Innocent Obsession

‘Th-thank you,’ she said now, linking her clammy fingers together, and as he moved away to summon the chauffeur she endeavoured to compose herself. But she couldn’t dismiss the trickling of moisture that had invaded her spine, or dispel her awareness of his alien personality.

Madame Kuriakis reappeared, and at Andreas’s instigation showed Sylvie into the bedroom she could use to change in. If the housekeeper had any misgivings about the girl’s continued presence in the apartment, she managed to conceal them, but Sylvie, with her increased sensitivity, suspected she had very definite opinions of her own.

Left alone, Sylvie explored her domain with genuine curiosity. So this was what Margot had been loath to abandon, she reflected with unusual cynicism, trailing her fingers over apple-green damask and the gleaming patina of polished wood. Even the adjoining bathroom had a sunken bath, with its own jacuzzi unit, and she acknowledged without envy that luxury here was an accepted part of living. She was almost regretful she had only time to take a shower, although perhaps it was just as well. It would not do to get too accustomed to so much comfort.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, a fluffy green towel draped sarong-wise about her, her suitcases had been deposited on the carved chest at the end of the bed. Extracting her keys from her handbag, she opened the largest of them with a thoughtful air and studied its contents with evident indecision.

Expecting to stay at Alasyia, which was sufficiently remote from civilisation to need little in the way of formal clothes, she had brought mostly casual wear and swimsuits. But she could hardly turn up at the Petronides residence for dinner wearing a cotton smock or beachwear, and the nearest thing to an evening outfit she possessed was a waistcoat and matching pants in amber-coloured velvet. It was worn with a cream shirt with wide, flowing sleeves gathered into a lacy cuff, and a frilled jabot below her small determined chin, and Sylvie had always thought it was quite flattering. The amber colour matched her eyes, which were several shades lighter than the rich brown they should have been, and the close-fitting pants accentuated the slender length of her legs. Nevertheless, she suspected that Madame Petronides might not approve, and she viewed the rounded curve of her hips with some anxiety. Was Margot right? Did she wear her clothes too tight? Did she eat all the wrong things? She sighed half irritably. Well, it was Margot’s fault that she was here, and if she didn’t suit, Margot would have to give up her selfish pursuits and replace her.

She studied the fall of corn-gold hair without satisfaction. Should she braid it, or coil it into a chignon, or leave it loose? Plaiting her hair would only accentuate her immaturity, she decided impatiently, and she didn’t really have the time to do a good job of creating a more sophisticated style. With a resigned shrug she tied it at her nape with a length of black cord, then regarded her appearance with as much objectivity as she could muster.

Where was she expected to sleep tonight? she wondered, after dimissing her appearance with a careless shrug. Acting on impulse, she folded up the Indian cotton and re-locked her suitcases, guessing there was little chance that she would be allowed to stay here. The idea that she might be expected to stay with Margot’s mother and father-in-law had little appeal for her, but she doubted she would be offered any alternative. If it was unacceptable that she should stay at Alasyia with Leon, it was certainly unacceptable for her to sleep at Andreas’s apartment.

When she entered the living room again, Andreas was already waiting for her, his dark looks enhanced by a black mohair dinner jacket. He was in the process of pouring himself a drink from the selection available on a tray resting on a carved wooden table, but he straightened at her entrance and inclined his head politely.

‘Can I offer you something?’ he enquired, indicating the glass in his hand, but Sylvie shook her head. She was nervous enough as it was, without the effects of alcohol to weaken her confidence, and Andreas shrugged his acceptance and raised his glass to his lips.

Unwilling to appear to be studying him too closely, Sylvie allowed her eyes to move round the lamplit room. It was quite dark outside the long windows now, and the lights of Athens beckoned insistently. Instinctively she moved towards the windows, catching her breath as the floodlit Parthenon attracted her enchanted eyes. She thought she had never seen anything more magnificent than the tall white columns outlined against the velvety darkness of the sky, and her lips parted in unknowing provocation as she gazed upon its ancient symmetry.

‘You find it interesting?’

She had been unaware that Andreas had come to stand beside her until he spoke, and now she looked up at him with some of the fascination she had felt still in her eyes.

‘It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’ she exclaimed, her voice husky with sudden emotion, and Andreas’s dark eyes were enigmatic as he met that ingenuous appeal.

‘How old are you, Sylvana?’ he asked, using her name for the first time, and warm colour surged into her cheeks.

‘I’m eighteen,’ she replied, answering automatically, but quickly too, as she turned her head away from his cool scrutiny. ‘And please call me Sylvie. Everyone does.’

Andreas shrugged. He had disposed of his glass, she noticed, and although she expected him to suggest that it was time they were leaving, he seemed curiously reluctant to abandon his position. Instead, he remained where he was, looking down at her, and it was she who shifted uneasily again, aware of her own lack of sophistication.

‘You do not mind—spending these weeks in Greece?’ he asked, with narrow-eyed interrogation, and Sylvie shook her head.

‘No. No, I don’t mind,’ she conceded. ‘At least—well,’ she qualified her statement, ‘it was the only thing I could do.’

‘You are not like Margot, I think,’ he opined dryly. ‘At eighteen, I could not imagine her giving up her time to look after her small nephew.’

‘Oh—–’ Sylvie managed a half smile of deprecation, ‘I’m not so noble. Who wouldn’t enjoy spending a few weeks in this climate!’ She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Actually, I’m the lazy one of the family. Ask Mummy or—or Margot, they would tell you. I like lazing around—sunbathing, swimming, reading …’

‘You are still at school, yes?’ he suggested, and now her curiously tawny eyes flashed in annoyance.

‘I’m still at school, no!’ she retorted, unconsciously mocking his cultivated English. ‘I left school—some weeks ago. I’m going to university in October.’

Andreas’s lean mouth twisted. ‘My apologies, thespinis,’ he offered mockingly. ‘It was not my intention to insult you. Forgive me.’

Sylvie sighed. ‘You didn’t insult me. It’s just—well, I’m not a child, you know.’

Andreas inclined his head and how he did begin to move towards the door. ‘We must be leaving,’ he remarked, flicking back his cuff to consult the plain gold watch on his wrist. ‘We have a call to make on our way to my father’s house, and I do not wish to be late.’

Sylvie felt suitably chastened, although whether that was his intention, she had no way of knowing. With a feeling of irritation out of all proportion to the incident, she followed him across the room, then halted uncertainly when she remembered her suitcases.

‘I—oughtn’t we to take my luggage?’ she suggested, colouring anew when he turned to give her a preoccupied look. ‘I mean—I won’t be coming back here, will I?’ She hesitated. ‘Or will I?’

‘It is already arranged that you will stay here tonight,’ Andreas remarked, with faintly brusque resolution. ‘My sister Marina will return with us this evening, and she also will sleep at the apartment, so long as you are here.’

‘So long as I am here?’ Sylvie echoed, as she preceded him into the corridor outside, and Andreas closed the door behind them with definite precision.

‘It may take several days to reorganise my brother’s plans,’ Andreas told her, as the lift doors slid smoothly open. ‘Surely the prospect of staying in Athens for two or three days more does not distress you?’

‘N-o.’ But Sylvie was slightly disturbed by the prospect, and by the knowledge that she would be seeing a lot more of Andreas Petronides.

CHAPTER THREE

SPIRO was waiting with the chauffeur-driven limousine, and Sylvie climbed into the back with some reluctance. The night air outside was magical, soft and warm and silky smooth, faintly scented with the perfume from the flowers that grew in such profusion in the gardens surrounding the apartment building.

Andreas gave the chauffeur his instructions, then got in beside her, his weight automatically depressing the cushioned, upholstery. Sylvie was intensely conscious of him only inches away from her on the leather seat, his thigh and the powerful length of his leg reclining indolently. Yet he made no attempt to speak to her again, and aware of her impulsive rejoinder earlier, she endeavoured to restore their previous amicability.

‘Will—will I be meeting any of the other members of your family this evening—Andreas?’ she enquired, using his name deliberately. ‘Apart from your mother and father, of course,’ she added, and looked at his shadowy profile half defiantly, defending her use of his Christian name. After all, they were distantly related, she told herself again, and she had no intention of compounding his opinion of her youthfulness by addressing him as Mr, or Kirie, Petronides.

There was a pregnant silence, when she thought he wasn’t going to answer her, but then he said quietly: ‘My two youngest sisters are unmarried, and still live with my parents. They will be present this evening, naturally, and Leon will be there, but of course, you know that.’

Sylvie didn’t, but she acknowledged that it was reasonable. She wondered if she would see Nikos, too, but perhaps he would already be in bed. She doubted he would recognise her. Apart from one visit to London with both his parents when he was three years old, her only contact with her nephew had been through the medium of Christmas and birthday cards, and the occasional family photograph.

She was considering this when the limousine began to slow down, and she saw through the windows of the car that they had entered a quiet square, lined with tall white-painted houses. It was evidently a residential square, many of the houses possessing shutters and colourful window boxes, and the limousine halted at the foot of a flight of steps leading up to a narrow black door.

‘A moment,’ said Andreas, by way of explanation, and without waiting for the chauffeur he thrust open his door and stepped out on to the pavement. As he did so, the door to the house opened and a young woman appeared, bidding goodbye to whoever was behind the door, and descending the steps eagerly towards them. She was tall and slim and elegant, her full-skirted dress swinging gracefully about her knees, her dark hair shoulder-length, and tipped slightly upward. She was very attractive, in a dark Grecian sort of way, and Sylvie watched with some envy as Andreas bent to kiss her, and her hand strayed possessively over the fine mohair of his collar. She knew without being told that this had to be Eleni, and she guessed her call earlier had been returned, and the new arrangements explained to her.

Andreas led the girl back to the car, and she climbed inside as gracefully as she had descended the steps, seating herself beside Sylvie and bestowing upon her a rather tentative smile. How old was she? Sylvie wondered. Twenty-one or twenty-two? She couldn’t be much older, but her manner was shy and reserved. Sylvie, for her part, smiled in return, and encountered Andreas’s thoughtful appraisal as he got back into the vehicle.

‘Eleni, I’d like you to meet Leon’s sister-in-law, Sylvana,’ he remarked, seating himself on one of the pull-down seats in front of them, as the limousine moved off again. ‘She is going to look after Nikos, until his mother feels capable of meeting her responsibilities.’

‘Oh, but—–’ Sylvie opened her mouth to protest that that was not at all the arrangement, but Eleni forestalled her. ‘How do you do, Sylvana,’ she greeted her politely, holding out a slim white hand for Sylvie to take. ‘Andreas has told me of your kindness in coming here. I hope you will enjoy your stay in our country.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’ Sylvie shook hands with Eleni, and forced some enthusiasm into her voice, but she couldn’t help wishing her situation was not so ambiguous. What about Dora? she wanted to cry, but so far the nursemaid’s name had not been mentioned.

Eleni folded her hands in her lap, and Sylvie noticed the exquisitely designed ruby, set in a circlet of diamonds, that occupied the third finger of her left hand. An engagement ring? she pondered. Andreas’s, perhaps? So far he had said nothing about the girl but her name.

Her presence prevented Sylvie from asking any more questions. She could hardly question Andreas about his relationship to the girl, with Eleni sitting there listening, and besides, he seemed quite content to exchange an occasional word with the Greek girl, in their own language, of course.

Presently, however, Eleni turned to her again. ‘How is Margot, Sylvana?’ she asked, surprising her by the question. Then she added: ‘We met last year, at Michael’s wedding. Do you know Michael, Sylvana? He is Andreas’s youngest brother.’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘And do call me Sylvie. Sylvana’s such a mouthful!’

‘Such a what? A mouthful?’ Eleni looked confused, and Andreas broke in to explain.

‘She means—it is too long, too formal, Eleni,’ he said, glancing coolly at the younger girl. ‘She wishes you to address her as Sylvie.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Eleni gave a rueful little laugh, and Sylvie felt bound to elucidate.

‘My mother chose rather—flowery names,’ she confessed apologetically. ‘And while Margot is—well, Margot, I’ve always thought of myself as Sylvie.’

Eleni gave a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘Oh, I see. Poli kala. So—is your sister ill? Is that why she has sent you to act as her deputy?’

Sylvie was conscious of Andreas looking at her too now, and guessed her reply was of interest to him as well. So far, he had not questioned her as to Margot’s activities, and Sylvie had hoped to make her explanations to Leon himself. But for all Eleni’s demure attitude, she had her full quota of curiosity, and although her question sounded innocent enough, it was disturbingly pointed.

‘Margot is—not ill,’ Sylvie answered now, looking somewhat defiantly at the man opposite. ‘Surely you know—surely Leon has told you—Margot is an actress, or rather she was before she was married.’

‘I understood Margot’s acting career was sunk some months before she and Leon were married,’ Andreas inserted now, his tone cold and precise, and Sylvie felt her cheeks begin to burn again.

‘Well, it might have—floundered a little,’ she agreed, in some confusion, ‘but it wasn’t—sunk. And—and when her agent learned she was living in London again—–’

‘Do you not mean—staying in London?’ asked Andreas harshly, and Sylvie felt hopelessly out of her depth.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Staying in London, then. Anyway, he—he offered her a part, a good part, the kind of part she has always wanted.’

‘You mean he made her an offer she could not refuse?’ suggested Andreas contemptuously, and Sylvie sighed.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’

‘I—I was going to. But—but then, when you told me Leon had been ill—–’

‘—you were ashamed!’

‘I was—shocked!’ she amended indignantly. ‘I was,’ she added, meeting his cynical gaze, visible even in the subdued lighting from the street outside. ‘Honestly, Mummy and I had no idea Leon had been ill.’

‘I said I believed you,’ Andreas retorted, drawing a heavy breath. ‘But it occurs to me that perhaps you ought not to tell Leon so.’

Sylvie swallowed convulsively. ‘Not tell him?’

‘That is correct.’ Andreas contemplated the traffic beyond the windows with narrow-eyed concentration. ‘He has suffered enough shocks for one day. Your arrival instead of Margot was an immense disappointment to him, as you can imagine. To further add that you were unaware of his condition—that Margot had chosen not to tell you—had regarded it so lightly—–’ He broke off with a grim tightening of his mouth. ‘I suggest you refrain from admitting so damning an indictment.’

Sylvie bent her head. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Later on, perhaps—–’ Andreas moved his shoulders indifferently, ‘we shall see.’

‘Poor Leon!’ Sylvie, who had almost forgotten Eleni’s presence, started as the Greek girl offered her condolences. ‘He should never have marr—–’

She broke off at this point, but not before Sylvie had interpreted what she had intended to say, and although she gazed at Andreas in some consternation, Sylvie had no doubts that Eleni had intended her to understand.

‘I agree,’ she said now distinctly, regarding the Greek girl with a cool arrogance she was far from feeling. ‘But they are married, aren’t they? And there’s nothing any of us can do about it. And besides, there is Nikos to consider.’

Eleni looked somewhat taken aback by the younger girl’s candour, and Sylvie was pleased. It was only as she looked at Andreas, and met his cold appraisal, that she realised how unforgivably she had abused the Greek girl’s discretion.

The Petronides’ house was in Syntagnia Avenue, one of the most fashionable areas of the city. Although many of the old town houses, occupied by the wealthier families of Athens, had given way to tall modern blocks of flats, Syntagnia Avenue retained its individuality, and all the houses here stood in their own grounds. It was set on one of the northern slopes overlooking the city, and Sylvie’s eyes were wide when they approached tall iron gates that opened electronically to admit them. Margot had told her a little about her in-laws—their wealth, and influence, their power and their possessions; but nothing had prepared her for this palatial mansion, with its classical architecture and stately Doric columns.

As she followed Eleni out of the car, she was conscious of the scent of magnolias, the source of which soon became evident. Trees of magnolia and bushes of hibiscus brushed her sleeve as she looked about her, their perfume overlying the warmth of the night air with a sweetness that was almost cloying.

Heavy wooden doors had opened upon their arrival, and now a white-coated manservant was waiting to escort them indoors. Andreas, however, strode on ahead, and Sylvie followed slowly, absorbing her surroundings.

Beyond the heavy doors was a wide square hallway, marble-tiled and cool, brilliant with huge bowls of blossoms from the garden. The walls were plain, but adorned with softly-woven tapestries, in a multitude of colours, their jewel-bright radiance competing with the more conservative patina of polished silver and brass. A darkly carved staircase gave access to an upper story, lit by lamps of beaten bronze, and there were other lamps in the window embrasures, highlighting the jewelled icons with their sombre iron crosses.

Andreas had disappeared, and Eleni with him, but as Sylvie looked about her with some apprehension she saw a young girl watching her from an open doorway. She was small and plump, with curly black hair and dancing eyes, that sparkled in anticipation when she saw their guest.

‘Sylvana!’ she exclaimed, coming forward, and now Sylvie could see they were much of an age. ‘It is Sylvana, is it not?’ she repeated, smiling encouragingly. ‘You do not remember me, do you? I am Marina. Remember? I came to England when your sister married my brother.’

‘Marina! Of course.’ In truth, Sylvie could only vaguely remember the two little Greek girls who had accompanied their parents to London. But it was good to know that Marina remembered, and she smiled at Andreas’s sister with genuine sincerity.

But before they could continue their conversation, a group of people emerged through an archway that evidently led to another part of the house. Behind them, Sylvie could see Andreas and Eleni, but confronting her were her sister’s mother and father-in-law, and Leon himself, in a wheelchair.

Immediately she felt defensive, even with Marina standing beside her. Leon’s mother and father looked anything but welcoming, and even Leon himself seemed lost for words.

‘Hello,’ she said, taking the matter into her own hands and crossing to her brother-in-law’s chair. Taking the hand he offered, she shook it gently, then bent deliberately and kissed his cheek. ‘How are you, Leon?’ she asked him warmly. ‘I’m so sorry you’ve been unwell.’

Leon’s pale face cracked, and he offered her a slight smile. Sylvie suspected he didn’t smile much these days, and unconsciously her heart went out to him. He looked so thin and frail, emaciated almost, and although she knew he was almost as tall as Andreas, he seemed shrunken sitting in the canvas chair.

‘It is good of you to come, Sylvie,’ he told her firmly, and she was glad that at least one member of the Petronides family knew of the shortening of her name. That would be due to Margot’s influence, she supposed. Margot never addressed her as Sylvana.

‘I—I was glad to,’ she said now, glancing rather defiantly at Andreas. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Nikos again. Where is he? Is he here? Will I get to see him soon?’

‘Soon enough,’ declared Leon’s father rather harshly, as he and Leon’s mother came forward to offer their own greetings. ‘So little Sylvana has grown up, eh? You are welcome, child. Nikos will be happy to see you.’

Madame Petronides looked less enthusiastic. ‘I trust you had a good journey, Sylvana,’ she said, in heavily accented English, her dark eyes appraising Sylvie’s pants suit without approval. She, like Eleni and Marina, was wearing a dress, its simple lines belying its undoubted exclusiveness. ‘Your mother is well, I hope. We seldom correspond these days.’

Sylvie smiled, and assured her hostess that her mother was fine, all the while aware that what they really wanted to ask was: Where was Margot? and Why hadn’t she come?

But discretion prevailed, and Madame Petronides, who had wheeled her son’s chair into the hall, now took charge of it again to lead the way along a wide carpeted corridor. Marina accompanied them, walking with Sylvie, while Andreas and Eleni walked with his father, and Sylvie was glad of the girl’s company in this faintly inimical gathering.

‘Nikos is in bed,’ Marina confided in a low tone. ‘It is not good to excite him late at night, you understand? He is—how do you say it?—strung up?’

‘Highly strung?’ suggested Sylvie doubtfully, realising that like Andreas and Leon, and all the other members of his family, Nikos was expecting to see his mother, and Marina nodded.

‘That is so—highly strung,’ she agreed vigorously. ‘Since Margot went away he has many bad dreams, no?’

‘You gossip too much, Marina,’ her mother admonished, overhearing their conversation and glancing round reprovingly. ‘Nikos is like any other small boy. He has the imagination.’ She paused. ‘But, naturally, we did not wish to upset him tonight.’

Marina grimaced when her mother turned away, and moved her shoulders expressively. ‘Mama wanted to tell Nikos that his mother was not coming,’ she whispered to Sylvie behind her hand, ‘but Andreas would not let her.’

Sylvie’s response to this not unexpected confidence was muted by their entrance into a large, imposing apartment. Sylvie supposed it was a salon, or a drawing room, or perhaps simply a reception room, but whatever its designation, it was certainly impressive. It was not a cluttered room, indeed its lines were excessively plain, but it was this as much as anything that added to its formality. From a high, moulded ceiling, the textured walls were inset with long sculpted windows, hung with heavy silk curtains in shades of blue and turquoise. The gilt-edged mirrors, set at intervals about the walls, reflected stiffly formal chairs, and tables of marble, the patina of polished wood only broken by a bowl of long-stemmed lilies. Their delicate perfume fitted the room, creating an almost sepulchral atmosphere, but although it was undoubtedly spectacular, Sylvie did not like it. She was almost prepared to believe she had been brought here deliberately, for some sort of family inquisition, but none of the others appeared awed by their surroundings, and she guessed familiarity bred contempt.