by Ruby Soames
‘Ahoy!’ answers a man on deck as he canters down the shining gangplank to meet us. He has brilliantly blonde hair, wears a blonde suit, a deep tan and has four long white hairs emerging from his chest. He reminds me of an ageing palomino.
‘Hey-ah!’ he neighs, giving me a hand over the coiled ropes. ‘Watch your ankles on these!’ His smile displays thousands of pounds worth of dentistry.
The two men clasp each other and I am once again intrigued by how easy Peter is with everyone. Johnny puts an arm around the two of us and walks with us up on deck.
‘So, tell me all about the –’
A crowd murmurs as it stares down into the marina. We move quickly towards the commotion and focus on the shallow water between the boats. A huddle of Caribbean men are dragging at something large and heavy. It looks like a dead body. Tourists click away at their phones. Someone whispers that it’s a child, another insists it’s a baby whale. We hold our breaths. All this morning I had a feeling I’d see a dead body today. We lean right over the railings, craning our necks as far out as we can yet holding tight in case we need to pull ourselves back.
‘I think it’s alive,’ says Peter who is videoing the scene.
I frown disapprovingly at him. ‘Peter, this could be –’
‘– a story,’ he says moving my head out of the way.
All at once the crowds by the waterfront jump back. Hands cover faces and children are told not to look. The men start pulling at once. There’s a cry and I see a long leg jutting out of the water to kick at one of the men – it gets him where it hurts and he doubles over in pain. The other boatmen roar with laughter.
Whatever they’re dragging in from the water is very much alive. An arm shoots out this time, grabs a man’s shirt and shakes it. Then I see the great weight. It’s not a murder victim, a giant fish, the remains of a pirate or a treasure: it’s Bunny Templeton-Crest. She’s trying the breaststroke when the men finally catch hold of her.
‘Bring her up here boys!’ orders Johnny. ‘She’s one of mine.’
It takes five of the crew to lift her up and lead her back towards the dockside where she is hauled onto the deck by Peter and Johnny.
‘Come on dear, up here, there you go! Wonderful to see you again!’ Johnny takes her hand and shoos away the men who were holding her stable.
She wipes at the mud in hard punishing motions. Everyone watches to see if she can stand unaided.
Johnny kisses her cheek. ‘You’re a little early for a swim, my dear. We were going to wait till we got to the island first.’
‘Ya!’ she spits mud from her mouth.
‘So where’s Roy?’ asks Johnny.
‘He’s –’ she screws up her face and waves her hand around, vaguely.
Johnny smiles sympathetically, ‘What a shame. Next time, eh?’
He grabs hold of her before she falls back. Then she turns, embarrassed by her lack of agility, and tries to march ahead of us. She trips over her skirt and grabs hold of Peter to break her fall.
She looks up at him, sneering, shaking him. ‘Don’t-laugh-at-me,’ she says angrily.
Peter flicks her hands away while Johnny takes her by the shoulder and leads her toward the lower deck.
‘Bunny, I’ll get someone to help you change into something … dry.’ He signals to a young Barbadian woman. ‘Josie, could you take Lady Templeton-Crest to Ottilie’s room, help her freshen up.’
The three of us watch as Bunny stumbles away, propped up by the maid.
‘My parties are known to end with women jumping into the water, not begin!’ laughs Johnny. ‘She was once a real beauty.’ Johnny looks at Peter, ‘So! Ya’ll right? It’s been a while.’
‘Too long, old friend, yeah, life’s pretty good.’
‘And who’s this lovely young lady?’
‘Johnny, please meet my friend Sarah.’
Johnny gives me a beaming smile. He is about to say something when the definition of ravishing appears behind him.
‘Who was that woman?’ she asks.
‘Lady T-C,’ Johnny says, stressing the “lady” part. ‘She’s one of the old Antigua gang, her husband drives a wheel chair.’
‘Looks like she could do with one.’
We laugh uncomfortably; it seems callous for someone so young and gorgeous to be so void of compassion.
‘Josie’s helping her change. Sarah, Peter, let me introduce you to Kimberly. Kimberly, do you remember I told you about Peter? His parents used to own the old colonial sugar farm on the headland.’ She nods vaguely. ‘Anyway, you guys, Kimberly, she’s half-Brazilian and half-Dutch.’
‘Danish,’ she corrects.
‘My little Viking,’ he says as he puts his arm around her mother-of-pearl tinted waist. Her smile’s so perfectly symmetrical it makes me want to giggle.
Johnny looks up at the sky, ‘Damn awful day – they say a storm is in the air. Come on,’ He leads us to the upper deck where most of the guests are mingling. ‘Look how the water’s all stirred up. Let’s hope the sun’ll break through, eh, but, my dears, let’s get you drinks.’
Many in the party look like Johnny and Kimberly, apart from a few Japanese businessmen tapping their feet irregularly to reggae music while keeping an eye on the scantily-clad waitresses. A group of older Russian men gather inside a cloud of nubile girls who wear impossibly high heels and little else. I stop scanning the guests when I come to Henry Hardwick wearing a sailor’s hat. He is talking to a small, animated man in a Breton T-shirt. Henry nods distractedly while exchanging his empty champagne glass for a full one from the waiter’s tray. Their conversation seems to be winding down, both men swivel round to examine the rest of the crowd and then he sees me. He looks straight at me, and then turns away. There’s no sign of recognition, smile, squint of displeasure even, nothing. In that split second, he might have pulled out a laser gun and zapped me. But I remain standing, watching my father.
Bunny reappears as though she’d stepped out of a time machine and had been restored to an earlier version of herself. She wears a vibrantly-coloured dress and her hair is piled on top of her head and pinned with fresh flowers. She swans past and nods at someone in the distance.
Peter claims not to know anyone, although hardly a second goes by without someone breaking into our conversations and hugging him. Then I hear a shriek.
‘Pete! Pete!’
We turn as a girl races forward and throws her arms around his neck. Peter murmurs, ‘Ottilie!’
I surprise myself by bristling. Was she a girl he could fake it with?
I sip my champagne, look out to sea and hope not to appear too curious.
6
‘You’re from London … Oh my God! So am I!’ Ottilie holds out her arms as if beseeching the heavens. ‘I bet we know some of the same people –’
I don’t really see why it would matter but it does to her. She looks about my age although her expensive clothes and haircut catapult her into a different income bracket.
‘What’s your name?’
Peter cuts in giving my false name.
She asks for it again, bewildered that she’s never heard of me. ‘Sarah Banks … Sarah –’
Peter and I exchange a knowing smile.
‘Do you know Oscar Cox-Pollack? Sophie Hampton? Drew Stapleton-Fox? Caz … not Caz? Rebecca Hobson? OK, but you must know Tash, Tash McKendrick …?’
‘She used to be my flatmate.’
‘Oh right! So you must know Joseph West?’
‘I’ve met him, yeah –’
‘Have you heard he’s marrying Sylvia Amery this weekend, here? I’m desperately trying to get in touch with Rebecca but it’s all so incredibly hush-hush and we’ve been out to sea but – it’s going to be fabbidabbidoozzy!’ Ottilie squeezes Peter’s arm in excitement. ‘Let’s all go together!’ She turns to me, ‘I thought you’d know Tash – she knows everyone! I was at school with her.’
‘Well, never rent a room from her,’ I warn.
Ottilie l
aughs and announces that we should go and make Martinis, ‘Really fucking strong ones!’
In the Captain’s Cabin we clink our glasses together.
‘Let’s drink to … things getting fucking better!’ Ottilie says, taking large gulps from her glass and swearing loudly every time her pimento separates from the olive. She tries to impale it with a toothpick but the miniature skewer slips from her hand a third time and the olive escapes.
I notice her fingers are trembling and there are tears in her eyes. ‘Hey, you OK?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine … I will be fine … things getting bet –’ She shakes her head unable to speak.
‘Come on Ottilie, get over it,’ says Peter impatiently.
Ottilie leans over the counter and looks longingly out to sea. ‘Peter … Peter,’ she repeats. ‘Peter, I haven’t seen you since … since the fucking Grand Prix!’ He nods, lifts his drink to hers, clinks them delicately together so they ring out. The two of them look into each other’s eyes and for a moment I wonder if they’ve completely forgotten that I’m here.
Then Ottilie grabs an unopened bottle of Vodka.
‘Let’s get drunk,’ she says, dragging her glossy hair back from her face. ‘It’s just … fuck … Peter, you know –’ she half laughs but lets out a cry instead. She lowers her voice so that I have to bring my ear to her mouth. ‘Didn’t Peter say anything to you? Just check the door Pete, see no one’s listening.’ She downs her drink in one. ‘God! It’s so brilliant to have someone to talk to!’ she exclaims. ‘I’m so glad Peter brought you, I’ve been going out of my fucking mind for some decent girly talk! Oh God!’ She stamps her foot in an effort to regain emotional control. Then she lowers her voice again, ‘It’s just … I’ve been with Johnny for ages, you know, we’ve had a party every night for the last four years. Anyway, it was one of those, “When I’m in London I’ll always call you sort of thing,” but more than that, wasn’t it, Peter? I decorated his place in Mallorca, I’m the one who goes to his kids’ parents’ evenings when his ex-wife’s having implants in her buttocks, and, the years go by, I really thought –’ she taps her bare wedding finger, ‘you do, don’t you?’
I gulp back a thimble-full of Gin wondering why I didn’t push for Joseph and I to marry.
‘So last week he says, “Drop everything, I really want you to come out to Barbados, I’ve something important to tell you.” Of course, I thought, this is it. This is really fucking it! And you know what the important things was? I got to meet Kimberly, his new girlfriend! And that’s it. Just fucking wham! Bam! No warning, fucking nothing. And I’m left here passing around the nibbles!’
‘Come on, Ottilie, you knew this would happen.’
‘But we were so good together and I … I’m going to be thirty in three years! And here I am, staying on this bloody boat, organising her shopping trips and yesterday –’ she chokes on the tears, ‘yesterday I helped him put mirrors up over their bed so he could watch them fucking fucking! Can you believe it?’
Peter puts his hand on her back and gives her a kiss on the head.
Kimberly taps her nails on the glass door.
‘Ah, so this is where the real party is.’ She looks at each of us, she can probably tell by our expressions that we were talking about her. ‘Peter, we need you to translate for Mr Kawasoto … sorry girls, if you can spare him.’
Peter looks to me to check that I can cope without him. I wave him off; Ottilie is like a little piece of home. Even if a little too close to home. The humiliation of being jilted for a beautiful blonde is all too familiar.
Ottilie wiggles her fingers to say goodbye, trying to avoid eye-contact with Kimberly. When the model leaves, Ottilie puts two ice cubes in her mouth and pours the Martini between them.
‘Peter speaks Japanese?’ I ask.
‘Course not,’ she says, shaking her head and dribbling, ‘he’s just very charming. Where did you meet him?’
‘He has the room next to mine at the hotel –’
‘A holiday on your own. I’d never be brave enough.’ She makes us another drink.
‘I came out here to recover from a break-up, so I know how you feel.’
‘Oh, we haven’t broken up! God no!’ She laughs at the thought of it. ‘This is just Johnny on some Victoria’s Secret model jag. He’ll get over it and I’ll be right here,’ she shuts her eyes and sways. ‘The boat’s started moving. I should see if everyone’s all right for drinks. You have such beautiful eyes … Peter really likes you, y’know.’
‘Do you know Peter well?’
‘Peter? Oh, I know Peter,’ she answers.
‘Is there anything I should know about him?’
‘Oh he’s fab. Fun. Fucked up. Don’t expect him to call you when you get home.’ Then she clasps her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry … that was an awful thing to say. Fuck, sorry. I’m sure it’ll be different with you. Don’t listen to me … I’m just bitter and twisted. He looks besotted with you and he’s got to settle down at some point.’
‘It’s OK, he’s told me all about not being able to make any commitments. What with his job and everything –’
‘His job?’
‘Being a war journalist.’
‘A what?’
‘A war reporter, you know, Iraq, Syria, the Ivory Coast and –’
‘Who told you that?’
‘He did. He’s married to his work –’
‘Peter – work?’ Ottilie laughs so hard she spills some of her drink down her front. ‘Oh my God! Sorry, sorry, but that’s so funny!’ She snorts before saying, ‘I was worried that I was clinically depressed because I haven’t laughed since last Christmas – you’ve cured me! Thank you!’
‘Why’s that funny?’
‘Peter’s never had a job in his life! He lives off his parents, who are totally fed up with him. That’s why they stay on another island when he’s here. He’s a social sparkler but a complete drop out! A war journalist? Is that what he told you? Oh dear,’ she wipes the tears from her eyes. ‘Men! Now I’ve heard it all!’
‘But he told me about how he’s travelled all over the world writing about –’
As I speak she wrinkles her nose and grins. She’s more surprised that I would believe his stories than that he would lie.
‘Sarah, he’s in Barbados now – where’s the war?’
‘You mean –?’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything … but you took me by surprise when you said that about him being a –’ she can’t speak for laughing, ‘journalist. That’s so hilarious! Hey, he’s just a boy,’ she taps the side of her head, ‘take the sex and run!’
7
Peter looks so handsome standing on deck, so plausible. He sees me looking at him and raises his glass before returning to a conversation. His head moves up and down, his champagne glass is slightly at an angle as if he is so absorbed in the speaker’s story that he has forgotten his drink, but I doubt he’s even listening. Peter calls me over and introduces me to a small group of American investors who are hoping to buy beach-front properties. Peter, of course, knows just the places and a deal is in the offing. As soon as there’s a lull I slip away, but Peter follows me.
‘You OK?’
‘I’ve had a little too much to drink.’
‘Ottilie’s a lethal bar tender. What were you two talking about?’
I shrug.
He knows.
‘You know, she’s not so innocent … you can’t always believe her. She’s trouble. I’ll tell you about her later … just let me say one thing. She’s doesn’t take rejection well … not from Johnny, not from me … y’know what I mean? Sarah … she said something, didn’t she, about me?’
‘Would you get me another drink? Something soft.’ I try to give a perky, flirtatious lilt to my request but it comes out spiteful.
He puts his hand over mine, it’s clammy. ‘I’ll get you whatever you want.’
I watch the sea until I sense someone behind me. I brace for Peter
again, but it’s Henry, thankfully he’s abandoned his sailor’s hat.
‘I see you found us,’ he murmurs. ‘Quite a mixed mob, aren’t they?’ He pauses to watch a woman kick her leg over the head of a man in a Tarzan outfit.
‘Yuleka said you weren’t feeling well at breakfast, better now?’
‘Sorry about dashing out like that – too much celebrating.’
‘Well, it’s only once in your life –’ I stop, realising the stupidity of my cliché.
But he laughs. ‘True, you can only marry twice once!’ He looks wistfully at the sea. ‘We’re eating on this chap’s island, I gather.’
We both look out to a cove where the boat is heading.
‘What a racket Bunny was making earlier, what?’ Henry grins showing dark brown stains between his teeth. The way he speaks so dismissively of Bunny reminds me of all the men who laughed at my mother when she embarrassed herself in public.
‘She just had a little too much to drink, that’s all,’ I say. ‘Can’t be easy, living with someone with a disability.’
‘Someone said it was a suicide,’ he says.
Peter returns by my side with a drink. An open passenger boat packed with tourists passes. The crowd watch us, a few take photos. Henry waves at some of the children.
Yuleka’s voice arrives behind us. ‘Henry! Don’t wave to them, they’re nobodies!’
She’s wearing Henry’s sailor’s hat and a bikini which looks like it’s been made out of road kill. ‘Sarah, Peter, darlings. Henry says I look like Ursula Undress –’
‘Andress,’ he murmurs.
‘A Bond Girl – you guys – watch me!’ She skips off to the other side of the boat, clamours up the mast, arches her back and thrusts her breasts forward. ‘Look at me! I’m the maidenhead! I’m the King of the Worrrrrrld!’
‘Good God. Get down!’ demands Henry.
‘No! Queen! I’m the Queen of the World!’
‘Christ! She’s going to fall in!’ says Henry rushing over to her.
Peter whispers in my ear, ‘She could never sink with those jugs!’
We watch as two men help her down.
Peter touches my back, ‘Hey, we still a team?’