Helga said she would like dinner. She would be out for lunch.
‘What a lovely figure you have, ducks,’ Mrs. Joyce said admiringly. ‘I’ve worked for other ladies. My! They just don’t take care of their figures, but you... honest, ducks, you should be proud!’
Slightly bewildered, Helga warmed to this woman. She felt in need of kindness.
‘How nice of you to say that, Mrs. Joyce. You are right... living alone, I get depressed. I suppose when one reaches forty-three and there is no man around, one does get depressed.’
‘Forty-three? You’re making yourself a liar, dear. You don’t look a day older than thirty. My hubby used to say a woman is old as her roll in the hay.’ She laughed, slapping her work worn hands together. ‘My Tom was a proper caution. The things he used to say! But he was right. So long as you miss a man, you’re not old.’
Helga suddenly relaxed, and smiling, she said, ‘Do you ever want a man, Mrs. Joyce?’
The big woman grinned.
‘Me? Why, ducks, that’s what life is about, isn’t it? When I get hot, I find a man. Tom would approve. A girl needs a man now and then.’
Helga, suddenly close to tears, turned away.
‘Yes... a girl needs a man.’
‘There it is, dear.’ Mrs. Joyce’s voice sank a tone. ‘That’s life, isn’t it?’ She picked up the coffee tray. ‘You have a lovely morning. I’ll get on. Tom always said I talk too much,’ and she bustled into the kitchen.
A lovely morning?
Helga stared out at the sun-soaked beach. What was she going to do? Swim alone? Go to the Ocean Beach club and listen to the yak of those ghastly women in their dreadful flowered hats and to the raddled, fat men who would stare at her, wondering and speculating?
She remembered Herman, and with an effort she called the hospital. The receptioness told her gently that there was no change.
Mrs. Joyce came from the kitchen.
‘Is the poor dear still bad?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Helga got to her feet. ‘I’ll take a swim.’
‘You do that, dear. I had to give up swimming after my miscarriage, but sea water is good for you.’
Helga flinched.
When a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps.
She went upstairs, put on a bikini, then walked across the stretch of sand and into the sea. She floated in the blue, warm water, staring up at the sky, looking at the nodding heads of the palm trees, hearing the murmur of motorboats and the distant roar of the traffic.
A paradise, she thought, if only she had someone with whom to share it.
A girl needs a man.
If only Herman would die! As she floated in the warm sea his death seemed to be the only solution. Once free of him, with sixty million dollars, she would be able to make a new life for herself with some virile, attentive man to take care of her.
A new life!
But she had an instinctive feeling that Herman wouldn’t die for years. He would slowly recover. He would regain his speech. He would tell Winborn to cut her out of his will.
Utterly depressed, she swam back to the beach. Half an hour later, leaving Mrs. Joyce busy with the vacuum cleaner, she drove in the Mini to the Ocean Beach club. The secretary, beaming, was there to welcome her. She told him she was in the mood for a game of tennis. Could the pro give her a game? She was an expert player and the pro, overweight, playing for years with the fat and the elderly, didn’t realize what had hit him when Helga, her mood vicious, gave him the game of his life. She finally beat him 9–7, 6–1, 6–0.
‘You are a splendid player, Mrs. Rolfe,’ he gasped, toweling himself. ‘The best game I’ve had since I played Riggs.’
Men!
She smiled at him.
‘I was in the mood.’
Leaving him to chew on his defeat, she got in the Mini and drove to a small sea-food restaurant. She picked at a tough lobster in a white wine sauce. While she sat alone in the shade of the palm trees watching the young, the middle-aged and the old on the beach, she thought of Dick.
If he hadn’t broken his arm, she thought, he just might have come and just might have lain beside her on the king’s size bed.
All this stupid talk about Voodoo! This was something she just wouldn’t accept! How could a man like Gritten talk such nonsense!
Her mind shifted to Terry Shields. What was she doing? Then she thought of Jackson. Impatiently, she signalled to the waiter for her cheque.
The time now was 14.20. She had the whole afternoon, the evening and the night to face alone. A girl needs a man. How true! And yet, how dangerous! Again she thought of Herman with his twisted mouth forming the word whore. Patience, she told herself. You could be lucky. He could die. Then the magic key would be hers!
Getting into the Mini, she drove back to the villa.
Mrs. Joyce was preparing to leave.
‘There you are, ducks,’ she said. ‘Did you have a lovely morning?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Helga forced a smile. ‘And you?’
‘Yes... I like cleaning. It’s my life, ducks. Tom always said I was a two-legged vacuum cleaner.’ She laughed. ‘Men! They don’t even think of dust.’ She closed one eye. ‘We know what they think of, don’t we, Mrs. Rolfe?’
I know what I think of, too, Helga thought.
‘Yes. You’re right.’
‘The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter, dear,’ Mrs. Joyce said. ‘I’ll be in again at seven. I’ll bring you a nice slice of fish or is there anything else you fancy?’
‘No, fish will be fine.’
Helga watched the big woman ride away on her bicycle, then she walked into the living room. She looked around. The emptiness of this luxurious room and its silence weighed down on her. She went upstairs and took a shower, then going to the closet, she reached for her white pyjama suit. Taking it off the hanger, she paused to stare at it.
The pocket on the jacket, bearing her initials, had been neatly cut away.
For a long moment she stood staring at the jacket, puzzled. Then for no reason she could explain, she felt a creepy sensation run over her. She dropped the jacket as if it had become some horrible insect. She looked around the room, her heart racing. What did this mean? Who had done this? Mrs. Joyce? Unthinkable!
The boy came and fixed your bedroom shutter.
She crossed the room and examined the two wooden shutters. They were locked into place. She hadn’t bothered to use them the previous night. She unlocked them and swung them to and fro. They worked perfectly. Re-locking them, she turned and looked around the bedroom. Her eyes went to the white jacket lying on the floor. She hesitated, then picked it up. She examined the neatly cut stitches. Someone had used a razor blade to remove the pocket. But why? With a little grimace she took the jacket into the bathroom and dropped it into the laundry basket.
She looked at her watch. God! How time crawled! It was 14.50. She went to the closet and examined all her clothes. None had been tampered with. She was aware how fast her heart was beating and she was angry with herself. There must be some reason for whoever it had been to cut off the pocket. This workman who had come to fix the shutter? She had read of perverted men who stole women’s pants from laundry lines. Was this workman like that? She was sure Mrs. Joyce wouldn’t have done it.
She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
She would talk to Mrs. Joyce this evening. She felt an odd atmosphere in the villa — a strange feeling — that bothered her. She felt she couldn’t stay here for the rest of the afternoon. She must get out... do something, but what?