The Impatient Virgin. ANNE WEALE
they were good.’
‘What else?’
‘He wanted a written assurance that he would be shown your copy before publication, with the right to make cuts...in fact to veto the whole thing if he didn’t like it.’
‘You didn’t go along with that!’ she expostulated.
‘I didn’t have any option. Anyway I’m sure he will like whatever you write. People always do. You’re good at telling the truth in a way that doesn’t upset them.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that in this case.’ Hot-tempered when she was younger, at twenty-five Anny had learnt not to fly off the handle even when raging inwardly.
‘The fact that he specifically asked for you gives you a big edge,’ said Greg.
That’s all you know, she thought. Aloud, she said, ‘Maybe...maybe not. I’ll call you later.’
The girl at the car rental desk took her for a compatriot till Anny explained she was a foreigner. Her fluent French and Italian had been a help to her career, but she hadn’t had to work at them like Jon with his Turkish. She had picked them up as a child, with some Spanish and Catalan learned in harbours and boatyards up and down the coast of Spain.
The fastest route from the airport to Orengo was by the coast road known as the Moyenne Comiche. But Anny didn’t want to join that shuttle of high-speed drivers and long-distance coaches. After Greg’s revelation of who had really set up the interview, she needed time to re-think her plan of action.
All along the city’s famous Promenade des Anglais people in warm-weather clothes were walking their dogs, jogging, or strolling with friends while teenagers on roller-blades glided past them. The palms, the tubs of geraniums, the awnings shading the windows of the hotels made her realise how much, subconsciously, she had missed this Mediterranean atmosphere.
Once this had been her world...
CHAPTER TWO
SINCE the first time Sea Dreams dropped anchor in the quiet bay at the foot of the hill dominated by the dilapidated mansion called Palazzo Orengo, Anny had explored every corner of its neglected garden.
The last remaining gardener, an old Italian, had told Anny’s uncle, the skipper of Sea Dreams, that the garden covered forty-five hectares. There had been a lot to explore. Of all its special places, her favourite was the belvedere with its views of the coasts of two countries, the Italian Riviera to the east and the French Riviera to the west.
The roof of the belvedere was supported by columns of carved rose-pink marble entwined by an old wisteria, veiling the building with its drooping clusters of pale purple flowers.
One hot afternoon, while Uncle Bart was napping in his cabin, Anny sat on the belvedere’s balustrade, interviewing Dona Sofia, the Queen of Spain.
In her imagination, she had interviewed many of the world’s leading women in preparation for the time when she herself would be one of the world’s leading journalists. She had always known what she wanted to be. Journalism was in her blood. Her grandfather had edited a weekly newspaper, her father had been killed reporting a war in Africa and her uncle wrote for the yachting press.
There being no one to hear her except the small lizards which scuttled up and down the columns, she was asking her questions aloud.
‘If you hadn’t been born a princess, Your Majesty, what career would you have chosen?’
Before she could invent the Queen’s reply, from behind her someone said, ‘Who are you?’
The voice gave Anny such a start that she almost fell off the balustrade.
Standing in the entrance to the belvedere was a tall young man she had never set eyes on before. He was wearing a clean white T-shirt and dark blue jeans with brown deck shoes, the kind with a leather thong threaded round the sides. He had the same colouring as the youths in the nearby village, but their eyes were black and his were as blue as his jeans.
‘I’m Anny Howard. Who are you?’
‘Van Carlisle...hi...how’re you doing?’
As she slid off the sun-warmed stone ledge, he came towards her.
As they shook hands, he said, ‘Sorry I startled you. You must be the girl from the schooner down in the bay. Lucio told me about you.’
‘Are you related to Lucio?’
‘No, I’m related to the old lady who lives in the palazzo. She’s my great-grandmother.’
‘I’ve never seen her,’ said Anny. ‘Lucio calls her la contessa. Is she really a countess or is that just his name for her?’
‘It’s her official title, but she was born an American like me. The reason you’ve never seen her is because she’s eighty-three years old and very frail. She stays in bed most of the time.’
‘You don’t sound like an American.’
‘That’s because when I was little my sister and I had an English nanny. My mother is Italian, my father’s American and we lived in Rome until I was about your age. Tell me about you.’
‘I’m an orphan,’ said Anny. ‘But I’m not unhappy like the orphans in books. If I had parents like other people, I’d have to live in a house. I’d much rather live on Sea Dreams with Uncle Bart.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s almost time for his tea. Would you like to come down and meet him? He’s a very interesting man. He’s sailed all over the world. I’ve only sailed round the Mediterranean a few times.’
‘I’ve never had much to do with sailing people. Lucio says this isn’t the first time you’ve moored in the bay.’
‘We come here every year. The berthing fees in the marinas keep going up and we can’t afford them,’ Anny confided. ‘So we try to find moorings which are free. There’s a fresh-water tap and a lavatory in the beach house which Lucio says the contessa wouldn’t mind us using. We help him in the garden for as long as we’re here.’
In fact it was only she who helped the aged gardener in his vain attempts to keep Nature under control.
‘How long do you stay?’ Van asked.
‘Two or three weeks, then we’ll sail to Corsica. How long are you here for?’
‘The whole summer vacation. I’m at college in the States. Where do you go to school?’
They had set out down the long path which, bisected by many other paths, wound its way to the beach.
‘I don’t,’ said Anny. ‘Uncle Bart teaches me. We’re doing a special course to make sure I’ll know enough to pass some exams later on. At the moment I’m two years ahead of my age group.’
Van was as tall as her uncle. Looking down at her, he said, ‘How old are you?’
‘Nine and a quarter. How old are you?’
Her answer made him grin. ‘Going on nineteen. What happened to your parents?’
‘My father was a television reporter. He and his cameraman were ambushed by a group of rebels during a war in Africa. That was before I was born. My mother died two years later. I don’t remember her. There was no one else to look after me so Uncle Bart adopted me. The first thing he had to do was to drown-proof me so that if I fell overboard I wouldn’t sink. Are you drown-proof?’
‘I learnt to swim at school. I can’t say I was crazy about it...or anything, except computers. Is your uncle teaching you computer skills?’
When Anny shook her head, Van said, ‘You won’t get far unless you’re computer literate. Maybe I’ll give you some lessons...get you started.’
‘What is the child like?’ asked the old lady propped up by pillows in