Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  Anna watched until the doors swung closed behind the last guest and the forecourt was silent again, aware that not a single person had arrived alone.

  Oh, Jack …

  Anna had never phoned him at home for obvious reasons, and he had insisted that Anna should only ring his mobile in the direst of emergencies. Well, tonight was an emergency – her heart was about to break from loneliness. Folding up the curtain, she placed it neatly on the windowsill and went over to the phone.

  Half an hour later, she admitted defeat. An outside line was more than the flesh-pink plastic could cope with. Each time she tried she found herself connected either to a local radio phone-in programme: ‘Well and hello there, caller! And what views will you be wanting to share in our unbiased discussion on the terrible crime of abortion?’; or the local garda ‘Is that you again, Mrs Murphy? And it’s good news I have for ye. Tigger’s been spotted under a car in Keats Road, so he has, and Officer O’Leary’s on his way to the scene right now.’ Anna decided that enough was enough. She glanced at her watch again. Nearly ten. If only she could ring Sam, just to let him know she was thinking of him, say goodnight and God bless. Chances of being able to get through to the Bald Eagle, the local pub where he and his best man plus the ushers were staying, were clearly zero, and anyway they’d probably have got Sam legless by now …

  Best to have an early night. And if she looked on the bright side that meant she’d a) get warm and b) have some much needed beauty sleep. She could watch television. With a bit of luck there’d be a really scary horror film – Nosferatu would fit the bill nicely – that would make her feel positively grateful that Tina and the relatives from hell were the worst she’d have to cope with tomorrow.

  She undressed, cleaned her teeth, piled all her clothes plus the curtain on top of the bed, jumped in, remote control in hand, made herself as comfortable as she could against the thin, slithery pillows, and pressed the on-button.

  She gave up more quickly, this time. It only took about three minutes to realise that the only programmes on offer were a local news channel, an Irish soap and a hardcore porn film featuring donkeys. Throwing back the covers, she leapt out of bed, dug the by now slightly crumpled magazine and battered stash of chocolate out of her bag, slid back under the covers, beat the pillows into submission once more and settled down, feeling almost happy. At least she was on safe ground here; a magazine would require no new batteries, no dead fuses would need replacing, no defunct plugs demand rewiring. With a sigh, she opened the magazine and was confronted by a full-colour double-page spread with the headline, THE HIDDEN COST TO YOUR HEALTH OF AN AFFAIR.

  Anna hurled the magazine across the room, enjoying the splintering as it hit the teasmade and sent it crashing to the floor.

  Switching off the lamp, she lay grimly counting the stars dusting the rectangle of velvet sky visible through the uncurtained panes of glass until at last, worn out, she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Midnight.

  Declan sat in his garden, enjoying the scents and shadows of the country darkness. The drizzle had stopped while he’d been indoors developing the film he’d taken that afternoon – mostly studies of the shifting grey clouds reflected in the rain butt. There’d been leaves and dead insects floating in there, too; the shapes and textures had been extraordinary. After he’d finished he’d cleaned up the workroom, and come outside to clear his head before he organised his gear for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow! Jesus Christ, the thought of photographing another bloody wedding was enough to make him want to throw up. He tilted the bottle of Guinness to his mouth. A wedding should be a private affair, like his and Maura’s had been, not a West End stage production with a cast of thousands and more attention paid to the Heal’s gift list than the meaning of the ceremony.

  The things you saw in this game. At a bash he’d done in County Mayo last year – he’d needed the cash so he could splash out on a decent present for his parents’ Golden Wedding – he’d seen the bride’s father rogering the chief bridesmaid in the back of his Bentley Continental in the hotel car park. He’d nipped back to the van to get some more film when he’d noticed the car rocking and through the back window a flurry of bright pink silk and mottled flesh mingled with black pinstripe and grey hair. His automatic response had been to raise the Pentax slung round his neck and start shooting – the colour contrast had been superb, and the car window had created a perfect frame for the composition – when two contorted faces had reared up against the glass and he understood exactly what he was looking at. He’d given an apologetic wave of his arm – apologetic? Why the hell was he apologising? – and got the hell back to the reception. The bride’s mother had been in the kitchen bawling out the caterers when he walked past. She’d caught one of the waitresses sneaking a prawn vol au vent or something. He drained the Guinness and sighed. By the sound of it, tomorrow’s do wouldn’t be a whole lot better – from her phone calls it sounded as if all Nita, or Zita, or whatever the woman’s name was, cared about was outdoing the Royal family in the pomp and circumstance stakes. Last time she’d phoned she’d been bleating about the florist complaining about her late night phone calls. He grinned. If he’d been the florist he’d have told her exactly where she could shove her buttonholes …

  Ah well. It was all part of life’s rich pattern.

  He got to his feet and stood gazing at the stars glittering silently in the sky above the distant mountains.

  After a while, he went inside and started to pack his camera bag.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Very early next day, a smart white, unmarked van sped into the service area of The Grand Hotel and swerved to a halt. The driver, a young man sporting a quiff that would have put Elvis to shame, crepe soles so thick Little Richard would have killed for them and a shoelace tie that would have had Lee Van Cleef weeping with envy, leapt out and regarded himself critically in the cracked wing mirror. Licking his fingers he applied spittle to eyebrows and sideboards, and checked his front teeth for any errant remnants of breakfast. Satisfied, he adjusted his balls with a practised gesture and wiped his nose (the morning was chilly) on the back of his sleeve.

  Whistling, he hurried round to the back of the van, threw open the doors and began to unload stack after stack of smart white, unmarked boxes onto the gravel.

  Meanwhile, several miles along the road from Knock airport, an old grey Morris Minor full of giggling nuns was coming to a halt outside a grey stone convent. The nuns waved delightedly as Jack, unshaven, dishevelled, and clasping his holdall tightly against his nether regions (he’d never know whether the fat one with the horsy teeth had meant to grope him as he climbed in), extricated himself from the back seat.

  He waved goodbye as the Morris was swallowed up by the thorn-crowned black gates. Checking his watch for the hundredth time since he got off the plane, he took up position by the side of the deserted highway and stuck out his thumb.

  Anna woke with a start and tried to remember where she was. She raised herself up on an elbow and the sight of the semi-curtained window, the coffin-like wardrobe and the heap of green plastic shards and rusting metal coils that had once been the teasmade did the trick pretty quickly.

  It all added up to only one thing.

  Today was the day.

  She closed her eyes again and tried to keep calm. The thought of the perils and trials, the pure terrors that lay ahead were enough to make a yogi hyperventilate. Yogi. Indian. Breathing exercises! Yes, that was the thing! It was clear to her now that these had failed before because there had been too many distractions. If you were lying flat out in bed with your eyes closed they were bound to work.

  In …

  Must remember to make the bloody switchboard get hold of Sam at the Bald Eagle, so she could send him huge love, and wish him all the luck in the world.

  Out …

  Would the creases have hung out of her suit? Had she packed her spare tights?

  In …

  Sho
uld she sing along with the hymns in church and risk being at least half a verse behind the rest of the congregation or maintain a serene and dignified silence?

  Out …

  Down the corridor the lift door clanged shut; seagulls flew past her window screaming raucously; and her stomach rumbled so loudly she thought for a moment it was thunder.

  Anna opened her eyes. Bloody Indian healers! As soon as she got home she was going to ring breakfast TV and complain.

  Flinging back the covers, she leapt out of bed and began to get dressed. Maybe breakfast would help …

  In the hotel kitchen, the van driver put a pile of smart, white, unmarked boxes onto a counter and turned with a show of elaborate cool as the door to reception opened and Bernadette sauntered in yawning. Affecting a start of surprise as she saw the driver, she sashayed over and plugged in the kettle with a toss of her straw curls (she’d been up since five with the curling tongs in preparation for this encounter) and a moué of her thickly glossed lips. (Guaranteed to ‘Drive Men Wild’, the ad said, and Bernadette’s faith in ads was second only to her faith in the Holy Trinity.)

  ‘Oh hiya. Didn’t realise you did your round this early – I wasn’t expecting to see anyone yet.’

  The delivery man shrugged. It had looked dead good when he practised in the mirror last night but he’d been on his tod then, hadn’t he, so it had been easy.

  ‘So d’you want a coffee, then?’

  He ran a finger round the back of his collar, and tried to speak.

  Bernadette shrugged. It had looked pretty good when she practised in the mirror last night, especially when she flicked a sort of sideways look under her lashes. ‘It’s no bother. I’m having one.’

  He checked his quiff and ran a hand over his shirt front. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  Bernadette checked her lip gloss with the tip of her tongue. It was passion-fruit flavoured – guaranteed to have ’em ‘Dropping Like Flies’. As she turned away to fetch the mugs, she took the opportunity to unfasten another button on her white blouse.

  Eight o’clock: Anna had spent the last hour and ten minutes having a stand-up blanket bath in the freezing bathroom and washing her hair. By the time she was dressed (in her good trousers and her best Oasis sale sweater – the wedding wasn’t until twelve and she wasn’t going to take any risks with the delphinium blue velvet) she was faint with hunger. There was no way she was going to have breakfast in the dining room, it would be full of the Tina contingent and IT guys. She checked the room service brochure. Yup – there it was; up and running at 8.00 a.m. Great. She’d have a pot of coffee and a Grand de-luxe half-grapefruit followed by a Grand de-luxe mixed grill and several Grand de-luxe slices of toast. She felt better already. And wasn’t that a faint glimmer of sunshine behind the trees over there?

  Smiling, she pressed the button marked Reception.

  After half an hour, having found herself connected to various guests’ bedrooms, directory enquiries and the speaking clock, she replaced the receiver carefully, picked up the leatherbound tome and threw it very hard at St Sebastian. Feeling slightly better, she picked up her bag and marched to the door. It was clear there was nothing for it; if she didn’t want to pass out on the steps of the sodding church she was going to have to put in a personal appearance at reception and bloody well demand service.

  After a lack of response to her summons for the lift, she hurried down the stairs and crossed the deserted foyer. The gladioli had wilted further since last night, and the condom-like object still lay in the grate. The reception desk was unmanned, but the door behind it stood ajar, affording a glimpse of marble-topped counters and an industrial-sized fridge. Must be the kitchens. There was a hell of a racket going on. Some sort of TV drama, by the sound of it, all shouting and feckin’ this and feckin’ that – probably an Irish version of Eastenders. She reached out and was about to ring the bell when something hit the other side of the door with a thud and the noise escalated sharply. A roar was followed by a high scream of fear.

  Anna gasped: violence was clearly imminent. She looked around for help, but the foyer was still deserted. Suddenly a slight figure with a madly bobbing quiff and crepe-soled shoes sprinted across the doorway, hotly pursued by a much larger figure in tweeds loudly promising his quarry a lingering and feckin’ painful death. Anna clapped a hand to her mouth. She couldn’t have Lucy and Sam’s wedding day ruined by a murder! Banishing the thought that leapt unbidden to her mind – unless of course the victim was bloody Tina – she darted round the end of the reception desk and ran into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘I’ll have yez guts for garters, ye randy little rat! Leavin’ the feckin’ boxes on the feckin’ ground for the feckin’ cats to pillage while you try ‘n weasel yer way into Bernadette’s feckin’ knickers! I’ll kill yez – so help me, I’ll feckin’ kill yez!’

  The figure in tweeds lunged at his terrified prey. Bernadette, watching wide-eyed from the shelter of the huge cream-coloured fridge, so ancient Anna thought it must surely be the original prototype, squealed with terror. Seizing the gibbering delivery man by his sky-blue polyester lapels, his persecutor shook him like a terrier worrying a rabbit, screaming incoherently and shaking with fury. Anna could stand it no longer. Rushing forward she grabbed the big man’s right sleeve and yelled at Bernadette to fetch the hotel owner.

  As Bernadette shrieked, ‘Eejit! Mr O’Flynn is the hotel owner!’ the big man scowled and attempted to shake Anna off. The delivery man took advantage of the momentary lull in hostilities to slip from his attacker’s grasp. Gibbering, he raced for the open back door. Red-faced and panting, his tormentor succeeded in dislodging Anna and, cursing, lumbered after him. As he disappeared Anna heard a door slam and an engine burst into life. With a violent crashing of gears and a defiant blast of the hooter that made Bernadette smile a small and secret smile, the delivery man made his escape.

  Anna gave a sigh of relief. Now she might finally get some breakfast. The best thing would be to carry on as if nothing had happened, tell Bernadette politely but firmly that she’d like breakfast brought to her room at once and ask how she could get an outside line so she could ring Sam.

  She smiled brightly. ‘Well, that was an interesting start to the day, wasn’t it? Now, I wonder if I might order …’

  There was a roar behind her. ‘An’ you can tell yer weasley feckin’ little friend to get out, too, Bernadette! I’d’ve had the bugger if it hadn’t been fer …’

  The receptionist’s plump hands flew to her mouth. ‘But she’s not my friend, Mr O’Flynn. She’s –’

  ‘An’ what will we be givin’ the buggers for their feckin’ puddin’ now, eh? Answer me that if yez can!’

  Anna turned. The large man stood by the back door, trembling with rage and pointing to the courtyard beyond dramatically. She took a step back. Really, this was a bit rich. Didn’t he realise she was a guest? And not just any old guest, either, for heaven’s sake – hell, she was the … Before she knew it he’d surged forward and grabbed her arm. As Bernadette fluttered and wrung her hands ineffectually, savouring every moment to regale her best friend Siobhan with later, he frogmarched Anna outside, coming to a halt beside a trail of horribly battered and chewed once smart, white unmarked boxes that lay strewn over the gravel.

  Beside them lay scattered a great many tiny gold pots.

  A movement near the sparse yew hedge at the other end of the courtyard caught her eye. A couple of large tomcats with distended stomachs lay beside it, the biggest one licking its lips and, Anna was pretty sure, grinning. The hedge failed to screen the jumble of lidless dustbins behind; it was clear that they’d just breakfasted off the remains of last night’s dinner. With an oath, the large man bent down, picked up a sharp stone and hurled it at the cats; it missed by a mile. Anna was about to scream for help – fading quietly away from starvation was one thing, being battered to death by a madman quite another – when her captor suddenly crumpled. Letting go of her arm, he san
k down beside an ornamental Victorian urn and burst into noisy tears.

  ‘Feckin’ randy van drivers … feckin’ crème feckin’ brûlées … feckin’ weddins …’

  Weddings?

  Crèmes fucking brûlées?

  Just a minute, hadn’t Tina said something about crèmes brûlées being Lucy’s favourite pudding? Evidently they were to feature big in the wedding breakfast, and the gold pots were being delivered for use as individual containers. Great idea – they’d look brilliant. As she contemplated the wreckage, the madness of the last few minutes began to make sense. Clearly the man sobbing his heart out beside her was terrified of telling his chef what had happened. Everyone knew chefs were a temperamental lot, look at Gordon Ramsay, he’d probably have hung drawn and quartered his entire staff with his bare hands if his gold pots had been mucked up. It was up to her to make him see that it really wasn’t such a disaster after all. In fact if they moved fast, the chef need never know what had happened.

  Crouching down, she began to gather up the pots.

  ‘Please don’t be upset – they’re fine, really, look!’

  She held one out to him. He shook his head violently, then burst into fresh paroxyms of sobbing. Wow. Chef must be really something. ‘Honestly, all they need is a quick rinse and –’

  He looked up at her fiercely. ‘And what, eh? No good servin’ empty feckin’ pots, is it?’

  Anna sat back on her heels and stared at him, nonplussed.

  ‘Feckin’ cats.’ He hiccuped. ‘Ate the feckin’ lot.’

  So the pots had been full! How odd that they’d been delivered. Obviously some arcane Irish country recipe had been handed down through the chef’s family for centuries – he’d had the mixture bubbling away in an iron pot deep in the woods all night and the driver had just been popping them over to the fridge to be chilled. No wonder The Grand’s owner was so upset.