~*~
Despite his reassurance to Tory the evening before, Jimmy wasn’t at all sure that the Admiral’s plan was going to go as smoothly as his former commanding officer seemed to think. However, he had to applaud the Admiral’s foresight in keeping hold of the small Polaroid photograph taken of him and Doris in the red light district of Patpong in Bangkok, especially as the date was printed on the bottom right hand corner. Jimmy remembered it as though it was yesterday. The sightseeing tour that none of them wanted to go on apart from Sub Lieutenant Day, whose every whim was inexplicably pandered to by the Captain of HMS Hermes during their three month deployment to Hong Kong. The outing that had ended so disastrously, he’d buried, but never forgotten it.
Sighing, Jimmy brought his mind back to the present. His job was to make sure that Tory didn’t ‘stick her nose in,’ as the Admiral put it. All three of them had a copy of the photo, along with a letter, written by the Admiral, describing exactly the events of the fateful two days. Both he and Hugo were given instructions to keep both the letter and the photo hidden, ‘just in case.’ The number of the safety deposit box containing the original snapshot was disguised on a postcard that had already been sent to their home addresses earlier. Jimmy privately thought that this was probably the weakest link in the Admiral’s plan given the fact that should she get there first, Emily was very likely to either chuck away any correspondence sent from the Admiral or hand it in to the nearest police station... Still, he was keeping a close watch for the post and hopefully he’d get there in time to stash the card away without his wife spotting it.
Hugo’s part of the plan was simply to march into the Home Office and threaten to make the photo public along with their story, while the Admiral handed himself in to the Metropolitan Police.
The biggest gamble of course was that none of them had the slightest clue who Doris really was, whether his family name really was as important as he’d seemed to think or whether the knobs in the British Government were likely to give a toss either way…
~*~
I’ve now been stuck on this bloody boat for two whole days and I really am slowly turning into Freddy’s bag lady. Since coming on board, I’ve only managed to have a strip wash which has done nothing to remove the now grey dried on pancake mix that is determinedly clinging to my hair and chin. In fact I’m beginning to think that nothing less than Swarfega oil and grease remover is going to get it off. I’m actually starting to look as though I have leprosy. I haven’t seen Kit and Freddy since Monday evening. I totally understand that they have their own lives to take care of and I’ve taken up too much of their time recently, but it doesn’t stop me feeling grouchy and unloved. Of course being alone ensures that the one person I don’t want to think about is totally dominating my thoughts. Plus I’m running out of clothes, and asking Jimmy to pop over to the Admiralty to pick me up some more underwear is just way too creepy. He’s been very patient with me though. I think on the whole I’ve been calling him every hour to ask if he’s got an update. Every time we speak, he says to trust my dad and sit tight. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if my father’s actually paying him.
The only plus side of the whole life on the ocean wave thing is that Dotty has now well and truly got her sea legs. In fact she appears to love it on board. She spends all her time in between snacks sitting on the forward deck where she watches the river traffic, lifting her nose to the wind, obviously relishing the smells carried on the sea air. Not only that, but she has me all to herself. Always a bonus in Dotty’s eyes.
My phone beeps and, as usual, my heart lifts briefly just on the off chance it’s Noah. Of course it isn’t, but it is the next best person. Kit. She apologizes profusely for not coming over last night, bless her, but is bringing fish and chips over at six. Yey. I text back to say she’s now my favourite person in the whole world and not to forget the salt and vinegar. Enough with the moping, I have knickers to rinse out…
It takes me half an hour to wash and peg out my underwear, which is now paraded prettily along the yacht railing, then it’s back to brooding. Being a naturally enquiring person (Kit calls it nosy and always says I’d be in, if I fell in…), the lack of news is really beginning to grate. I know Jimmy’s only trying to be kind, but I really need to know what’s happening. I sit in the cockpit, idly biting my finger nails. As I look down at their bitten ragged tips, I reflect sadly that I wouldn’t be allowing them to get in such a state if Noah was still on the scene. Then I suddenly have a brain wave. My iPad is in my bag. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’d forgotten I’d packed it when we first headed up to Scotland (seems like weeks ago now). Excitedly, I hurry down to the cabin and rummage through my bag. After a couple of anxious minutes, I finally locate it right at the very bottom, and, feeling more buoyant than I have in days, I triumphantly head back to the cockpit. Sitting down, I flash the iPad up to check I’ve got both battery and signal, and almost punch the air with glee when the answer’s yes. Taking a deep breath, I pause and decide a coffee might be in order to keep me going while I surf. I wonder if Ben has any brandy to put in it...
A half an hour later I’m wishing heartily that I could put the clock back and am really tempted to throw the bloody iPad in the river. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Firstly, it appears that my father has handed himself in to the Met – there are pictures all over the net of him going in to the police station in Belgravia. This all happened yesterday afternoon, so he’s obviously been in a holding cell overnight. I know this was his plan all along, but it doesn’t stem the irrational fear that I’ll never see him again. And worse - all my efforts to keep Noah out of the hideous mess have been for nothing. The kind, wonderful, amazing, not to mention totally stupid, man has given an interview to the press. A live one. The kind where I can torture myself by watching him talk, hear his sexy voice as he defends both me and my father.
And tells the world we’re not together any more.
‘So Noah, what makes you think Charles Shackleford is innocent of the allegation made against him.’
‘I know the guy. He’s an honourable man - totally Queen and country and all that; your quintessential British Officer through and through (he obviously doesn’t mention any of the quintessential British Officer exploits my father has entertained him with over the months.) He just wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood, it goes against everything he believes in.’
‘So you’re saying he has your support Noah?’
‘One hundred percent. I’d trust Admiral Shackleford with my life. And I’m saying categorically that he would not, could not, have done this thing.’ I gasp. The complete idiot, what the hell is he doing? The all too familiar tears begin to gather in the corner of my eyes.
‘And what about your relationship with his daughter Victory? How’s that holding up under the strain. It must be difficult being involved with someone whose father could very possibly be on trial for murder.’
‘Victory and I aren’t together anymore, but it has nothing to do with what’s happened to her father. She’s an amazing person who really doesn’t deserve all the stupid immature threats she’s received.’ (What threats? Maybe it really is a good thing I’ve been out of action.)
‘We are still great friends and she knows she has my support right down the line.’
I pause the video and stare hungrily at the still photo, tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks. Wherever he is, the weather is dull and misty, with rolling green hills in the distance – Ireland. He’d told me that’s where he was going next, and Kit had confirmed it. Then I lean back and close my eyes, scrubbing the tears away with the back of my hand. I feel Dotty jump onto my lap and stand on her back legs to lick anxiously at my salty face. Holding her to me, I rest my head against hers, like always, deriving comfort from her furry warmth.
He’s put himself on the line for me, done exactly what I asked him not to. Totally risked his career and everything he’s worked so hard for. And I’ve never loved him as much as I do at this moment.
What on earth did I do to earn the love and trust from such an amazing, gorgeous man, and how could I have been so stupid as to throw it all away? I let myself go, and sob noisily into Dotty’s fur as I recall his parting words to me.
He was right, it was all about me. Me and my ridiculous notion that I somehow didn’t deserve him. I realize that I’d put him on a pedestal. Refused to accept that he’s not some cardboard cut out, there to be swooned over and kept in a corner, but a normal man with normal wants, needs and desires. And he’d chosen me. Me, Victory Britannia Shackleford. He loved me and wanted so badly to prove it to me. So what did I do? I threw it back in his face. I’m so angry with myself and, irrationally, with him. He could at least have had the decency to let me sacrifice myself on my alter of idiocy so I could continue with my misguided martyrdom, telling everyone who’s prepared to listen how I saved Noah Westbrook’s career.
Against my will, I picture myself a sad lonely old maid, avidly watching and reading about Noah’s exploits, cutting out and saving lurid pictures of him having fun with various Gaynor Andrews lookalikes, all the while telling myself I’d done it for him.
Never has martyrdom looked so unappealing, or so chillingly foolish. For one brief horrible second I almost hope his act has ruined his acting career, so I can tell myself I did the right thing, but the appalling thought disappears as quickly as it came and I’m simply left with a sort of sad numbness.
It’s all much too late for regrets.
By the time Ben drops off Kit about six, I’ve pretty much got my emotions back under control, although my composure slips a bit as the first thing she says as she climbs on board is, ‘Bloody hell, you look awful. What have you got stuck in your hair?’ So I recount my adventures of two nights ago while I uncork the wine and she unwraps our dinner - turning it into a hilariously funny story, which I’m so very good at. Her laughter makes me feel good, if only for a little while. However, sitting up top, eating fish and chips out of the paper with our fingers (which really is the only way to eat them), she looks at me perceptively and I realize I haven’t fooled her at all. She’s been my best friend for pretty much ever, and sometimes she knows me better than I know myself. ‘You’ve heard what’s happened then?’ she says simply. I nod my head, not trusting myself to answer, and for the moment she leaves it at that. I’m absurdly grateful for her sensitivity, and we finish our dinner in relatively comfortable silence while Dotty darts between us doing her usual poor little me, I’m starving routine. At length, after we’ve eaten and topped up our wine glasses, I realize I can’t avoid it any longer. ‘I know my dad’s in jail Kit,’ I say, ‘And I’ve watched Noah playing the hero.’ The last is said with a bit more mockery than I intend and Kit winces and frowns at my tone. As she opens her mouth to answer, I sigh and hold up my hand. ‘I know, I’m being a bitch, you don’t have to tell me. But Kit, why on earth did he do it?’
‘Have you seen the other interview doing the rounds?’ she responds, ‘The one with the woman who’s accusing your father?’ I shake my head in surprise. ‘Well, I’m assuming that’s why he did it.’
‘Is it bad then?’ I hurriedly put down the congealing remains of my dinner and go for my iPad, searching for breaking news. The interview isn’t hard to find. The woman definitely looks older than my father and I can’t help but speculate that the years can’t have been very kind to her. She speaks in rapid Thai which is interpreted by a voice over, together with sub titles.
The gist? She spotted my father during the worldwide TV coverage of The Bridegroom premier in London, and recognized him as the man who, along with a few friends, used her establishment back in the seventies. When questioned about her ability to identify a man after forty years, she switches to broken English, ‘He old and ugly now but he in my head always.’ Then she swaps back to her native language, saying that she could never forget the face of the man who murdered her husband. When asked why Charles Shackleford had done such a thing, she responds that he and his friends did not want to pay for the services received, trying instead to make a run for it. Apparently, when her husband attempted to stop them, my father turned on him with a knife, coldly and pitilessly stabbing him in the stomach.
I look up at Kit, feeling sick, the fish and chips sitting in my stomach like lumps of lead. ‘It’s a lie,’ I whisper, and she nods reassuringly. ‘Everyone who knows the Admiral will recognize that Tory. Despite his foibles, your father’s well loved in Dartmouth and there’s a lot of support building for him. The town is crawling with reporters, anxious to talk to anyone who knows him and they’re speaking with folks equally keen to put the record straight where the Admiral’s character is concerned.
‘The problem is not the locals, it’s the rest of the world. Individuals who’ve never met him are calling for his blood, as much to bring you down as him, it has to be said. You know what arseholes people can be when they’re jealous. That’s why Noah spoke out.’
‘And what are they saying about Noah?’ I need to know, even if I don’t want to. She looks at me intently for a moment, reading me like a book, before answering quietly, ‘Not much at the moment, but it’s gathering momentum. So far, none of it’s negative.’ I look away from her and gaze unseeing over the beautiful landscape around me. My earlier control is vanishing faster than you can say, ‘Silly cow,’ and I want to scream at the unfairness of it all. In the end, I turn a haunted face back to Kit and say simply, ‘Let’s get drunk.’
I wake with a start to the sound of my mobile phone ringing. Blinking, I fumble around to find it, before putting it to my ear mumbling, ‘Yes?’
‘VICTORY, IS THAT YOU?’ My father’s voice echoes around the little cabin, causing a previously snoring Dotty to struggle her way out of the depths of the duvet, growling. ‘Dad?’ I respond around the sudden lump in my throat, ‘Where are you? Are you okay?’
‘Never better,’ is his cheerful reply, thankfully at a level of decibels less likely to render our conversation available to anyone within a half a mile radius. ‘It’s over Victory. They released me this morning. I told you it was all a fart in a thunderstorm.’ Struggling to keep up, I glance down at my watch to see it’s nearly ten am. ‘What happened,’ I ask, desperate to know whether this is just a temporary development before I finally allow the almost hysterical relief to bubble up from the deep dark pit I’d determinedly shoved it down to when I first heard his voice. ‘All the allegations have been dropped,’ he answers jovially, as usual, completely oblivious to the terrified concern in my voice. ‘Didn’t expect it to happen so quickly though, I must admit. Seems like Hugo’s son Jason’s got a few connections. Anyway, the vultures weren’t expecting it either, so I scarpered while they were still scrambling to get into position outside the station.’ As he continues speaking, I finally allow the relief to surface. ‘Where are you now?’ I ask, hardly able to believe that the nightmare might actually be over. ‘On the train. Thought I’d hole up in the Admiralty before anyone else gets wind of it. So give it a couple more days and then you can get your arse back home. Victory my girl, we’re in the clear.’
I suddenly realize that my father still thinks I’m in Scotland, and for a second, I’m tempted not to enlighten him - let the old bugger worry for a change. Then I relent. Irresponsible and reckless he may be, but I’m positive even he hasn’t come through this unscathed, despite the customary good-humour in his tone. ‘I’m already home dad – I mean in Dartmouth, not the Admiralty. We started out pretty soon after you left for London and I’m currently hiding on board Ben Sheppherd’s yacht. It’s not exactly a cabin cruiser but it’s moored in the middle of the river, well away from prying eyes.’ There’s a slight pause, and his next words prove my supposition correct. ‘I’m really glad you’re back Tory,’ he says thickly, ‘I’ll be home soon and we’ll put this cake and arse party behind us.’
‘Call me when you’re back in the house, we’ll talk then,’ I respond quietly, cutting the call before he can ask me about Noah.
I stay on the
yacht for another two days, then, in the dead of night, I’m sneaked back to the Admiralty in a covert operation that would have done credit to the Special Forces. Freddy is dressed entirely in black leather (any excuse) and insists on referring to me as the package, whenever he has to report our position to Jimmy who’s waiting anxiously on shore to help me off Ben’s dinghy. The disembarkation point is apparently a small neglected pontoon half way between Kingswear and the Admiralty. There’s a path leading up into the woods and the plan is to slip me into the Admiralty gardens through a newly created, though currently concealed, gap in the fence bordering the sloping woodland. As I’m helped out of the dinghy and struggle up the hill behind Freddy and Jimmy, I wonder if either of them considered Dotty’s penchant for barking loudly at absolutely everything, no matter how trivial, when they were planning their undercover operation. At the moment she seems content to trot along quite happily (and quietly), taking our midnight jaunt in her doggy stride, but as she dashes off up the slope, I glance up at her anxiously - sound carries terribly in these woods. Perhaps I should have let Kit take her off the yacht earlier. Then I tell myself to get a grip. This is hardly a life or death operation, despite Freddy’s James Bond costume, and do I really think I’m so important that journalists would actually stay up all night to get an exclusive? Chuckling softly at my ridiculous sense of self importance, I relax slightly and actually begin to enjoy the walk. I’ve been cooped up for too long and it feels so good to finally be able to stride out.
Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Page 13