Free Under Gemini by Rosamunde Pilcher Page A

I know what you’re thinking.”
    â€œWhat am I thinking?”
    â€œYou’re thinking I’m a bitch to leave you. You’re wondering why I suddenly have to go to Greece.”
    â€œAre you going to tell me?”
    â€œI think you’ve probably guessed. It’s a man. You had guessed, hadn’t you?”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œI met him at a party in New York, just before I flew back to London. He lives in Athens, but I got a cable from him yesterday morning, and he’s in Spetsai, he’s been lent a house by some friends. He wants me to join him.”
    â€œThen you must go.”
    â€œYou really mean that, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course. I’m no reason for you to stay in London. Besides, I’ve got to get down to finding a job and somewhere to live.”
    â€œYou’ll stay in this flat till you do?”
    â€œWell…”
    â€œI’ll fix it with the porter. Please.” The tone of Rose’s voice was anxious, almost pleading. “Say you will. Just for a day or two. For the weekend, anyway. It would mean so much to me if you would.”
    Flora was puzzled, but there was no obvious objection, nor reason to argue with such a pleasant invitation. “Well, all right. Till Monday. But only if you’re sure it’s all right.”
    â€œOf course it’s all right.” Rose’s wide smile, the image of Flora’s own, split her face. She came across the room to hug Flora in a great gesture of affection, only to revert almost at once to her usual disconcerting manner. “And now come and help me pack.”
    â€œBut it’s three o’clock in the morning!”
    â€œThat doesn’t matter. You can make some more coffee.”
    â€œBut…” Flora had been on the point of saying, “I’m exhausted,” but for some reason she didn’t. Rose was like that. She went so fast that you went too, caught up in the slipstream of her speed, whirled along behind her, without any clear idea of where you were headed.
    *   *   *
    Rose finally set out at eleven o’clock Friday morning on the first stage of her long journey to Spetsai. She left Flora standing on the pavement outside the block of flats.
    â€œI’ll see you,” she said, hugging Flora goodbye. “Leave the key with the porter when you finally go.”
    â€œSend me a postcard.”
    â€œOf course. It’s been great. I’ll be in touch.”
    â€œHave fun, Rose.”
    Rose leapt into a waiting taxi, slammed the door, and leaned out of the open window. “Take care!” she called, and the taxi moved off with Rose still waving a mink-furred arm. Flora stood there waving until the taxi rounded the corner of the square and disappeared into Sloane Street.
    So that was it. It was over. Slowly Flora turned and went back indoors, up in the lift, and into the empty flat. She felt alien. Without Rose, everything seemed very quiet.
    She went into the sitting room and began, in a desultory fashion, to plump up flattened cushions, draw back curtains, and empty ashtrays. Her attention was soon diverted, however, by Harry Schuster’s bookshelves. Browsing, she forgot about housework and found that he read Hemingway and Robert Frost and Norman Mailer and Simenon (in French). There were albums of Aaron Copland in the stacks by the record player, and the Frederick Remington which hung over the fireplace bore witness to his pride in his own country and the best of its achievements.
    Harry Schuster was taking shape. Flora decided that she would like him. But it was hard to feel so kindly toward a mother who had gaily abandoned you at birth and swanned off to a life of married ease, taking your twin sister with her.
    From last night’s session with Rose, plus photographs, Flora had built up a picture of Pamela Schuster so real that it seemed as if she had actually met her: beautiful and worldly, smelling