Is that your grandfather’s name?”
Eve nodded.
“Do you have a – a grandmother?”
Eve shook her head. “No, she died about ten years ago.”
“And this old man – does he live alone ?”
“No. There’s his son, my mother’s brother, Edge.”
“Edge?” Sophie tried not to become interested. “He lives with your grandfather ?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not married?”
“He’s a widower. I imagine he’s my grandfather’s manager. He must be middle-aged now.”
“Is – is that the whole ménage?”
“No. There’s my great-aunt Rosalind, generally known as Rosa, I believe. That’s how my grandfather used her name in the letters.”
“I see.” Sophie released one hand and pushed back her hair from her face. “And that’s all ?”
“As far as I know. And after all, you’ll be expected to know no more than what was written in the letters. You can read them if you like. Then you’ll see it all firsthand.”
“No, thanks.” Sophie felt a sense of distaste. Eve’s grandfather had written those letters in good faith. He had not expected them to be shown around to her friends.
Eve looked impatiently at her. “Well?” she urged. “Will you do it?”
Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know, I honestly don’t know. Give me time to think about it.”
But of course she had eventually given in, as Eve had known she would. Sophie tried to tell herself that her motives were mainly concerned with saving Brandt St. Vincente from disappointment, but deep down she despised the knowledge that the proposed visit to the Actors’ Summer School had helped to persuade her.
And now here she was in the hotel room in Port of Spain, waiting with impatience for Eve’s grandfather to come and greet his long-lost granddaughter. It had been Eve’s idea to wait until she was actually in Port of Spain before contacting the St. Vincentes. That way it avoided the awkwardness of passports and so on at the airport. Sophie had been amazed at the deviousness Eve could display when called upon to do so, and she was beginning to wonder how well she had known the other girl all these years.
She went to the window now and looked out on the busy street below her. Eve had insisted that she book into one of the better known hotels, and this one was in the very heart of the city. It was also alarmingly exepensive and Sophie wondered how long her money would last out if she had to stay here longer than expected. From the window, the bustling throng of humanity outside frightened her a little. She was not a seasoned traveller and nor was she an extrovert, and the knowledge that she knew no one amongst all these people of so many different colours and nationalities was rather terrifying.
There were Indian women in saris, American men in Hawaiian shirts and straw hats; dhotis and turbans, lace mantillas and fezes. She saw beautiful olive-skinned Chinese girls in gorgeously patterned cheongsams slit daringly to thigh level, and black African women carrying enormous bundles on their heads with casual elegance. Car horns blared impatiently, bicycle bells jangled, and those who were brave enough to board the gaily painted buses clung carelessly to the rails and seemed to jump on and off wherever they liked. To Sophie the whole scene breathed an excitement and exuberance from which she felt totally alienated.
Suddenly the telephone beside the bed shrilled loudly. Sophie almost jumped out of her skin. She turned back to look at it, both hands pressed to her mouth, and felt a genuine sense of panic assail her. The only people who knew she was here in Port of Spain were the St. Vincentes, so this call had to be something to do with them. All of a sudden she was sure she couldn’t go through with it and she heard the phone ringing and ringing through the waves of unreasoning fear that swept over her.
The phone eventually stopped ringing and the silence which followed brought her inevitably to her senses. Her hands fell loosely to her sides and she drew long trembling breaths, trying to calm her shaken nerves. She should have answered it, she told herself fiercely. What if the telephonist chose to check up on who was in room 75? What if she discovered that it was not Miss Hollister after all, but Miss Slater? Sophie’s heart thumped violently, and she quickly crossed the room to seat herself on the side of the bed and lift the telephone receiver. This had been another of Eve’s devious ideas: to book into a hotel large enough not to remember the names of all their guests, and then to give a room number in her communication with the St. Vincentes. Naturally, she had had to take a room in her own name. They had wanted to see her passport. But what if right now they were flicking through their records, telling whoever it was who was trying to contact her that there was no one called Hollister registered in the hotel?
When the telephonist answered, Sophie said: “Were you ringing me? I’m afraid I was – in the bathroom.”
“Miss Hollister?” asked the telephonist politely.
Sophie crossed her fingers. “Yes.”
“There is an extension in the bathroom, Miss Hollister,” the telephonist advised her smoothly. Then: “We have been trying to locate you. There’s a gentleman in the foyer waiting to see you. A Mr. St. Vincente.”
St. Vincente! The name threatened to destroy all her new-found confidence. And he was here, in the foyer! She had not expected him to come without calling first.
Managing to keep her voice calm, she said: “I – I see. Er – I’ll come down. Gi – give me five minutes.”
“Very well, Miss Hollister. I’ll tell Mr. St. Vincente you’ll be down directly.”
“Thank you.”
Sophie replaced the receiver and looked down at the simple cotton dress she was wearing. Was this the sort of garment Eve might have worn to meet her grandfather for the first time? Or ought she to change into something a little more formal? She shrugged. Eve would not want her to behave any differently from usual, and the pale blue dress looked cool and attractive against her pale skin.
With a sigh she rose to her feet and walked to the dressing table, examining her face in the mirror there. Her cheeks did look very pale, and her grey eyes seemed to be reproaching her for what she was about to do. But it was too late now. She was here. She was committed.
At the end of the rubber-tiled corridor outside her room, a row of lifts gave access to the ground floor. A dark-skinned West Indian boy smiled at her when she chose to enter his small cage and commented cheerfully upon the weather as they descended the six floors between them and the foyer.
When she walked into the foyer she was trembling, but she had to go on. She crossed to the reception desk covertly examining the men she could see standing about in groups or singly, but none of them seemed old enough to be Eve’s grandfather.
The receptionist of the moment was a slim young Indian who smiled encouragingly at Sophie when she approached him.
“I’m – I’m Miss Hollister,” she said in a low voice. “I understand there’s someone waiting to see me.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Hollister.” The young man
