Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree (42 page)

‘I’m surprised at you, Anton,’ she retorted dryly, ‘you’re more woman than man. You’re very quiet, Sofia, have you lost your tongue?’ She glanced at Sofia who sat huddled in a damp towel. She pulled an uneasy smile with pale blue lips that quivered in the cold.

‘I’m afraid I take Marcello’s side. I’m used to the beaches of South America,’ she said through chattering teeth.

‘Well, aren’t you two grand,’ Maggie smirked. ‘Still, it’ll be the making of you both. A dose of good British fortitude. That’s why our armies are the best in the world. Fortitude, and no one has it like the British.’

‘Well, you certainly have it, Maggie,’ laughed Daisy. ‘Sofia, I bet you never envisaged you’d be here when you were lying on those hot beaches in South America.’

‘You’re right,’ she replied truthfully, but at least there was nothing about Devon that reminded her of home. On those cold, forlorn beaches she was in a completely different world.

Christmas 1975 was a happier time than the year before. Sofia spent ten days with Dominique and Antoine in their chalet in Verbier. Delfine and Louis had invited friends and once more the chalet vibrated with happy shrieks of delight as presents were opened and games played. Christmas lights glimmered in the crisp air and bells resounded up and down the valley. The weather was suspended in a magical limbo where the sun glowed every day in a cornflower sky that broke only after Sofia had departed for London. When she returned the New Year held a surprise that she could not have predicted.

Daisy had suggested they go to a club in Soho ‘where all the actors hang out’. As Sofia loved the theatre, she thought it a wonderful idea and picked up an old patchwork skirt and floppy velvet hat at the market in Portobello Road to wear with the brown leather boots she had bought with Dominique in Geneva. She didn’t have much money as it was almost impossible to save on her small earnings, but she felt she deserved a treat. A treat to symbolize the beginning of a new, more positive, era.

The club throbbed with merry people piling in out of the cold. The girls found themselves two seats at the bar as an exasperated couple left because they couldn’t get anyone’s attention to give them a drink. Looking around them

Sofia and Daisy recognized at least two actors and a television presenter. Thanks to their youth and beauty, they had no difficulty finding someone to serve them. The barman smoothed down his long black hair that he had tied into a neat ponytail, and appeared in front of them, his face spread into an oily smile.

By a quarter to midnight Daisy was in full flirt with a sweaty sculptor who had clearly had too much to drink. After dribbling down her low-cut blouse he spirited her away to the other side of the room. Sofia smiled at her and shook her head. Daisy didn’t seem to mind who she kissed as long as he bought her a drink and gave her some attention. Sofia sat calmly watching the people around her. Everyone was merry, but she didn’t mind being alone. She was used to it by now.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ She turned to find a well-built, handsome man take the seat beside hers. She recognised him immediately from the play she had seen a few weeks before. He had been the lead in
Hamlet
, which he had acted out with great bravado. Personally, she thought he had overacted the part, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate her advice at this particular moment. She nodded and asked for another gin and tonic. He raised his hand, masterfully

summoning the barman who scuttled over immediately.

‘A G and T for my friend, and a whisky for myself,’ he said, then turned back to Sofia, resting his elbow on the top of the bar.

‘My grandfather used to drink whisky,’ she said.

‘A fine drink.’

‘In fact, he was buried with his “bottle o’ liquor”,’ she added, imitating his Irish accent.

‘Why?’

‘Because he was afraid the leprechauns might steal it,’ she laughed. He gazed down at her and chuckled. She was certainly unlike anyone else he’d met before.

‘Are you Irish?’

‘My mother is Irish. My father’s Argentine.’

‘Argentine?’

‘Yes, but of Spanish blood.’

‘God!’ he exclaimed. ‘What brought you here then?’

‘That’s a long story,’ she told him dismissively.

‘I’d like to hear it.’

They sat talking over the loud music. Had he not shifted his stool nearer to hers and leaned in towards her to hear better, they would have had to shout. He introduced himself as Jake Felton. He spoke with a beautiful English accent, his voice rich and commanding.

‘Sofia Solanas,’ she told him.

That would make a strong stage name. And
you
would make a delightful actress,’ he said knowingly, allowing his eyes to devour her generous features.

‘I saw your play.’

‘You did?’ he exclaimed and grinned. ‘Did you like it? Don’t tell me if you didn’t,’ he added jovially.

‘I did like it actually. But you have to remember, I’m a foreigner, so I didn’t understand a lot of the English.’

‘Don’t worry. Most English people don’t understand Shakespeare either. Will you come and see me again? I’m in a new play starting in February at the Old Vic’

‘I might,’ she said coyly and drained her glass.

When midnight was announced - five, four, three, two, one HAPPY NEW YEAR! - everyone raised their glasses and kissed their partners. Jake placed a hand on her face and kissed her. He would have landed on her lips had she not turned her face to give him her cheek. When he asked if he could see her again, she gave him her number.

To her surprise, Jake Felton called her the following week. On the first date he took her to dinner at Daphne's in Draycott Avenue. He knew Giordano, the flamboyant Italian who ran the restaurant, and was consequently given the best table in the room. At first, Sofia felt uncomfortable, as though she was betraying Santi. But then she reminded herself that it was Santi who had already betrayed her. She had to grow up, move on.

After a few months Jake and Sofia were seeing each other regularly. Maggie and Anton were speechless with admiration when they heard and were genuinely happy for their friend. ‘Jake Felton. Dishy!’ Anton had enthused, once he had recovered from the shock. Daisy had warned her to watch out - ‘he’s a real ladies’ man,’ she had said. Daisy had a lot of time to read the gossip columns in her job. Sometimes the telephone didn’t ring for hours. Sofia responded that all Latin men were like that so she was used to it. Soon Sofia was watching him rehearse and meeting all his friends. Suddenly her small world in London sprang open and she found herself moving in circles that were altogether more

thrilling and more bohemian.

When Jake made love to Sofia she preferred the lights to be on. She liked to look at him. He was flattered. She couldn’t tell him that when she closed her eyes she thought of Santi. Jake was different from Santi in every way. But her body had been Santi’s, he alone had entered it. As much as she tried to block him out, the feeling of a man inside her reminded her of him, and it reminded her of the child they had made together. She had to keep her eyes open to forget. Jake was tender and he excited her, but she didn’t love him. He told her he loved her, that his world had changed because of her. That he had never been so happy, so fulfilled. But she was unable to respond with the same fervour. All she could do was tell him how fond she was of him, how comfortable she felt with him, how he had filled the void inside her.

Sofia would watch Jake rehearse in the evenings and later criticize his performance. She even helped him learn his lines when they were in bed together at night. He would suddenly spring up and launch into one of his soliloquies. In restaurants he’d beg to practise with her; ‘You be Julia - go on!’ he’d plead. So they’d sit reading the lines from memory across the table, their faces full of the expressions of the characters they were playing until their laughter would

invade the scene and they’d collapse gasping for breath.

‘But does he ever talk about
you,
duckie?’ Anton asked one evening, after they’d been going out for about a month.

‘Of course he does. It’s just that his job is very important right now, that’s all. It takes priority,’ Sofia insisted. Anton sniffed his disapproval as he watched her sweep up the remaining clumps of hair from the floor.

‘I don’t like to be a killjoy, darling, but when I met him I thought him decidedly arrogant,’ Maggie commented, tapping her cigarette ash onto the floor. Anton gathered up the towels and threw them into a tall wicker basket.

‘He comes across as arrogant, because he’s shy,’ Sofia said defensively.

‘Shy! If he was shy, darling, he wouldn’t be throwing himself about like that on the stage,’ she scoffed. ‘Anton, do be a little gem and pour me another glass of vino. That’s the only thing an old girl like me can look forward to these days.’

‘Don’t be a sourpuss, Maggie!’ Anton chided her, then smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ll soon be devoured by some gorgeous hunk, won’t she, Sofia?’

Sofia nodded. ‘David Harrison, the man who produced Jake’s play, has asked us down to his house in the country for the weekend,’ she told them,

putting the brush away and joining Maggie on the sofa.

‘We know who David Harrison is, don’t we, Maggie?’

‘Yes, he’s very famous. Had an acrimonious divorce about ten years ago -maybe more, I can’t remember. Now
there's a
man for you, darling.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie. I’m very happy with Jake.’

‘Pity,’ Anton said through pursed lips.

‘Well, as you wish,’ Maggie told her. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you though when Jake runs off with his leading lady. They’re all like that, actors. I’ve had a few myself. Wouldn’t go down that road again if you paid me. Still, David Harrison’s old enough to be your father. . . Mind you, there’s nothing wrong with a nice, rich, older man, is there, Anton?’

‘Tell all when you come back, won’t you, duckie?’ he said to Sofia, and winked at her.

Jake picked Sofia up from Queen’s Gate on Saturday morning in his Mini-Cooper and then drove like a bottle fly down the motorway to Gloucestershire. He talked about himself all the way; he was having a small dispute with his director over a certain scene in the play.
^l
l’m
the actor,’ I told him, ‘and I can

tell you my character just wouldn’t react like that. I know my character!’

Sofia remembered her conversation with Maggie and Anton and gloomily watched the frosty countryside race past her window. Jake didn’t seem to notice that she was quiet, he was far too busy ranting on about his director. She was relieved when they arrived at David Harrison’s sand-coloured house that stood at the end of a long drive, just outside the town of Burford.

David Harrison appeared at the door surrounded by two honey-coloured Labradors who wagged their thick tails at the sight of the car. David was of average height and slim with a full head of light brown hair, greying slightly at the temples. He wore small, round glasses and a big, amiable smile.

‘Welcome to Lowsley, don’t worry about your bags,’ he said. ‘Come and have a drink.’

Sofia followed Jake across the gravel towards him. The two men shook hands and David patted Jake affectionately between the shoulder-blades. ‘Good to see you, Lothario.'

‘David, this is Sofia. Sofia Solanas,’ he said and Sofia extended her hand.

‘Jake has told me an awful lot about you,’ David said, shaking it firmly. ‘It will be a pleasure getting to know you myself. Now come on in, don’t stand on

ceremony.’

They followed him into a large hallway. Each wall seemed to be covered with paintings of every size and there was not a surface that didn’t carry unsteady towers of books. The rich wooden floorboards were partly obscured by luxurious Persian rugs and large plants in china pots. Sofia liked the house immediately. It was warm with an overpowering smell of dogs.

David led them into the sitting room where four people Sofia didn’t know sat smoking and drinking around a boisterous fire. It reminded Sofia suddenly of Chiquita’s house at Santa Catalina and she suppressed the ache that always followed such recollections. They were introduced to the other guests: his neighbours Tony Middleton, the writer, and his wife Zaza, who owned a small boutique in Beauchamp Place, and Gilbert d’Orange, a French newspaper columnist and his wife Michelle, nicknamed Miche. Then they all sat down and resumed their conversation.

‘So what do you do?’ asked Zaza, turning to Sofia. Sofia cringed.

‘I work in a hair salon called Maggie’s,’ she replied and held her breath, waiting for Zaza to smile politely but disdainfully before turning away.

But to her delight Zaza’s painted green eyes opened very wide and she gasped, ‘I don’t believe it. Tony, darling. Tony!’ Her husband broke off his sentence and turned to Zaza. Everyone stopped to listen. ‘You won’t believe it! Sofia works with Maggie!’

Tony grinned wryly. ‘What a small world. Now Maggie was married to my second cousin, Viv. Good God, how is the old girl?’

Sofia was elated and in a few moments had everyone holding their stomachs with laughter as she imitated Maggie and Anton. David watched her from the drinks’ cabinet and thought he had never seen anyone more lovely in his life. There was something tragic in her large brown eyes, in spite of her generous smile, and he wanted to gather her up and look after her. She was much younger than the others and yet had no trouble conversing with them. It was only when Zaza, who had clearly lost her heart to Sofia, innocently asked her about her home country that their guest went quiet for a while.