by Marie Evelyn
‘Can you warn him?’
Alex checked his screen, looked at his watch and made a quick calculation. ‘Five hours ahead. No way. No way at all unless the plane has been delayed and they haven’t taken off yet.’ He picked up the phone and started dialling but quickly replaced the handset.
‘Too late.’ He sighed heavily. ‘All I can do is collect him from the airport and give him fair warning.’
‘Francesca won’t like that,’ said Becky.
‘Tough. She can hardly stop me.’
Becky suspected that she could. Francesca always radiated confidence but today her demeanour verged on despotic. She swept through the house issuing commands to everyone and looking amazed if people didn’t immediately follow her instructions. Clara escaped Francesca’s attentions by ensconcing herself in her bedroom and ignoring Francesca’s occasional entreaties from the bottom of the stairs to come and help with some choices regarding décor. Although Becky had no intention of being a lackey she joined in the preparations for the party simply because she had to abandon any hopes of working and would rather be doing something than nothing.
Ironically the only person to resist Francesca’s demands was Pitcher. Neither Becky nor Clara had ventured out to clear the garden of the twigs and branches brought down in the recent storm but the usually absent gardener had appeared that morning and begun to rake them into heaps.
‘Pitcher!’ yelled Francesca.
Intrigued Becky peered out of the front door to see Francesca leaning over the veranda balustrade. Pitcher was now transferring the garden rubbish to a wheelbarrow.
‘Stop that for a second,’ Francesca called to him. ‘This is more important. I need flowers – lots of flowers.’
Pitcher stopped and looked at her impassively.
‘What flowers?’ he said.
‘Pink ones and those red things over there, and – I don’t know – whatever those yellow things are called.’ Pitcher continued to look at her dully and she gave a roar of exasperation. ‘You are capable of cutting flowers, aren’t you?’
Pitcher put his head on one side then the other and then fiddled with the bandage on his leg. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually and resumed his task of loading up the wheelbarrow, suddenly deaf to shrill repetitions of his name.
‘Inbred half-wit,’ fumed Francesca. ‘What the hell is wrong with him?’
Becky joined her on the veranda. ‘You asked him a question and as far as he’s concerned he’s answered it.’
Francesca turned on her heel and stormed back inside. Becky fetched some secateurs and spent a peaceful few minutes snipping pink ixora and red heliconia before the tranquillity of the garden was shattered by the arrival of a catering van and a series of yelled instructions from Francesca who had returned to the veranda. A small stream of people flowed from and back to the van – carrying covered food, ice and plates.
Becky sighed and went into the kitchen to find some vases.
Alex wanted to collect Matthew from the airport himself but Francesca even managed to prevent that. Or, at least, Becky suspected she was the culprit.
‘Maureen, have you seen my keys?’ said Alex on his knees searching the floor beneath the hall table. Becky had already searched there when he had first noticed the keys were missing.
‘Last time I saw them they were right on that table,’ said Maureen, pausing on her way to the dining room.
‘Who else could have taken them?’
Maureen sucked her teeth. ‘Must have jumped off the table,’ she said. ‘Or more likely the duppy take them.’
‘Quite,’ said Alex. ‘Where is she?’
‘Changing in the guest room,’ said Maureen. ‘Oh, not any more – speak of the devil.’
They heard the staccato sound of Francesca’s high heels ruining the wooden floors as she came down the stairs followed by the scent of perfume. She clip-clopped towards them in a deep blue cocktail dress, her hair piled up like a golden snake poised to strike. She looked at Alex, still kneeling on the floor.
‘Whatever are you doing?’ she asked with what Becky thought was exaggerated surprise.
‘Where are my car keys, Francesca?’
‘Oh Alex, you’re so absent-minded. I haven’t got a clue what you’ve done with them.’
‘How are we going to get Matthew back from the airport?’ he snapped.
‘I’ve asked Mr St John to pick him up,’ said Francesca. ‘I thought you’d have gone home by now.’ She glowered at Maureen. ‘Have you set up the bar area?’
‘I’m doing it now for now,’ said Maureen, with no urgency.
Francesca strode off towards the dining room and within seconds an imperious ‘Maureen!’ was heard.
‘I’m going to kill her,’ said Alex.
‘Get in line,’ snapped Maureen.
‘Maureen!’ Francesca yelled again.
‘Coming fast as my legs can carry me,’ Maureen called back, setting off for the dining room at the pace of a sedated sloth. Francesca had ‘engaged’ Maureen for the evening to help serve though Becky suspected Francesca had little concept that overtime must be paid.
Becky went upstairs to see how Clara was doing. She found her, dressed for a cocktail party but sitting at her mirror looking worried.
‘Are you all right, Clara?’ asked Becky.
‘Thank you, Becky. Actually, I’m already tired. I’ll just put in a brief appearance tonight. Poor Matthew.’
‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’
‘No, I mean, I’m not sure this party was a good idea. The guests are due now and poor Matthew will arrive to find the house full of people when all he probably wants to do is collapse. If I’d known he’d be arriving after the party started there’s no way I’d have agreed to it.’
They heard clip-clop sounds coming up the stairs and across the landing. ‘Clara, how are you doing in there?’
‘I’ll be down shortly, Francesca.’
‘It’s just that people will be arriving soon.’ Francesca pushed the door open and looked surprised to see Becky. ‘Heavens, you really are Clara’s little helper.’
‘I think “confidante” would be a better word,’ said Clara.
‘I suppose I’d better get changed,’ said Becky. She hadn’t even thought about what she’d wear. In fact the idea of reading quietly in her room was far more appealing than making small talk with people she didn’t know. Or maybe she would have a leisurely wash, throw on some simple clothes and hopefully miss both the arrival of the guests and the look on Matthew’s face when he reached the sanctity of his beloved house to find that it had been invaded.
Francesca regarded Becky’s simple cotton dress and bare feet with a mischievous smile. ‘You look fine. Come as you are. Well, some sandals maybe.’
That did it. Becky went to her room and took out her new black dress.
Chapter Seventeen
Despite what Francesca had said about their arrival being imminent, the guests were clearly sticking to West Indian party time as, when Becky arrived on the veranda, the only figure in sight was Francesca. She was pacing like a tethered horse.
At that moment the first car pulled in and Francesca took up a ‘lady of the house’ welcoming stance on the steps. Becky decided she had as much right to welcome guests as Francesca and went to join her, enjoying Francesca’s baffled then horrified expression as she turned to look at her. Becky hadn’t bothered to pin her hair up – she hadn’t even bothered with make-up – but she knew the black dress and shoes seemed to have some transformative magic of their own. Francesca’s face fell, her jaw fell and then she fell, tumbling down the remaining steps until gravity dumped her unceremoniously on the dusty yard. Becky, in her more practical shoes, ran down to help and the couple who had just arrived got out of their car and came over to assist Francesca to her feet too. Her golden hair had uncoiled and was striking in all directions like a paranoid Medusa.
‘Francesca, you poor thing,’ said the woman, brushing dust off Francesca’s blue s
atiny backside – something Becky had spotted was necessary but not an action she felt she could accomplish without it seeming like a spiteful spank.
‘I’m fine,’ Francesca snapped. ‘Really, thank you, Margaret. I didn’t expect Becky to sneak up on me like that.’
‘I’ve told Matthew his steps can get a bit slippery,’ said the man, eyeing Francesca’s pencil-thin heels with a wrinkled forehead.
‘Anyway do follow Becky up and get a drink. Becky is Clara’s secretary by the way. Go on Becky; up you go.’
The couple obediently followed Becky up the steps to the ‘Drinks’ area on one side of the veranda; they must have heard Maureen mutter, ‘Put a cow on stilts, what do you think’s going to happen?’ as she served them rum and cokes.
Maureen poured Becky a drink too and Becky joined the couple, who looked as though they were in their forties. They introduced themselves as Margaret and Robin Turner.
‘I don’t suppose Francesca will want to see us again after we witnessed her fall from grace,’ said Robin with a wry smile. His wife laughed and shook her head.
‘So how do you fit in?’ she asked Becky. ‘I can’t imagine that Clara needs a secretary.’
‘I’m just in Barbados for a few months,’ said Becky. I’m doing some research for a project of Clara’s.’
‘That sounds interesting. Speaking of whom, where is Clara?’
‘She’ll be down soon,’ said Becky, with more hope than certainty. ‘Unfortunately she’s still a little poorly.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Robin. ‘And where is birthday boy?’
‘He’s on his way back from the airport now. He’s been in the UK.’
Robin frowned. ‘He does know about this party, doesn’t he?’
Becky shook her head. The Turners looked at each other and Becky noticed their next gulps of rum and coke were large ones.
‘Your dress is gorgeous, by the way,’ said Margaret. ‘You really have to be slim to wear one of those. No wonder Francesca looked at you and fell over. Up to now she’s been one of the few women on the island who can squeeze into one.’
‘But I think it’s been more a squeeze recently.’ Robin grinned.
The three of them wandered further along the veranda to allow other people to fetch drinks. The yard was now full of cars parking, doors banging as their stylishly dressed occupants disembarked to meet their air-kissing hostess.
‘Is Clara still unwell?’ asked one person.
‘Sorry to hear about your divorce,’ said another.
‘How lovely,’ exclaimed another, ‘who’d have thought you two would get back together?’
Up on the veranda Robin spluttered into his rum and coke. ‘Oh God, is Matthew going out with her again?’
‘I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to ask,’ said Becky. ‘I didn’t even know they had been together at all.’
‘Well, it was a long, long time ago,’ said Margaret. ‘We were all just kids really.’
The veranda was gradually filling with people and there was constant toing and froing as people plenished and replenished drinks, with occasional traffic jams when they got stuck en route as they were waylaid by acquaintances. Occasionally Robin and Margaret would nod and smile at people though they seemed in no rush to actually talk to the nodders and smilers.
‘Do you know everyone here?’ asked Becky.
They laughed. ‘It’s a small island,’ Robin said.
‘Though to be fair,’ Margaret added, ‘we would only count a couple of people here as close friends. Matthew and Clara among them.’
‘If they were here,’ Robin added drily.
‘Margaret and Robin!’ a familiar voice cried and they turned to see Clara, dressed impeccably but with her make-up a little more heavily applied than Becky was used to seeing. Margaret gave her a peck on the cheek then looked at her searchingly.
‘Clara, you look a bit tired. I heard you’d not been too well.’
‘No, I’m fine. Anyway I’m looking forward to seeing Matthew.’
‘I’m sure everyone is,’ said Margaret.
Clara surveyed the people around them and frowned. ‘I’m not sure everyone here knows him that well.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Robin knowingly.
‘Lots of Francesca’s friends,’ said Margaret.
Clara looked around again. ‘Where’s Alex?’
‘He wasn’t invited,’ said Becky.
‘Well he should have been,’ snapped Clara. ‘Look. His car’s still here; he’s probably in the office.’
‘Shall I drag him out?’ asked Robin.
‘Yes please – immediately,’ said Clara. ‘It would be ridiculous to have a birthday party for Matthew without his oldest friend.’
As Robin disappeared Clara turned to Becky. ‘My dear, you look wonderful. Well, you always look wonderful but in that dress you’re just amazing.’
‘Don’t let Francesca hear you say that,’ said Margaret. ‘She took one look at Becky earlier on and fell over. Literally.’
Clara smiled impishly. ‘I am sorry I missed that.’
Robin reappeared with Alex in a mock arm-lock. He released him with a cheerful ‘I’ll get this a man a drink’ and headed for the bar area.
‘I’m not dressed,’ Alex complained.
‘Yes you are,’ chorused Margaret and Clara.
‘Yes, but look at Becky. I’m not dressed like her.’
‘I should think not,’ said Becky.
Alex laughed and accepted the beer Robin gave him. ‘To be honest, I forgot the time. I was hoping to make a quick getaway before the party kicked off.’ He looked at the multitude of cars in the yard and winced. ‘How many people has she invited? I can see my car is completely hemmed in.’
‘Bad luck, Alex,’ said Margaret. ‘You’re stuck with us. Besides Matthew will need all the familiar faces he can see.’ Then she grimaced. ‘Sorry, Clara. I just made the assumption that maybe you hadn’t chosen all the guests.’
‘You assumed right. If I had, Alex’s wife would be here for a start.’
‘At last!’ Francesca’s voice somehow carried over the blend of conversation and everyone turned to see a car turn gingerly into the yard and stop abruptly in the entrance. Mr St John seemed to freeze in the driving seat as he looked at what was now a parking lot.
A hush fell over the veranda. In the house muffled conversations quietened as the guests indoors realised something was happening outside. The veranda swelled with people, even filling the steps to the yard.
The front car passenger door opened. Matthew got out slowly and looked at the house. Becky wondered how she would feel if she came back from a difficult business trip and an eight-hour flight to find her house bloated with people.
Francesca turned to her audience and held up a finger. ‘One, two, three. Happy Birthday to you …’
They all joined in the singing while the birthday man stood leaning on the passenger door, his face in shadow. When the ‘to you-ou’ had finished he quietly got his suitcase out of the boot, carried it across the yard and up the veranda steps. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, uncertain what to do.
On the top step Matthew put down his suitcase and looked round.
‘Bastards.’
And then he grinned. There was a massed sigh of relief.
‘Darling,’ cried Francesca. ‘You must be exhausted.’ She kissed him on the cheek and then made a theatrical wince. ‘And wonderfully unshaven.’ He ruefully felt his chin and nodded as she draped his other arm over her.
The crowd quickly reformed into little cliques and Becky saw some raised eyebrows and surprised smiles as though the scene they had just witnessed was going to form the main theme of their immediate conversations.
‘Let me take care of that,’ said Alex and disappeared into the house with Matthew’s suitcase.
‘Hello darling,’ said Clara, kissing her son’s cheek, and giving him a one-armed hug on his free side (as Francesca was occupying the other).
&n
bsp; Matthew looked at the Turners and at Becky, giving a nod and a thin smile. ‘I’m not kissing anyone else until I’ve had a shower and shave. Mothers are more forgiving.’ Then he spoke to Clara in French, usually a bad sign though Becky couldn’t glean his mood from the even tone of his speech. His appearance was more revealing: a crumpled suit, lines of exhaustion on his face which was still handsome but haggard. Clara and he exchanged a few more words and then he gently disentangled himself from Francesca and disappeared into the house.
Robin drained his glass. ‘That didn’t go too badly.’
‘You don’t speak French,’ said Clara.
Francesca, suddenly marooned in a group of less friendly people, homed in on Becky.
‘So Matthew told me that your father is in shipping.’
Becky laughed. ‘No, I said he was on a ship. He was a merchant seaman.’
‘Oh.’ Francesca managed to endow the word with several syllables.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Clara. ‘How interesting.’
Francesca obviously didn’t think that ‘interesting’ came into it. ‘I fear that you gave Matthew completely the wrong impression.’
‘Not deliberately.’
‘You said he was a merchant seaman. So has he found a better job now?’
Becky held up her empty glass.
‘Excuse me. I’m going to get another drink.’ She walked away.
Becky didn’t get a drink but instead sought sanctuary at the back of the house though Cook was not around to talk to. Becky didn’t know whether Cook had been insulted or relieved that her culinary skills had been rendered superfluous by the caterers brought in by Francesca but she’d elected to spend the evening at her son’s house. Maureen was tied up making sure that the drinks table didn’t run dry. Becky wished it was earlier in the day and she had the distraction of looking after Zena. That would have been a great excuse to get away.
As she walked down the back corridor she saw a plump middle-aged man gingerly open Cook’s door and step inside her room. Becky rushed to see what he was up to and almost knocked him over like a skittle as he came out again.
‘Can I help you?’ she snapped.