There was a downside. It was horribly uncomfortable. I knew I’d have welts by the end of the night because part of the whalebone was visible through the fraying material but I was sure it would be worth the pain.
Luckily, Sadie and I were the same shoe size. Mrs. Evans had loaned me a pair of silver strappy sandals with four-inch heels—Sadie’s “old dancing shoes.” Once I got used to the height, they were surprisingly comfortable and made me feel tall and sexy—up until now.
Annabel grabbed my desk chair and moved it over to the mirrored wardrobe with the back facing away from her—supposedly so she could stare at herself while she worked on me. As I sat down, a searing pain from my bustier shot through my rib cage. It felt as if I’d been stabbed.
“Mrs. Evans makes the costumes for the Gipping Bards,” Annabel said. “Once those costumes are on and she’s done her so-called finishing touches, they are impossible to get off without scissors.”
“Well, she didn’t touch it,” I lied. I couldn’t dwell on being surgically removed from my bustier right now and changed the subject. “I’m afraid I don’t have a hair dryer.”
“I guessed as much. That’s why it always looks a mess.” Annabel opened her little case on my bed and retrieved a small travel hair dryer. “I suppose you go to Dorothy’s Coiffeur?”
“It’s convenient.”
Annabel shook her head with despair. “Well, as long as you don’t let her talk you into getting a lavender perm.”
I laughed, and so did Annabel and, for the next half an hour, while she blow-dried my hair with her round styling brush and made up my face, I was happy we were friends—though reminded myself that leopards never changed their spots. Even so, it felt nice being fussed over.
Annabel didn’t stop talking about cosmetic brands and skin care. I wondered what on earth possessed her to become an investigative reporter and was just about to ask, when she ordered me to stand up and turn to face the mirror.
“Omigod!” I hardly recognized myself. I looked incredible!
Annabel had dried my hair into a neat bob and trimmed my bangs. My eyes were heavily rimmed with kohl pencil. She must have done something to my cheekbones because they looked chiseled and, as for my lips! What a deep luscious red!
“Now for the jewelry.” Annabel helped me put on the necklace and earrings. “You look just like Cleopatra.”
“I love it!” I just couldn’t stop staring at the new me. It just goes to show what the right makeup and hair can do for a girl’s self-confidence.
Compelled to give her a heartfelt hug of gratitude, I turned around. I swear my heart practically stopped beating. Annabel was standing by the nightstand reading that wretched postcard. I knew what it said by heart. “Weather good. Wish you were here.” Luckily, Dad always took precautions in any form of written communication and now I saw why.
“Who are ‘M & D’?” said Annabel.
“Marie and Derek. Old friends of my parents.” I tried to sound calm but my mouth went dry. Thank heavens I’d given Mrs. Evans the same names when I caught her nosing through my mail once. “Godparents actually.”
“You never mentioned you had godparents.” Annabel’s voice was heavy with accusation. “I thought you were completely alone.”
“That’s because I hardly see them. I feel alone.”
“I thought you didn’t know anyone in Spain.”
“I don’t. They just love traveling,” I said smoothly. “They send me postcards from every country they visit. Last year they were in the Sahara Desert. Did you know that every sand dune is different? They sent me some great photos. Would you—?”
“No thanks.” Annabel dropped the postcard onto the bed. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
As we got into Annabel’s BMW I felt a heady sense of euphoria. Whether it was because I’d handled her questions about my parents so neatly—I even believed the sand dune story myself—or maybe for the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to have confidence in my appearance. I didn’t even care about the stupid cobalt-blue halter-neck dress and Annabel’s bionic-woman eyes anymore.
I looked fantastic and Robin was going to fall madly in love with me. I just knew it!
16
It was just after six-thirty when we turned into the car park of the Gipping Manor Hotel.
Located on the outskirts of Lower Gipping, the term manor was somewhat of a euphemism. Built in the late seventies, the two-story cinderblock structure was no more a former manor house than I was traveling royalty.
I’d been here before, of course. The Manor—as it was known by the locals—was the venue for all committee and indoor sports meetings ranging from the Rotary Club; Boy Scout, Girl Guide, and Brownie packs; Gipping Ballet School; the Women’s Institute; and naturally, the Gipping Snail Racing Federation. Even the Gipping Bards had been known to perform here when the old theater at the bottom of the High Street had been closed for fumigation.
The car park was packed. People were even fighting over parking spaces. I noted Jack Webster—dressed in a tuxedo—had stepped out of his Land Rover and was close to blows with Hilda Hicks who was threatening him with her riding crop.
“There are so many people here,” I said as I spied a coach from Totnes disgorging its occupants in all their finery.
Annabel slammed her foot on the brake. “My God!” she squealed. “I’ve just seen a naval officer!”
My stomach flipped over. It had to be Robin. “Where?” A car horn blared behind us. I swiveled around to see the front of a minivan practically in our rear seat. Annabel ignored it.
“Was he in a silver Fiesta?” I said.
“Who cares? If there’s one, there’ll be more.” She turned to me, eyes alive with hope. “What if there is a crowd of sailors here in uniform! Can you imagine?”
I could. And did. But I was only interested in one. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. I cracked my window open and heard the distant sounds of salsa music. For some reason I’d been expecting something old-fashioned.
Annabel gave a seductive wriggle. “I just love Cuban music. It’s so sexy.”
Unfortunately, the sexy Cuban music was short-lived. By the time we’d been forced to park on the street and walk a good quarter of a mile in high heels, the starring band—Hogmeat, Harris, and the Wonderguts—had begun to play Tony Orlando’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.”
“Ugh. A cover band.” Annabel shuddered as we walked through the pseudo-Tudor porch and into the foyer. Barbara was standing at the door to the ballroom-cum-gymnasium, collecting tickets. She wore her gray hair down. A diamante Alice band sparkled on her head matching a tight, glittering Lurex skirt, and black chiffon blouse with trumpet sleeves.
“Tickets please—goodness Vicky.” Barbara’s jaw dropped. “You look stunning.”
I felt myself blush. “Thanks. Annabel did my hair and makeup,” I said, adjusting the whalebone corset with a wince.
“Trust me,” Annabel said, handing over two flimsy pieces of green paper stamped GASTROPOD GALA! ABSOLUTELY NON-TRANSFERRABLE. “It took a lot of work.”
“Oh! Heavens!” said Barbara, staring at Annabel. “I thought I was talking to the bionic woman for a moment. Your eyes . . .”
“Thank you. I bought these on the Internet.” Annabel widened them for Barbara’s benefit. “I have several different colors.”
With an ill-concealed snigger, Barbara stamped our wrists with a snail-imprinted seal so we could “come and go as we wanted.”
“You look just like Cleopatra, Vicky,” Barbara said suddenly. “Can the Bards borrow that jewelry? Pam Green and I are drawing up a list of next season’s plays and of course, Antony and Cleopatra is always a favorite.” Barbara stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Now that Scarlett Fleming is dead, it will give someone else a chance to play the lead role. You’d make a lovely, young queen.”
“I hadn’t considered acting,” I said modestly. Perhaps I’d give it a try. I could imagine Robin sitting in the front ro
w, captivated by my Oscar-worthy performance.
“She hasn’t got time for all that nonsense,” Annabel declared. “Anyway, I thought you said someone had broken into the storage unit and stolen the pyramid.”
“It wasn’t the pyramid,” Barbara said. “A costume from Robin Hood and the—”
“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
I stepped aside and came face-to-face with Topaz. Her expression was one of pure jealousy.
“Hi, Topaz. You look—” I struggled to find the right word—“striking.”
Topaz was dressed for the scaffold. She had on a long black wig, a black turtleneck, and a black mid-calf-length wraparound skirt. She even wore thick black leggings. I saw them peeping under her hemline. In her arms Topaz carried a small fluorescent orange rucksack.
“You can’t take that in there, dear,” said Barbara. “We’re very tight on security this year. Al-kye-doe.”
“Al-Qaeda.” Annabel rolled her eyes at me. “I don’t think we need to worry about terrorists here.”
“Here let me carry that.” Steve Burrows, Gipping’s paramedic, materialized by Topaz’s side. He had a pink cherubic face, cropped blond crew cut, and sparkling blue eyes. Mrs. Evans called him “Sexpot Steve” because he was a notorious womanizer. Given his enormous size, this was surprising yet even I—who wasn’t remotely attracted to him in the slightest—found that every time he came near me, I felt a strange tingling sensation in my nether regions. And tonight was no different.
“No. I’m fine.” Topaz clutched the bag to her chest.
“Love the hair band, doll. Very Alice.” Steve handed Barbara two green tickets, but kept hold of her hand. He kissed it gallantly. “Go on, let Topaz take it in, Babs. I’ll vouch for her.”
“Goodness. How can one say no to such a charmer?” Barbara giggled. “All right, just this once.”
“Oh. My. God. They’re together!” Annabel whispered in my ear. “I thought Topaz was a lesbian!”
One could never tell with Topaz—though I hoped she knew what she was in for. I’d been alone with Steve before and somehow found myself kissing him passionately minus my top.
“Perhaps you could keep an eye on Olive Larch this evening, Steve?” Barbara said. “With all the excitement . . .” She gestured toward the ballroom that was heaving with people singing and dancing to “Do the Funky Chicken.”
“Happy to,” he said with a wink.
“Take me to the bar, darling,” Topaz said, throwing me a look I could only describe as defiant.
“Your wish is my command, doll.” Steve took her arm and froze. “Blimey. I didn’t recognize you, Vicky. Jesus. You look hot!”
I felt hot! All these compliments were going to my head. “Hi, Steve. You don’t look so bad—”
“Oh no! Quickly, we’ve got to go. Now!” Annabel hissed, seizing my arm and dragging me into the melee.
The ballroom-cum-gymnasium was decked out in green, white, and silver bunting. Striped paper streamers fell from the lighting fixtures. A thick layer of green and silver helium balloons covered the entire ceiling.
Annabel propelled me toward the corner of the room and behind a shoulder-high stack of plastic chairs. She looked scared. “Walter Rawlings is here with his wife.”
Rumor had it that Christine Rawlings’s dislike of the “young tart who slept with my husband,” would result in “the next time I see her she’ll wish she hadn’t been born.”
I pried Annabel’s grasp from my arm. “You’re hurting me.”
“Don’t leave me alone.”
“We’ll just avoid them,” I said. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”
We pushed our way through the crowd to a long trestle table covered in a green paper cloth that served as a bar. I noted it was positioned next to a giant amplifier. Fortunately, the three-strong band was taking a break up on stage.
I was surprised to see that the lead singer, Hogmeat, was actually Barry Fir, owner of the organic Pick-Your-Own. He was decked out in leather and wore his jacket open exposing a heavily tattooed chest. I had seen Barry Fir’s naked torso before when he donned a Speedo to enter the Farming Competition a couple of months ago. It was tattooless then.
“Those are fake,” Annabel declared, answering my unspoken question. “I saw him buying three packets of transfers from This-and-That Emporium yesterday. “How stupid!”
No more stupid than your false eyes, I wanted to say, but thought better of it.
Barry’s sidekick, Harris, was none other than Bill Harris, our local postman. He played bass and reminded me of an older version of Keith Richards—if that were possible. The third member of the band was on drums. With heavily oiled slicked-back hair, he wore a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the logo GRAB THE GUT and sported the most enormous beer belly I had ever seen. Wonderguts wasn’t one of my mourner regulars but I knew him to be a member of the Gipping Bards since his lead performance in Equus had prompted one of Eunice’s petitions on indecent exposure.
There wasn’t much choice in the drinks department: champagne—I saw the label and it was something I’d never heard of—and Tesco sherry.
Annabel picked up two glasses of champagne. “Here, you try it.”
I took a sip. It was horribly sweet. “I’ve had worse.”
Her response was drowned in a cacophony of ear-splitting electronic whistling followed by an explosion of frantic drumming and cymbal thrashing.
The band was back with a vengeance.
We were swept up in the wave of revelers retreating from the bar and the amplifier. Since it was a hospitality bar, I couldn’t help wondering if this were some ruse by the organizers to discourage too much drinking.
“Where’s Mr. Casanova?” Jack Webster elbowed me aside and stood glaring at Annabel. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”
“Don’t Jack! Please,” cried his wife, Amelia, dressed in a full-length navy ensemble with a rhinestone paste brooch.
With a bright red nose and a map of capillary veins stretching over his cheeks, Jack Webster bore all the signs of a heavy drinker. He peered blearily into Annabel’s face. “What the bloody hell is wrong with your eyes? You look like the bionic woman.”
“If you’re talking about Dr. Frost,” Annabel said haughtily, “he’s working tonight, Mr. Webster.”
“Working? Hah!” He turned to Amelia. “Working? Breaking up someone else’s marriage more like. While the husband’s away, the wife will play. And him out risking his life in the North Sea.”
Annabel turned pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Amelia said desperately. “Come along, luv. Let’s go back to the bar.”
Jack swayed unsteadily on his feet, shouting, “You can bloody well tell him from me and the cutters, this is his last warning? Understand?” before allowing Amelia to drag him away.
“Why would he say a thing like that?” Annabel said. “Horrid man.”
My suspicions as to Dr. Frost’s extramarital activities had just been confirmed and poor Annabel didn’t have a clue. I wondered who it could be.
“Let’s find where we’re sitting,” said Annabel.
The seating plan comprised of circular tables for eight people, with a raised celebrity table for GSRF officials complete with neatly labeled place cards. CHIEF
MARSHAL—DOUGLAS FLEMING, SCRUTINEER—TONY PER-KINS, SECRETARY—OLIVE LARCH, and BOOKIE/ M.C.—LEONARD EVANS.
I noted that Mrs. Evans had already taken her place at the top table, looking very done up with her newly coiffed tight perm and wearing a buttercup yellow dress.
On the wall behind her, a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II was flanked by enlarged photographs of past snail champions. A handwritten card gave a brief description of each snail’s athletic achievements. It would appear that no snail had yet to beat Archie who competed in the World Snail Racing Championship in 1995. Archie made the Guinness World Records on comple
tion of the thirteen-inch sprint with a staggering time of two minutes and twenty seconds.
The revelers were already dividing into groups. Jack Webster and his hedge-cutting friends—Errol Fairweather, Eric Tossell, John Reeves, Larry Green, and all their wives—occupied two full tables; the Gipping Bards, two more. There was one for the Women’s Institute, Pennymoor Morris Dancers, Gipping Riding Club, Eco-Warriors—even the juvenile gang, the Swamp Dogs, was dressed up in rented tuxedos and sitting with their parents.
On the far side of the room sat the hedge-jumpers, who had brought in an art easel on which to prop a huge placard SUPPORT YOUR OLYMPIC 2012 TEAM. Dave Randall was demonstrating a new style of jump—presumably the Larch Leap—using a gym horse that he must have dragged from the games equipment cupboard.
“There’s our lot,” I said, spotting Wilf who was joined by Edward, Paige—Edward’s very sweet wife—and Pete at the Gazette table close to the stage. Barbara pushed past them and snagged the empty seat next to Wilf, for whom she’d held a crush for donkey’s years, obviously forfeiting her place at the Gipping Bards table of which she was a key member.
We headed over—I lost count of the number of compliments or the amount of times that Annabel told everyone, “Trust me, Vicky took a lot of work” and “Do you like my eyes?”
“Don’t our girls look pretty, sir?” Barbara touched Wilf’s arm and leaned into him slightly but he was too preoccupied studying the Mollusk Monthly newsletter that had been left on every chair.
“Hi, Pete.” Annabel wriggled behind Wilf and squeezed into the spare seat next to our unusually dapper-looking chief reporter. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m looking for a place to sit. Any suggestions?”
“I’m afraid you can’t sit there,” said a pleasant voice behind me. I turned and saw a dainty blonde with a snub nose in a simple black gown. “You must be Annabel.”
Annabel leapt to her feet, while Pete stared down at his plate and mumbled something that sounded like, “Bollocks.”
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