The Hotel Riviera(56)

“What fire, sweetheart?” His arms were around her now, he was dropping hot kisses onto her neck, her hair, her upturned face, edging her backward toward the bed.

“The one at the Hotel Riviera,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Patrick came suddenly to his senses. “What did you say?”

“There was a fire at the Riviera. It burned down.”

For a minute, he stared at her, shocked. Then he gave her such a look of fury she shrank back, afraid. He gripped her shoulders. “Lola,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “What did you do to Lola?”

Evgenia tossed her long blond hair, glaring back at him. “I might have known it. All you think about is Lola. You never think about what I’m doing for you, all you think about is Lola. And gambling away my money.”

Patrick pushed her away. He walked to the window and stood looking out onto the scrubby patch of dying garden. “Did you harm Lola?” he said again, quietly—but Evgenia caught the violence in his tone.

“Oh no, dear Patrick, dear Lola is very much alive and kicking. But she’s gonna have to get out of that dear little hotel now, because there’s not much of it left.”

Patrick continued to look out the window, his back to her. He didn’t want her to see the look of relief on his face.

“But it’s got to happen sometime,” Evgenia carried on, pushing him, always pushing him. “It’s me or Lola, Patrick. You’ve always known that. And it’s me and the money, Patrick, you’ve always known that too. And after all, a gambler always needs money. Right?”

He turned to look at her, spread-eagled on the bed in their shoddy little love nest.

“We can’t go on like this, Patrick, darling,” she purred in that throaty, creamy, Russian-accented voice. “We are destined for better things, my love, much better things than stolen afternoons in this awful place. We’ll live the high life together, anywhere and everywhere. It’ll be you and me against the world, Patrick.” Her sea-green eyes met his, held his gaze, “You and me and the whole world to play with.”

Evgenia held out her hand and Patrick took it. He lay next to her on the bed. They faced each other, their glances still locked. Minutes ticked by. Then, “Oh God, Evgenia,” he groaned, taking her in his arms.

Evgenia sighed with pleasure. It had been a tricky moment, but she had won.





Chapter 55




Lola

The skies were gray with a misty rain falling when the train from Paddington pulled into Oxford.

“Typical,” was Miss Nightingale’s sighing comment as we stepped out onto the platform, along with about a hundred other people, all obviously in a rush to get somewhere. I hauled out Miss Nightingale’s boxy brown suitcase that was almost an antique, and my own little Samsonite on wheels, then we walked along the windy platform and out into the street.

“There you are, Miss Nightingale,” somebody said, and we swung round to see a burly, bearded man in a blue anorak, wiping the rain off his glasses and smiling at us. “Good to see you back again, though I’m sorry about the weather,” he added.

“Par for the course, Fred,” Miss Nightingale said, shaking his hand. “It always rains when I return from holiday. This is Lola March Laforêt, my friend from France, via California. Lola, this is Fred Wormesly, keeper of my Little Nell and the Blakelys Arms, as well as many of the village secrets.”

Fred’s laughter boomed over us as he grabbed our suitcases and led the way to the dark blue Volvo wagon parked in the lot. “Not too many secrets in Blakelys anymore, Miss Nightingale,” he said. “All’s peace and quiet here lately.”

“Well, thank heavens for that,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Lola and I have had quite enough excitement to last us a while.”

Fred Wormesly drove us through Oxford, the city of “dreaming spires,” though it was hard to make out the lovely ancient stone colleges through what had now turned into a downpour. However, Miss N promised to bring me back and show me around “when the weather picks up,” she said, and Fred said the forecast wasn’t looking too good and maybe I’d have been better off staying in the south of France.

We circled a roundabout and suddenly we were out in the countryside, driving past thick hedgerows and fields filled with woolly black-faced sheep, past gas stations whose high prices startled me, with shops selling crisps and “cigs” and cold drinks. Little side roads led off to villages with names like Witney, Eynsham, and Widford.

We turned into the lovely village of Burford, bowling down the high street lined with quaint bow-windowed shops and tearooms and pubs, across a little stone bridge over the Windrush River, then we turned off once more and we were in Blakelys.

“Home at last,” Miss Nightingale murmured, as we curved along the village street, sheltered with big old plane trees, past a store that sold bread and eggs and milk and small everyday supplies. We drove through a little stream, fording it like the stagecoaches of old must have done, swung a right, and ended up in front of the Blakelys Arms, all honey-colored stone, low roofed, and with a jolly crested sign swinging in the wind. A blackboard outside said:

PUB FOOD—TODAY’S SPECIALS: MACARONI

AND CHEESE, PLOUGHMAN’S WITH STILTON

AND HOME-BAKED BREAD, AND THE BEST