by Wendy Holden
‘They married quite suddenly, didn’t they?’ Laura asked. ‘He dumped his previous fiancée, isn’t that right?’ She remembered the pictures of the smiling blue-eyed blonde.
As the driver didn’t reply to this, Laura looked questioningly at Georgia. Maybe she’d come round a bit now. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Georgia tucked her short dark hair behind her ears. ‘I don’t know anything about it. Here’s your villa, anyway.’ The PR scrambled hastily off even before the golf buggy slowed to a stop.
The stone was warm beneath Laura’s feet as she followed Georgia to the villa entrance. ‘From Yorkshire,’ the PR was saying.
‘Willow Bailey?’ That was unexpected, Laura thought. The daughter of the acting dynasty looked as if she had ‘Hampstead’ written through her like seaside rock had ‘Blackpool’.
‘No, the flagstones.’ Georgia gestured at the path.
‘Can you really tell me nothing about her? Or Merlin?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Never mind. I can look them up on my phone.’
Georgia was talking over her. ‘This villa has a state-of-the-art stereo system. Works on eyeball recognition, you only have to look at it to switch it on. And the roof slides back so you can see the stars.’
Laura only vaguely took this in, or noticed that they were inside the building now. She was concentrating entirely on the story growing in her mind. ‘And what about the jilted fiancée?’
‘Can I show you the bathroom? There’s an amazing wide mixer tap, the water comes out like a sort of sheet. And speaking of sheets they’re all 900 thread count linen...’
Light dawned on Laura as she followed Georgia across the smooth wooden floor. The Coconut Cay PR was playing dumb for a reason. She was obviously under instruction not to say anything reflecting badly on the island’s owner, or his family. Which made sense, of course. The only surprise, Laura thought, was that the hopeless Georgia had PR ability even to this extent.
Realising that it would be as well to drop the subject – for now, anyway – Laura tried to focus on her surroundings. It was effort richly rewarded; the villa she had been assigned was, if anything, even prettier than the others’. In the cool, white-painted sitting room, a long, loungy apricot sofa sat opposite a fireplace. The dining room’s wooden doors opened on to a garden with grass so glossy it seemed each strand had been individually blow-dried. A wicker sofa fat with white cushions sat on the veranda, offering a view over the indigo waters far below. Laura briefly envied Kate her birdcage swing chairs, especially as Kate was far too fat to risk sitting in them. But this was heaven, even if certain entitled journalists didn’t seem to think so.
She smiled at Georgia. ‘Coconut Cay will get a rave review from me, I can tell you that now.’
Georgia didn’t react. ‘Dinner’s at eight o’clock, in the main building. If you want to have a nap, I’ll give you an alarm call.’
Laura had been intending to investigate Merlin Redmond on her smartphone. ‘Good idea.’
The afternoon was calm, peaceful and warm. All the rigours of the long journey now seemed to catch up with her. Even as Georgia’s footsteps died away down the stone path – from Yorkshire – Laura was undressing and lying down on the scented white bed. She never napped with clothes on. To have a proper sleep, you had to be naked, and feel the cool sheets on your skin. The 900 thread count linen sheets.
Above her, a wide blue sky showed through the open roof. Thin green fingers of palm leaves rustled and rippled in the breeze. To the sweet music of strange birds, Laura drifted to sleep.
She woke in thick darkness, intensely disorientated. Where was she? What time was it? There was not a light in the place.
The whiteness of the bed glowed in the gloom. Above her, through the open roof, constellations hung like yellow lamps in the black sky. There was a strange whispering sound; the palm trees, Laura remembered. They were now invisible in the dark.
Her stomach growled. How long was it since she had eaten? Dinner was at eight, Georgia was going to call her. But, being the world’s worst PR, she’d forgotten.
There was no time for the leisurely dressing she had promised herself, still less the deep, scented bath with its ocean view. Laura scrambled out of bed and felt about for the black supermarket flip-flops which were her only concession to island dressing. They didn’t seem to be where she had left them, and where were her clothes?
By now Laura had found a light switch. She pressed it, but no resulting illumination flooded the room. Her smartphone, Laura remembered. It was under her pillow, she could use it as a torch. Her fingers scrabbled emptily about on the stretched linen. The smartphone had gone. Had it fallen down the back of the bed?
Both Candice and Kate had been given their own iPads and iPhones, Laura remembered. So they could behave like rock stars. She, on the other hand, didn’t have so much as a torch. She continued to cast about for her clothes, but they were nowhere to be felt, let alone seen. Had some hotel servant slipped in while she was asleep and taken them to the laundry? It could well be the sort of place where they did that kind of thing. She had one spare set, but where was her bag? That, too, could not be seen in the dark.
In the meantime, she was hungry. No, she was starving, and for someone who had been brought up in Paris and who appreciated food as Laura Lake appreciated it, this was no small problem. If she had no clothes, she would just dress in her sheet, that was all. Make it into a toga. Mimi, her French grandmother always said that you could get away with wearing anything if you wore it with sufficient confidence. Would that rule extend to a bed sheet? Well, Laura thought, twisting the linen about her and sallying forth over the still-warm stones of the garden path, she was about to find out.
*
The first thing Laura saw as she hurried through the hotel lobby and into the restaurant was that dinner was still going on. The second thing was that Kate seemed to have had some kind of accident. Her plump red arm was in a sling. The swing chair, Laura heard, had snapped under her weight. ‘It’s practically broken!’ she stormed.
‘I’m sure they can replace it,’ soothed Laura.
‘Not the chair! My arm!’ Kate touched the injured limb gingerly with the fat red fingers of her other hand. Then she glared at Georgia, a death stare that even Carinthia would have been proud of. ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer! And I’ll be giving a full account of the accident in my piece!’
Georgia bowed her head. It was not the time to complain about not being woken up, Laura decided. Or the fact that all her clothes had gone as well as her phone and the lights didn’t work.
Candice had not fared well either. Her infinity pool had not been infinite after all. Something had gone wrong with the wave machine and Candice had been swept over the edge into the bushes below. Her smooth tanned legs were now smooth, tanned and covered in red scratches. Candice let drop the folds of her black palazzo pants, her face thunderous. It cleared slightly as she saw Laura’s bed sheet dress. ‘Is that new season Balenciaga?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. Amazing workmanship.’
‘It’s a defiant aesthetic,’ Laura said.
‘Definitely.’
Laura sat down in her toga at the driftwood table prettily set with glass lanterns, scattered shells and linen napkins embroidered with pink and blue fish. More colourful fish decorated the bright artisanal plates. On Laura’s was a turquoise envelope. She was amazed to discover, inside, a $100 voucher for Jimmy Choos. ‘That’s so generous,’ she said, smiling up at Georgia.
‘You can have mine,’ Candice sourly put in. ‘I only ever wear Louboutins.’
‘Me too,’ Kate said, which seemed unlikely to Laura. Those square white toes would be lucky to fit in Dr Martens.
Laura looked round. The restaurant was set on a deck overlooking the sea. Bamboo parasols shadowed scrubbed wooden tables set with jars containing flickering votives. Against the wooden wall of the main building was a bamboo-fronted bar with a young white-
shirted barman behind it, polishing glasses.
‘Yoo hoo!’ Kate was waving at him between glugging from a big blue glass of pink wine.
‘Hands off!’ warned Candice, fluttering her fingers at the barman. She too seemed a little the worse for wine.
The young man put down his drying cloth and came over. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a handsome, high-cheekboned face. ‘Something I can get you, ma’am?’ he asked politely.
Candice made a gurgling sound in her throat. ‘Plenty! But nothing we could do here!’
‘Saucy!’ spluttered Kate.
The young man blinked, but maintained his pleasant expression.
Laura was ashamed of the others’ rudeness. She found herself ordering a gin and tonic even though she much preferred Campari and soda. But anything to distract this young man’s attention from the booze-soaked hags elsewhere on the table, and being tempted to put her in the same category.
The barman nodded his head and strode off, his head and shoulders high.
‘Nice arse!’ sniggered Kate.
‘Buns of steel!’ agreed Candice.
‘Do you mind?’ Laura said, indignantly.
‘No, I wouldn’t mind,’ Candice chortled.
‘Me neither!’ exploded Kate.
Throughout the incident, Georgia had not spoken a word. She seemed to have given up hope. ‘Tell me about the food,’ Laura prompted her, sidestepping the fact that she seemed to have missed the starter. ‘What should I choose?’
Georgia gave a hopeless sigh. ‘The gin-cured carrots...’
The Ugly Sisters were on her immediately, their lust for the barman temporarily forgotten.
‘Gin-cured carrots?’ Kate sneered. ‘Bit ten minutes ago, aren’t they? It’s all about Danish moss risotto now.’
‘Or pickled daikon and yuzu gel,’ added Candice, scornfully. ‘Really, this place is pathetic. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.’
‘Me too,’ Kate added nastily. ‘And you’ll be getting a no-star review, let me make that quite clear. If Redmond’s rolled his last dice on making a success of this place, that’s just too bad.’
Georgia looked as if she were about to cry.
‘Ladies! Ladies!’ Someone now joined them, a vigorous middle-aged man, tanned and lithe in frayed denim shorts and a black T-shirt with ‘Ginsberg Is God’ printed on it in white. He had about him a blond Scandinavian handsomeness, as well as a familiarity. He clearly expected them to know who he was and after a few seconds Laura realised she did. Not least because, on closer inspection, the ‘Ginsberg’ on his T-shirt had been crossed out and ‘James Redmond’ scribbled over it in thin red capitals.
They were in the famously dynamic presence of Coconut Cay’s billionaire owner. He stood before their table, tall, handsome and energetic; well-kept hands on well-exercised hips, smiling his big square white smile.
Laura felt, rather than saw, Georgia stiffen with terror in her seat.
‘Enjoying ourselves, are we?’ His bright, wide-set blue eyes roamed expectantly around their group, evidently anticipating a resounding positive. Laura steeled herself for his reaction when he heard the opposite.
Except that, to her amazement, he didn’t.
Candice was first. Looking dazzled, she leaned forward to give Redmond an eyeful of what meagre cleavage she could manage and mussed her hair with a coquettish hand. ‘Very much,’ she cooed. ‘It’s all absolutely marvellous!’
Laura gasped, wondering if she had heard right. One glance at the editor of Billionaire Traveller confirmed that she had. Candice was a different woman. Her critical frown had given way to an expression almost of worship, her misgivings melted like ice-cream in the heat of Redmond’s attention.
Laura slid Georgia a conspiratorial smile; disaster averted! Victory pulled from the jaws of defeat! The PR did not meet her gaze, however; perhaps her relief was so great she didn’t trust herself to.
‘Good, good.’ James Redmond nodded, then suddenly lurched forward. He grabbed Candice out of her chair and lifted her up into the air. His trademark movement, Laura recognised. Picking up women.
Candice was uttering small, fetching shrieks, wiggling her much-scratched legs in delight, obviously thrilled to be manhandled by one of Britain’s wealthiest men. Even if his wealth seemed rather in question at the moment.
Laura gripped her seat’s wicker arms and shrank against the woven chair-back. There was absolutely no way James Redmond was doing that to her. She was naked under her sheet for one thing, and the toga arrangement was far from robust.
Kate, on the other hand, beamed expectantly upwards and shifted her bulk excitedly in her seat. That she hoped to be picked next was obvious. Redmond shot her an assessing look. ‘That arm looks bad,’ he said hopefully.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Kate gushed, her manner suddenly so grotesquely flirtatious that Laura had to grind her teeth together to stop a guffaw in its tracks. The ‘nearly broken’ limb was now revealed as a bruise at the most as Kate whipped off the sling and flexed her forearm.
The billionaire businessman now had no choice but to step up to the plate – or fish-decorated plates – and do his best not to wince as he heaved Kate upwards. A vein bulged in his temple and his face became purple with effort. As he returned her to the deck, gasping audibly, Laura suppressed with difficulty another bubble of mirth.
White-faced and drained, James Redmond collapsed into a nearby chair. ‘You ladies got a plan for tomorrow?’ he managed.
Candice and Kate looked at each other. The original plan had been to leave, of course. ‘Er...’
‘Then you must have a treatment! In the spa!’ The billionaire, his depleted energy now returning, leant eagerly forward, eyes shining with his famous enthusiasm. ‘Georgia’s talked you through the options, I take it?’
‘No,’ Candice and Kate chorused damningly, as Georgia looked down at her trembling hands.
‘No? Then let me tell you about them.’ Redmond was grinning. But the glance he shot at his employee was cold, glinting and had a distinct ‘I’ll deal with you later’ quality about it.
Part of Laura could not blame him. This really was hopeless of Georgia. The PR’s job was to sell the delights of the hotel and so far she had not uttered a single word about beauty treatments. Not even when Candice, banging on about sound baths and salt caves, had given her the perfect cue.
James Redmond was evidently determined to make up for this lost opportunity. He waxed lyrical about waxings and eulogised about a yogi who whispered sacred words and rolled crystals down your spine.
‘Our Healing Bowl Ceremony is also unique to us,’ the exuberant billionaire went on. He was a great salesman, Laura had to admit. He had this brace of previously scornful journalists in the palm of his hand, lapping up his every word. They reminded her of the Ugly Sisters again, but at the point in the story when Prince Charming arrived with the glass slipper and they had to suspend their campaign against Cinderella.
‘How fascinating,’ Candice pouted. ‘Do tell us more.’
‘Incredible,’ Kate added. She batted her stumpy little eyelashes.
‘What is the Healing Bowl Ceremony?’ Candice seized the initiative back.
‘We’re dying to know!’ snatched Kate.
Redmond smiled his big white wolfish smile. It was clear that he knew hooked fish when he saw them. The reviews would be every bit as glorious as he wanted.
And Georgia, while not especially deserving it, was saved. Laura glanced at the PR again, but again her glance was not met. Perhaps Georgia was worrying about what her boss was going to say to her later.
For now, though, Redmond had eyes only for Candice. ‘Your body,’ he began, lingering slightly on the words so Candice shuddered, ‘is wrapped in clay. Small metal bowls are placed against it and rhythmically... struck.’
‘Really?’ Kate was agog. ‘Why?’
Redmond pushed back a hank of his still-thick blond hair. ‘Our internal organs,’ he told her, ‘vibrate at particula
r frequencies.’
‘Mine certainly do,’ snorted Kate. ‘The frequency they vibrate best at is Veuve Clicquot.’
Redmond gave a bark of laughter so loud and violent it made them all jump. Laura could imagine how terrifying his shouts would be when he was angry. ‘I’ll have some sent over straight away.’
He beamed at Candice and rubbed the tanned, well-kept hands on which a gold signet ring gleamed in the last of the sunset. ‘Now, what treatment shall we organise for you? How about Cancun Charlie?’ This was one of his star masseurs apparently, a former rock n’ roll photographer who’d studied with Mexican tribes and used special sacred incense.
Candice smiled sweetly. ‘I’ve met him. He used to be at Slavemaster Island.’
‘Yeah, that’s where we poached him from.’ A muscle ticked angrily in Redmond’s cheek. ‘Okay then. Kinesis studio? Watsu pool?’
‘Check.’ Candice said, flirtatiously. She seemed to be enjoying putting him through his paces.
Redmond’s wolfish grin was starting to look strained. ‘Noguchi Seitai therapy?’
‘Mmm hmm.’
Redmond looked at his PR for help, but none was forthcoming. When was it ever, Laura wondered. Georgia was absolutely hopeless.
Redmond wrenched the signet ring round on his finger. ‘Um, lomi-lomi massage?’
That sounded completely invented to Laura, but Candice smiled. ‘Only last week.’ She was clearly adoring having this powerful man try to impress her.
James Redmond was clearly adoring it considerably less. His blond brow lowered and the blue eyes retracted into their sockets. A cold sapphire light flickered in their depths. That this was not a man to cross was obvious. He would be a dangerous enemy, a cruel adversary.
Laura thought again about her feature. A paradise island; a sudden, wild romance; a jilted bride. A megalomaniac billionaire. It was getting better all the time.
‘Underwater propulsion therapy!’ roared Redmond, in his sudden, heart-stopping way.
So startled was Candice that the pencil flew out of her hair and hit Kate in the eye. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’