Island in the Sea Page 3

  “And I thought you were one of those young heathens raised on The Backstreet Boys and NSYNC,” he mused. “Did you leave behind a boyfriend in California? Some blond surfer who takes acting classes during the day and parks cars at Château Marmont at night?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend in Los Angeles.” Juliet shook her head.

  “Don’t tell me you are in a long distance relationship filled with Skype sessions and endless texts.” Lionel sighed. “The fastest way to end the human race is to conduct love affairs through a metallic device that AutoCorrects every original thought.”

  “I don’t have time to date.” Juliet studied the patterns on the rug. “I’m either buried under contracts at my desk or backstage at a concert trying to stop the lead singer from sneaking out for a packet of Twizzlers.”

  “I could never go onstage without eating a mince pie and drinking a can of orange Fresca.” Lionel grinned. “But that’s ridiculous, love comes before anything. When I met Samantha I had just arrived in London. I was twenty-two and determined to make it as a songwriter; the last thing I needed was to spend my afternoons moping around Hyde Park and wondering if she would see me again.” Lionel opened a drawer in the ebony desk and took out a crystal decanter. He filled two shot glasses with dark red liquid and handed one to Juliet.

  “My mother was from a wealthy family in Knightsbridge and did the things girls of her class were supposed to do: took ballet lessons at Sadler’s Wells and competed in gymkhanas and learned to ski in the French Alps. She attended boarding school at Woldingham but instead of going to finishing school in Lausanne or taking a summer cooking course in Provence and meeting some young investment banker with his own town house in Chelsea, she fell in love with the son of a local solicitor and stayed in Surrey.

  “They got married and lived in a red brick house with a tennis court and a swimming pool. I had a perfectly nice childhood: two older sisters, cricket matches on the village green, and monthly visits to London to see exhibits at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

  “My writing teacher insisted I apply to Cambridge and surprisingly I got a place.” Lionel paused and ran his fingers over the shot glass. “I spent the first year studying the great essayists: Thomas Carlyle and William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. But I realized I didn’t have deep opinions on important subjects or a burning desire to share them if I had.” He swallowed the sherry. “I stumbled on the romantic poets and became enraptured by Byron and Keats and Browning. There were the answers I was looking for! Not about the fate of humankind or how we could improve society but why a man would plunge a knife in another man’s chest in the name of love. I grew my hair long and wrote poetry every moment I got. But no matter how I arranged the verses I felt something was missing.” He stopped and looked at Juliet. “Poetry has to hit you like an arrow in a bull’s-eye; if it lands just to the left it may as well never have been written.”

  “One afternoon I was walking along the Cam and saw a couple of girls having a picnic,” Lionel mused. “They asked me to join them and I accepted. We sat on the riverbank and ate shepherd’s pie and one of the girls turned on the radio.” He rubbed his chin. “You’re going to laugh but when it came to popular music I was practically a virgin. I sat and listened to Paul McCartney and Bryan Ferry and Elton John and knew without a doubt if I set my poems to music they would achieve what I’d been trying to convey. From that moment I decided to become a songwriter.”

  “I would have thought someone like you listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones since you were a teenager. Didn’t your parents play their records on the stereo or didn’t you listen to the radio before you went to bed? I don’t remember a time that I didn’t turn on the Bangles when I started my homework,” Juliet mused.

  “We weren’t allowed to listen to music after school, and my parents seemed to have missed the swinging sixties. The only time my mother wore leather boots was when she was saddling a horse.” He sat on a leather armchair. “But the minute I heard Elton John sing ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight,’ I packed my suitcase and took the train to London and arrived at the front door of Penelope Graham. She was my mother’s oldest friend and lived with her husband and twin boys in a three-story terrace house in Belgravia.”

  Lionel stretched his long legs in front of him and closed his eyes. He pictured the vast black-and-white marble foyer and heavy crystal chandeliers and walls lined with Holbeins and Turners. He saw Penelope descend the circular staircase in a Chanel suit and ivory pumps. He saw her study his battered suitcase and worn loafers and usher him into the kitchen.

  * * *

  “You want me to let you stay here and not tell your mother?” Penelope opened the steel fridge and took out a carton of orange juice. She filled a glass and handed it to Lionel.

  “Only until I find a job and can afford a place to live.” Lionel sat on a suede stool. “I’ll work as a valet or a waiter and write songs at night. My twenty-second birthday was last week, if I wait any longer I’ll be one of those old crooners with receding hairlines and bell-bottom pants.”

  “Hardly a receding hairline, you could use a good haircut.” Penelope glanced at his dark curls. She studied his green eyes and the cleft on his chin. “Marian had pretty girls but she outdid herself with you.” She fiddled with her diamond choker. “I’ll let you stay if you do something for me.”

  Lionel blushed and gripped his glass tightly. He stood up and smoothed his shirt.

  “Don’t be silly, I’m not trying to seduce you.” Penelope laughed. “I have a virile husband who runs marathons and competes in bicycle races in France. My neighbor has a nanny, an Irish girl who’s never been in London. She spends all her time when she’s not working in her room. Georgina is afraid she’s homesick and will go back to Galway.” Penelope tapped her fingernails on the marble counter. “I want you to ask her out.”

  Lionel pictured a girl with blotchy skin in a tweed sweater and opaque stockings. He imagined sitting in a noisy pub and eating plates of greasy fish and chips.

  “I don’t have any money,” he stumbled.

  Penelope walked to the pantry and unscrewed a glass cookie jar.

  “Her name is Samantha.” She handed him four twenty-pound notes. “You can have the room over the garage; it has central heating and you’ll have your own private bath.”

  * * *

  Lionel climbed the stone steps of the white Georgian manor and took a deep breath. He would take Samantha to the brasserie at Motocomb’s and buy her a glass of Chablis and a Caesar salad. They would talk about the new production of The Winter’s Tale and Princess Diana’s good deeds in Bosnia. He would say he had an early job interview and be in his new room with its Frette sheets and Krupp’s espresso maker by 10 P.M. He’d still have time to finish the lyrics to a song he scribbled on the train.

  He rang the doorbell and clutched a bouquet of purple daisies. The double front doors opened and he saw a young woman with blond hair knotted into a bun. She had blue eyes and alabaster skin. She wore a paisley yellow dress and narrow leather belt.

  “I was looking for Samantha,” he mumbled, gazing at her full breasts and long legs.

  “I’m Samantha,” she replied, accepting the flowers. She leaned down to smell them and her hair escaped its bun. Lionel had the sudden impulse to tuck her hair behind her ears. He wanted to stroke her cheek and run his fingers over her pink mouth.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked. “I’m sure wine bars in Belgravia are expensive, I could fix us a tuna sandwich in the kitchen.”

  “No, thank you,” Lionel said, suddenly flustered. “I have a craving for baked pheasant and creamed potatoes. Have you ever had Motocomb’s quince? They serve it with pistachio ice cream and it’s delicious.”

  * * *

  They sat at the oak bar and drank white wine with crème de cassis. Lionel ordered a wilted lettuce salad with mozzarella and avocado and bacon. He watched Samantha drizzle olive oil on heirloom tomatoes and felt a stirring in his slacks. He g
ripped his wineglass and suddenly longed for a double shot of whiskey.

  “We can finish our drinks and say goodnight.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I’ll take a stroll around Eaton Square and pretend we stayed for dinner. I’ll pay for the appetizer and you’ll only be out two glasses of wine and a bunch of daisies.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Lionel shifted on his stool.

  “I overheard Georgina talking on the phone. She was thrilled Penelope found me a date because she thinks I’m lonely.” She looked at Lionel and her eyes sparkled. “If she only knew how wonderful it is to have my own bedroom and not have my sisters borrow my bras and underwear.”

  “Penelope might have suggested I call, but I wanted to come.” Lionel loosened his collar. “In fact I think we should move to the restaurant and share a bottle of burgundy and a couple of sirloin steaks.”

  “Are you sure?” Samantha murmured. “I don’t want to take up your time.”

  “I’ve never been surer of anything.” Lionel signaled the bartender for their check. He took her arm and led her into the restaurant. He gazed at the silk tablecloths set with bone white china and gleaming silverware and gulped.

  “Do your sisters really wear your underwear?” he asked, as the maître d’ led them to a table by the window.

  Samantha turned around and her face broke into a smile. “We’re a very close family.”

  * * *

  They ate filet mignon in béarnaise sauce and Samantha told him about growing up in a fishing village on the west coast of Ireland.

  “When I was little we used to sell seashells to the tourists,” she said, tearing apart a baguette. “I had to tape my coins under my pillow so my brothers wouldn’t spend them on ice cream.”

  “When I was a baby, my sisters wrapped me in tissue paper and placed me under the Christmas tree,” Lionel said. He sipped a Château Tour Bordeaux. “My mother found me with a red bow glued to my forehead. She was furious because she had to cut off my curls.”

  “I’m sure you were quite handsome bald,” Samantha smiled.

  “Marian didn’t think so.” Lionel cut a thick slice of steak. “She didn’t give me another haircut until I was five years old.”

  “That’s what’s wonderful about children; they can be mischievous and innocent at the same time. Yesterday I discovered Abigail wearing her mother’s Prada suit; she said she was tired of being eight and wanted to get an important job.” Samantha nibbled grilled asparagus. “After I made her take it off, she climbed into my lap and watched The Sound of Music.”

  “Is that what you’re doing in London?” Lionel leaned back in his chair. “Being a nanny and waiting to meet some young barrister in a children’s boutique on King’s Road. You’ll help him buy the perfect christening gift for his nephew and bond over cashmere baby booties and Tiffany’s rattles. He’ll take you to meet his parents at their Mayfair club and propose with his grandmother’s sapphire ring.”

  “I took this job to save money to go to university,” Samantha replied. “Most children in Cleggan leave school at sixteen and become shopkeepers and fishermen. I want to teach geography and history and literature.”

  “I spent a year at Cambridge reading one-thousand-page tomes by Leo Tolstoy and Aldous Huxley.” Lionel sighed. “Then I discovered the Romantic poets and felt like Alexander Graham Bell inventing the telephone. All I wanted to do was tinker with blank verse and anapestic meter. To be honest I wasn’t good enough so I decided to become a songwriter. I’m going to get a job and earn enough money to rent a recording studio. I’ll compose the greatest love songs since Elton John and Bernie Taupin.”

  “What did your parents say?” Samantha asked.

  “They think I’m still in Cambridge attending lectures and watching bumps races.” Lionel fiddled with his wineglass.

  “You quit university?” Samantha put her fork on her plate.

  “They’ll be furious of course, but I couldn’t wait any longer,” Lionel explained. “Mick Jagger and Keith Richards didn’t need a degree; they just had a notepad and a bottle of whiskey.”

  “This has been lovely but I have to go,” Samantha said, as she pushed back her chair. She gathered her purse and walked to the door.

  “Wait.” Lionel rushed after her. “We haven’t tried their flourless chocolate cake.”

  “Dinner was delicious,” Samantha said. “I’ll send you my half of the bill.”

  Lionel watched her stride down the leafy street. He threw three twenty-pound notes on the table and ran after her.

  “We were having a lovely time.” He put his hand on her arm. “I was about to tell you the story about when my sisters pretended I was their new puppy.”

  “If I work twelve-hour days I might save enough money to go to a third-rate teacher college in Reading.” Samantha turned around. “But if I fail I’ll go back to my parents’ cottage in Cleggan. I’ll work in the family shop selling sand buckets and Irish toffees. You attended the most prestigious university in the world and threw it away because you know if you don’t succeed you can return to your country estate with its tennis court and swimming pool.”

  “I am going to succeed,” Lionel said hotly. “All I want to do is write songs.”

  “Good night, I don’t want to take up any more of your time.” Samantha hurried along the pavement.

  Lionel fished in his slacks for a packet of cigarettes and groaned. He forgot he had given up smoking to save money. He could go back inside the restaurant and have a bowl of rum raisin ice cream, but suddenly his stomach was queasy.

  He trudged along the sidewalk past men wearing silk slacks and women in tight cocktail dresses. He had done his duty and he’d be home in bed on schedule. He’d tell Penelope they had a lovely time and the creamed potatoes were delicious.

  He stopped at a newsagent and bought a packet of Marlboros. He pictured Samantha’s blond hair and high breasts and small waist. He inhaled slowly and thought no matter what he had to see her again.

  * * *

  “That’s all for today.” Lionel tapped a cigarette into his hand. “I need a nap.”

  “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Juliet spluttered. “You just woke up.”

  “I start drinking at five and need to be refreshed.” He lit the cigarette with a pearl lighter. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

  “What will I do all afternoon?” Juliet twisted her silver necklace. She thought of calling Gideon with her report and flinched. Lionel hadn’t done more than tell her about a twenty-year-old unrequited love.

  “It’s Majorca, there’s plenty to do,” he insisted. “You can hike up to Valldemossa or take the train to Palma and eat rock lobster with muscular Germans with bad suntans.”

  “I’m not here to see the views or socialize.” Juliet felt her cheeks turn pink. “I’m in Majorca to get you to fulfill your contract.”

  “How old are you?” Lionel asked.

  “Twenty-eight, why?” Juliet murmured.

  “Twenty-eight and no serious boyfriend.” He stubbed his cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Let me guess, you have an old college boyfriend who’s still hanging around or a jilted fiancé hoping for another chance.”

  “That’s none of your business.” Juliet stood up and smoothed her skirt.

  “When I met Gideon he was the smartest person I knew, he was only twenty-six and had already produced five platinum records. He had a sixth sense about people, he knew exactly what made them tick.” Lionel walked to the hallway. “I guess we all get dumber as we age and make poor decisions.”

  “What do you mean?” Juliet followed him to the stone entry.

  “He sent someone to convince me to write love songs who doesn’t believe in love.” He opened the door.

  “I told you I don’t have time to date,” Juliet snapped.

  “Have a lovely afternoon and wear a hat.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “You don’t want to ruin that youthful complexion.”

  * * *

&
nbsp; Lionel stood at the sink and drank a glass of iced water. His head ached but suddenly he didn’t feel like his usual hangover remedy of a Bloody Mary and hard-boiled egg with horseradish. He pictured Juliet pursing her lips when he said he was taking a nap and groaned. The last thing he needed was some twenty-something do-gooder trying to improve his habits.

  He rustled through the pantry and found a packet of shortbread and a jar of lemon drops. He entered the living room and flicked through the stack of books on the maple side table. He opened Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories and began to read.

  chapter three

  JULIET STOOD ON THE BALCONY and gazed at the lush gardens of the Hotel Salvia. She saw the turquoise swimming pool and orange birds of paradise and trellises covered with pink and yellow roses. She inhaled the scent of citrus and olives and realized she was starving.

  After she left Lionel she strolled through the plaza and browsed in boutiques selling bright cotton dresses and leather sandals. She bought a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Then she sat in an outdoor café and ordered a salade niçoise and a glass of lemonade.

  She drizzled olive oil on artichoke palms and took a small bite. She thought about what Lionel said—that she didn’t believe in love—and bristled. Lionel was depressed and didn’t know anything about her.

  Finally she walked back to the Hotel Salvia and changed into a swimsuit. She swam thirty laps and wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel. Now she leaned over the railing and gazed at the port lined with billowing sailboats. She saw silver yachts and chipped wooden dinghies.

  She walked inside and saw her phone buzz. She picked it up and heard a male voice come down the line.

  “I extended your reservation but I haven’t heard from you or Lionel,” Gideon said. When do I get my songs?”

  “I’m working with Lionel every moment of the day,” Juliet explained. “I promise you’ll have them within two weeks.”

  “I sent you because you are the best senior executive I’ve had in a long time.” Gideon paused. “Make sure Lionel stays on task. He thinks he’s a bloody artist but this is a business. I paid him one hundred sixty-six thousand dollars to deliver those songs six months ago.”