by Prue Leith
When Eduardo came on the line he was, as usual, unconcerned. Carrie insisted, “But I know there is something wrong, Eduardo. Poppy’s upset about something.”
“Carrie, she’s fine. You’re imagining things.”
“Are you sure she doesn’t suspect you? Us?”
No, he was sure not. Poppy had been fine when he’d left, with all the kids, stuff packed, and just theirs to do.
How arrogant men are, thought Carrie. He’s quite sure he’s in the clear. And why can’t he do his own packing?
Carrie frowned at the road. She was about to say goodbye and ring off, when he said, “Carrie, are you sure you should come?”
Her heart sank. “Why? Don’t you want me to?”
“Of course I do. You know I do. But Poppy isn’t blind. You’ll have to behave yourself.”
Carrie felt a little streak of anger. She fired back, “Christ, Eduardo. I’ve never given Poppy a second’s anxiety. I’ve played the dutiful mistress, haven’t I? You know that I’ve never . . .”
Eduardo interrupted, his voice emollient, “You’re wonderful, cara mia. But with Poppy and the children around all the time. It could be tough for us both.”
Carrie said, her voice tight, “Eduardo. I can’t go without seeing you for three weeks. I’ve got to be with you.”
Eduardo caught the near hysteria in her voice and said, “OK, OK . . .”
“And I’ve bust a gut to get a reason to go. Poppy won’t suspect.” She ended bitterly, “She’s far too nice.”
“Yes,” said Eduardo. “She is. You’re right. She’s much too nice for her own good.”
Poppy pulled into the forecourt of Eduardo’s building and turned off the engine. She said: “I’m here now. If I find out what’s troubling your perfect wife, I’ll let you know.”
She turned off the mobile before he could answer and tossed it into her bag. The gears crunched as she jammed the stick into reverse to back into a parking place.
*
Carrie let herself in and walked through to the bedroom. Poppy was just putting the telephone down, looking fine, normal.
“Hi, Popps.”
“Oh Carrie, you are an angel to come.” Poppy put her arms round her sister and hugged her, fractionally harder and longer than usual. Carrie felt a wash of relief. Poppy did not suspect her.
The women looked at each other for a prolonged second, and Carrie noticed the reddish lids and over-bright eyes behind Poppy’s lenses. “You’ve been blubbing, Sis. What’s up?”
“Oh it’s nothing,” said Poppy, shaking her head and smiling. “And anyway, it’s over. Come, let’s go and find the children. They’ll be so excited you are coming with us . . .”
Carrie put out a hand to stop her heading for the door and said, “Poppy, this is me. Carrie. I’m your sister—remember? The one you tell things to?”
Poppy gave her a wan smile and put her hand up to her forehead, shading her eyes as she rubbed. “ OK. But Eduardo just rang and I’m fine now. It’s funny, he hardly ever telephones, but he said he wanted to check I was alright, and ready for tonight.”
God, thought Carrie, that was quick. He must have rung her the minute I rang off. She said, “So, what was the matter then?”
Poppy said, “Of course I didn’t tell him. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. I should . . .”
Carrie interrupted, “Poppy, start at the beginning. I don’t know what you are talking about.”
They sat on the bed, and Poppy took her glasses off and polished them on her skirt. She began, “I feel such a fool. But you see, I was packing our overnight bag and I found these condoms. Eduardo and I don’t use condoms. So he must be . . .”
Carrie put her arms round her sister. “Oh Poppy, Poppy, is that all? I thought the sky was falling in!” Carrie’s relief was genuine, though for herself rather than for Poppy. But her concern for her sister was real too. Poor Poppy. She was such an innocent.
Poppy let out a curious snuffling sob, and burst out, “Oh Carrie, I can’t bear it! What if he’s got a lover in Spain? He’s been to Bilbao every month for a year. I checked. Sometimes he stays all week. Maybe there is no conference center. Maybe it’s all lies . . .”
“Poppy, Poppy, stop. You are letting your imagination run riot here. Of course there’s a conference center, you stupid cow. You’ve seen the brochure, haven’t you? And the model in Eduardo’s office?”
This stopped Poppy’s headlong plunge into the worst case scenario. She nodded, looking gratefully at Carrie. Carrie went on, “Darling Sis, the truth is all men are to some degree bastards. Their moral intentions might be in the right place—chastity in the absence of the loved one, etc.—but their instincts are stronger. They can’t help screwing around.”
Poppy shook her head vigorously. “I don’t believe it. Eduardo isn’t like that. He’s too fastidious to ever go with . . .”
“Sweetheart, posh hotels are full of high-class whores. Eduardo would not have to go curb crawling or visit a brothel. Just a tip to the concierge, that’s all. It’s not love, Poppy. It’s trade. Just be glad he wears a condom.”
Poppy’s eyes registered alarm, then distaste. She was silent for a moment, then she said, “But how do I know it’s not more serious than that? If he can be unfaithful to me, why would he tell me the truth? Oh Carrie, I still don’t believe it. Maybe the condoms aren’t his? Maybe there’s a simple explanation.”
Carrie shook her head, “They all do it, Popps, whatever they say. They need to. Like eating and drinking. Don’t you remember Beryl Bainbridge’s line about women being programmed to love completely, and men being programmed to spread it around? She says we are fools to think any different,” said Carrie, her arm rocking Poppy’s shoulder.
Poppy hung her head, and Carrie felt a rush of love for her. Poppy said, “How humiliating to be 35 and the mother of three before you learn these things. How come you are so much wiser than me, Carrie?”
“You are one of nature’s innocents,” said Carrie. Her arm and hand trailed affectionately over Poppy’s shoulder as she stood up. “And I am a streetwise spinster.”
She took Poppy’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, Popps. Let’s have a glass to celebrate my horning in on your holiday. You could use a drink anyway.”
As they drank a toast to three good weeks Carrie marveled at what a first-class cow she was. I’m the actress, not Poppy, she thought, and a bloody good one too.
The thought did not depress her. Happiness ran through her. And something of triumph. She’d averted Poppy’s suspicions, she’d lifted her sister’s gloom, she was going on holiday with the Santolinis’ and Eduardo slept with her, not with his wife.
Chapter 13
“Do you mind?” Carrie used her elbow to give the man in the next seat a vicious jab.
“Whassa matter?” he said, opening his eyes and trying to focus.
“Every time you fall asleep half of you ends up in my seat,” replied Carrie, picking up his arm with both her hands and trying to fling it back where it belonged.
“Sorry, darling,” he said, pulling himself upright and leering at Carrie. “Why don’t we have a drink then, hey? Then I won’t fall asleep. We can get to know each other.”
“In your dreams,” retorted Carrie, turning away from him and closing her eyes.
But she couldn’t sleep. There was a child in the seat behind her, trained in the art of torture. Every time she nodded off he kicked her seat, or cried.
She hadn’t managed to get into Club, and though Poppy had suggested Angelina swop with her, Angelina looked so forlorn at the prospect of ejection from the family, Carrie refused. No offers of his seat from Eduardo, she noticed.
She had an uneasy feeling that Eduardo would have preferred her to stay behind. He liked his life simple, she suspected. Wife and kids in Box A. Lover in Box B. And yet Eduardo loved
her, she was certain of that.
Oh no, she thought, not again. She felt the steady pressure of her neighbor’s thigh against hers. She shifted away, bouncing in her seat and jerking her leg so that he’d wake and realize what he was doing. But this only gave him more room and his horrible fat leg followed hers, once more pressing against her.
Carrie sat up, and looked at him. God, men can be disgusting, she thought. His open mouth emitted warm beery breath, his legs were spread, and one hand was on his crotch, the other flung over the back of his seat.
Carrie heaved herself out of her seat, kicked the blanket out of the way and walked to the back of the plane. She could kill for a cigarette. She asked the steward for some water and he gave her a plastic bottle of Volvic. She leaned against the loo wall, drinking the water and thinking.
Maybe she should not have come. She was apprehensive about Poppy. They had always been so close, no secrets, no lies. Now it was secrets and lies in spades. And now that her sister realized Eduardo was not the faithful husband she’d believed, would she rumble the whole truth?
Eduardo was right, she’d have to be careful. But I’m never careful, thought Carrie. And do I really want to be? Or do I want to bust things wide open?
Carrie’s overnight miseries were forgotten the minute she stepped onto the airport steps. Johannesburg airport was huge and international, but could not quite blot out the smell of the highveld. Carrie felt her spirits lift as she narrowed her eyes in the glare of the winter sun, and breathed in the unforgettable smell of bone dry air and parched grass. Just to be in Africa again was a joy. She would have a good time, come what may. And it would be wonderful to see the old lodge again. And to see Karl. And Maisie.
They hired a Volkswagen combi and Eduardo drove. Carrie felt a stab of jealousy as Poppy climbed into the passenger seat. She’d sat in the back with the children a million times as Poppy’s sister, both in England and here. The Santolinis’ came to Kaia Moya every year, and this would be the fifth time she’d come with them. She always sat in the back, but now she resented it. She wanted to be beside Eduardo, to feel his hand on her thigh as the lion-colored plain and sparse kopjes rolled by.
*
Two days after their arrival Carrie had her first photo assignment, a picnic photo-shoot outside one of the camp’s safari tents. Carrie wanted to give it a colonial look and the props were mostly borrowed from Karl’s 90-year-old grandfather, Piet.
Piet, grizzled now but still upright, had been a big game hunter when Safaris meant guns not cameras, and knew the bush as intimately as his son. He lived in a white-washed bungalow at Kaia Moya in return for entertaining the guests at the bar with stories of man-eating crocs and ivory poachers.
His roof space and living room was stacked with stuff, some of it inherited from his father. Carrie spent the morning cleaning and polishing. There was a mahogany traveling chest with brass corners, a set of leather suitcases, a hinged “butler’s-tray” table, two hardwood deckchairs with slung seats made of faded green leather, a wicker hamper complete with china plates, and cut-glass decanters in a tantalus.
The weather was perfect: clear and sunny to give the deep shadows Carrie needed for the long shots, but not hot enough—at least in the shade—to wilt her salads or make the cheeses sweat. She set the food out on the tent’s verandah, arranging the dishes casually on the stacked suitcases, folding butler’s table and the traveling chest. It all looked wonderful, bathed in diffuse light from the green canvas awning.
She had just added a basket of guinea-fowl eggs, still in their shells, to this artful still life, when Karl appeared.
“Carrie, this looks fantastic!”
Carrie was pleased. She stood back to better judge the scene and said, “Yeah, it’s coming on.”
Karl studied the tantalus, examining the gleaming stand and intricate lock. “I haven’t seen this since I was a child. I still think it was a mean trick to lock up the spirits but leave them visible. Like saying to the servants, ‘We know you are thieves and drunks.’ And at the same time saying, ‘You can look, but hah! You can’t have.’”
“I should think the lock was as much to stop the wives and daughters as the servants.” said Carrie. “But it looks good, doesn’t it?”
Karl continued to inspect his grandfather’s antiques and Carrie’s food. Carrie put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Karl, I need a gun for the background. But your oupa won’t let me near his gun-cupboard. Do you think he’s got some sort of ancient hunting rifle or blunderbuss or something?”
Karl took a step back and Carrie dropped her arm. “I am sure he has. He’s never sold a gun in his life.”
Carrie stuck her fingers into the back pockets of her jeans and flexed her shoulders. The gesture brought her elbows up and stretched her chef’s jacket across her breasts. She smiled into Karl’s eyes and rocked lightly on her trainers. “And could you persuade him to lend me one?”
“Sure thing. When do you want it?”
“In an hour? Sam’s coming at two. The photographer.”
Karl nodded slowly, considering. He said, “Dad won’t leave a gun unattended, even without any ammo. You’ll have to put up with him being here for your photo-session.”
Carrie cut a slice from the end of a raised game pie and angled it to display the pink meat inside. She said, “Won’t you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’d rather have you as a gun-sitter than your dad.” She flashed a confident, mischievous smile at him.
Karl was unmoved. “No can do, Carrie. I’d love to learn a few photography tips from a pro, but I’ve got work to do. It’s dad or no gun.”
Carrie was bending over the picnic basket, extracting the china plates from their leather straps. As Karl left he patted her lightly on her denim-clad bum.
“ ’Bye, kiddo,” he said. Like dismissing a horse, thought Carrie, crossly. It still got to her that she’d never managed to impress Karl. Even as a child she’d get her way with almost everyone, even sometimes with her father, but not with Karl. He thinks he sees through me, she thought, and he’s concluded I’m shallow and useless. Well, who cares?
*
Carrie was sweating. They’d done the open-fire shots, and she’d had to baste the kebabs over the fearsome coals. Her face was flushed and her hair clung to her forehead and neck in wet shreds. But the shoot was going well. They only had the close-up cold food shots to do.
At four o’clock she heard Poppy’s voice behind her.
“Carrie, here.”
Carrie looked up from cutting yet another slice off the game pie—the air turned the meat gray and she wanted it fresh and pink—to take the glass Poppy offered.
It was Maisie’s lemonade, made as she remembered from twenty years ago, by steeping lemons with fresh ginger and mint.
“Mmmm, wonderful,” she said, drinking half the glass at one pull. Eduardo and Karl were there too. Karl was helping himself to lemonade, but Eduardo, she was pleased to see, was watching her.
But her gratification was short lived. He was soon in deep conversation with Sam about DV cameras. Annoyed, she said, “Sam, are we going to photograph this sodding pie, or what?” Her tone came out more bad-tempered than she’d meant, and she quickly pasted a smile on top.
Sam looked up, puzzled. “Sure, Carrie. Won’t be a sec.”
Carrie joined them. “Thought you were too busy to bother with us,” she said to Karl, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. Karl smiled and lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Just thought I’d check up on the old boy.” He nodded at Piet, who was dozing bolt upright in a plastic chair. Karl picked up Piet’s straw panama, and returned it gently to his head.
She turned to Eduardo. “Don’t you want some lemonade?” She injected her voice with as much intimacy as she dared.
“Thanks, no,” he said. Then he looked a
t her with a small frown and said, “You look hot.”
“It’s called work,” said Carrie. “Some of us have to do it, even on holiday.” She immediately regretted this, and offered, “Sorry. But I feel really ugly. Face of boiled beetroot, and I expect my hair smells of smoke.” She stood close up to Eduardo, and said, “What d’ya think?” bending her head and standing on her toes so he could smell her hair.
“It’s fine,” he said, without dropping his head or sniffing her hair, and immediately returned to his camera conversation with Sam.
Carrie felt put down. He hadn’t denied, as he was meant to, that she was ugly and red. It was humiliating, especially when she looked up to see Karl watching her. He caught her eye and turned away abruptly, his face hard and disapproving.
Put out, she returned to her trestle table under the mopane tree and started to toss the wild spinach in French dressing with her fingers. Oh Eduardo, she thought, do you want me or not? Or is humiliation your bag?
Suddenly the heat was unbearable. She had to shed some clothes. Emboldened by seeing Poppy carrying the lemonade tray back toward the lodge, Carrie walked up to Eduardo with her hands, oily from the salad, out at her sides.
“Eduardo. Help. Can you get me out? Undo the apron?” Eduardo, puzzled at first, complied, pulling the strings at her waist. Carrie wondered if he even realized that she was trying to remind him of that first time, when he’d unwrapped her apron and they’d been on the floor seconds later.
The apron fell open and Carrie turned so he could pull it off her. As he rolled it into a ball, she came up close, intending to give him a playful kiss, as she might her sister’s husband. But when she was close enough to smell the deliciousness of him, she sensed his resistance. For a second she did not know whether she wanted to kiss him or head-butt him. She said, “Thanks, brother-in-law”, and licked him. It was a long, chin to cheek, very public lick and he started back, protesting.