The Turtle Run

by Marie Evelyn

  Yet just that morning she and Matthew had been soaking each other with a garden hose and squealing like children. ‘He’s quite protective of me,’ she said.

  ‘I hope you warned him you’re going to be late coming home.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Richard, I can’t be too late. You have no idea what security locks are on that door.’

  ‘Matthew’ll have to leave it unlocked then.’

  For a dreadful moment Becky wondered if the whole evening had been engineered to compromise the security system at Copper Mill so mysterious men could break into Matthew’s office. Then she chastised herself; she was not going to let Matthew’s paranoia rub off on her.

  Richard gave her a roguish grin and switched on some music. Becky couldn’t name the genre other than it sounded Brazilian: full of drums and carnival and sex. Richard seemed to revel in the decibels he was broadcasting to the countryside, obliterating the normally insistent cries and whistles of the nightlife. Becky had always worried that drivers listening to loud music drove erratically and her view was confirmed by the way he was navigating the road as if he were playing pinball.

  If they were going to be very late they must be eating at a hotel where, during the tourist season, cabarets were staged after dinner. Alex had confided that the late nights at the Monmouth were ‘doing his head in’, because either he or Matthew had to be present to ensure that whatever entertainment was scheduled ran smoothly and this could mean the working day only finished at 11 p.m. Maybe that’s what Richard had planned for tonight.

  Assuming they didn’t end up in the middle of a sugarcane field – or worse vertical in a ditch – which seemed a more likely outcome at the moment.

  ‘Which restaurant are we going to?’ she shouted. She had to yell her question several times as Richard seemed to favour repetition over turning down the volume.

  ‘Chez moi,’ he yelled back. Becky hoped that was the name of the restaurant but had an uncomfortable suspicion Richard meant his own home.

  He turned down the music a little and looked at her sideways before rapidly adjusting the steering wheel to reclaim the road. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I really want you to see my house. Plus I love showing off my cooking.’

  ‘OK,’ said Becky, aware a more sensitive person would have picked up from her tone that it wasn’t really OK. She had been so determined she wouldn’t be tricked into divulging details of Matthew’s intended bid she had forgotten the other unwelcome possibility. A snippet of conversation between Francesca and Clara came back to her: ‘the girl is insisting Richard Carrington is the father – we’re all waiting to see if he agrees to take the paternity test.’ Even if Francesca’s gossip was unreliable, Becky felt a wave of apprehension. Maybe it was just as well Matthew had given her those phone numbers.

  ‘It’s taken years between me first buying the land, then doing the design, getting it built and actually being able to move in,’ Richard said. ‘I hope you’re going to like it.’

  He made it sound as if her approval of his newly built house was of the utmost importance to him and went into detail about where the various materials had come from, including the kitchen marble tops specially imported from Italy. Becky didn’t do very much but smile and nod for the rest of the drive – pointless actions in the dark but she was worried that a conversation would further distract him from following the sinuous road. She was finding it hard to get her bearings but sensed they were heading south-west, back towards the coast road she and Matthew had driven up earlier. And yet the car seemed to be climbing slightly, which wouldn’t fit with driving down to the coast.

  After twenty minutes Richard slowed down so she could fully appreciate the first sight of his house. It was certainly striking and lit up in a very un-eco-friendly way. Unlike Matthew’s sedate plantation house, Richard’s home was a modern metal and glass affair with rooms jutting out so that it looked like a series of goldfish tanks piled on top of one another. Whatever you thought of modern architecture there was no denying he’d maximised his own view. Becky knew that Barbados could not boast a surfeit of commanding heights and yet Richard had managed to find himself a definite rise in the landscape – he could overlook his neighbour. Except, Becky noticed, he didn’t have any neighbours to overlook.

  He stopped the car on a large gravel area at the foot of the house. Becky got out and looked around, momentarily disorientated by the absence of lights close by; it was as though Richard’s home was using up all the available energy in the surrounding area, plunging the immediate district into darkness. ‘Isolated splendour you’ve got yourself here?’ she said, as he joined her.

  ‘Yep,’ he said proudly, ‘and that’s the way I like it. No intrusive neighbours popping in at inappropriate moments. No stray tourists wanting directions to Cobblers Cove. Come up and see my view.’

  He led her up some steps and unlocked the door to the first goldfish tank, which was a huge open plan area. Becky could not find a conventional name for it: lounge? front room? There wasn’t anything that adequately described the expanse of space with such an all-round view. She could see a far corner of it was a recognisable kitchen and there was also an area of seating grouped around a coffee table.

  Richard was standing in an open doorway, watching her with amusement. ‘Come on,’ he said and Becky followed him on to a terrace to find a table already laid with linen napkins, gleaming silver cutlery and tall candles waiting to be lit. Richard beckoned her over to the railings. She looked out and had to admit – this was amazing. The elevated position of the terrace gave them a panoramic view of the western coastline. ‘Please note that I arranged to have that liner steam past right at this moment especially for you.’

  ‘That’s most kind, Richard.’ Yes, there really was a cruise ship, ablaze with lights, gliding parallel with the shore. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You’re worth impressing.’ He was standing just that bit too close for comfort and Becky found herself moving away, involuntarily. He automatically came nearer.

  ‘Richard,’ she said, straining her face away from his. ‘Who else is here?’ There had to be other people in this huge house: brothers, or hired helps, or someone.

  She heard his chuckle close to her ear. ‘Just us. Really, I don’t need anyone to help me prepare dinner or set the table.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

  ‘True,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘You are just planning on dinner?’

  ‘Yes, dinner. And dessert.’

  She decided to ignore what she assumed was meant to be a double entendre. ‘Can I have a coke?’

  ‘A coke? You can’t drink coke in my house.’ He took himself off to the kitchen.

  Becky peered over the railings to see Richard’s car parked below and remembered she hadn’t seen him lock it; clearly he was a man who had no worries about his own security. She heard the pop of a cork; minutes later he brought out a tray and two flutes of champagne.

  ‘Like it?’ he asked after he’d insisted they clink glasses and have a sip.

  ‘Yes, it’s quite nice.’ She didn’t want him to know how nice it was; otherwise he would be refilling her glass and her resolution to stay sober would be weakened.

  ‘I’m down to my last two bottles of a case the old man gave me at Christmas.’

  She looked at her glass then back at him. ‘I’m afraid this is wasted on me. To be honest I can’t tell it from Babycham.’

  ‘Babycham?’ He frowned. ‘Then we must make you a connoisseur. I’d adore teaching you about fine champagne,’ he enthused. ‘Bring your glass into the kitchen. I just need to do the salad and the finishing touches to the Lobster Carrington.’

  ‘Lobster what?’

  He giggled. ‘To be honest it’s my own take on Lobster Newburg.’

  Becky followed him into the kitchen, clocking the open bottles of sherry and cognac that stood near a pot on the hob; evidently his own take on a dish she ha
d never heard of involved plenty of alcohol. She watched – astonished – as he fetched a bottle of Madeira from a corner of the counter, poured a substantial amount into the pot and turned the heat on high.

  She made a mental note to go easy on the sauce with the meal.

  ‘I saw you enjoyed the fish dishes that Francesca did’ – he laughed – ‘or that her caterers did, so I thought you’d be OK with a lobster meal.’

  Becky perched on a high stool at the kitchen bar and watched as Richard chopped up an array of different vegetables. She noticed, with some concern, that there were two bottles of champagne in an ice bucket on a kitchen counter – evidently Richard didn’t think that one was going to be enough. He kept up a conversation, frequently looking at her, while his knife seemed to effortlessly fly up and down to the chopping board, converting whole carrots and peppers into even slices.

  ‘How are you on the water? Ever been sailing?’

  ‘No. My sole experience on the water was a trip on a ferry to France.’

  ‘Did you get seasick?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Fine for what?’

  ‘Every year there’s a regatta. A group of us race from Barbados to the Grenadines. Will you come with me? It’s always huge fun. And they’ve built a couple of new casinos on the islands.’

  ‘I hate gambling.’

  ‘OK, forget the casinos,’ said Richard smoothly. ‘You’ll adore the Grenadines. All have dazzling beaches and sea as clear as gin. A bit short on shade, it’s true, but that won’t be a problem – we can retreat to my yacht at any time. The cabin is very large and very cool.’

  She ignored any inference she was supposed to draw. ‘I don’t even know where the Grenadines are.’

  ‘Just ask Matthew. He’ll tell you. And don’t forget to tell him why you want to know. That’ll ruin his weekend.’

  ‘You really do like irritating Matthew, don’t you?’

  ‘Only way I can get my own back,’ Richard said unrepentantly. ‘He’s smarter than I am and a good-looking bastard.’

  He arranged the salad so the different colours of chopped vegetables were spread over a plate in a mini-rainbow and turned off the heat beneath the pot. ‘I think we’re done. We’re eating outside, of course. Candles first.’

  He topped up her glass with ‘the bubbly’ and led the way back on to the terrace to light the candles. After the synthetic air-conditioned atmosphere inside it was nice to feel the natural evening breeze. As soon as his back was turned, Becky tipped some of the champagne over the railings, put down her glass and followed him back into the kitchen to help bring out the plates.

  ‘I’m looking forward to this meal,’ she said. To be honest I’ve never eaten lobster warm.’

  Richard sighed. ‘So much to learn. I can’t wait to teach you.’

  He served up the Lobster Carrington and carried both plates out while Becky brought the salad to the table so they could help themselves. She had to admit the setting could not have been better. Now she noticed the terrace seemed garlanded in magenta bougainvillea; the candles flickered in the light warm breeze and the night seemed to sing through a line of casuarina trees that bordered his yard. They both sat down and began to eat.

  The food was a match for the setting. ‘Wow,’ said Becky, after a mouthful. ‘This is good.’ She dreaded to think what proof the sauce was.

  ‘Please try not to sound so surprised.’ He gave a comically hurt look and topped up her still full-ish glass again. ‘So what do you do with yourself all day in my old house?’

  ‘I’m helping Matthew’s mother write a history book.’

  ‘History?’ He gave a big mock yawn.

  ‘It’s a book about the Redlegs.’

  ‘Oh, them. Why do you want to waste your time on their history? They fought a battle. They lost. Move on.’

  ‘You’re very unsympathetic, Richard. The Redlegs’ story is an appalling one.’

  ‘I know it is. The story of how most people came to be here is an appalling one. But the truth is that their descendants live in paradise. Anyway there’s an unwritten law in Barbados, you know.’

  ‘And it is?’

  ‘If you’re Bajan you’re allowed to whine and whine but no one’s allowed to be unhappy.’

  ‘It’s good that you love your island so much.’

  ‘Though after Barbados the second most beautiful place to go to,’ he added slyly, ‘is the Grenadines, which is why you really should go there with me.’

  But he didn’t push that topic and instead was happy to answer Becky’s questions about himself and his connections to Matthew and Alex.

  ‘So did you know each other from school? I mean you all seem the same age.’

  ‘No. Matthew and Alex went to a local school. I was sent to America. Then there was Yale. Which was boring as hell.’

  ‘That explains the accent,’ said Becky. ‘I can recognise the Bajan accent now but I thought yours seemed to have a touch of American.’

  She relaxed a little and chided herself for being suspicious of his motives in dining at the house. He was fun, nice. While he was sitting opposite her all was well. It was easy to enjoy his humour. And he was refreshingly honest in admitting that, unlike Matthew, he’d had things handed to him on a plate.

  ‘Though Matthew was lucky it was only him,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve got two older brothers. Not as good-looking as me, I should add. But the girls always go for the older ones. I think they figure the older ones inherit the money.’

  ‘So your parents are still alive?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You’ve no idea if your parents are still alive?’

  ‘I mean they live in Florida now. I’ve no idea if that counts as being alive.’

  ‘With Francesca’s ex?’

  ‘Probably all play golf together. He was a pompous old man. God knows why she married him. She must have looked at all his houses in Hawaii and Florida and felt sorry for him.’ His sense of humour reminded her of Matthew only more sardonic.

  Dinner eaten and the plates returned to the kitchen they came back to the table to chat. Becky suspected Richard was impatiently monitoring her champagne intake. He was certainly being excessively attentive to keeping her glass topped up.

  ‘Oh, no more,’ she said. ‘It’s gone to my head.’ It hadn’t but only because she was drinking it slowly and had tipped some away.

  ‘The great thing about champagne is that you don’t get a hangover,’ he said, adding yet more to her glass. ‘By the way has Matthew taken you to see the little patch of land he’s interested in?’

  ‘Yes. It seems perfect as it is. Shame anyone has to build anything on it.’

  Richard raised his eyes. ‘Wait until you see the monstrosity Matthew has planned. I’ve been told he’s wants to build a Las Vegas style casino.’

  ‘Really?’ Becky suspected if she had said she hated shopping Richard would be telling her now Matthew planned to turn the beach into a shopping mall.

  ‘Well, if he’s going to pay four million dollars, which is what I’ve been told, then he’ll have to recoup the money somehow. He won’t get enough of a return on a straightforward hotel.’

  Becky knew he was fishing. He was so transparent. ‘Things do sound scary in Caribbean dollars,’ she said, which she thought was a neutral comment.

  Richard leant forward. ‘Actually I was talking four million US dollars. Anyone who gets it for a million or so could probably get away with a simple hotel.’ Richard stared at her with not very innocent blue eyes. ‘But anything over three million US dollars then I’m afraid you’re looking at gambling to get a return.’

  ‘Such a shame,’ said Becky. ‘Surely Barbados has some other industry than tourism.’

  Richard ignored her attempt to change the conversation. ‘Have you been to Matthew’s Casino Nights? At the Monmouth?’

  ‘No, as I say, I really don’t like gambling.’

  ‘
Ah, then you’d hate those nights. I’m told that some of the guests can barely afford to buy meals for the rest of their stay if the Casino Night happens early enough in their holiday.’

  Becky thought that was as likely to be true as the other things he said he’d been told. Becoming irritated with him, she got up and leaned over the terrace railings, staring at lights twinkling from the bay. ‘I can’t imagine living with such a good view.’

  ‘You’re not seeing the best of it,’ said Richard. He took a remote control out of his pocket and pointed it carelessly over his shoulder. Instantly the lights in the lower fish tank dimmed into darkness and the world outside glistened in response: the boats on the sea sparkled and it was as if a million stars had been switched on – though the moon was the great scene-stealer, luxuriantly round as if she had just polished off a fabulous meal.

  Unfortunately while Becky marvelled at the night he came to stand beside her – one arm sliding across her shoulders, the other presenting her with her full glass as if she had mislaid it. Becky drifted out from under his arm and put the glass back on the table.

  ‘Ah, you’re bored with champagne,’ said Richard, cheerfully. ‘Time for a brandy. I’ll pour us each a glass.’

  It occurred to Becky he might use a ‘too drunk to drive’ excuse to keep her there overnight. ‘I don’t know how much you’ve had but you will be OK to drive me back, won’t you?’

  Richard laughed. ‘You’re in Barbados now, not England. Unlike yours, this is a civilised island.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There aren’t any drink driving laws in Barbados,’ he said, happily. ‘So brandy? Or would you prefer whisky?’

  ‘I don’t want any more to drink,’ she said, ‘Where’s your bathroom?’

  Richard gave a sly giggle. ‘The grandest one is up the stairs and on the left. Take a peek at my bedroom while you’re there.’

  ‘Could you light the way so I can find it?’

  He glanced at his remote control, pressed a button and subdued lights appeared up the staircase. Becky crossed the dim fish tank and climbed the stairs. It was impossible not to ‘peek’ into Richard’s room as it lay directly ahead with the door open. There were black sheets on a large bed under a gentle pink light. The effect had all the seductive appeal of a dentist’s chair.