Diamond Fire. Anne Mather

was a problem right now, she had to admit. On the contrary, darkness had fallen with an unexpected swiftness, and, although she was sure that the view from the veranda outside the room would be equally spectacular as what she had found within, the velvety blackness outside her windows was almost opaque. But she could hear the ocean murmuring somewhere beyond the terrace, and in spite of the unexpectedness of all that had happened she couldn’t prevent a prickling sense of excitement.

      After all, she was here, on Oahu, just a few miles from the world-famous Waikiki Beach which Rupert Brooke had described so evocatively all those years ago. She had never been so far from home before, and, although Virginia’s disappearance was worrying, Camilla wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some stirring sense of communion with her surroundings. Hawaii was one of those places that everyone dreamed of visiting at some time in their lives, and from what she had seen of it so far it lived up to every one of her expectations.

      Which was more than could be said for her host, she admitted unwillingly. Alessandro Conti had proved to be the exact antithesis of the impression Virginia had created in her letter, and it wasn’t easy to ally what Virginia had written with the man she had met. Oh, she knew appearances meant little. In her work she had had to learn to distinguish between a clever lie and an un-clever truth, and sometimes the most unlikely story proved that life was often stranger than fiction. And she had no reason to disbelieve the things Virginia had told her. Nothing Alessandro Conti had said had given her any real reason to doubt his culpability. On the contrary, she was quite prepared to believe he could be violent on occasion, and there had been a moment during their conversation when she had felt threatened. Yet, for all that, she was uneasy with the situation, and it wasn’t just because Virginia wasn’t here.

      But where was she? she wondered, turning to view her two suitcases, placed side by side on a long cushioned ottoman at the foot of the enormous bed. She was here, as Virginia had requested—no, begged—but Virginia, and her small daughter, had apparently run away.

      It didn’t make sense. Why would Virginia invite her here and then disappear? Why would she imply that she was virtually kept a prisoner, and then leave the island without telling anyone where she was going? And why take Maria with her? The little girl’s father was obviously worried sick about his daughter. That much she had gathered. As to his feelings about Virginia’s disappearance, they were less easy to interpret. She thought he was worried about his wife, but there was something else, something he wasn’t saying, but which his words were telling her. Perhaps Virginia was right. Perhaps he did regret marrying her. Perhaps if she had attended the wedding she would not be so perplexed now.

      But she had been in Italy when Virginia had married Alessandro Conti, and in any case after they’d left the private girls’ school they had both attended their lives had diverged. For one thing, Camilla had only attended the expensive boarding-school because her godmother had paid for her to do so when her own parents were killed. Mr and Mrs Richards had died in a climbing accident in Switzerland when Camilla was ten, and, although for a while her godmother had found it amusing to play nursemaid to her orphaned god-daughter, eventually the inconvenience of having to make arrangements for baby-sitters every time she had wanted to go out had begun to pall. In consequence, at the age of thirteen Camilla had been despatched to Queen Catherine’s, and she had remained there for the next five years.

      Virginia’s circumstances at that time had not been unlike her own, and she supposed that was why the two of them had become such friends. Virginia’s mother—her father was never talked about—was one of those brittle women who spent their lives relying on other people to support them. Camilla supposed Virginia’s mother had had some money once, but that had long since been squandered on expensive clothes and other luxuries that outwardly showed she could hold her own among the social élite with whom she claimed parity. Virginia’s school fees, like Camilla’s own, had been paid by some long-suffering older relative, but by the time Virginia left school her mother was in real financial difficulties.

      In consequence, Virginia had been expected to recoup the family fortunes by marrying well, and, although Camilla would have hated such a responsibility, Virginia had seemed perfectly resigned to her fate.

      That it hadn’t happened as swiftly as her mother could have hoped had been made apparent when Camilla met her friend for lunch, about a year after leaving Queen Catherine’s. By this time Camilla had been anticipating her second year at university, and although it was a struggle financially she was determined to get her degree. Although she’d still occasionally seen her godmother, and would be eternally grateful to her for being there when she’d needed her, she’d had no intention of sponging on her again. With her grant, and the additional cash she earned by working at a fast-food restaurant in the evenings, she had been keeping her head above water—just—and, if her life hadn’t exactly been glamorous, at least it was satisfying.

      Virginia, meanwhile, had changed from the rather free and easy teenager she had been at school. Camilla hadn’t wanted to believe it, but already her friend was beginning to speak like her mother, and there was a sharpness to her personality that had not been there before. In addition to which the differences in their lifestyles had created a gulf between them, and, while Camilla was interested in what her friend had been doing, Virginia had a totally different set of values.

      Of course, Camilla had made excuses for her. She knew it couldn’t be easy living the kind of brittle existence that her friend’s mother found so appealing. Virginia wasn’t like that, not really; at least, Camilla had never thought so. And if she did seem self-centred now, it was probably just a front. It was Virginia’s way of handling a difficult situation.

      It was another two years before they had met again, and then only by chance in Bond Street. By this time, Camilla had achieved her hard-won degree in law, and was having an equally hard struggle in finding some firm of solicitors willing to give her a chance to get her articles. Until she had spent at least two years working as an articled clerk in a solicitor’s office she could not begin to call herself a lawyer, and, in those days of high inflation and unemployment, it wasn’t easy.

      Virginia, however, had been jubilant. She’d insisted they went into a nearby wine-bar that she knew, and over champagne cocktails, which Camilla had paid for, she told her friend that she was getting married. A certain wealthy Argentinian polo-player was her constant escort, and both she and her mother were planning a Christmas wedding.

      Camilla had been suitably enthusiastic, although the prospect of her friend’s marrying some South American playboy just because he was incredibly wealthy had filled her with unease. Virginia might appear to be on top of the world, but there was a distinct edge to her brilliance, and Camilla hadn’t been able to help noticing she seldom looked her in the eye for more than a few seconds. And she was so thin, almost unfashionably so, if that were possible. And talking of a glittering future about which she hadn’t seemed convinced.

      Of course, there was nothing Camilla could have said to dissuade her, and nor did she try. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the Virginia she had known at Queen Catherine’s might not have been the real Virginia at all, and although she blamed the girl’s mother it wasn’t really all her fault.

      However, Virginia’s Christmas wedding had not materialised. A month later the wealthy Argentinian polo-player had eloped with an American model, and although Camilla was not involved she’d felt tremendous sympathy. She guessed how humiliated Virginia must have felt, and wished there was something she could do.

      But there wasn’t. She knew no one who might remotely meet Virginia’s demands so far as a husband was concerned, and the idea that her friend might realise the futility of the life she was leading, and find some other way to assuage her needs, was no longer even a possibility.

      And then, nine months later, out of the blue, Camilla had received an invitation to Virginia’s wedding. Not to the Argentinian playboy, of course. He had long since married his American model, and was presently in the process of adapting to fatherhood. No, Virginia’s husband-to-be was an American businessman, Alessandro Conti, and after the wedding they were to live at his luxurious estate in Hawaii.

      It had sounded like a dream come true, Camilla had to admit, except that she herself