.’ She clasped her hands together excitedly. ‘D’you think it’s the same man?’
‘I’d say it was highly likely,’ said Andrew, frowning. ‘Though the chap didn’t make any comment when I told him we were staying here. You’d think he’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t you, Helen? Unless we offended him, of course.’
‘Offended him?’ exclaimed Tricia sharply, looking from one to the other of them with suspicious eyes. ‘How could you have offended him? For heaven’s sake, Helen, what did you say?’
Helen noticed the assumption that she was the one who must have said something to offend him, and she was just about to explain what had happened when Andrew broke in.
‘Well, as you know, Sophie had been throwing up all over the car park, and the bloke came over to offer his assistance. We let him think that Helen was my wife, and I don’t think he was impressed by our behaviour.’
‘You did what?’
Tricia stared at her husband, aghast, as Helen wished the ground would open up and swallow her. But she had nothing but admiration for the way Andrew had turned the tables. Not only had he implicated her in his schemes, but he’d successfully neutralised any flack from Aitken’s direction.
‘It was just a game,’ he said carelessly, draping his jacket over one shoulder and loosening his tie. ‘For God’s sake, Trish, I doubt if he believed it. Does Helen look like the mother of these two, I ask you? A fool could see she’s far too young.’
‘She’s exactly four years younger than me,’ said Tricia through her teeth, and Andrew gave a dismissive shrug in her direction.
‘Like I said, far too young,’ he remarked, grinning at her frustration. ‘I’m going for a shower now. I assume we do have showers in this place?’ He sauntered towards the French doors that opened into the villa. ‘You can come and show Daddy where Mummy’s room is, Henry. And then, while I’m changing, d’you think one of you could get me a beer?’
‘Andrew!’
Tricia’s temper was simmering, but he was totally undaunted by her infuriated stare. ‘Oh, and ask Maria if she’d get my suitcase,’ he added. ‘Unless someone else would like to oblige.’
Helen spent an uncomfortable evening on her own.
After giving the children their suppers and getting them ready for bed, she’d sent a message, via Maria, to say she had a headache, and would not be joining her employers for the evening meal. Instead she’d made herself a salad, eating it in her room, with the doors and windows securely bolted.
Which was one of the reasons why it was so uncomfortable, although, compared to the other events of the day, the humidity in her room was of little importance. Dear God, what was she going to do? She was almost sure the woman she had seen was her mother. And she was staying just a short distance away. Oh, lord, how could she bear it?
The clipped exchange she had with Tricia, after Andrew had gone for his shower, hadn’t helped. It had been useless trying to explain that Andrew hadn’t actually said she was his wife, that Aitken—she refused to think of him as Chase—had only assumed it. She hadn’t even been given the opportunity to relate properly the events which had led up to his introduction, and if she’d hoped that by telling Tricia how he’d spoken to her—how he’d criticised her—the other woman might relent at all, she’d been wrong. Tricia wasn’t interested in her feelings. She was only interested in the embarrassment their behaviour might have caused her.
‘I think you behaved totally irresponsibly,’ she had said, pacing up and down the terrace, and Helen had noticed how somehow she had shouldered all the blame. ‘Have you seen the house beyond the point? Well, of course you must have. It’s huge, Helen, and obviously expensive. The man must be seriously rich!’
‘Why?’ Helen had sighed. ‘He could be renting the place, just as we are.’
‘I doubt it.’ Tricia had dismissed that idea. ‘I’m fairly sure he lives here.’ She had frowned. ‘I wonder if he’s married. I’d like to meet his wife.’
Helen groaned, and ran her hands over her hair now. The prospect of Tricia meeting the Aitkens socially was one she couldn’t bear to endure. Although she doubted her mother would recognise her, her name was obviously going to give her identity away. What would Fleur do if she was introduced to her own daughter by a stranger? Would she acknowledge her? Would she care? Or was it all some awful nightmare she’d invented?
Helen was up even earlier the next morning. The ironic thing was that her body was beginning to adjust to the time-change, but the uneasy tenor of her thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. As soon as it was at all light, she crawled wearily out of bed. Perhaps a swim in the ocean might revive her, she thought tiredly. Right now the prospect of facing any of the Sheridans filled her with dismay.
Stripping off her nightgown, she went into the bathroom and cleaned her teeth. One of the ubiquitous flying beetles had committed suicide in the sink, and she removed it to the lavatory with a handful of toilet paper. Then, returning to the bedroom, she pulled a one-piece maillot out of the drawer. Its high-cut hipline was rather daring, but she doubted anyone would see her.
In any event it was black and, in spite of the fact that she’d already spent several days in the sun, she looked rather pale this morning. Pale and uninteresting, she mocked herself ruefully. Still, that was her role here: to avoid being noticed.
Wrapping a towel about her hips, she unlocked the shutters and crossed the balcony. Unlike a summer’s morning at home, it didn’t really get light here until after six o’clock. Then, like the twilight that lasted so briefly, there was a rapid transference to day. The sun rose swiftly in these semi-tropical islands, and the air was always transparent and sweet.
Tussocky grass grew against the low wall where she’d been sitting musing the previous day. A shallow flight of steps gave way to the beach, and the sand felt quite cool between her toes. It was coral sand, fine and slightly gritty, and here and there a rockpool gave a fleeting glimpse of shade. There were crabs, too, scuttling out of her path, some of them so tiny they looked like shells. And now and then a seabird came down to hunt for food, screaming its objection to her intrusion.
When she reached the water’s edge, she couldn’t resist turning her head to see the house Tricia had spoken of the night before. It wasn’t wholly visible, which was one of the reasons Tricia had been so interested in it. All they could see from this distance was a sprawling
