The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  ‘You think so?’ He grinned and turned to Becky. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten her after all. ‘Do you drink Babycham?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘Even though I come from Essex.’

  ‘You see, Mrs Collie, your theory is quite flawed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Collie. ‘But I dare say this young lady is more sensible than some of your guests.’

  Becky wasn’t sure how to respond to what could have been faint praise or a subtle way of saying she wasn’t ‘guest material’.

  ‘Oh you can see how sensible I am,’ she said. ‘Choosing a day like this to be out.’

  ‘If I had more time I would love to hear your embarrassing long story,’ said Matthew, locking eyes with her. It was a relief when the sound of merry voices approaching the kitchen broke the spell and he finally looked away. A door on the far side of the room opened and three young women, chattering like starlings, appeared. They were dressed in waitresses’ uniforms and stood bunched in the doorway for a second, their uninhibited banter dying on their lips when they discovered Mrs Collie wasn’t alone. Then they came in, murmuring diffident ‘good evenings’ to Mr Darnley.

  He grinned to acknowledge them and listened as Mrs Collie passed on his instructions. Satisfied everything was in hand he turned to Becky once more. ‘Maybe you’ll come back and tell me that story when the weather is better,’ he told her.

  ‘Maybe, I will,’ she responded politely, knowing as well as he surely did that they were unlikely to meet again.

  He nodded and walked out; moments later mellow background music floated through to the kitchen. She could hear a tenor sax embroidering the melody with laid-back ease. He was obviously in a room nearby, creating ambience for his lucky guests, having erased Becky from his mind the instant he left the kitchen.

  Mrs Collie, a bit pink in the face, pushed the trolley towards the door the girls had come through, summoning one of them to hold it open for her. Before the door shut again, Becky caught a glimpse of a room with a dark gleaming table set with sparkling silver, crystal glasses and a central display of what looked like white orchids. All very elegant, very inviting.

  Mrs Collie bustled back into the kitchen. ‘Aren’t those napkins ready?’

  The young woman whose deft fingers had been pleating the napkins so that they fanned out into a perfect crescent assured her that they were.

  ‘Well take them in, love, take them in!’

  There was an edge to Mrs Collie’s voice now – a sure sign that zero hour was fast approaching.

  Becky slid off the stool and thanked Mrs Collie for her intervention. ‘I think I was set up.’

  ‘Sounds like it. A nasty trick. Do you know who it was?’

  ‘Yes, a colleague from work. It was someone I turned down. I’m guessing this was his little joke.’

  ‘Just as well you turned him down, then.’

  Becky looked around the kitchen, wondering which of the doors was the best to use; presumably as an uninvited guest she should go out the tradesmen’s entrance. Mrs Collie noticed her confusion and quickly gestured for Becky to follow her. They retraced their steps to the front door and Mrs Collie opened it. Outside it was still damp and grey.

  ‘Have you got a car?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Becky, stepping into the courtyard. ‘A taxi is waiting for me.’ Thank God for her socialist cabbie and his insistence on hanging around. ‘Sorry to have been a bother.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ Mrs Collie shut the door and Becky hurried across the courtyard and down the steps. The first guest was already arriving: a Bentley had stopped at the head of the lollipop. Becky hesitated on the bottom step, wondering whether to run like a panicked Cinderella or adopt a sedate pace. But the young woman in the back of the Bentley was clearly oblivious to Becky’s presence: she held a compact mirror in her hand and was making a rapid last-minute appraisal of her face and hair. She needn’t have bothered: she looked exquisite.

  Becky headed towards the side of the house in the direction her taxi driver had indicated. Halfway there she turned back to see Matthew Darnley running swiftly down the front steps. Although the rain had reduced to barely a bitter drizzle, he unfurled an umbrella before opening the car door and helping the James Bond beauty out. She was almost as tall as he was and her only concession to the weather was a long feather boa worn with a model’s casual panache about her shoulders. Becky heard Matthew greet the lady (Miss Carette, presumably) and her reply and realised they were speaking in French. Neither noticed her as Miss Carette, in her shimmering beaded shift, flung her white arms about Matthew Darnley’s neck and he, in turn, encircled her slender waist. There was no way that lady was going to be served with Babycham tonight. Becky turned her back on Matthew Darnley and his companion, pulled up her coat collar and walked on to the side of the house, where her carriage awaited – and within it – a very curious driver.

  Half an hour later the taxi driver, outraged on Becky’s behalf, dropped her outside the Essex Gleaner’s offices. She headed straight for Mr McBride’s room, with ‘his’ memo in her hand, and knocked on his transparent door. But the plump editor was on the phone and he gestured with an impatient swipe that he was not to be disturbed.

  Returning to her desk Becky was relieved the few other people in the office paid her no attention; presumably they thought her earlier absence was due to a genuine assignment. She checked her emails and ate her meagre salad from a Tupperware box, feeling a twinge of deprivation as she imagined the multi-course luncheon being served at Noak Hall. She googled Matthew Darnley and the first few items on the results list concerned his ownership of the Monmouth Hotel (five star) in north Essex; there was no mention of Noak Hall.

  Patsy came in with a shop-purchased sandwich and made a beeline for Becky the moment she saw her. ‘Where were you?’ she asked. ‘McBride called a meeting first thing. Fortunately he didn’t notice you weren’t there.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Becky, though Patsy’s unintended slight cruelly confirmed her earlier lack of judgement. How had she believed that Mr McBride would send a junior reporter to interview someone on a topic as challenging as slavery? She had let her enthusiasm trample over good sense.

  ‘Don’t look so down,’ said Patsy. ‘You didn’t really miss anything. He gave us a talk on ethics. He’s got it into his head that we’re all hacking phones and going through people’s rubbish bins. Something I can’t imagine you –’

  ‘Becky’s always going through people’s rubbish bins,’ a voice said behind them. Ian. For an obese bloke he moved with a surprising stealthiness; usually the first indication of his presence was a shadow across the computer screen closely followed by his hand on her shoulder and a cheery ‘I know a much better way of doing that’. Patsy mouthed ‘prat’ and went to her desk.

  Becky wondered briefly if she could just ignore Ian. She had refused his ‘help the new girl’ overtures on many occasions, knowing any favour would be called in with an insistence she join him for a drink or a meal and there were more competent colleagues who would help her without starting a tab. Also his unsolicited advice usually involved him balancing one buttock on her desk and cupping a hand over hers to guide the mouse but Patsy had warned her not to upset him until her twelve-month probation was up. After that – with more legal protection behind her – she could tell him where to stick his buttock.

  For now though he wasn’t going to take the hint to leave her alone and anyway she wanted to confront him about the trick he’d played on her. Becky turned around.

  ‘So how was your morning?’ he asked, evidently expecting a temper tantrum because he grinned and dodged an imaginary punch. ‘I suppose you met the lord of the manor.’

  ‘I did,’ said Becky.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? He seemed nice enough.’

  Ian’s face lost some of its anticipated glee. ‘But what about the questions? What did Darnley say when you asked him about the slave trade?’

  ‘I
didn’t bother asking him,’ said Becky. ‘It was obvious someone had tried to set me up. By the way, was this to get at me or do you have something against him?’

  ‘He’s an arrogant git. Swanning round his manor and not letting people fish in his lake.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what it was about,’ said Becky. ‘Unbelievable. How did you know he would be at Noak Hall today? I’m told he’s hardly ever there.’

  Ian tapped his nose. ‘Inside information. So go on, tell me what he said.’

  Becky ignored the question, reached into her bag and laid the two taxi receipts on her desk. ‘How am I going to claim for these?’

  Ian casually pulled loose notes from a pocket and threw them on to her desk. He put the taxi receipts in his pocket.

  ‘I bet you didn’t even meet him,’ he said, scowling.

  ‘Would you like to bet where I’m going now?’ said Becky. ‘I have to discuss an ethical matter with Mr McBride.’

  ‘Discuss away,’ snapped Ian and slimed off. Becky looked round for the memo and Mr McBride’s ‘instructions’. They were no longer on her desk. At the far end of the office Ian was feeding something into the shredder. Evidence gone.

  Chapter Two

  Only three weeks to go before her twelve-month probation was up and Becky had managed to avoid any assignments that involved Ian. Until now. She’d barely got into the office before Patsy hurried over.

  ‘Ian says I’m to tell you he’s just gone to fill up and then he’ll be waiting for you in the car park.’

  Oh God; she could look forward to half a day of Ian ogling her breasts while pretending to photograph something. ‘I didn’t know he was covering the rally?’

  ‘Rally?’ said Patsy, frowning. ‘That’s not what he said.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be covering the vintage car rally at Marsden Common in an hour,’ Becky fumed. ‘They’re expecting me. Right, I’m going to speak to Mr McBride. I know Ian’s his nephew and all that, but –’

  Patsy sighed. ‘Don’t bother. McBride hardly ever goes against Ian. Our boss has no children of his own. He thinks the sun shines out of Ian’s – camera.’

  ‘What? Just let him get away with it? If nothing else, it’s unprofessional.’

  ‘And when your probation is over you can say so,’ said Patsy. ‘I’m sure Ian’s delegated someone else to cover the car rally.’

  ‘Did he say what this is all about and where we’re going?’

  ‘Somewhere in the country, I gather. You’d better hurry.’

  The telephone on her desk shrilled. Becky picked up the receiver but before she could say a word Ian’s voice demanded, ‘Are you coming down or what?’ He rang off before Becky could even reply.

  Furious about the sudden change to her day and even more furious she couldn’t do anything about it, Becky headed downstairs. In the car park Ian was behind the wheel of his Citroen, revving its powerful engine impatiently.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she said.

  ‘That’s a fine way to show your gratitude. You should be on your knees, thanking me.’

  ‘Thanking you for what?’

  ‘For arranging the most exciting day you’ve had since you’ve been in this sad little office. But if you want to go and tell our esteemed editor that you refuse to go –’

  ‘Your uncle knows about this – assignment?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Ian. ‘You know how it is: I suggest things; he agrees. Now, chop, chop.’

  Fuming Becky got in and belted up. She remembered the word ‘nepotism’ came from favouring nephews – never a more apt use.

  ‘And don’t look so sour,’ snapped Ian. ‘I’m doing you a favour here.’

  The F-word again – always ominous. ‘A favour?’

  He plonked a folder in her lap. ‘Feast your eyes on that,’ he told her. ‘And while you’re at it, try to be a bit more appreciative of what I’ve set up for us, will you?’

  She didn’t respond but, as he tore out of the car park, she opened the folder and examined the brochure inside. It showed photos of a gloriously mellow stone building cloaked in Virginia creeper and surrounded by manicured lawns that set it off to perfection. ‘The Monmouth Country Club UK,’ she read aloud, ‘Matthew Darnley’s newly renovated oasis of calm in today’s hectic world.’

  She shut the brochure and gave Ian an unfriendly stare. ‘We’re going to a hotel owned by Matthew Darnley?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why? Has it been burgled or something?’

  ‘Not yet. Unless I take a fancy to the cutlery.’ He giggled as though he had said something amusing. ‘Anyway, all you need to know is that I’ve fixed for you to do an interview.’

  ‘Hang on a moment. I can do a write-up on the place but an interview? Please tell me you haven’t arranged for me to talk to Matthew Darnley.’

  ‘Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t,’ Ian chanted.

  Becky wished now she had found out more about Matthew. Having googled him after their first meeting she had suppressed her curiosity; with no professional excuse to research him she had felt the same unease as when her younger brother tried to ‘stalk’ potential girlfriends online: it was a bit creepy.

  ‘I know all you have to do is point a camera and click but I can’t talk to someone without doing some research first.’

  ‘Got you going!’ Ian laughed. ‘’Course you won’t have to talk to Matthew Darnley. Even if he was at the Monmouth today, I don’t think he would bother with a junior reporter from a piddling little local rag. No, you’ll be speaking to the manager.’

  ‘About what? I’m not prepared.’

  ‘Oh, wing it,’ Ian snapped. ‘His name is Chris Harris and he happens to be a friend of mine. While you interview him, I’ll mosey around’ – he was putting on a very tiresome mock-aristocratic accent – ‘take in the stately rooms, the lounges. Maybe even take a wander upstairs; see if the bedrooms rate my personal approval. Who knows, I might want to stay there some time soon? I mean look at the brochure. Would you say “no” to a stay in their honeymoon suite?’

  ‘Depends who with,’ said Becky.

  ‘You wouldn’t say “No” to Darnley.’

  Even if this merited an answer, Becky wouldn’t have known what to say. Did she want to bump into Matthew Darnley again? He just might ask about that long embarrassing story. The car jarred over a pothole and she checked to see if Ian was paying attention to the road: nope – he’d been casting a not-furtive-enough look at her breasts. Ian quickly tried to camouflage his inability to stare straight ahead by rabbiting on about the assignment.

  ‘You could say I got him the job.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chris Harris. He was umming and ahhing about accepting the position. I told him to go for it. So now he’s manager of the Monmouth Hotel. He’d never have taken the job if it wasn’t for me.’

  ‘And how do you know him?’

  ‘He and his wife moved into my street. They didn’t know anyone – bit lost really. So I introduced him to a few people, you know, took him down the pub.’

  ‘You’re calling in a favour?’

  He giggled in that annoying way again. ‘What else can you do with them?’

  An unwelcome thought flashed through Becky’s mind. ‘Does this Chris know we’re turning up today?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’ve told him you’re going to write a lovely piece about the hotel – so long as he treats us right. I expect a free lunch out of this at least.’

  ‘I didn’t think Mr McBride was into giving free advertisements.’

  ‘My uncle likes us to support local businesses.’

  Not that local. They had left the A12 before Colchester, and seemed to be slaloming along the sort of B-roads so despised by her socialist taxi driver a few weeks earlier.

  ‘Got any plans for tonight?’ said Ian.

  He’d caught her on the hop so she didn’t have a chance to invent a night out. ‘Er…’

  ‘Obviously not,’ he said, smugly
. ‘Friday night as well. We need to get you out a bit more from whatever dreary bedsit you inhabit.’

  Becky sighed inwardly. She was embarrassed that, at twenty-three, she still lived at home with her mother and brother but this was an economic necessity; she was only going to look for somewhere to rent when she knew she had a firm job. She could now look forward to an argument with Ian later about why she wouldn’t join him for a drink or meal or whatever evening out he was planning.

  But she forgot about excuses to foil Ian’s evening plans as they turned into the entrance to Matthew’s hotel. The approach to the Monmouth was stunning, a long curving drive revealing a mature, stately building – perfect in its setting of manicured lawns and with an established Virginia creeper hugging the façade. Becky really did feel like she was entering a sequestered place of peaceful loveliness.

  ‘Why don’t you take a picture for our piece? The light’s perfect right now,’ she suggested as they got out of the car.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s go and winkle out old Chris.’

  They didn’t have to. A tall figure stood by the main entrance, they saw him right away and she – if not Ian – could tell immediately he wasn’t a bit pleased to see them. Apologetically the first thing he did was cry off the interview ‘with Miss Thomson’ due to the pressure of other commitments. His accent was similar to Matthew Darnley’s, which Becky still couldn’t place, so he certainly wasn’t local despite living in Ian’s street. And, unlike Mr Darnley, Chris Harris seemed unaccustomed to the constraints of formal dress; one hand was constantly tugging at his shirt collar and tie. He was obviously still new to the job, treading warily, his face pale with anxiety to make good. Becky felt really sorry for him.

  Not wanting to add to the harassed man’s problems, she took herself off to explore; Chris Harris was going to have Ian dogging his footsteps as it was, selfishly determined to get whatever favour he was after, and since she was here she might as well get a feel for the place. Having looked over the beautifully landscaped grounds, and watched as a team of workmen created a fiendish bunker on the spanking new golf course, she went indoors.