The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

‘Can I see what you’ve brought along?’ said Matthew, standing abruptly.

  Becky nodded and led the way up the stairs to her room, conscious of him padding behind her in his bare feet. Part of her felt she should have told him to keep his nose out of her space but she also knew that he would take one look at what she’d brought and realise she was not the right woman for this mission.

  It took more than one look. Matthew examined her clothes with great attention, extricating individual items on hangers and holding them up, sometimes rubbing the material between his fingers. He looked puzzled as if he had been expecting something different. Becky felt a little uncomfortable. It was a bizarrely intimate action. But at least it was affirming what she had said: she really had nothing to wear. Apart from the business suit she’d worn on the flight over all her clothes were inexpensive and practical, chosen for a hot climate. There was not a single thing that could be described as ‘sophisticated’.

  Matthew put back the last item, closed the cupboard door and frowned. ‘We’ll have to leave a bit earlier so you have a chance to find a dress.’

  Becky backed towards the door. ‘Can we have this conversation outside, please?’ His barely dressed presence seemed to sucking all the energy out of the room.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Matthew appeared to realise their over-intimate situation too. ‘Let’s go back downstairs.’

  Alex gave them a grin when they reappeared on the veranda. ‘Sorted?’ he asked.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Matthew, looking Becky up and down as if already mentally fitting her out in a dress. ‘But if we leave at five we’ll have time to choose a dress and get changed.’

  ‘Five o’ clock?’ said Becky, anxiously. It was four now. ‘I want a shower first.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Matthew. But don’t worry about what you wear. You’ll change at the hotel.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No buts,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m buying the dress.’

  Alex seemed to understand what was worrying Becky. ‘It’s just drinks with some pompous people, followed by dinner with the same pompous people and then coffee with the same pompous people.’

  Becky smiled. ‘OK. But I warn you, I’m not –’ She looked for the right word.

  ‘Neither are we,’ said Alex.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Matthew. ‘You’ve been here for weeks. Have you been out anywhere? Apart from the kite competition.’

  ‘We went to the cinema. And there was one trip to Bridgetown with Alex but that was for research. Oh and we took Pitcher to the clinic.’

  ‘I heard about Pitcher,’ said Matthew. ‘Thanks for helping take care of him.’ He frowned. ‘So your only real outing has been to the cinema?’

  Becky nodded.

  ‘High time you had a night out then.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Thank you,’ said Becky. She was baffled by Matthew’s seeming change of attitude but assumed this was really about business. However, if he thought she could discuss the effect of quantitative easing on the global travel industry or make similar conversation she was going to fall very short of his expectations.

  It was with some trepidation that Becky climbed into the passenger seat of Matthew’s Nissan Sedan about an hour later. Matthew, who must have quickly showered and donned a crisp short-sleeved shirt and smart trousers, hung up his jacket and tie on the side bar of the car and got behind the wheel. Alex was driving his own car and Becky half wished she had his easy company for the journey instead of Matthew’s.

  They drove in silence though Becky suspected this was due to Matthew running through checklists and chores in his mind rather than because he was struggling to find things to say. In fact he’d probably forgotten she was in the passenger seat. It was time to remind him.

  ‘Is tonight particularly important?’ she asked.

  There was a pause as if he were looking for somewhere to save a thought for retrieval later. ‘Very. The biggest travel company in the UK. But of course they aren’t sending over their salaried staff to examine the hotel. The chairman himself is coming – a Lord, no less – and bringing his retinue.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Becky. ‘Freeloaders.’

  Matthew looked puzzled. Becky wondered if he remembered using that very word about her and Ian.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if they knew what they were doing. But they won’t even bother to check a sample of the guest rooms or find out about the local transport. They just want to stay in the most exclusive suites and be chauffeured to the sights round the island. Anyway, I’m sure they’ll like you.’

  Becky didn’t ask any more questions after that. She was wondering if Matthew had brought her along because he thought that being freeloaders they would sense a mutual trait in one another and swap tips on how to scrounge.

  After another twenty minutes Becky saw a sign for the ‘Monmouth Hotel’ and Matthew turned left on to a drive which was in better condition than the roads on which they had just travelled. The hotel was a grand white stone building with crenellated walls and mock towers. Becky had expected it to be located by a calm blue sea and was surprised when they got out of the car that she could hear the water pounding the beach like a wild drummer. She looked over a low wall to the side of the car park to see waves making their own white-knuckle rides on to the beach, breaking furiously over the sand. To breathe was to taste the sea.

  ‘This is the east side of the island,’ said Matthew, sweeping the horizon with his jacket. ‘The wild side of the Atlantic.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Becky, taking in a deep salty breath and feeling very alive. ‘I’d read that the west coast was tamer.’

  ‘The west coast is for wimps,’ said Matthew with a slight smile. ‘Though I mustn’t be too disparaging of the sunbathing crowd. I’ll be building a hotel on that side when I get the land.’

  Becky remembered what Richard Carrington had said at the airport: the land for Matthew’s new hotel must have been what he was referring to.

  Alex pulled up next to Matthew’s Nissan and got out but before he could say anything both his and Matthew’s mobiles went off simultaneously. Becky had to jog behind the two men as they marched towards the white building, each with his head inclined towards his phone.

  Matthew ended his call with what Becky took to be a French blasphemy and glared at Alex, who had just finished his own call more quietly.

  ‘Lord Fotheringham arrived early,’ said Matthew. ‘He’s already complained to one of his directors in England who then has to ring me to pass on the complaint.’ He looked accusingly at Alex. ‘Who did you put on reception? Please tell me it wasn’t Caroline.’

  Alex groaned. ‘Sorry, I completely forgot to get one of the senior receptionists. I think it is Caroline’s shift.’

  ‘Go and check what’s happened,’ ordered Matthew. ‘And then take Becky to find a dress. Get a bandage gown – a Léger, not a cheap one. Black or midnight blue.’ He turned on his heel and walked off. He was not happy.

  Becky had no idea what a ‘Léger’ bandage gown was and was about to unleash a torrent of annoyance at Matthew’s bossiness but stopped when she saw Alex’s stressed face: dresses were not the first thing on his mind.

  ‘Our receptionists can deal with famous people, rich people, normal people – pretty much anyone,’ he said, ‘but they aren’t used to titles.’

  She could see how Alex forgot his tasks. In the short walk to the reception desk he was stopped twice by members of staff telling him of late deliveries of food and problems with the air-conditioning in the dining room and then his mobile rang again. He said ‘Hello’, switched to French and issued some instructions. ‘Tour group arriving from France,’ he explained to Becky as he ended the call.

  She followed him to the reception desk where a cheerful young woman was dealing with guests. She had a sunny smile and a particularly sing-song Bajan accent.

  ‘The trouble,’ Alex said quietly to Becky, ‘is that a lot of the old calypso stars are called Lord this or Lord that. You know, they have to have fancy
names. If you were in Trinidad at carnival time you’d think you were surrounded by aristocracy.’

  Becky nodded. She didn’t really know what he meant but didn’t want to add to his burdens by asking for an explanation. When the young receptionist had finished telling guests about the floor shows planned for that evening she grinned at Alex.

  ‘Hi Caroline,’ he said. ‘Now were you on the desk when Lord Fotheringham arrived?’

  ‘Lord Fotheringham. Lord!’ Caroline laughed and did a little jig behind the desk. ‘Silly man,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t even get his own name right. I had to ask him three times. And he was getting annoyed with me.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Alex, weakly. ‘Can I have look at the booking?’ He walked behind the reception desk, checked the screen and closed his eyes briefly with a ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ look of desperation.

  ‘Is that wrong?’ said Caroline, frowning.

  Alex pointed at the screen. ‘Lord’ should be in the title field not in the forename field. Just leave the forename field blank.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Caroline doubtfully, as though she wasn’t sure Alex had got that right. She typed in the details then did another little jig.

  ‘Um, did you do that dance in front of him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caroline, cheerfully. ‘I told him I hadn’t seen many white calypsonians.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Alex, again. ‘We can expect trouble later.’

  He nodded to Becky and she followed him to a boutique further down the corridor. The sides of the boutique were glass, enticing hotel guests to gaze within as they walked past. While Alex talked to the very elegant woman in charge, Becky watched as casually dressed or swimsuit-clad guests slowed their pace when they passed – their eyes drawn to the gorgeous suits and dresses hung in tiers within. As for the prices, a few simple dresses had a price tag in triple figure dollars but most of them were over a thousand dollars. Becky felt herself getting annoyed. She could see the forlorn looks of the casually dressed women as they wandered by, glancing greedily at the sort of clothes the femme fatale in a James Bond movie would wear. No doubt some of these holidaymakers had already overextended themselves paying for a Caribbean holiday. Now they were to be made ashamed of their perfectly reasonable holiday attire. No wonder Matthew Darnley had made it in business.

  ‘So it’s to be a Léger?’ asked the lady. ‘Yes, I can see that would suit you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea what a Léger is,’ said Becky.

  The woman waved a slender arm dismissively. ‘It’s just a French fashion house. We have a few of their dresses. So you want dark blue or black.’ She took a few dresses off a rack and, after holding them up and darting critical looks at each dress then Becky’s body, she handed her a black, sleeveless gown and showed her to a changing room. Becky almost gasped at the thought of getting into something so stylish. The trouble was, if she slithered into that black number, she would need a new bra, new shoes and a new handbag. And probably a new personality.

  A few minutes later Becky was staring at herself in the mirror, trying to imagine what she’d look like if white bra straps weren’t creeping from under the thin halters and if she wasn’t wearing scuffed slingbacks. Thank heavens she’d shaved her legs.

  The shop woman stuck her head between the curtains, made an appraising sound in her throat and smiled. ‘Bra size?’

  ‘36C’

  ‘Shoe size?’

  ‘Six.’

  The curtains closed abruptly and reopened within seconds. A packaged black bra with the thinnest straps was handed to Becky, along with some black shoes, not high-heeled but very elegant.

  This time Becky did not recognise herself in the mirror. When she came out the shop assistant looked very satisfied with her choice. ‘You’re beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘What do you think, Alex?’ asked Becky.

  He looked staggered. ‘Um, definitely. Yes, definitely.’

  She left him paying for the purchases, presumably with a company credit card, while she changed back into her own clothes. When she reappeared he was clutching several bags and looking a little shell-shocked.

  ‘Right,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘We haven’t much time so I’ll show you a room where you can change.’

  Becky thanked the assistant and followed Alex out of the main hotel complex to a smaller building set just behind it.

  ‘That dress cost over three thousand dollars,’ she said.

  ‘Prices look worse in Barbadian dollars.’

  ‘Do you have a wife, Alex?’

  ‘Three demanding children and a less-demanding wife though I’m ashamed to say I’ve never bought her anything that cost even half the price of this dress.’

  He let her into a basic but light-filled apartment. ‘Matthew and I use this to freshen up but hopefully it will be clean. Fresh towels in the cupboards if you need them. I’ll be outside in twenty minutes.’

  Twenty minutes later Becky walked out to find Alex popping mints in his mouth and wiping bloodshot eyes. She suspected he’d taken some Dutch courage. He led her into a reception room where a stiff-necked group of suited men were standing with drinks and looking uncomfortable. Matthew – now dressed to kill, or at least dressed as if he were licensed to kill – looked up as Alex and Becky walked in. He nodded at her, though whether this was in greeting or approval of her appearance Becky couldn’t tell. She noticed heads turning and staring at her and saw – with surprise and amusement – that men were starting to stand more upright, fiddling with their ties and checking their collars were patted down. She was not fooled: it was the dress and nothing more. She also noticed – with some discomfort – that she was the only woman in the room.

  Only one head didn’t turn, a plump man in his sixties who looked like he was haranguing the hotel owner, so Becky was less than thrilled to see Matthew wave her and Alex over.

  ‘I don’t call an eight-hour flight “a hop-away from the UK” so I think you’re on a sticky wicket saying –’

  ‘Lord Fotheringham,’ Matthew interrupted. ‘I’d like you to meet Becky Thomson. Becky is in Barbados for a few months helping my mother write a history book. Becky, I’ll get you a drink.’

  Becky was not fooled by the gracious introduction. Matthew was clearly bored of listening to the man’s bellyaching and using the excuse of getting her a drink to dump Lord Fotheringham on her and Alex.

  ‘Good evening, Lord Fotheringham,’ said Alex. ‘I’m Alex Wilson, the manager of the hotel.’

  ‘Humphhh,’ said Fotheringham, clearly miffed that the prime target of his complaints had got away. His eyes wandered between Alex and Becky, as if he was wondering who would be more receptive to his opinions. ‘Well, I’m not impressed with a hotel that can’t even get the checking-in procedure right. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of the holiday.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Alex.

  ‘The girl on reception –’ Fotheringham sniffed his wine distastefully and chanced a small sip, as though it might disagree with him later, ‘couldn’t even get my name right. How many times do I need to say it’s Lord Fotheringham. Lord. Lord. She still couldn’t get it.’ He must have sensed Becky’s lack of emotional engagement as he gave her a very hard stare and said, ‘Don’t you think that’s abysmal?’

  Becky was starting to feel Matthew was treating her like an escort girl brought along as eye candy to soak up the whinges of pompous old men. She had had enough.

  ‘I suppose being a lord is like being a lady,’ she said. ‘If you have to say you are, you aren’t.’

  Lord Fotheringham’s jaw dropped. He glared at her and then at the ground. Becky thought he was trying to work out precisely how insulted he was. Alex turned pale and Matthew, who was on his way over holding a triangle of drinks, froze. Oh God. Where on earth had that comment come from?

  Matthew quietly put the drinks he was carrying down on a table and walked very quickly through a door behind the little bar area. Seconds later there was a muffled roar f
rom the other side of the door: a strange sound – it could have been despair or anger, Becky didn’t know. She was too busy watching Fotheringham’s face turn angina red. Then he gave a hoot of laughter.

  ‘Being a lord is like being a lady – damn, I wish my wife was alive. She’d have loved that. Now I’ve no one to share it with.’

  Matthew returned expressionless and led them into the dining room,

  Lord Fotheringham pointed at Becky. ‘Please put me next to her.’

  Several hours later, having changed back into her old clothes, Becky relaxed into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car. The evening had actually gone quite well. She was less sure how Alex had got on as she had noticed him struggling to make conversation with the men on either side of him. Matthew handled small talk with practised ease, even though she suspected his heart wasn’t in it, but ironically she had fared the best. Lord Fotheringham had been a thoughtful dinner companion, interested in the book that Becky was (supposedly) co-authoring and in her views on the island.

  She sensed a more relaxed Matthew beside her, handling the car lightly as though he didn’t even need the headlamps that were the only light on the dark, twisting little roads.

  ‘Fotheringham rather took to you,’ he said. ‘He was hanging on to your every word.’

  ‘He wasn’t so bad,’ said Becky. ‘I think he’s lonely since his wife died. That’s probably why he complains so much.’

  ‘I heard a few of the things you were telling him,’ said Matthew, sounding slightly puzzled. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about the island.’

  ‘My father spent some time travelling,’ said Becky. ‘He particularly loved Barbados.’

  ‘He must be pleased that you’re over here?’

  Becky searched for an answer that was true but unrevealing. ‘The last time I saw him was over twelve years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That sounds complicated.’

  ‘It is but never mind. Why did you go out of the room? I mean after I made the lord and lady gaffe?’

  ‘For a start it wasn’t a gaffe. As for why I went out –’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t always have the most appropriate sense of humour.’