Sophie Weston - Avoiding Mr Right

This would never do. Life had to be managed. It was no good letting yourself be distracted by fantasies of a man you did not even know.

She armed herself with a pen and her address book, installed herself at the pay-phone in the dark little hall and began the business of managing her life again. Nobody offered her a job on the spot but she got enough tentative interest to restore her spirits. It almost succeeded in banishing Luc Henri’s disturbing image.

When Sue came back with her purchases the evening breeze was beginning to stir the hot city air. Christina was on the balcony. She had pulled on a cotton top and her long, bare legs were already turning to their habitual summer gold. Sue came to the French window and looked down at her.

‘You look wonderful.’ She sighed, flopping onto the sill. ‘I wish I was a natural blonde with legs to my eyebrows.’

Christina scrambled up. ‘No, you don’t. It wouldn’t go with your wardrobe. Coffee?’

‘I’d sell what’s left of my soul for some.’

‘You’ve got it.’

She went inside and busied herself with the ancient percolator.

Sue called out, ‘Any luck with jobs?’

‘There’s a four-day tour to Ancient Sites that needs a guide. Not really my scene but if I can’t get anything else...’

‘Did that take all day?’

Christina took Sue’s coffee out to her and sank onto the fire escape, cross-legged.

‘No. I did a few sketches.’

‘The Christina beachwear collection?’

The teasing was affectionate. Sue knew all about Christina’s Italian course in design and how seriously she took it. She worked at it in the winter, using the proceeds of her summer jobs to pay the substantial fees and her modest living costs.

Now Christina grinned. ‘Maybe. The sun out here is certainly inspirational.’

Sue stretched. ‘Mmm. I love this place. With sun like this who needs to work?’

‘Those who like to eat,’ said Christina prosaically. ‘Speaking of which, I ought to go down to the harbour tonight. I might pick up a job from one of the captains.’

She looked at Sue apologetically. They both knew that that was where masters looking for crews were likely to be found. Yet it seemed rude to go out and leave her friend the first night she was staying with her. Sue read her mind easily. She grinned at her over the rim of the mug.

‘Fine. I’ll even come with you. As long as you’re not on your own, the harbour’s fun. I can do with some fun to set me up for my next stint at the hospital.’ She stretched again. ‘I need to shower and change. Then, look out, Athens.’

They did not get to the harbour area till ten. The night was clear but crisp this early in the season. A few of the fiercer stars shone through in spite of the competition from neon streetlighting and the smog bubble engendered by the city. The cafés were loud with talk and recorded music. The smell of barbecued meat, garlic, wine and humanity filled the dusty streets.

‘Mmm,’ said Christina with pleasure. ‘Costa’s first, I think. Lots of the captains hang out there. Aldo Marino may be looking for a crew, Jackie said.’

Christina was well-known in Costa’s busy little café. As they threaded their way between the wooden tables, several of the diners raised a hand in greeting. Costa himself interrupted his work to greet Christina with a smacking kiss.

‘Aldo? Don’t think so,’ Costa told them. He went back to shovelling Greek salad busily into individual bowls without stopping. ‘There’s always Demetrius.’ He nodded in the direction of a morose-looking man at a corner table. ‘If you’re desperate,’ he added frankly.

‘You’re not that desperate,’ Sue said firmly. ‘The man’s a cheapskate. Skimps on everything.’

At the back of the café a bouzouki player was looking at Christina with undisguised appreciation. He flashed her a brilliant smile and began to sing a love song with distinctly suggestive lyrics. Christina laughed at his bold eyes but she shook her head.

It was not like the way Luc Henri had looked at her, she thought involuntarily: that had turned her still and watchful, had caused some small, cold excitement to unfold. The bouzouki player was never going to be able to make her blush in a month of Sundays. Luc had done it with a word.

What’s happening to me? she thought, startled. Do I take the man with me everywhere I go?

Sue plucked at her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s try the Blue Taverna.’

Recalled to the present, Christina jumped. ‘Oh, OK.’

‘Good evening,’ said a soft voice.

Christina whirled, her heart pounding as if a deadly enemy had suddenly caught up with her. Luc Henri was standing there studying her. A small smile curled the handsome mouth. It was another of those smiles that did not reach his arrogant eyes.

Christina’s heart sank like an anchor in still water. She had not the slightest idea why. She straightened her shoulders and tried to pretend that she did not care.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You.’

He gave a little bow.

From the far side of the room, a cheerful Australian voice called, ‘Sue. Where’ve you been hiding? Over here, gorgeous.’

‘Geoff,’ said Sue. She hesitated, took in the quiet elegance of Luc Henri’s appearance, and decided that Christina did not need a chaperon with such an eminently respectable personage. ‘I’ll see you at the flat,’ she muttered, and disappeared among the crowded tables.

Christina, who had never in her life thought that she needed a chaperon, felt suddenly, alarmingly alone. The friendly crowd and the noise somehow made it worse. She swallowed.

Luc Henri was looking at her with a cynical expression that she did not like at all. He did not speak. Christina cleared her throat.

‘Time and place seem to have caught up with us, then,’ she said flippantly. ‘What are you doing at Costa’s?’

‘I could ask the same. Except that it’s obvious.’

His tone was pleasant enough. There was nothing she could take exception to in the words themselves. So how did she know that he was insulting her, and that he was coldly, furiously angry? Was it the cold glitter of his eyes? Christina glanced round. No one else showed any signs of noticing anything untoward. In fact, no one else was paying any attention to them at all.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ she said.

He gave a bark of laughter. It did not sound amused.

‘Cruising. Isn’t that what they call it?’

Christina’s brows knitted. ‘What?’

He made an angry gesture with his hand, embracing the whole café-the bouzouki player, Costa’s beefy geniality and even the harassed waiters.

‘You make the most of your natural assets, I’ll say that for you. A smile, a lot of long, bare leg and the odd promise of a kiss. It’s a potent inducement, even if I can see that. Is that what you meant when you said you could look after yourself?’

For a moment Christina was so stunned that she did not think she was understanding him properly. When she realised that he meant exactly what she thought he meant, she went white with temper.

‘I think you’re calling me a tart.’

He gave that harsh laugh again. ‘Oh, no. I respect tarts. They’re honest working women in their way.’

‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

His eyes looked her up and down in a brief, insulting flick which considered and then dismissed her. She took a step backwards as if he had hit her. Her face flamed. He saw it and smiled.

‘I mean that they deliver what they contract for,’ he drawled. ‘Or so I’m told. Whereas you—’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, my dear.’

Christina took a hasty step towards him. His derisive smile grew.

‘Thinking of slapping my face? You couldn’t do it, you know. You’re much too nicely brought up.’