Apollo's Seed. Anne Mather

can tell me what you have decided.’

      Martha looked down at her plate, pushing the ham round with her fork, but Dion did not immediately reply. He leant across the table and helped himself to a circle of toast, liberally spread with the dark brown roe his father found so palatable, and then, with his mouth full, he queried in a muffled voice: ‘About what, in particular?’

      Aristotle’s greying brows descended, and for the first time since Martha had joined them he displayed a little of the Myconos temper he normally controlled so well. ‘You know the subject to which I am referring, my son,’ he essayed brusquely. ‘What arrangements have you made? Did you explain to Martha that the settlement need not be ungenerous, in spite of all the circumstances, providing she does not defend the suit, ne?’

      Dion took a taste of his champagne, emptied his mouth, and then rubbed his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I think I need more time to consider the matter,’ he said finally, leaning back in his chair, and studying the sparkling liquid in his glass with thoughtful deliberation. ‘You understand, Papa?’

      ‘Yon are saying that Martha has refused to give you a divorce?’ Aristotle demanded, in ominous tones, and Martha, bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, hastened to deny it.

      ‘We didn’t discuss—divorce,’ she said tightly, unwilling to suffer the suspense any longer. ‘We spoke about——’

      ‘—many things,’ broke in Dion, sharply, cutting her off before she could commit herself. ‘Enough to know there is more to the destruction of a marriage than a few words written on a sheet of paper!’

      ‘Dionysus!’ His father rose to his feet with quivering dignity. ‘What are you saying? What foolishness is this? What hold does this woman have over you, that you cannot be in her presence for more than fifteen minutes without you change the decision of weeks—months! Have done with it! Do not allow her to bewitch you once again. Make the incision! Break loose from those chains that have bound you to the past for five long years!’

      Martha was trembling as he spoke. She had guessed Dion’s father had only tolerated her for his sake, and she had known of the initial opposition both his parents had raised to their marriage. Yet their love had seemed so strong then, so worthy of any strains which might be put upon it. That was before she learned of the demands the Myconos corporation put upon its executives, before she had found herself alone for days—weeks—on end, with Dion at one side of the world and herself at the other. Of course, even that would not have been so bad if she had been free to do as she wanted. But she was not. She was expected to conform, like all the other Myconos wives, and her prevailing streak of stubborness and independence had eventually been her downfall …

      She came back to the present with a start to find Dion was on his feet too now, and although the exchange he was having with his father had reverted to their own language, Martha was able to understand most of what was being said.

      ‘You overreach yourself, Papa,’ her husband was stating bleakly, subjecting his father to the same piercing scrutiny she had suffered earlier. ‘I take care of my own affairs, and you would do well to remember it. You are not my counsel, nor are you my keeper. You are my father, and as such, I offer you my respect. I appreciate that your opinions may differ from mine, but do not make the mistake of thinking that because I listen to you, I think as you do. I am no longer a child, Papa. I am a man. I heed advice—but I make the decisions, you understand?’

      The lines on Aristotle’s face had become more deeply drawn as Dion spoke, and although he drew himself up to his full height, he was still several inches shorter than his son. Martha, tense and nervous as she was, could still find it in her heart to feel sorry for him, and she realised with a pang that her husband had changed more than she had ever imagined. Once he would not have contradicted his father, would not have argued with him, or denied him the right to state his opinions, would not have used his superior wit and intelligence to make the old man appear frailer than he actually was. This man was harder, shrewder, more ruthless, every inch the arbiter of his fate, and that of the Myconos corporation, and Martha realised that while his father might still nominally hold the reins, Dion had inherited in everything but name.

      ‘So,’ his father said now, resting his palms upon the table. ‘Does not your wife—does not Martha have any choice in this?’ He turned to his daughter-in-law, and spread his hands. ‘Dare I say that I cannot believe she wants to prolong this situation?’

      ‘Martha and I will have plenty of time to talk of this,’ declared Dion abruptly, without even glancing at his wife. ‘I intend to have her belongings collected from her hotel in Rhodes, and——’

      ‘No!’ It was Martha who interrupted now, struggling to her feet and facing him defensively. ‘There is nothing to discuss, Dion. The situation was—was decided for us. Five years ago! I came here to speak to your father, and I’ve done so. That’s all. I’ll leave as soon as the helicopter is ready to take me.’

      ‘If you insist.’ Dion’s indifference was disturbing. ‘But we are going to talk, Martha. Whether you wish it or not.’ His eyes held hers. ‘Either here or at your hotel, it makes no difference to me. But remember, you came here of your own free will. And I should consider your proverb about fools and angels, before you say any more.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      MARTHA’S lips quivered. ‘I think you’re trying to frighten me, Dion,’ she said unevenly.

      ‘Do you think that?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He shrugged, and while she watched, he slipped his hand into his inside pocket. For one awful moment she thought he was about to pull a gun on her. He had carried one occasionally in the old days, for protection only, when circumstances demanded it, and she had always been repelled by its cold, metallic accuracy. But, as her palms moistened in opposition to the dryness of her mouth, he drew out a narrow cigar case, and flicking it open, took out one of the slim panatellas he favoured. He put it between his teeth and then said calmly:

      ‘My sister is getting married on Friday. My father and I must return to Athens for the wedding. But I shall be back here on Saturday night, and we will continue this discussion then. It is up to you whether you choose to bear the cost of an hotel room, or make use of the villa in my absence. Either way, we will talk further on Saturday.’

      ‘But I can’t stay here until Saturday!’ protested Martha. ‘I—why—I have to get back. I have a job, and—and there are things I have to see to.’

      ‘You mean—the child?’ enquired Dion sombrely.

      Martha licked her lips. ‘Among other things, yes.’

      ‘Cannot your sister—cannot Sarah cope?’

      Martha hesitated. ‘No. No, she can’t.’

      ‘Why not? Is one child so hard to handle?’

      Martha sighed. ‘I have my reasons.’

      ‘So.’ Dion drew an impatient breath, pulling out a lighter and applying it to the tip of his cigar. Then he glanced at his father. ‘It seems I must offer my regrets to Andreas and Minerva.’

      ‘No!’

      Martha’s instinctive denial was only narrowly forestalled by his father’s, as Aristotle gazed disbelievingly at his son.

      ‘You cannot mean to deny your sister the happiness of your company on her most special day!’ he declared. ‘She would never forgive you. You know how much she depends on you—of all her brothers! I will not—I cannot beg you too strongly to reconsider, Dionysus.’

      Martha felt an intense weariness overtaking her. This had all been too much for her. First Dion’s appearance, then his talk of divorce; the scene in his father’s study was almost too painful to consider, but it had happened, and now he was playing this cat-and-mouse