She had rung Pandora from Palma, having arrived with Jeff that morning in a boat from Ibiza. They had spent a week in Ibiza, staying with Jeff's friend, Hans Bergdorf. Hans was a painter and his house had taken some finding, being at the very top of the old town, within the ancient walls of the fortified city. Finally discovered, it had proved very picturesque. It was thick-walled and whitewashed, but primitive beyond belief. The views from its jutting stone balcony took in the whole panorama of the old town, the new town, the harbour, and the sea, but even this delight scarcely made up for the fact that any cooking had to be done on a miniature Calor gas stove and the only running water came from a single cold tap. Consequently, both Jeff and Lucilla were extremely dirty, if not to say smelly, and the bulging backpacks piled onto the back seat of the car were stuffed with unsavoury, soiled and sweaty clothes. Lucilla, never a girl to spend time worrying about her appearance, had started to have fantasies about washing her hair, and Jeff in desperation had allowed his beard to grow. It was blonde like his hair, but uneven and straggly and made him look more like a down-and-out than a Viking. In fact, the pair of them presented such a disreputable picture that it was a wonder that the hire-car man had agreed to rent them the Seat. Lucilla had noticed a certain suspicion on his face, but Jeff had produced a wad of pesetas and, with cash safely in hand, he could scarcely refuse.
She said, "I hope Pandora's got a washing-machine."
"I'd settle for a pool."
"You can't wash your clothes in a pool."
"Want a bet?"
Lucilla gazed through the open car window. She saw that the mountains had drawn closer and the countryside become more lush. There were pine trees, and the smell of warm resin blew in through the open windows along with the dust. They came to a junction joining another main road. They paused for traffic to pass. The road sign was marked "Puerto del Fuego."
"Well, we're on the right track. What happens now?"
"We take the Puerto del Fuego road, but we have to turn off to the left in another mile or so. It's a little road and it's signposted to 'Cala San Torre.' " The traffic thinned. Taking his chance Jeff cautiously negotiated the junction. "If we find ourselves in the port, then we've gone too far."
"That follows."
Now she could smell the sea. Houses appeared, a new apartment block, a garage. They passed a riding stables with scrubby paddocks where sad, bony horses tried to graze.
"Oh, poor creatures," said the tender-hearted Lucilla, but Jeff had eyes only for the road ahead.
"There's a sign. 'Cala San Torre.' "
"That's it!"
They turned off the sun-baked dual carriageway and found themselves, abruptly, in a green and verdant countryside totally unlike the flat and exposed land through which they had been travelling. Umbrella pines threw shade across the road, speckled by sun splashes, and from ramshackle farms came the contented cackle of hens and the bleat of goats.
"It's suddenly gone pretty," Lucilla observed. "Oh, look at that sweet little donkey."
"Keep your eyes on the map, girl. What happens next?"
Lucilla obediently consulted her notes. "Well, next is a very sharp turn to the right, and then we go right up a hill to the last house at the very top."
They came upon the turning around the next corner. Jeff changed down and made the turn. The Seat, sounding as though at any moment it might boil like a kettle, ground painfully up the steep and winding lane. There were other houses, large villas scarcely glimpsed beyond closed gates and burgeoning gardens.
"This," said Lucilla, "is what estate agents call a much-sought-after neighbourhood."
"You mean snob."
"I think I mean expensive."
"I think you do too. Your aunt must be loaded."
"She's got a Californian divorce," Lucilla told him and her voice implied that there was no need to say more.
Another hundred yards or so, another hairpin bend or two, and they had reached their destination. Casa Rosa. The name, embellished on decorated tiles, was set into a high stone wall and clearly visible despite a cloak of pink-blossomed mesembryanthemum. Open gates lay ahead. A driveway, deeply bordered, sloped up to a garage. The garage had a car parked in it, and another car-an enviable silver BMW-was parked in the shade of a gnarled olive tree. Jeff switched off the engine. It was very quiet. Then Lucilla heard water splashing, as though from a fountain, and the distant, gentle clangour of sheep bells. The mountains now were close by, their summits bleached and barren, their lower slopes silvery with groves of olive.
They got slowly and gratefully out of the car, stretching their sweaty limbs. Up here, so high, there was a breeze blowing off the sea, cool and refreshing. Lucilla, looking about her, saw that the Casa Rosa stood on a rocky bluff above them, the main entrance reached by a flight of steps. The risers of these steps were set with blue-and-white tiles, and pots of geraniums stood sentry all the way to the top. As well, all was entwined by a torrent of purple bougainvillaea; and hibiscus grew, and plumbago, and a tangle of azure-blue morning glory. The air was sweet with flowery scents mingled with the damp smell of newly watered earth.
So amazing was it all, so unlike anything they had previously experienced, that for a moment neither of them could think of anything to say. Then Lucilla whispered, "I'd no idea it would be as grand as this!"
"Well, one thing's for sure, we can't stand here all day."
"No." He was right. Lucilla turned towards the first step, leading the way. But before she had mounted the first step, the silence was broken by the sound of sharp heel-taps, hurrying along the terrace above them.
"Darlings!" A figure appeared at the head of the stairs, arms outstretched in welcome. "I heard the car. You've come. And you've not lost the way. How clever you are and how perfect to see you."
Lucilla's first impression of Pandora was one of insubstantial thinness. She looked ethereal, as though at any moment she might blow away. Embracing her was like holding a little bird. You didn't want to hug too hard in case she snapped in two. Her hair was chestnut brown, swept back from her forehead and falling, in frondy curls, to her shoulders. Lucilla guessed that Pandora had worn her hair that way when she was eighteen and had never seen any reason to change the style. Her eyes were dark grey, shadowed by sooty black lashes, and her curving mouth full and sweet. On her right cheek, just above the corner of her upper lip, was a round dark beauty spot, too sexy to be called a mole. She was dressed in loose pyjamas of the brilliant pink of the hibiscus flowers, and there were gold chains around her neck and knots of gold in her ears. She smelled… Lucilla knew that scent. Poison. She had tried wearing it herself but could never decide whether she loved it or hated it. Smelling it on Pandora, she was stil! not certain.
"I'd have known you were Lucilla, even if nobody had told me. You look so like Archie…" It seemed that she did not even notice their unsavoury appearance, their soiled cut-off shorts and grubby T-shirts. And if she did, she gave no indication of objecting. "And you must be Jeff…" She held out a pink-tipped hand. "How wonderful that you could come with Lucilla."
He took it in his own enormous paw and, looking a bit overwhelmed by her welcome and her dazzling smile, said, "Pleased to meet you."