Velma said she wanted one with her new husband, who appeared on cue at her elbow. Sandy proved to have the fresh looks of a rugby player who hadn’t yet run to seed. He was probably twenty years younger than Velma, but clearly fond of her. His name was Weston, which rang a bell with Bea. Hadn’t she been getting lots of messages to ring a Mrs Weston? Messages she’d ignored?
Bea wished the newlyweds well. Velma’s first husband had been a hypochondriac who had died unexpectedly early from a heart attack. She’d nursed him devotedly through all his imaginary illnesses, and could do with a bit of pampering for a change. Perhaps it would work.
Once in the function room, Bea saw that a bar had been set up in an L shape near the door. Piers bought drinks for them all. Oliver attempted to look as if he were accustomed to going to this sort of function. Maggie had a frozen smile on her face and tried not to look at a nearby group more than once a minute.
Bea spotted Coral behind one of the bar tables, smoothly dispensing more drinks per minute than either of the two barmen working beside her. Coral might be vertically challenged, but her skills were indubitable. Even as Bea looked towards her old friend, Coral did an eye-roll to the right.
Bea’s eyes turned in the direction Coral indicated, into the main part of the room, which was laid out with large round tables around a tiny area of dance floor. There were balloons everywhere. There was a stage at the back on which a man in a dinner jacket was setting up turntables under some powerful lights. Helping him was a rotund little man in evening dress, and further over a tall, willowy blonde of uncertain age was talking to a petite Asian girl in the shalwar kameez of Pakistan.
‘Yes!’ said Bea, recognizing the descriptions she’d heard of the gang. ‘We’ve found her. That’s Mrs Somers-Briggs.’
Piers raised his glass to hers in a toast. ‘Well done, Bea.’
Maggie turned to Bea with an abrupt movement and took her arm, ‘Isn’t this lovely, just like a dream, I can’t believe I’m really here.’
This effusiveness was so uncharacteristic of the girl that Bea looked round for the cause. A youngish man with sharp features in a group nearby was staring at Maggie with an expression which struggled between doubt and recognition. Was this the ex-husband?
‘It is lovely, dear,’ said Bea, urging Maggie and Oliver on into the main part of the room. ‘Let’s find our table, shall we? Are there place names, do you think?
‘There’s a chart over here,’ said Piers. ‘It allocates different parties to numbered tables. We’re on table nine. Max and his party are also on our table. Shall we drift that way?’
There was some heavy breathing at Bea’s shoulder, and Max was back again. ‘Mother, I have to look after my guests, but Nicole says that … you won’t cause a scandal in public, will you? I’m out of my mind with worry.’
‘We’re not planning to confront them until the end of the evening, so if you leave promptly there’ll be no problem. You look after your guests, and I’ll attend to mine.’
Max departed and Bea transferred her attention back to the stage, where the rotund man was fixing a mike over an upright piano. His movements were deft and economical. He tested the mike and sent a high five sign to the woman. The DJ was a handsome fellow in his mid thirties, with eyes already roving the room to assess the talent. Who was it who’d said he was too old to be the boss’s son? Whoever it was, they were right, even though the lady was probably older than she looked.
Mrs Somers-Briggs had a sharp word with the DJ, upon which he stopped eyeing the talent and went back to his turntables. She moved on to inspect a table full of prizes which had been laid out in front of the stage, and rearranged one or two items to display them to better advantage. She wore a filmy black evening dress with diamond drop earrings and a matching diamond bracelet.
‘Bit of a puzzle,’ observed Piers. ‘Is that woman old enough to have sired the DJ, or are we astray on that one?’
‘Late forties, if she’s a day,’ said Bea. ‘I would say he’s too old for it. She’s definitely the brains of the gang though, isn’t she? Maggie,’ she turned to the girl, ‘don’t keep peeping at your ex. Ignore him. Give me your opinion on the DJ. How old is he, and do you fancy him?’
Maggie turned her back on the neighbouring group with an effort. ‘The DJ’s all right, I suppose. Not as good-looking as … the thing is, you won’t mind if I stick close to you this evening, will you? I mean, with Noel here as well.’
‘Your husband’s name is Noel, too?’
‘Oh, no. Of course not. I mean, the man who … you know? The other night? The photographer.’
Bea hadn’t noticed the photographer particularly. She looked back at the entrance to the function room but so many people had crowded in behind them, that the only evidence of his presence was the occasional flash as he took photos of later arrivals.
Her headache was developing into a real rager. Was the photographer part of the gang? Was the man who’d hurt Maggie really the photographer, and was he the boss woman’s son? Bea couldn’t think straight. Were there three people in the gang or four? Or more?
Mrs Somers-Briggs was moving around the room now, greeting people, towing the Asian girl along, introducing people to her. The rotund man was double-checking mikes, having a word with the DJ, eyes everywhere. Just as Coral had said.
Nicole surfaced to greet Bea with a kiss. ‘We’ve been put right next to the amplifiers. I’m sure to get a headache.’
Bea indicated her evening bag. ‘I brought some painkillers with me.’ Her eyes wandered to the boss woman, who had met up with the rotund man and was conferring with him by the stage. Bea wriggled her camera out of her purse and handed it to Oliver. ‘Can you get a snap of them, do you think?’
He handed his laptop to Maggie to hold and slipped away in the crowd as the boss woman got up on to the stage and flicked the mike into life.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – and all you wonderful people who have come here to help those less fortunate than ourselves – would you kindly take your seats? The tables have all been set up with the names of your hosts for the evening, and they will arrange that you don’t sit next to your worst enemy.’
There was a titter of laughter and a general movement towards the tables. Piers led his party to their table, where Max was already pulling out chairs and attending to his guests.
Mrs Somers-Briggs allowed a few minutes for people to settle, before continuing her spiel. ‘We are delighted that so many of you have responded to the call to help those less fortunate than us. The tsunami that wrecked so many lives has dropped out of the headlines, but that doesn’t mean that the scars have been healed, that all the villages have been rebuilt, that people are no longer dying for lack of food and clean water. Or that people have ceased to mourn the dead. The big aid agencies have moved on to deal with other issues, but I want us to do something for the forgotten ones, which is why I have organized this event. We are so comfortable in our lives here in Britain, we have so few tornadoes and monsoons and devastating floods, that it is hard for us to realize how fragile people’s hold on life is in other countries. It is greatly to your credit that you are prepared to do something about it.
‘You may ask what we can do to help, living so far away from the seat of the great disaster? Well, every pound that you pledge, every bid at the auction, allows us to provide safe drinking water, secure shelter, and basic foods for at least some of those who have suffered so much. Some people can harden their hearts and turn away from the terrible sights with which we’ve all become so familiar after the floods, but you are not of their number. You have stood up to be counted among those who care, and who not only care but are prepared to put your money where your mouth is. At least you will be able to sleep more easily tonight, knowing you have done what you can. Remember, every pound you donate makes a difference.
‘Now on each plate you will find a small gift, courtesy of our generous sponsors, whose name you will see emblazoned on the back. We’d love it if you cou
ld show your appreciation of this little gift by dropping a fiver or so into the begging bowl placed on each table. I see the caterers are dying to get the food on the table, so I won’t hold you up any longer. Bon appetit, as they say in France.’
Bea exchanged glances with Piers, seated on her right. ‘That was well done, wasn’t it?’
‘Softened us up nicely. A pity she doesn’t put her talents to use in a worthier cause.’
Max was taking orders for wine and passing them to a waiter. Max was flushed and expansive. Nicole was listening to one of Max’s guests with an expression of interest on her face. Bea wondered, in an idle moment, whether Nicole had ever wanted to enter politics herself. Somewhere under all that superficial glamour, there was a brain of sorts.
Piers ordered wine for his party, but saw that they had a glass of water each as well. A swarm of black-clad teenagers appeared to dish out plates of food. One girl or boy to each table. Bea tried to think how much this would cost in wages. She hoped they’d get their money. Horrid to think of these pleasant boys and girls working their butts off and then not getting paid. The starters were prettily laid out, smoked salmon roulade with cream cheese on rounds of crusty bread, a small side salad.
‘I’ve had worse,’ said Piers, ‘but the wine’s not up to much.’
‘Mm,’ said Bea, remembering that the hotel had down-graded the wine for the function in case they made a loss.
The waiters removed the first course. The second course was duck’s breast with red cabbage and mashed potatoes. A little heavy going. Bea told herself to eat it all up before she took any painkillers. Piers was talking easily to a woman in Max’s party, about an eccentric nobleman he’d been painting, who kept a menagerie on his estate.
The sweet was a bit icky, but there was a pleasant enough raspberry sorbet to compensate. Then the tables were cleared and coffee brought round with – Bea was glad to see – some chocolate mints. If there was one thing Bea had a weakness for, it was chocolate mints with crunchy bits. She took two, and reached for her painkillers.
The lights overhead dimmed, and the lights on the stage came up. The boss woman took over the mike again.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are all feeling well fed and at peace with the world. The catering tonight has been done by a new company, Passion for Food. Would you all put your hands together for them, and for the delightful young people who have looked after us so well.’
Applause, not overly enthusiastic, but good enough. The students looked pleased, and refilled coffee cups with a smile. Bea hoped that the applause was not going to be the only thing they earned that night.
‘I imagine you expect long speeches from the worthy charities who help to alleviate the woes of the world,’ said Mrs Somers-Briggs, ‘so you’ll be glad to hear there are going to be no speeches tonight. Instead, I’m going to tell you what happened to my friend Ana, who was there on the day the sea destroyed her old life.’
She gestured to the Asian girl to come up on to the stage and stand beside her. ‘English is not her first language,’ said Mrs Somers-Briggs, ‘although she is studying it. Because she still cannot speak of these things without breaking down, she has asked me to tell you what happened to her.’
She took a sip from a glass of water. ‘Ana lived in a fishing village, which was home to twenty or so families. Her father and the other able-bodied men went out in their boats every day, the children played on the beach and between the houses, and the mothers – ah, the mothers – looked after everybody, as they do all over the world, don’t they?’
There was a murmur of amusement as, indeed, they did.
‘One day, to everyone’s amazement, the sea receded. Fish which had been swimming in the sea a few moments ago, flopped around on the sand. The children, laughing, ran about to pick them up. One of the old people remembered what happened when the sea disappeared. She screamed that everyone should run inland. Ana was working in their garden with her mother, who was pregnant. They ran down to the beach to find the younger children.’
Mrs Somers-Briggs’ voice faded, and she took another sip of water. ‘Ana found the toddler. Her brothers and sisters were little dots, far out on the newly naked sand. Her mother ran, calling to them to come back, come back. The oldest boy started walking back, too slowly, too late. The others didn’t hear her.
‘Then they saw the tidal wave coming, faster than a horse could gallop. Ana turned and ran, weighed down by the toddler. She reached the first house on the beach, the largest, strongest house in the village. She was breathless, could run no more. She tried to get into the house but was thrust away by those inside. Burdened by her little sister, she managed to climb a little way up the nearest palm and tied herself to it before the wave overwhelmed her. The water closed over her head.
‘After what seemed like hours during which she was pummelled and torn at by the wave, she found her head above water. She lived, but her little sister died. All that was left of the big house were some baulks of timber. Everyone in it had died. Ana was taken inland to where the survivors sat, staring at nothing, or wandered around asking for news of friends and relatives. Not one of the fishing boats ever returned to the village.’
Mrs Somers-Briggs paused to touch tears from her cheeks. She pulled Ana closer to the mike. ‘Can you take it from there, Ana?’
Tears marked trails down Ana’s cheeks, too, but she spoke up in a small but clear voice. ‘The sea go back to its place. We find the bodies of friends, of family, but not my father. It is seven days when people come from outside, with food and fresh water. These people have mobile phones. They ask, have we other family? My father’s cousin comes to Britain many years ago. He sends us money once. The people with the phones talk to my cousin in Southall, and he helps me come to Britain. Now I learn English. Then I learn to be a nurse, and after I go back to help my people.’
Noel was standing at the back of the room, waiting till he could take some more photos. The key to the honeymoon suite was in his pocket, and he’d already doctored the bottles of soft drinks from the minibar.
Watching Ana perform for the public, seeing how she lowered her eyes and pretended to be modest, gave him an idea. Ana would do anything for money, so he’d use her to get Maggie away from her family.
He’d already spotted where the girl sat with her aunt. He thought her new look rather appealing. Yes! It excited him, thinking about what he was going to do to her later that evening.
Seventeen
Saturday, mid-evening
During the cabaret people began to move around, swapping seats, paying visits to the toilets or visiting at other tables. Max called for more wine for his party, and Piers ordered another bottle, even though he’d only drunk one glass. Bea had hardly touched hers. The painkillers she’d taken seemed not to have had much effect on her headache, but they had distanced her from what was going on around her.
Looking around, she spotted several people she knew and waved to them. They seemed restrained in their return greetings, which puzzled her. She couldn’t see Velma and her new husband; they must be on the other side of the room.
Piers went to ‘stretch his legs’, which entailed paying a short visit to Coral at the bar and a circuit of the function room, chatting to people he knew. Piers knew a lot of people from all walks of life. Oliver had drunk a bare half of his first glass of wine, which was just as well. If anybody needed a clear head tonight, it was him.
Maggie was given a note by one of the young waitresses. She read it, went crimson, and tore it into pieces. A little later she went to the ladies’, and on her return was stopped between tables by her ex-husband, who put his hand on her arm and indicated she join his party.
Bea had a good look at the people on that table and identified the Other Woman without any difficulty; a brittle blonde, anorexic, with a greedy look in her eyes. The problem for Maggie’s husband was that his lover’s eyes were currently turned not on him, but on a minor television celebrity who was sitting ne
xt to her. Was Maggie’s ex-husband trying to make his lover jealous by paying attention to Maggie, or did he really feel he’d made a mistake and want to get her back?
Maggie listened to what her ex had to say, took in what his lover was doing, turned on her high heels and stalked back to her seat beside Oliver. Her cheeks flamed red, but otherwise she seemed in command of herself.
‘Well done, Maggie,’ said Bea, though she didn’t think Maggie was listening.
The cabaret turn was a rap singer; Jamaican in origin? Dreadlocks and all. He had the volume turned up high, so the room and everyone in it reacted to the recorded beat of his drum. Oh dear. Then the pianist took his place, thumping and trilling away. Apparently people enjoyed his performance, but it didn’t go down well with someone who had a headache.
The auction began. The pianist and Mrs Somers-Briggs worked this together; they were so polished a double act that Bea had to applaud. She asked Oliver to make notes during the auction, so that they could estimate how much money was being raised. Oliver, given something to do, stopped gazing into space in bored fashion, and started jotting down figures in his notebook. What had he done with his laptop? Was it on the floor beside him?
The photographer was working the room with the Asian girl. Everyone wanted to be photographed with her, and he was doing a good trade. Another note was delivered to Maggie. She read it, stood up, looked over to her ex-husband on the next table, tore the note into shreds and let them drop before resuming her seat. This time she didn’t blush, but turned pale. She reached for the wine bottle in front of her, only to find it was empty. Piers had not returned, and Bea wasn’t going to get any more wine for the young people. Unfortunately a middle-aged man on Maggie’s left – one of Max’s party – noticed that her glass was empty and poured her some wine from his own bottle.
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