boy’ voice; childish and penitent.
Neither of them spoke for several seconds until Serena broke the silence. ‘I do forgive you Nicholas, but only on condition that you take me to supper at Royole Fergusson’s house tonight.’
The humid West Indian night was overcast and blacker than black, making the journey down the unmade road towards San San beach all the more difficult. There was no welcoming moon, no twinkling stars to light the narrow dirt-road. Nicholas cursed as the jeep hit a jagged pothole, and he had to swerve violently to avoid careering into a gully.
‘This is bloody treacherous,’ he swore, and gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles shone white.
‘I think we’re almost there,’ Serena said with more confidence than she actually felt.
Nicholas slowed the car down to a crawl as the road narrowed. Dense vegetation pressed in on them and thick tamarind branches thrashed the windscreen, dropping brown, lumpy pods on to the bonnet.
‘I think we might have made a wrong turning,’ confessed Serena eventually, looking at him helplessly.
‘Now she tells me,’ Nicholas bellowed.
She was about to tell him not to shout, when the road turned abruptly and the jeep bumped into a clearing, where an old Triumph sports car was parked at the end of a gravel drive leading to a long, low dwelling.
‘Is this the place?’ Nicholas asked as he cut the engine.
‘I think so.’ Serena looked unsure, then catching sight of Royole at the doorway she exclaimed, ‘Yes it is!’ then added quickly. ‘Thank you for bringing me, Nicholas.’
Serena grabbed his hand. It was hot and clammy, nevertheless she held it very tight for a few seconds before saying, ‘I really appreciate it.’
A raffish expression crossed her husband’s pale face, and he winked. ‘You know me; I’d do anything for you.’ He meant it, and the rangy smile he gave her was full of love.
They both climbed out of the jeep.
Tiny, circular stepping-stones threaded a path through thick clumps of allamanda and frangipani to the entrance of Coralita Cottage, where Royole Fergusson stood, a dark silhouette in the light from the open door.
‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, holding out his hand to Nicholas, who felt tempted to ignore it.
Serena stood on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on Royole’s cheek.
Built into the side of a bluff and spectacularly, but precariously, suspended 150 feet above Turtle Cove, the entire house was constructed of wood. Intricately carved fretwork, painted bright blue and pastel pink, hung over sun-bleached shutters.
Exposed limestone boulders bordered the living room on two sides, and a deep verandah ran the full length of the house, overlooking the sea. It crossed Serena’s mind that she would love to come back during daylight hours, to enjoy what she knew would be a wonderful view of Alligator Head and Monkey Island.
All the furniture was painted white; big, beige cotton cushions in various shapes were heaped casually on the timber-decked floors, next to several low Indonesian carved tables and an assortment of earthenware pots, each containing tropical flowers of every hue. The house was lit by huge candles, flickering under glass hurricane lamps. The air seemed heady with the scent of incense and marijuana.
Royole led them out on to the terrace, where his girlfriend Caron was browsing through a well-thumbed copy of Vogue. She rose to greet them; a tall, elegant figure swathed in a long off-the-shoulder dress in cream.
‘Caron, I’d like you to meet Lord and Lady Frazer-West.’ Royole introduced them formally.
A warm breeze drifted on to the terrace, stirring the flowers and lifting the hem of Caron’s flimsy dress.
‘Delighted to meet you both! Welcome to Coralita Cottage. Royole tells me you were wonderful hosts the other evening, sheltering him from the storm.’
Her voice, as soft as a caress, had an unusual accent, with only a slight hint of Jamaican intonation, and the hand she held out to them was the colour of dark honey. Her face, especially when she smiled, had an almost feline quality; and her small, even teeth were as white as pure ivory.
Serena thought she was very beautiful.
Caron opened her arms and gestured them to sit on the deep cushions that acted as sofas. Sliding into a cushion herself, she curled long, slender legs under her body, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was completely naked under her dress.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Royole asked, his voice bubbling with obvious pleasure.
Serena watched him carefully. He seemed agitated or excited, she couldn’t decide which, and hoped it was the latter. She sat down next to Caron and asked for dry white wine.
Royole turned to Nicholas, who shrugged and refused the offer.
‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’ve got to try and get us back to Mango Bay in one piece. The road was bad enough sober.’
Nicholas looked stiff and uncomfortable, out of place; like a bit-part actor who’d wandered on to the wrong set. He refused to sit down and, instead, chose to stroll to the far end of the terrace, which was suspended at least twenty foot out from the cliff. He felt slightly dizzy as he looked down to where the Caribbean was breaking below. Suddenly a feeling of vertigo gripped him and, taking a deep breath, he stepped back, almost bumping into Caron who had walked across to join him.
Silver beads gleamed in her long, black braided hair, and a scent of patchouli clung to her. Her amber eyes held steady as she absorbed every detail of Lord Frazer-West’s aristocratic face; alien in its insipid colouring, yet extremely attractive in contrast to her own.
His strong chin didn’t fit with the rest of his thin, almost gaunt face; and his brown eyes to her revealed a haunted look. Caron had noticed his eyes as soon as she’d seen him.
Nicholas Frazer-West was not what he seemed, she decided. There was a hidden depth; the bland surface, a carefully constructed mask to conceal his dark side. She was quite sure of that.
‘Do you smoke?’ She offered him the joint she was holding.
He shook his head. ‘Like I said, I’ve got to drive.’
Caron insisted. This won’t hurt. It’ll make you relax; might even help you get through the evening.’ She paused. ‘Without it, I fear this may be quite an endurance test for you.’
Smiling wryly at her perception, he nodded slowly. Several strands of long silky hair fell across him as she placed the cigarette between his lips, a glazed expression on her exotic face.
Nicholas inhaled deeply. It was strong grass; the smoke burned the back of his throat and his mouth felt dry. She gestured for him to have more.
‘I’ll be stoned,’ he warned.
‘That’s the general idea.’ Caron laughed; a low, throaty sound.
‘Go on, finish it,’ she urged.
Nicholas nodded and gave her a languid smile, now relishing the attention of this intensely sensual woman. ‘I feel much better already.’
Caron returned his smile. ‘I thought you might,’ she said, before excusing herself to prepare the finishing touches to their dinner; which she then served on a low table, set with an assortment of chopsticks and hand-painted bowls depicting Oriental scenes.
One long-stemmed white anthurium decorated the centre of the table, and the wine was served in pink frosted glasses. They ate Akee soufflé followed by three types of local fish: snapper, grunt and butter fish; each one prepared differently, and each with a distinctive flavour. Warm banana bread accompanied two different rice dishes and baked paw-paw with a subtle hint of ginger. It was all delicious.
Serena struggled with her chopsticks. Royole helped her, and they both laughed