the words actually having been said, Jude got the distinct impression that business was pretty quiet that afternoon.
Carole, she was sure, would have given her a lift to the hotel, but Jude didn’t want to impose. She ordered a cab and, aware of her neighbour’s sensibilities to the slightest of imagined slights, fixed to be picked up at the seafront end of the High Street.
Close to, Yeomansdyke was even huger and more impressive than it had been in the brochure or glimpsed from the road. At the reception a smartly suited young man of exquisite manners and a vestigial Swiss accent directed her to the spa entrance, where a female receptionist of equally exquisite manners welcomed her and proffered a silver menu of available treatments. Avoiding the most exotic, Jude plumped for a full body massage. After that she planned to have a swim and then maybe make a further selection. The receptionist summoned a girl in clinical white, who-also exquisitely mannered-led Jude to the changing area, found her a locker and produced a swooningly soft bathing robe and pair of slippers. On hearing that her client had not brought a bathing costume, she offered a broad array from an adjacent cupboard. Jude, never one to be self-conscious about her substantial figure, chose a black two-piece, too substantial to come under the definition of “bikini.” But she didn’t put it on. Massage first.
Then the girl in white led her through to an elegantly tiled treatment room, and left her alone. A minute later, her masseur appeared. Tall, thin and very dark, his name was Ahmet and he wore a white uniform. And he was good. Jude knew more than a little about various forms of massage, and the minute Ahmet started on her shoulders, she recognised she was under the hands of an expert. So she abandoned herself to the sensation. He said little, but-clearly it was part of the job description for anyone working at Yeomansdyke-he had exquisite manners.
The massage was thorough and took nearly an hour and a half. At the end, feeling deeply toned and relaxed, Jude showered off the oil on her body, donned her borrowed bathing costume and made her way to the swimming pool. It was set in a mini Crystal Palace, a huge vaulted structure of cast iron and glass; its previous role as a conservatory was hinted at by the huge potted palms and other tropical trees on the poolside area. The atmosphere was steamy and deliciously warm, in vivid contrast to the cold, darkening February outside.
There were wicker loungers and tables around the pool. Abandoning her robe, slippers and towel, Jude eased herself down the steps into the water, whose temperature exactly matched that of the ambient air. She swam a brisk ten lengths, using the efficient crawl she had perfected during one long summer with a lover in the south of France. Then she bobbed about in the water for a few minutes, taking a covert look at the other spa users, searching for Sonia Dalrymple.
There was no sign of her in the poolside area. Four or five loungers were occupied, all by women, no men. And none of the bodies on display could ever have been mistaken for Sonia’s. Perhaps it had taken a long time for these women-or, more likely, their husbands-to attain the kind of wealth that made the Yeomansdyke experience accessible, but none of them was in the first flush of youth, and indeed the first hot flush of the menopause was quite a distant memory. No, if Sonia Dalrymple was around, she was in some other part of the spa.
Jude got out of the water, towelled herself down, resumed her bathrobe and slippers, and ambled back to the spa reception.
“I was rather expecting to meet a friend of mine here today. Mrs. Dalrymple…I don’t know if she’s been in.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple has booked into the hotel for three nights. She’s in one of the tanning suites at the moment,” said the girl with exquisite politeness. She consulted a printed sheet. “Suite 4.”
“Oh, well, I’ll wait till she comes out.”
“You don’t have to. If you’re a friend, I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you. Just knock on the door. The tanning suites are down there.”
“Thank you very much.”
The suites’ numbers were on brass plates worn smooth with much polishing. Jude tapped on the heavy oak door of Number 4, but there was no response. She entered unbidden.
Sonia Dalrymple lay on a bed under the sunlamp, wearing only a wispy black bikini bottom. She was on her back, showing to full advantage the stunning figure that made Jude a little wistful for what she once had been. But, even at her height of beauty, she had never been so precisely toned. Amazing to think that that firm, flat stomach had given birth to twins. Sonia’s body, like everything else about the Dalrymples, was absolutely perfect.
She wore a designer eyeshade and, rather than the dark goggles on the table, beneath it a thin silk scarf was laid across her eyes. Either she was breathing very shallowly, or she was not breathing at all.
Jude felt a moment of anxiety. There was something wrong. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the mobile phone on the table beside Sonia rang. Instantly alive, she snatched at the phone as a man dying of thirst would snatch at a drink.
But at the same moment she recognised her visitor and stabbed at the phone to hold the call.
As she did so, the scarf slipped away from her face, to reveal the purplish bruising around both her eyes.
Jude wondered whether she now knew what Lucinda Fleet’s words had meant. “She often goes to Yeomansdyke to recuperate after Nicky’s been home.”
17
Sonia Dalrymple snatched up the scarf to hide her eyes, then switched off the phone without answering it. “Jude, what on earth are you doing here?”
Time for a little tactical finessing of the truth. “Someone gave me a day’s voucher here as a Christmas present”-that bit was true-“and I saw your name on one of the receptionist’s sheets. When I asked about you, she told me you were in here.”
“Ah.” Sonia realised that she couldn’t keep the scarf up forever. Jude had seen the worst, anyway. She uncovered her face. “I’m sorry I look such a sight. I…er…I had a fall from Chieftain.”
“Chieftain’s lame,” said Jude gently.
“Yes, but he’s on the mend. I thought I’d have a go this morning and then unfortunately…”
“Sonia, I was up at Long Bamber Stables this morning. With Chieftain. In another abortive attempt to heal his lameness.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course.”
Rather than beautiful, her nakedness now looked only vulnerable. Seeming to become aware of this, Sonia reached round for a Yeomansdyke robe and wrapped it around herself.
“Do you want to talk?”
“What, Jude? About what?”
“About your face. About the bruises.”
“No. There’s nothing to say about them. I had an accident, that’s all.”
“But not an accident falling from a horse?”
“No.”
Clearly further information on that subject was not going to be forthcoming. “Actually, I’m glad to have bumped into you, Sonia.” Which was perhaps misleading given the amount of planning that had been involved. “What I’m doing with Chieftain just doesn’t seem to be working, so I’ve set up another healer to have a look at him.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“Donal.”
Under her tan Sonia went instantly pale. “Donal? No, I don’t want to have anything to do with Donal. I don’t want him ever to come near my stables again.”
“He’s not coming to your stables. Chieftain’s at Long Bamber.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Lucinda says he’s very good with the horses.”
“So I’ve heard.”
