one.
But owning hotels in all the major countries of the world required an immense amount of travelling, of entertaining, of sleeping on planes when he could no longer hold back the exhaustion that gripped him. He began to lose weight, he was drinking too much and eating too little, and inevitably the strain took its toll.
Even then he had fought against it. Sitting in business meetings, listening to his executives outlining their plans for the following year, he had suffered agonies over a loss of concentration, an inability to keep his mind on what was being discussed. Where once his head had been seething with ideas, every now and then a curious blankness invaded his brain, so that all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, and the table in front of him ducked and curved like a rolling ship at sea.
Maxwell had been perfectly understanding, but right from the beginning he had been adamant. If Jake didn’t slow up the pace of his living, he would kill himself. Strong words, particularly to a man who for all the forty-one years of his life had prided himself on his fitness. And naturally Jake hadn’t believed him; not then. Time enough to take a break when the Pearman deal was through, when the string of Pearman hotels had been added to the Court organisation.
It hadn’t worked out like that. For the first time in his life, Jake found himself unable to control the workings of his own brain. It was rather a case of the flesh being willing and the spirit being weak. That small, rather ugly mass of tissue inside his skull gave up the race and Jake found himself the victim of the disease he had so long despised.
He wondered when the pace of living had first begun to tell. When his marriage to Denise broke up, perhaps? And yet, even in those days, he had been working too hard. One of the reasons Denise had given for the irretrievable breakdown of their relationship had been his obsession for work, although she had been more than willing to enjoy the fruits of his labours. But she liked the high life, and when his work took him away from the jet-flight capitals she preferred, she had had few scruples about finding some other man to share her charms—and her bed.
Jake had been philosophical about her indiscretions. His own life was not so blameless at that time, and if Denise required that kind of stimulation, she could hardly object if he required the same. Until some obscure Italian prince came along and offered her his title as well as his fortune. The idea of being Princess Denise had appealed to her, and she had been able to overlook the fact that her Italian was at least forty years older than she was, and hardly able to stand the pace she set.
But that was Denise’s problem. For Jake’s part, he scarcely noticed her passing. Their association had drifted so far from any conventional marriage that he had mentally breathed a sigh of relief to be free again. It was a blessing they had had no children. But again, Denise had not wanted them, and although Jake had known his parents had been disappointed that he had not produced a son to follow in his footsteps, he himself knew how much a child of their marriage might have suffered. Nevertheless, after that, he had shared no lasting relationship with any woman. His work had filled his days—and his nights, as well.
And now he was here. A guest in one of his own hotels, identified to nobody except the hotel manager, Carl Yates, who was a personal acquaintance. This had been Maxwell’s idea, too, and he had to admit the consultant knew what he was doing. No one would look for Jake Courtenay here, and after that spell in the nursing home he had needed time to humanise himself again. The sense of panic which had epitomised the start of his illness had practically disappeared, but he knew, deep inside him, that the idea of returning to London and the hectic life he had led was still a terrifying prospect.
He drew his hands out of the pockets of the brown corded pants he was wearing and looked at them. The narrow bones showed through the brown skin, but they no longer trembled as they had before. With a sigh of impatience, he thrust them back into his pockets again, and moved away from the window.
It was late afternoon, and already lights were appearing across the harbour. It would be dark soon, and another long evening stretched ahead of him. His eyes flickered over the large square cabinet containing a colour television.
Television, he thought contemptuously. He was sick of television. In the past months he had watched everything from Coronation Street to The Book Programme, from Crossroads to Match of the Day. Everything except the news. That had been Maxwell’s stipulation. Avoid current affairs programmes and the news …
Jake’s face twisted bitterly. My God, he was like a child again, protected from anything which might upset or disturb him. To think he had come to this! Jake Courtenay—mental reject!
A knock at the door provided a momentary respite, but at his command only a waiter entered the room propelling a tea trolley. His afternoon refreshment! Jake pulled a note out of his pocket and handed it to the man with his thanks, although the idea of sitting here alone, drinking tea, was anathema to him. He had been here too long already and he was bored. Bored! A good sign perhaps, and yet anything more strenuous might have him weak and shaking in next to no time. It was galling!
The door closed behind the waiter and with a feeling of futility, Jake seated himself beside the trolley and uninterestedly helped himself to a cucumber sandwich. His appetite was still persistently absent, and food was no more than a rather annoying necessity to living. Living! An ironic humour curled his thin lips. Was this living? Or just existing? And what was at the end of it? Would he ever retrieve that enthusiasm for his work which had motivated his life? Without it, he was only half a man.
He rose from his chair again and went back to the window, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the close-fitting dark pants that moulded his lean hips, and a tawny-brown sweater. Strands of silky-smooth dark hair overlapped his collar at the back, liberally streaked with grey. These past few months had laid their mark upon him, and he knew that no one would mistake his age at present as they had done in the past. There were lines etched beside his mouth and nose which had not been there before, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. Yet for all that, he was a man who would always attract women, and the hooded depths of dark eyes still proved an irresistible lure.
Along the parade, several shoppers struggled towards the bus ranks, and the light from shop windows spread out across the harbour. There were cars streaming towards the outskirts of the town and Paignton beyond, the curve of the headland a mass of winking lights. His own car languished in the hotel garage, only to be used on very rare occasions. Driving, like everything else he enjoyed, had become a strain.
The grounds fronting the hotel were not extensive. A low stone wall divided them from the promenade beyond, and within the circle the wall provided a few stout palms spread their leaves among less exotic specimens of greenery. Floodlights had been installed among the shrubs so that in summer the Tor Court could hold its own with the other hotels that flaunted themselves after dark in a welter of coloured lights. But during the winter they went unused—except at Christmas.
Looking down, Jake had a first-rate view of the entrance, and as he desultorily scanned the road, he observed two of the other guests returning to the hotel. They were two women—one about his own age, or possibly a little older, the other much younger.
He knew their names. Carl had told him who was staying in the hotel when he first arrived. They were a Mrs Faulkner-Stewart and her companion, Miss Lesley. Jake had seen them a couple of times already, in the hall of the hotel, and once in the restaurant, although mostly Jake took his meals in his own suite. However, now and then, he felt the need for companionship, and on those occasions he made his way to the restaurant, and suffered the agonies of feeling himself observed by a dozen pairs of curious eyes. That those occasions had so far been rare bore out Maxwell’s theory that any kind of mental stress would automatically retard his ultimate recovery.
Watching the two women now, although one of them could scarcely be termed as such,
