To the Death

“I know he is,” replied Emily. “And, you know, if I ever miss a day taking him for a walk, he gets so boisterous, rushing around the house, knocking things over.”

Carla smiled and said, “Well, I love dogs, and I love walking. Would you like me to take him out sometimes?”

“Oh, my dear, that would be such a huge help. But would you mind? I hate to be a nuisance.”

“No, I should like it very much. I don’t have many friends around here yet. And he is the most gorgeous dog.”

Thus Carla Martin and Emily Gallagher became firm friends. Carla walked Charlie, three or four times a week, sometimes with Emily and sometimes not. Sometimes she had a cup of tea with the old lady before starting her shift at the Estuary, and occasionally they had lunch together.

Meanwhile, at the hotel she had become extremely popular, particularly with a youngish crowd who were in the hotel bar three or four times a week, always on Thursdays and Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays, and always on Sunday nights.

Despite all her efforts to play down her obvious charms with loose sweaters, wide skirts, flat shoes, no makeup, and her hair tied back in a plain ponytail, Shakira could not avoid attracting the attention of young men.

Among the group she saw most was Rick, the local computer engineer; Bill, whose father owned the supermarket; Eric, who had inherited one of the local building firms; Herb, who ran a photographic business; and Matt Barker, who had built and owned the local garage and Toyota dealership. Matt was older, maybe thirty-four.

The best-looking was Eric, twenty-four, divorced and the local golf club champion. Rick was the most studious and well-informed; Bill was the richest; Herb was showy and overconfident, with not much money but a lot of ambition to work in New York in fashion; and by far the most consistent in his admiration for Shakira was Matt Barker, who drove a Porsche and asked her to have dinner with him every time he saw her.

Shakira used all of her guile to remain remote from them. She hinted at a serious boyfriend in London; she always closed the bar by 11:30 and left by the back door, running swiftly across the parking lot and around the corner into a dark street, where Fausi awaited her, engine running.

She never said she was leaving, and her routine was not varied. She always pulled on a pair of short leather driving gloves, which she knew suggested she had her own car, and in turn that would discourage anyone from asking if they could drive her home. And once the gloves were on, she just slipped away, leaving the security to the night porter who supervised the last nonresidents, seeing them out, and then locking up.

After a couple of weeks, she became a woman of mystery. The guys used to ask each other, “When did she go? Which way did she go? She never even said good night.”

And she never would. Shakira had no intention of being alone outside the hotel with this high-spirited but well-mannered group of young bucks, the well-heeled middle-range stratum of Brockhurst society.

On busy nights, there were often girls from the town in the bar, but they tended to be those whose education or background had not taken them to a good university and on to Washington or New York. And Matt Barker and his guys had no serious interest in dating also-rans.

They had no idea who Shakira was (she thanked God), but they definitely knew she was not an also-ran. There was a poise about her, an aloof quality, like someone with more important things on her mind. And boy, did she have important things on her mind.

And every time the group came in, one of them, sooner or later, asked her out. With Bill and Eric it was slightly frivolous; Rick and Herb seemed earnest and genuinely were looking for more permanent girlfriends. Matt Barker, however, from across the bar, was falling in love.

Shakira determinedly kept him at arm’s length, spending less time chatting to him than she did with the others, but sensing him watching her, admiring her, wanting to talk to her.

He was a big man, always well dressed, clean-shaven, with longish blond hair. At first sight, he could easily have been mistaken for a city lawyer or financier, except for his big hands, which were slightly rough from years of grappling with car engines, brakes, and chassis.

“Hi, Miss Carla,” he would say when he walked in. “Have you changed your mind about me yet?”

Shakira did not wish to offend him, and she tried to be evasive. oh, you know I can’t, Matt. I’m very involved with someone. I might even be married before the end of the year.