It was better for all concerned. Nowadays the Paulsons relied on part time staff, home helps and the like, as well as inclusive insurance policies that offered a whole range of plumbers, locksmiths, electricians and other specialised workers. Painters, builders, solar panel installers they contracted if and when necessary. The days of the maintenance man were thankfully gone forever.
The Spanish style villa was tucked away under cork oaks in the more secluded, exclusive part of Kenton Beach. Here the neighbours kept each other at arm's length, surrounded by luxurious gardens full of palms and wisteria. Cascades of fresh, clear water fell into beautiful swimming pools adorned with stone dolphins or mock Grecian columns, sprinklers refreshed the neatly cropped lawns, and from every balcony or garden bench, the ocean, shimmering and shifting like a screensaver. Unfortunately for those who had sought in the resort seclusion and tranquillity, of late Kenton Beach had become famous, and therefore less exclusive. Once a lazy, half forgotten fishing town, untouched by the passing of the years, it had become a Mecca for those who enjoyed exhibiting their good fortune in public. An expensive marina had been built, designed by an award winning firm of architects, attracting the world's wealthy to its notoriously over-priced restaurants and shopping malls. Apartment blocks had sprung up around the waterfront to house the up and coming nouveau riche, the voyeurs, the shoulder rubbers, and when space had finally run out, new developments had spread up the hills until they were dangerously close to the established homes of the early settlers. This physical and economical encroachment was not readily tolerated by the older generation who did not understand this new wave of magnates, capable of flying or sailing halfway round the globe in order to spend their leisure time among hordes of like-minded types. The old school tended to steer well clear of the quayside and its boasting of yachts with armed security guards, its flouting of cars worth more than most of the beach front apartments, its loud, credit card flashing entourages trying to outdo each other in treating money as if it were worthless.
But Harvey loved it. He felt part of the new generation, the classless generation that linked social success solely to the size of their bank statements. There was nothing he enjoyed more than strolling along the promenade admiring the Ferraris and Lamborghinis, bumping into rich acquaintances, comparing notes on the latest tendencies in nautical engineering, wallowing in the lingering scents and designer clothes of his kind of people. Though undoubtedly what he enjoyed above all was being recognised. By guests at the five star hotels, by managers of guide book listed restaurants, by owners of luxury goods. He loved to be pointed out as a lifetime honorary member of the Beach Club, a distinction bestowed to very few, especially in these crowded times. Because this lifestyle was what he had always aspired to, was his natural habitat, was where he belonged. It was with people like this that he could make conversation. They would talk about the only thing they had in common: money. How to make it, how to invest it, how to spend it. How much a person was worth, how much a certain enterprise would return in profit, how much it was wise to squander. It was not idle chat; all of them knew what they were talking about because they had all accumulated more than they could possibly need in five lifetimes. They had worked their way up into the top percentage of humanity, and could now safely compare notes.
He threw a glance up at where Andrea would be sleeping. Best not to bother her, she knew where he was going and it was wiser not to labour the point. He would phone her a little later and argue that he had not wished to disturb her beauty sleep. He tapped his pockets - wallet, keys, agenda.
Harvey had been born to comfort and social success. His father, Arthur Paulson, was a university professor teaching international law to undergraduates most of the year, activity that he supplemented by working as an extremely well paid consultant for large corporations. He had even spent a short term as a government assessor, but had not enjoyed being embroiled in ideological squabbling. As he had been warned before naively accepting the post, 'all is fair in love and war - and politics'. An unassuming, soft mannered man, he had not felt at home with the carry-a-gun-and-be-prepared-to-use-it ruthlessness of the political arena. He preferred chess, a game in which the rules apply to everyone, and where the most astute and visionary player will invariably sweep the board, cornering and ensnaring his rival, but never moving in for the kill. Mrs. Kelly Paulson was a tall, thin, energetic woman who earned an income by writing secondary school biology text books, so it could be said that the only financial difficulty the family had was keeping track of their numerous investments and properties.
Today he would take the four wheel drive, a bit heavy on consumption but better suited to the dusty, rutted approach routes to La Barraca, where he intended to have lunch before pushing on to Langley. He placed his briefcase in the passenger seat, unnecessarily readjusted the mirrors, dropped his sunglasses down from his hair onto his nose, and started her up. Just before nine. Perfect.
Andrea heard the whirring of the automatic gates as they opened, closed, and rolled over in her sheets. They slept in separate rooms, and justify it as they would, she realised it could be taken as a true reflection of their relationship. They were not the kind of couple that curled up with each other at night like kids in a thunderstorm. Neither did they hold hands in public, or kiss in front of strangers, or in any way show their feelings for each other. It was something they had never done, a routine they had naturally fallen into and now accepted as ideal for both of them. Perhaps they both thought they made up for it in other ways, like Harvey’s gifts of flowers and perfume, or the way she left him room to move, to take control. Did it imply a lack of real affection? Was it respect or coldness? She blew out the questions like tiny bubbles, then watched as they floated out of the window and burst in the morning light.
Other noises told her Anne the cleaner had arrived. They were the comforting sounds of routine: Anne's key in the door, her bag dumped on the sideboard, her footsteps in the kitchen, the clatter of breakfast things in the sink. Soon she would start to hum, silly songs from old fashioned musicals that would stick in Andrea's head for days. She had better make an appearance.
In Randolph Haute's day the journey from Kenton Beach to Langley had taken an entire day, the old coastal route picking through major cities, small ports and tiny villages, until it eventually rolled exhausted into Chester Drive. Nowadays it was a six hour drive, the two laned motorway often cutting away from the coastline and diving inland to save time. He had allowed for coffee breaks, refills and lunch. If he didn't get a puncture or meet a traffic jam the ride should be relaxing enough. If, however, he was unlucky enough to encounter a setback, he would skip lunch at the Barraca and pick up a sandwich at a filling station. If even that failed, he had a contact number. He tuned in to a classical radio station, not because he was a great fan of the stuff, but because it gave a certain elegance to the movement of the traffic. It was also unobtrusive and allowed him to think unpestered, unlike attention-seeking pop or rock. He went over the figures again in case there was an aspect of the deal that had escaped him.
The day stretched out before her, long and lazy, but Andrea had never had an issue with leisure. She had been groomed to accept it for what it was – a privilege to be cherished or taken for granted depending on her mood. She would invite Helen and Lucia over for lunch, take the motor boat out for a spin, sunbathe in the cove, swim, do her exercises, read fashion mags or best-sellers, drink beautifully presented cocktails... there was always plenty to do, without an obligation in sight. It is true that she sometimes cursed her luck, wanted to scream against the outrageous injustice of events, but she was in good hands and the ongoing treatment had so far been a resounding success. Dwelling on the past was not deemed convenient, would not help her come to terms with herself, it was to be considered a closed book. Her therapists, professionally healthy and happy types who clearly understood everything and had all the answers, did not feel that it was wise to mention that the past is open to interpretation, can be edited, lied about and dist
orted, with important aspects often being omitted or exaggerated. Or that this retrospective revision will change people's perception of their history and therefore the way they react to it and act upon it. No, on a personal level it was best for the past to be converted into a large, heavy stone to be heaved over the side of
Even so she had her days. A disturbing sequence of R.E.M. for instance, when faces would float up from the depths to persecute and accuse her. Or when a snippet from an otherwise harmless conversation would catch in her throat like a fish bone. Then she would need all the help she could get. But for the most part Andrea drifted on much as she always had done, happy to idle away her hours doing nothing in particular.
As a child her every whim had been satisfied. She had been showered in age-specific merchandise and foodstuffs, her large bedroom stuffed full of all the most expensive toys. Her self-esteem had been boosted endlessly, forever being reminded how pretty and bright she was, how lucky to have been born into such a wonderful family, and she had been allowed