Society Girls

by Sarah Mason

  “I simply can't believe it,” says Sam. His hand still has my elbow in a vicelike grip.

  “I know. Nor can I,” I mumble, panting slightly with the sheer effort of everything.

  “Maybe we should have anticipated this.”

  “Yes, but the problem is that avocado is green, and the salad is green, so of course that makes everything green and then it's pretty hard—”

  “Clemmie, forget your bloody avocado. I mean Martin Connelly. Maybe we've been too naive. I just blithely expected him to swallow your story and go on back to Bristol or Cambridge. It's my fault.”

  Do we have to talk about Martin ruddy Connelly? My face is starting to look like a bullfrog's and Sam is waffling about it being his fault. What is his fault is that once he'd noticed the avocado he should have been jumping up and down on the table until the waiter took it away.

  “Quick! He's stopping! In there!” says Sam suddenly, and without so much as a ladies first he gives me a shove into the nearest doorway.

  To ask my very frazzled nerves to make a split-second reaction and then actually get my feet to lift themselves over a step is beyond me. I stumble quite badly, fall through the open doorway, cannon at quite a speed onto a gleaming and highly polished glass floor and then glide gaily over to the reception of what seems to be a very posh hotel. I come to a stop with my nose pressed up against the front desk.

  A man peers courteously over the bureau. “Can I help you, Madame?” he asks politely in perfectly accented English. He makes a supreme effort not to recoil from my bloated face.

  I look over to Sam, who hasn't made the same entrance as me. He stumbled over my falling body but managed to save himself and is now standing in the doorway, peering out into the street. He shouts, “Back in a minute, Clem!” and then legs it. Marvelous.

  I slowly uncurl myself and try to surreptitiously pull down my skirt. The man has come out from behind his desk and is trying to give me a hand up. “Are you okay, Madame?”

  “Em, yes. I think so.” The fall seems to have winded me somewhat so it is with some difficulty that I stagger to my feet. I've lost a flip-flop which the man retrieves from the other side of the room.

  He nips back behind his desk, leaving me to straighten myself out. I look back up to find myself eyeball to eyeball with him.

  “Can I collect your luggage for you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you checking in?”

  “Er, no. Not exactly.” He looks puzzled by this, as well he might. I was pretty eager to enter his hotel and now I'm pretty eager to leave it.

  “What are you doing then?”

  Good question. Well put. “Em, just looking.”

  “Looking?”

  “Yes. At the decor.” I waft a hand airily toward the furniture.

  “And the floor?” he asks with a mere soupçon of derision. I blush bright red and start to edge toward the door.

  “It's a beautiful floor. Is it, em, French?” Oh God.

  “We're in France.”

  “Yes. So, of course, that would make it French.” We both look down at it again and I take another few steps backward. “Well. Thank you. For letting me look.”

  “It's been a pleasure,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm.

  “Me too.”

  I'm going to kill bloody Sam.

  As I step out back onto the street, feeling decidedly more sober, I spot Sam striding down the hill and waving at me. I ignore him and start to walk sulkily back toward our hotel but he catches me up about halfway there, completely oblivious to the fact that I might be in a mood with him.

  “I found him!”

  “Oh goody.”

  He ignores the tone of my voice. “He's staying at a little B and B near the top of the hill.”

  “And how, exactly, is that little piece of information going to help us?”

  “We need to know where we can find him. And now we can!”

  “Great,” I say betwixt gritted teeth.

  “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I'm fine. Just fine.”

  As soon as we get inside our hotel, Sam takes a swift left up the stairs toward my parents' room. I follow and he's already rapping at their door by the time I reach him.

  We're duly admitted and find that neither of them have gone to bed. In fact, they are sitting out on the balcony blithely sipping two brandies. My mother leans back in her wicker chair with Morgan on her lap and sucks hard on a cigarette.

  “I thought you were going to bed?” I ask.

  “Darling, I simply didn't have enough nicotine in my system so I just had to . . . what on earth has happened to your face?”

  “It's swollen up.”

  “Golly, I can see that. You didn't eat that avocado in the salad, did you?”

  “So it would seem,” I say between clenched teeth. “You didn't think to mention it, did you?”

  “Sam told you it was in there. God, do you remember when you swelled up during The Wizard of Oz at Stratford? I always remember that poor little girl with ringlets who was sitting in the front row. She cried so hard, it was terribly distressing. Do you remember?”

  “How can I bloody well forget? It was pretty distressing for me too, since half the children in the audience also started to cry,” I snap.

  “But darling, I can't tell you how awful you looked. Really, I do feel that we, as the onlookers, got the raw end of the deal. And . . .”

  Sam and my father have been talking urgently in the corner during this little interchange. And it's just as well my father interrupts because I can feel myself about to say something really rude.

  “Sorrel, Sam has just seen Martin Connelly.”

  “Martin Connelly?” she asks in blatant bewilderment. Marvelous, isn't it? She can remember the child with ringlets in the front row many years ago but she can't cast her mind back forty-eight hours.

  “The madman,” says my father patiently.

  “The psychologist?”

  “That's the one.”

  “He's here?”

  “Clemmie just saw him walk past the restaurant and then they followed him to a B and B.”

  “Do you think he knows we're here?”

  “I would imagine that's a good bet.”

  “But how?”

  My father looks toward Sam, who shrugs. “Maybe he followed us to Waterloo. Maybe he found out from someone at the paper. But I should think he just didn't believe what Holly and Clemmie told him and stayed behind in Cornwall and watched us. Maybe he got suspicious when I mentioned our holiday.”

  My father turns toward me. “Clemmie, did you see anything that . . . what on earth have you done to your face? You didn't eat that avocado in the salad, did you?”

  Why was this bloody avocado so glaringly visible to everyone except me? Was it daubed in fluorescent paint or something?

  I try hard to keep my voice steady. “Yes. I think I might have eaten a little.”

  “I think it's got worse,” says Sam, peering at me.

  I go through to the en-suite and have a good look in the mirror. A disturbingly familiar-looking stranger stares back at me. Little slitty eyes in a sea of red puffy flesh. I've lost my cheekbones, my chin and nearly my nose too.

  “Should we get you some antihistamine or something?” asks my father as I return to the room and retire behind the curtain.

  “No, it normally goes down by itself.”

  “How long will it take?” asks my mother. I poke my head out from behind the curtain and glare at her. “Now, darling, don't be like that. You don't have to look at you. Look, poor Morgan won't come out from under the chair.”

  Back behind my curtain, I slouch to the ground miserably. I can hear them discussing how Martin might have found out our whereabouts and whether he knows where we are staying. Inevitably the conversation turns to everyone's concerns for Emma.

  “We're going to have to warn Emma,” Sam is saying. “We can't not.”

  “Yes, we'll have to call
Sir Christopher McKellan and get him to contact the people she's staying with,” interjects my father.

  “That means we'll have to call Holly and tell her too.”

  “Okay. You call Holly and I'll call Sir Christopher.”

  They resolutely grab their mobiles and make for better reception downstairs. Silence reigns after they leave the room. It clearly isn't bothering my mother because I can hear her sucking on her cigarette and then exhaling deeply.

  I stick my head out from behind the curtain.

  “Oh, there you are, darling. I was wondering where you'd got to. Come and sit down.” She leans over and pats the seat next to her. I begrudgingly crawl out and sit down.

  “Do you want to read some lines together? While we're waiting?” I ask.

  “No, I don't think I could concentrate with your face looking like that. I spoke to Matt earlier.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Well, Catherine has gone away for a couple of days . . .”

  “Where's she gone?”

  “Up to the lakes, I think. I don't know, I wasn't really listening. But thank God she's away because at least I know Barney is safe. They've only had Matt, Sally and Bradley at rehearsals but I think it's going quite well. Apparently Charlotte and Barney took Norman down to watch the rehearsal and he persuaded Charlotte to stand in for Catherine. I think we'll have to have a full rehearsal with all the extras when we get back. Will you be around for that? Gordon has promised to come down to give his professional opinion.”

  Not sure I want to be around for that. “Hmm, I'll try,” I say noncommittally.

  “Did you have a nice time tonight?” she asks. “Apart from your face?” she hurriedly adds on.

  “Yes, I had a very nice time.”

  “You and Sam seem to be getting on well?”

  I look at her suspiciously. Where exactly is she heading with this particular line of inquiry? Is it obvious that I fancy him?

  “Hmmm,” I say again and fiddle with a corner of a cushion.

  “You are getting on, aren't you?”

  “We're certainly getting on better. Whether that constitutes getting on well, I don't know.”

  “Sam has always been very much one of the family.”

  “I know. It seems bizarre that I haven't really noticed him before.” What on earth am I saying? Does avocado have hallucinogenic effects as well? Or is this still the alcohol talking? One rule of our family is never confess anything to our mother. She has no idea of the meaning of discretion. It will be all over town by tomorrow morning. At the very least she'll be making faces behind his back.

  Her lack of response makes me look up suddenly. “What's wrong?” I ask. My mother being sensitive is a new one on me.

  She blows out a cloud of smoke. “I just don't want anyone to get hurt.”

  God, it must be obvious that I'm practically drooling over him, and even more obvious that he's not about to return the favor. I'm glad the failing light hides my blushes.

  “Because don't forget there is Charlotte to consider too.”

  I know, I know. How ironic it now seems that someone I was so dismissive of has come back to bite me on the bum. Serves me right for being so superior.

  I take my first official warning firmly on the chin. My mother is right. Sam does have Charlotte and it would be incredibly embarrassing for me to launch myself at him like some unguided missile only to be rejected in favor of someone who doesn't surf.

  “I know,” I mumble.

  “Darling, I only have your interests at heart.” She turns and looks at me. “You're my only daughter.”

  “We just dropped your other daughter in Bristol yesterday.”

  “Darling, you're my only other daughter.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. “How long did you say it took for the avocado to wear off?”

  My father comes back into the room, sits down and takes a sip of his brandy. In the end the silence gets to me. “Well?” I demand. “What did he say? What horrible task does he want us to do now? Does he want me to dangle myself as bait in front of Martin? Does he want me to permanently stand guard over Emma? Because I can tell you that I am getting pretty sick of this whole thing. I think we have done more than our fair share and Emma is no longer our responsibility. Let's just leave them to fight it out between themselves.”

  “But Clemmie, I think it became our responsibility the minute you and Holly got yourselves involved in this dreadful affair. You don't know enough about this Connelly character for us to risk just walking away. He has obviously spent a vast amount of time and effort orchestrating all this. What sort of hatred fuels that kind of commitment? As far as I'm concerned, apart from the fact that I would rather you and Holly had never got involved in the first place, I want this affair to be resolved one way or another because we have no idea what Connelly is capable of.” He looks at me fiercely and I gulp slightly. My father can be pretty forceful when he wants to be and even my mother isn't risking opening her mouth. “What if he gets it into his head that you and Holly are accountable for his nasty little scheme failing? Is he going to follow you two around? And there seems to be a limit to what the police can do. So we are not leaving here until I know it's all been sorted out. One way or another.”

  One way or another. I really don't like the sound of this.

  “What does Sir Christopher want us to do?” I ask resignedly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I'm just about to get into bed wearing my very attractive striped pajamas (my mother originally bought them for Barney for a hospital visit, but he refused point blank to wear them), when I start to think about what my father has said. I don't like it. An ex-convict is out to get me! How could I have overlooked such a thing? This is the same ex-convict that I blatantly lied to and intentionally misled. At this very moment he could be considering how to get his extremely large hands around my swan-like neck. Well, it's not very swanlike at the moment, but it will be as soon as the swelling goes down.

  I nervously chew on the sleeve of my pajamas and then creep out of bed and over to the window. I twitch a corner of the curtain and peer down into the street. Is he there? Watching and waiting? Will I see a plume of smoke being gently exhaled from behind a lamppost or something?

  Oh shit. Shittyshitshitshit. And bugger.

  Maybe Martin doesn't want to see Emma at all, because now his little revenge plan is ruined what would be the point? Maybe he's turned his focus on the people who foiled his plan. Namely moi.

  I don't think I can stay in this room by myself anymore. I'll go and wake up my parents. They won't mind me kipping on the floor. In one swift movement I am across the room with my hand resting on the door handle. I nervously peer through the peephole. All clear as far as I can see.

  I grab my room key from the dressing table and pull open the door before I can change my mind. I scurry along the corridor like the little scared mouse I am, down several flights of stairs, and finally arrive outside my parents' door. I knock gently. I wait for a second and then try a bit louder. “It's me,” I whisper at the door. I wait again. Absolutely nothing. In fact, if I listen hard enough I can hear Morgan snoring.

  I knock quite loudly this time, and then look nervously around me. It's only just past midnight—reception is probably still open and Martin Connelly could walk straight in. I give up and make for two doors down.

  “Sam!” I whisper. “Let me in! It's Clemmie!” I knock again and then hear movement after a few moments. He opens the door looking sleepy and disheveled. He squints at me. “Clemmie, what are you doing?”

  “Sam, I've been thinking and . . . were you asleep?”

  “Get in the bloody room.” Sam grabs my arm and pulls me forward. He shuts the door behind us and turns on the light. He squints at me and rubs his eyes.

  “Did I wake you?” I ask anxiously.

  “No, no. I was up. Simply waiting for you to pop down here and call on me.”

  I notice he only has a towel wrapped around his
waist so I hastily pull my eyes up to his face and concentrate on keeping them there. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

  “I'll go,” I say hastily.

  “You're here now. What's been worrying you?” He takes my arm and leads me to the bed. We both sit down. He looks at me in concern and puts his arm around me gently. I immediately feel reassured.

  “I didn't want to be alone. I've been thinking about Martin Connelly and I'm scared. What if he hasn't come to find Emma at all? What if he—”

  “Hang on. Is this about Martin Connelly?”

  “Of course! What else would it be about? Do you think Martin Connelly has come here just to find Emma?”

  “Why else would he be here, Clemmie?” asks Sam patiently, moving his arm away.

  “Well, what if he's pissed off with someone else? What if he's decided to get back at the people who ruined his little plan? Because we know he's quite pissed off generally with life.”

  Sam wearily rubs his eyes. “You lost me somewhere after the first word. What's your point?”

  “I think he's come down here to find me!” I announce dramatically.

  Sam snorts with laughter. “Come down here to find you?” he echoes. “He hasn't come down here to find you, Clemmie. Don't be ridiculous.”

  “But why else would he be here?”

  “Martin is here to find Emma,” says Sam firmly. “For whatever twisted reason of his own. He hasn't traveled a few thousand miles just to give you a good poke in the eye.” He squints at me for a second. “Although, he'd have trouble doing that at the moment. Has your face gone down at all?”

  My hand immediately flies up to investigate. Bugger. I'd forgotten all about it.

  “I just didn't see the avocado. You know, restaurants really shouldn't be putting those things in salads, they're just plain dangerous.”

  “You were pissed!”

  Ooh. That hurt. Is it gentlemanly behavior to remind a girl of a slight overindulgence? I get up and make toward the door. “I'm going back to bed.”

  “Well, remember to lock the door.”

  This tiny show of concern stops me in my tracks. “So you do think he might be down here to find me?” I breathe.