The Sanchez Tradition Page 6

  Madam Sanchez moved across to her, laying her hands on Rachel’s shoulders. ‘And I am sure that is not so,’ she said quietly. ‘Do not resent us so much, little one. We cannot resist the chance to mock you a little. After all, you left us—we did not make you go.’

  Rachel bit her lip. ‘And this was part of the reason,’ she exclaimed passionately, aware of Irena, standing by the window and enjoying this scene. ‘You always were a family, together. I was the outsider. I was the one who didn’t understand!’

  André swung round, his eyes cold and intense. ‘You didn’t understand, I agree,’ he said bleakly. Then he swallowed his drink. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mother, don’t let’s start all that over again, the minute she arrives!’

  Madam Sanchez shrugged. ‘I merely wanted Rachel to know that she is a Sanchez, and no matter what happens, she will remain a Sanchez, and as such she is entitled to our protection.’

  André studied the contents of his glass intently. ‘A divorce is final, Mother,’ he said roughly.

  Madam Sanchez lifted her shoulders, and turned to him. ‘You were married in church, André, in the sight of God, and nothing can change that!’

  Rachel pressed a hand to her stomach. ‘Oh, please,’ she began. ‘I’ll get out of your hair just as soon as you let me!’

  André looked across at her. ‘You’ll go when I say so, and not before,’ he replied, and turned abruptly back to the cabinet.

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s get so intense!’ exclained his mother, spreading her hands. ‘Come, Rachel, sit with me and tell me what it is that has brought you to André.’

  Rachel looked helplessly at her husband’s uncompromising back. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her father’s shortcomings in Irena’s presence. As though sensing her discomfort, André poured her a glass of sherry and carrying it over to her, said: ‘I’ll explain later, Mother.’

  Irena’s eyebrows ascended. ‘Why? Is it a secret or something?’

  ‘No, but it is personal,’ said André briefly, and his mother nodded and accepted his rebuke.

  Rachel allowed Madam Sanchez to lead her to the divan on which she had earlier been sitting, and they sat together drinking their sherry and sharing small talk. They discussed Maria, and her parents’ trip to Europe; they commented on the current fashions, and Madam Sanchez complimented her on her appearance. Meanwhile, André disappeared and Irena took up some sewing she had been working on by the window. It was a very companionable scene, thought Rachel cynically. No one would guess the real relationships that had existed between these people. It seemed that André had little to say to his sister, for he mostly ignored her, and Rachel wondered whether he was fully aware of the way in which she had assisted her sister-in-law to escape from his dominance. Not that Rachel had any illusions as to her reasons for doing such a thing. Madam Sanchez was doing her best to make her relax, but while the older woman had always been sympathetic to her daughter-in-law’s problems, even she had been unable to understand her reasons for wanting to leave. Rachel doubted whether she had ever thought anything would come of it. And indeed, if Rachel had had the child that André so badly wanted, she probably never would.

  Her stomach contracted with sudden pain. It was difficult from the distance of five years to wholly understand her own motives, and only André’s intolerance served as a spur to her indignation. Maybe now that she was older, and possibly more mature, she was more tolerant herself. At any rate, seeing the child, Maria, had opened up a wound inside her that would take a very long time to heal again. She bit her lips hard. If only he had tried to understand that it had not been the desire to punish him that had sent her on that expedition with Ramon, but rather a need to prove her own individuality. The disastrous events which followed had destroyed her just as effectively as they had destroyed his love.

  Thrusting these thoughts aside, she tried to concentrate on what André’s mother was saying, but it was difficult when everything and everyone reminded her vividly of the pain she had suffered; was still suffering if she was wholly honest with herself….

  The room Madam Sanchez had allotted her was light and compact, with pastel-shaded walls and coverings in pinks and blues. The adjoining bathroom was pink as well, and the huge jars of bath crystals recalled her first initiation into extravagant living. It was soon after she had met André and he had taken her to the apartment he had leased in London. It had been a huge place, with luxurious appointments of a kind Rachel had never seen before. She had wandered around in a daze, fingering the cut-glass decanter and silverware, the softness of silk upholstery, the smoothness of polished rosewood, the exquisite rarity of old things that went for thousands at auctions. It had none of the garish modernity she had grown to expect, and only the bathroom had exhibited the most up-to-date in designing.

  Then André had had a telephone call, and had had to go out for a while, asking her to stay in the apartment until he returned. She had agreed, but she had grown bored after a while, and wandering into the bathroom had taken a bath in the huge bath with its beaten gold taps and jars of bath crystals in a variety of shades. She had sprinkled them into the water liberally, and had soaked in the scented depths for over an hour. When she emerged, she had wrapped herself in a white bathrobe she had found on the bathroom door, and entered the lounge to get herself a cigarette when André returned unexpectedly and found her there. She remembered she had felt awfully embarrassed. For she had been only eighteen in those days while André was already a mature man of thirty-three. But his amusement at her plight had swiftly turned to passion when he touched her and Rachel had responded with all the warmth and generosity of her loving nature. Of course, she had had other boy-friends, but no one so experienced as André, and that had been the start of their affair. She had known from the start that she was playing a dangerous game getting involved with a man like André Sanchez, but she had been unable to resist him, and when his time in England drew to a close she was desperate with love for him. But she had expected nothing of him, and she had been wild with delight when he had told her he couldn’t live without her and wanted to marry her. She hadn’t even then really appreciated how much she really meant to him, and it took months of being with him, of sharing his days and his nights, to assure her that it was no fleeting dream. It wasn’t until much later that she began to feel the constraint he was gradually putting upon her or realise that he expected her to fall in with all his plans. She was a Sanchez! How she had grown to hate that sentence which once had sent a shiver of ecstasy along her spine!

  She walked to the balcony doors and thrust them open, stepping out on to the balcony and inhaling the night air. Her room overlooked the beach, and she could see the shadows lengthening quickly as darkness fell. Already the day was almost over, and she still had no idea what, if anything, André intended to do about her father. Lunch had been a constrained meal, and afterwards André and his mother had disappeared into what seemed to be a study, obviously to discuss Rachel’s problems. But Rachel herself was not invited to join them, and she thrust back the resentment this aroused in her, and had gone down to the beach, unwilling to remain in the house in case Irena attempted to question her about her reasons for being there. On the beach, she had found Maria and Tottie, her coloured nanny, and had spent some time with them, making sandpies for the child and paddling with her in the shallow blue water. Later, she had returned to the house, refused the afternoon tea one of the servants pressed upon her, and went to her room to take a bath.

  And now she was bathed and sweet-smelling, and wondering how formal dinners at Veros usually were. She did not even know if André would be there for the meal. The helicopter had taken off somewhere around five o’clock, but that could have been one of the men, Gilroy or Sheridan. She sighed. Veros was far removed from the small antique shop in the Kings Road, although the shop had its compensations. They were within reach of every art exhibition, every auction, every showing that took place, and Rachel, who enjoyed exploring art galleries and poring
over old manuscripts, found plenty to fill her time. It had been difficult at first, after her break with André, to fit back into her father’s life and to make a life for herself. She had grown accustomed in two years to the obsequious attention offered to every member of the Sanchez family wherever they went, and it was difficult to accept public transport as a substitute for chauffeur-driven limousines. And yet there had been a kind of excitement in the anonymity they offered, and it was good to feel anonymous in a crowd after always standing apart. She could understand a little now the problems of being recognised and the disadvantages that ordinary people couldn’t appreciate, seeing only the glitter and not the boredom of it all.

  Naturally, at first she had been still weak and listless, hardly recovered from the catastrophic depression that having a miscarriage could create, and unable to accept that her marriage, as she had known it, was over. But her father had been a pillar of strength at that time, and if his reasons for helping her had involved using some of the money she still possessed in an attempt to settle some of his own debts, she had been too tired to object. All she had wanted to do was hide away from the world until her mental and physical state were more adequate to support her. She had not noticed then that the shop was rarely cleaned or tidied, or that her father had spent more time at the racetrack than actually working, but when she recovered she took over these duties automatically, doing all that was needed herself, and learning quite a lot about the antique business besides. Antiques had never been her interest; she had worked in a library until her marriage to André. And yet it was through antiques that she had met him.

  That was in the days soon after her mother’s death, when her father was working for an old-established firm of art collectors called Lorrimers. Her mother had always possessed the driving force of their family, and when she died suddenly from an organic heart disease, he had been distraught. Rachel had been unable to console him and eventually he had taken to staying out of the house later and later every evening, spending his time propping up a bar somewhere until Rachel was frantic with worry. Naturally, his work had begun to suffer, and Mr. Lorrimer, not an understanding man at the best of times, had eventually dismissed him after twenty years’ loyal service. That had been the last straw as far as her father was concerned, but in an attempt to show his sense of injustice and indignation he had gone back to the shop one afternoon after the pubs were closed and made a clumsy attempt to attack Matthew Lorrimer. The shop had been deserted at the time, and maybe he would have succeeded in his intention to knock the other man down had not a customer arrived at that moment and prevented him by overpowering him from behind. That man had been André Sanchez, and although Lorrimer had wanted to call the police, Sanchez had suggested that it might be more humane to simply call the man’s family and have them take him home. As her father had been too befuddled to think clearly by this time, Rachel had been called, and she had gone to the shop with a sinking heart. André Sanchez was still there, and his car was outside, he had offered to run them home. She had accepted gratefully, instantly aware of the attractions of the man himself.

  And so it was that the dark-skinned Spaniard had begun to take an interest in her, pursuing her with ruthless determination with the single-minded strength of purpose he applied to all his affairs, business or otherwise.

  She sighed. It all seemed so long ago, another world almost, and she wondered what her reactions would have been if André had come to her instead of the other way around. He was so detached, so self-sufficient, she could hardly believe that this was the same man who had once trembled with emotion in her arms, unable and unwilling to let her out of his sight.

  At seven o’clock, she dressed in the plain black dress she had worn the previous evening for the casino, leaving her hair loose and unadorned. Apart from the gold bracelet, she had left all her jewellery on Conchera, but its simplicity suited her mood.

  Downstairs, lamps illuminated the lounge and patio delicately, softening everything in their mellow glow. Madam Sanchez had not yet come down, but Irena was there, and Rachel was forced to speak to her.

  ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ she commented casually.

  Irena turned. In a straight sheath of green silk, she looked plain and uninteresting, a garish lipstick making her mouth a slash of colour. ‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ she agreed, lighting a cigarette. ‘Much different from London at this time of the year, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh yes. We’re constantly huddling over the fire, wrapped in woollies,’ smiled Rachel.

  ‘Is that why you’ve come back?’ asked Irena sharply, and Rachel caught her breath.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No? Then why are you here? André is seeking a divorce. You can’t possibly imagine that by coming here you’ll change his mind.’

  Rachel coloured. ‘I didn’t imagine any such thing,’ she replied hotly.

  ‘But you are here, and that’s the point,’ remarked Irena coldly. ‘Have you met André’s future wife?’

  ‘If you mean Leonie Gardner, yes, I have.’

  ‘Of course I meant Leonie. André is besotted with her.’ She smiled cruelly, enjoying saying those few words. ‘I’ve known Leonie for years. We were at school together.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rachel turned away, pressing a hand to the sick feeling in her stomach.

  ‘Yes. Her parents own a fabulous villa on Lake Cunningham near Nassau. They’re very rich, and she’s exactly the sort of wife a man like André should have. Not some—–’ She broke off, as though thinking better of saying what she had in mind, but Rachel swung round.

  ‘Go on,’ she demanded tightly. ‘Finish it! Not some what?’

  ‘All right, Rachel, I’ll tell you.’ Irena was breathing heavily. ‘Not some penniless, gold-digging little daughter of a man who couldn’t keep his hands off a bottle!’

  Rachel was horrified. ‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ she cried unevenly.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that!’ sneered Irena. ‘Of course I am aware that André is attractive, but there was more to it than that. I’m just as amazed as I ever was that he could be so deceived!’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, at least he had the sense to get rid of you—–’

  ‘That’s enough, Irena!’ That was Madam Sanchez’s voice, as she came silently into the room. ‘You will kindly remember that Rachel is our guest, and keep your feelings to yourself.’

  ‘But, Mother—–’

  ‘I said that’s enough. Good heavens, don’t you think we aren’t all aware of the difficulties of this situation, but can’t we be civilised about it?’

  Irena stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Why couldn’t André have left her at the hotel in Nassau? Why did he have to bring her here? We’re nothing to her, nor she to us.’

  ‘That’s not exactly true,’ replied André’s mother calmly. ‘As I said earlier, Rachel became a member of our family when she married André, and as such she will remain, at least so far as I am concerned.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rachel looked gratefully at her mother-in-law.

  Irena grimaced. ‘Don’t you mean she’ll remain a drain on our resources?’ she enquired rudely. ‘Oh, don’t bother to answer, I can tell when I’m not wanted!’ And with that parting shot she marched out of the room.

  After she had gone, Madam Sanchez looked ruefully at Rachel. ‘I’m sorry about that, my dear,’ she murmured, with a faint smile. ‘But Irena never did get on with you, did she? That’s why I could never understand why you asked her help to leave André.’

  Rachel flushed. ‘I suppose because of all of you she was the most likely to help,’ she said reflectively. ‘Oh, please, don’t let’s talk about that now. Let’s talk about other things. Tell me about Marcus. Where are they at the moment?’

  The evening passed by quite pleasantly. Irena ate in her room and the two women were left to themselves. Obviously André had left earlier, and Rachel felt a depressing sense of anti-climax, wondering where he was and who he was with. Mingled with her depression was a trace of jeal
ousy, and while she knew it was stupid and irrational after all that had happened she couldn’t help it. Pictures of him with Leonie Gardner kept floating into her head, and she drank rather more than she normally did to dispel the emotions that filled her consciousness. Madam Sanchez followed her suggestions and refrained from questioning her about her personal life, although from time to time Rachel volunteered information about the shop and the interesting exhibitions she had seen in London. Later, they played some music on the hi-fi equipment housed in one corner of the lounge, and it was surfacely pleasant sitting in the velvety evening air, listening to the strains of a piano concerto echoing over their heads.

  It wasn’t until Rachel was in bed that her fears and recriminations came back to haunt her, but fortunately the wine she had drunk during the course of the evening had made her pleasantly sleepy, and not even her tortuous emotions could prevent her from drifting into dreamless slumber.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT was five days before Rachel saw André again.

  Actually, she was beginning to get rather restless and anxious about her father, and not even the delights of Maria’s company or swimming or sunbathing with Vittorio could compensate her for the anxieties she was feeling. But whenever she broached the subject with either Madam Sanchez or Vittorio she was told to relax and not to worry, and that André would be dealing with everything.

  Rachel, curiously enough, didn’t doubt that André would deal with everything, but that didn’t prevent her from worrying and wondering just how he was setting about it. There were anxieties too about André himself. While she wanted her father extricated somehow from this situation he had got himself into, she didn’t want André to implicate himself in any way. It was a strange, unsettling period and she longed to disobey instructions and lift the cream telephone that resided on a table in the lounge and contact somebody—anybody!