Wreath of Camellias by George B Mair

Author:George B Mair [Mair, George B]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2018-11-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six – ‘Where did you sleep like a log?’

Grant wakened to find Paolina dressed and preparing a side table already laid with split fresh grapefruit, cereals, castor sugar with a jug of cream, croissants and butter.

‘Coffee ready when you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes to shower.’

She was fresh as a new pin, the clock had just struck seven-thirty and the room was bathed in early sunlight. Slats of the Venetian blinds had been angled to keep out glare and bedside ash trays were polished clean. He eased his legs towards the other side of the bed and studied the blankets. The sheets felt only slightly warm. Both linen and blankets were free from more than usual wrinkles. He looked at her curiously. ‘When did you get up?’

She tossed back her hair which was now loose around her cheeks and dangling towards her shoulders. ‘About half an hour or so ago. That guest room is very comfortable.’

‘I thought someone said it hadn’t been prepared.’

‘Well, if they did they were wrong. I slept like a log.’

‘Where?’ said Grant quietly. ‘Where did you sleep like a log?’

She looked puzzled. ‘In the guest room, of course. I told you.’

‘Out,’ said Grant briefly. ‘I want to get up and see this guest room.’ He reached for his bath-robe. ‘And after that we’ll think about breakfast. Or have you had that too?’

‘No. I laid for myself in your study ’cos I don’t take much. Just coffee and toast.’

Grant slicked his hair and walked to the bedroom. His study, he saw, was aired and fresh. There wasn’t the slightest hang-over of tobacco smoke, not even from the Admiral’s pipe, but the guest room carried the tang of perfume, toilet water and woman. The bed had been made up, but he flung down the top covers, and sheets had been wrinkled. Not badly wrinkled, but enough to prove that they had been used. ‘Something wrong?’ asked Paolina.

‘See you shortly,’ said Grant.

Piped music came through the blower as he turned on the shower and bathed to the overture from Traviata, but when he returned to the bedroom Paolina was monumentally professional. ‘Do you wish to dress before breakfast or be nicely informal?’

‘I’ll dress,’ said Grant, ‘and then how about joining me for food, or do you like to eat alone?’

‘I’m probably at my best in the morning,’ she said, ‘though I seem to remember you once saying something about your not being fit to receive till after coffee time.’

‘I remember that,’ said Grant, ‘and it was quite a long time ago. Why was it important enough to remember?’

‘Why does one ever remember some things and forget others? It isn’t important. Anyhow you’ll find your light-weight silk and kashmir in the dressing room.’ Her voice tailed off slightly. ‘I just sort of guessed you’d want a suit instead of slacks,’ she said.

Grant closed the dressing-room door, opened the windows, unhooked the shutters and stared down at traffic already filling the street below. The girl had him guessing. She was either using a new-style gimmick or else he had been drunk.

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