by Ruby Soames
‘See, Sarah, when I dropped Bunny off at her hotel, she made a great scene outside the entrance, refused to go in.
It was … very embarrassing. She was … you know,’ he lifts his hand to his mouth in a drinking motion. ‘So she came back here. She swore she’d sent her chauffeur to get a boat across to you. And anyways, we thought Yuleka would be getting Henry back. Neither of them did anything. I’ll never forgive them!’
‘Peter, come on: you just didn’t care.’
‘We’d had too much to drink, and then –’ He slides his gaze down to his drink, purses his lips.
‘I thought, Peter, you weren’t into that kind of thing –’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Sex.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘I could have died, and you waited until the last minute to help me. I thought we were friends.’
‘Come on … you survived!’
‘Henry didn’t.’
He sits down at a chair and asks as earnestly as he can fake, ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘Excuse me if I don’t want to share my intimate feelings with you.’
‘They said it was his heart.’
‘Peter, please. Just go.’
‘Sarah, I’m not trying to excuse myself, I know what I did was – but Sarah,’ he leans forward putting his head on his hands. ‘When I heard the thunder and lightning, I started to have flashbacks of the war, the traumatic-stress thing kicked in, memories of the bullets and the –’
‘Have you ever actually been in any war?’
‘–the guns, the faces of wounded children, the –’ He looks up at me, ‘Huh?’
‘You are not a war reporter.’
‘I’m not a –?’
‘You lied. I told you things about myself I’d never told anyone because I thought you were honest. But you’re a compulsive liar.’
‘Ottilie.’ Peter kneels by my feet. ‘A lot of my work is undercover, Sarah, top secret stuff. She doesn’t know anything about espionage!’
I laugh despite the pain in my ribs.
‘Listen to yourself! You’ve lied about everything since I met you. You left me in that cave without bothering to get help but what hurts is that you told Bunny about Henry being my father. That was really cheap, even for you.’
I finish my drink and lean against the door to the terrace.
‘No, please, lemme tell you something true,’ Peter says seriously. ‘I’m a complete asshole. Did I ever tell you I was a complete asshole?’ He picks up the flowers and starts munching on the stems.
‘You don’t need to,’ I smile, despite myself.
He spits out bits of plant and then tells me in a plaintive whine, ‘I was in Sarajevo. It’s just that the fighting had ended by the time I arrived.’ He stares into his drink, ‘I could have been a war journalist. I met one once. He said I had all the right qualities for it. We were going to meet in Afghanistan but then I got side tracked, then I missed the chance. I’ve been deep-sea diving in the Red Sea, that’s very close to the Left Bank … and –’ He pokes at the ice cubes in his drink. ‘We’re kinda in the same boat you and me, Sarah, my dad didn’t want to know me either. The difference is, your dad never met you, so you can’t take it personally. My parents were OK when I was growing up, but now they’re not satisfied with the finished product.’
‘But they supported you, financially?’
‘Still do,’ he answers bitterly. ‘A kind of limbo amount of money – enough so that working isn’t worth it but not enough to start up something different. I did a brief spell in one of my dad’s companies but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it … and now they’re about to cut me off. I didn’t know how I was going to live, let alone live like I’m used to. Bunny said she could look after me.’
‘Oh Peter,’ I sigh.
‘I’m desperate.’ He fights back tears of shame. I limp to my bathroom cupboard and take some painkillers to assassinate my headache.
‘Got anything interesting?’
‘I’m not sharing my analgesics with you.’
‘I wouldn’t either.’
Peter pours himself another bottle from my mini bar. ‘No more lies,’ he murmurs putting the bottle down. ‘I hope you can remember the good stuff. It was nice, huh? When we were on the beach, that first night you were here? I was happy. For the first time since … I don’t know when. Why is everything always good in the beginning and so shit at the end?’
We stroll to the end of the terrace facing the quiet, black sea, laid out under the night sky like newly-pressed tar.
‘Bunny, y’know, she just dragged it out of me. I’m really sorry.’
‘Imagine how you’d bear up under torture if you can’t even keep a secret from Bunny Templeton-Crest?’
‘Yup, Sarah, I’m a fraud,’ Peter groans mournfully, ‘but I can’t live any other way.’ He lets the last few drops of his drink roll down his throat. ‘You know Sarah, if I were you, I’d go after Henry’s estate. I know a guy, he could –’
I shake my head, ‘I’m not you.’
‘Lucky you.’ Peter tries to take my hand but I move it away from him. ‘It’s your last day tomorrow; can we spend it together?’
‘No.’
‘You’re so damn beautiful. You’re the one person I’ve met in my life who hasn’t disappointed me.’
There is silence while he genuinely thinks I might find something positive to say about him.
‘See you around,’ he says, putting his drink down. This time he doesn’t bounce over the wall, he moves slowly around it and through the gate onto his side.
‘Peter, just one thing,’ I call over, ‘I guess I should thank you for getting the rescue team – you took your time but – it saved my life. Thank you for that.’
‘Sarah,’ he clamps his hands on either side of the fence and leans against it with the weight of a defeated man, ‘I wish I could take the credit, sweetheart, but I don’t know who alerted the police – it wasn’t me.’
‘Not you? So who did? They said it was a man –’
‘I don’t know. The police asked questions the next day, but that was the one thing they couldn’t ascertain. Who’d called? Apparently the guy never left his name. Weird.’
5
By the next day, a tender but healing calm has permeated the hotel. The funereal plants are replaced by mauves and purples. Guests, whose faces had become familiar to me, whisper goodbyes before their taxis crunch the gravel like soft applause. New guests are ushered in with luggage, pockets full of tipping change and a thirst for the complementary rum punches. They’ve all heard the story of the barrister who died on his honeymoon to a con-artist pole dancer, and boat trips to the island where the incident happened are booking up fast.
My mum, however, has not slowed down. This is her first holiday in thirty years, and she is snorkelling and winning the trophy for the Miss Vintage Beach Club competition. While I spend my time reading and dozing, she does sightseeing, rum tastings and bridge lessons. She also spends a lot of time with Ferdi when he isn’t working – I wonder if there is more to their relationship than merely tour guide and mother-of-the invalid.
I am curious, though, that Mum insists I keep away from the TV and internet.
‘Sarah – you are not to turn any of that on. We’re on holiday. Contact with the outside world is strictly forbidden.’
The day before we are due to leave, the ringing telephone wakes me from a deep sleep. I snake my dead, aching limbs up the bed, knock the phone, grapple with it and croak, ‘Yeah?’
‘Sarah, zat you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Ottilie. Did I wake you up?’
‘Yes … I –’ I answer before I can even discern whether I am dead or alive, let alone up.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s twelve o’clock.’
‘Twelve o’clock?’ My bruised brain has been sliding through a dark, warm marsh for over twelve hours.
�
�Sorry, who is this?’
‘Ottilie … I met you on Johnny’s boat –’
I struggle to sit up.
‘Fuck, Sarah! I’m so sorry! Johnny and I feel terrible! You know you were on the local news? Johnny wants to know if there’s anything he can do? You know, it wasn’t his fault … I mean, he had no idea that –’
‘Ottilie. I chose to stay on the island. And so did Henry.’
She takes a deep breath in as I sip from the glass of water by my bed.
‘There might be an inquest.’
‘Tell Johnny not to worry.’
I wonder again about the man I’d seen with Henry just before he died.
‘But are you OK?’
My lips feel so dry it is hard to move my mouth. ‘I’ll be OK.’
‘It must have been a fucking nightmare.’
Neither of us can think of what to add – where do you go from near death experiences? Ottilie has the answer: lunch.
‘Anyway, I rang because I’m on my way to the event of the year – I can’t say a word about it as I’m sworn to secrecy. But I don’t want to go on my own – will you come with me?’
‘An event? I don’t know if I can face –’
‘I’ll pick you up at the hotel gates in an hour.’
I wonder where Ferdi is before remembering that it is his day off, which is why I’d slept in so long. I miss him as I shuffle around the room, stiff from the pain in my limbs. I fold back the shutters and look out onto my terrace.
Another stunning view of the sea, framed by flowers of every colour and the solid blue block of sky. For the last few days I’d hardly left my bed because my bones hurt so much. But it is my last day in Barbados and I am going to make the best of it.
I shuffle next door where Mum is holding two dresses in front of the mirror. ‘Lamb or mutton?’
‘I’m vegetarian.’
She throws down the two dresses. ‘It’s a big day –’ and then she clasps her hands over her mouth.
‘Why? Why is it a big day?’
‘Oh nothing … nothing. I just want you to look nice. Nothing wrong with looking nice is there, pumpkin?’ She springs up to hug me.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Mum? Tell me!’
‘Nothing!’ But her smile is almost lifting her off her feet. ‘Please do make sure you look really, really … drop dead gorgeous.’
‘I’ve been asked to lunch, do you want to come too?’
‘I can’t. I’m busy.’ She checks her rear for visible panty line.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget to put on sunscreen.’
‘Sarah – please be sure to leave a note with reception to say where you’ll be today. We need to be in regular contact. It’s important.’
‘OK … but I don’t understand why you’re being so mysterious.’
‘All will be revealed.’
6
Ottilie is waiting for me at the entrance of the hotel, lying back in the seat of a turquoise, open-top American car sunning herself like a sleek cat. She mouths the words to Katy Perry’s Roar behind her Jackie O dark sunglasses, her swish 50s-style ponytail bouncing down her back. As soon as she sees me she jumps up and leans over the door to give me a hug.
‘God, you’ve fucking been through it!’
‘Do I look a mess?’
‘No, absolutely gorgeous. Drowning suits you!’
I’m relieved she waits until I’m settled in the car before she starts questioning me.
‘So did he totally break your heart?’ she asks while starting the engine.
‘Who?’
‘Peter! Why, were there others?’ she laughs.
‘No! It wasn’t anything, you know, holiday flirtation, that’s all.’
‘Well, something must have happened because no-one knows where he is.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘How come he left you in the storm? We assumed you guys were together.’
‘It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.’ I’m not sure why I bother to defend Peter, but somehow I’ve a sense that he’s worse off than I am at the moment.
Ottilie raises her eyebrow, ‘Was it something to do with Lady Templeton-Crest?’
I shrug.
‘You know all about Peter and rich women, don’t you?’
‘I did a crash course. Ferdi, who looks after me at the hotel, he calls her a skettel.‘
‘What’s that?’
‘Bajan for a “wicked woman”.’
‘And what about a wicked man?’
‘A “Mr Lyle”!’
‘Touché!’ Ottilie laughs as she swerves around a corner. I can breathe better now she’s finished wringing information from me.
‘But Sarah, don’t think he’s having an easy time of it. Hanging around the rich when you don’t have the money for the bus fare home is just about the most demeaning occupation possible – I should know.’
We’ve driven away from the lush coast and are now moving through a run-down shanty town. We pass lines of families dressed up in their Sunday best, making their way towards a tumbled-down old colonial church. My waves to children are returned with beaming smiles.
Ottilie gestures at the makeshift homes. ‘Depressing, isn’t it? This is what they don’t show you in the holiday brochures. Y’know Barbados is one of the most densely populated areas in the world. We could’ve taken another route but it’s interesting to see, isn’t it?’ Ottilie slows down as we pass a group of shacks. A few heads turn wearily towards us, dull eyes looking over the car. She waves at the children; most wave back listlessly, apart from two who run alongside us trying to flag us down.
A line of bodies lie along a half-built or half-knocked-down wall, wrapped in cloth and newspapers. They look like discarded post bags until I see a dark leg move to scratch the other leg, or a finger coming up to swat a fly. As the car passes the edge of the village there are still more bodies, some drinking in groups, smoking and watching the road. Ottilie slows the car while she bends down to change the music on her iPhone.
I watch one curled-up body. This villager is more fortunate than his fellow sleepers as he has a pile of blankets rather than rags for a mattress. In fact it is the blankets I recognise before the face. The same ones I have in my cupboard at the hotel. Then I see the sleeper’s face – Ferdi.
‘I burnt my tits sunbathing yesterday and it’s –’ Ottilie wriggles in her seat. She puts her foot down on the accelerator shouting over the music, ‘Oh! I love this song!’
I turn around to the stare at Ferdi, but the bundle hasn’t moved.
So that’s where Ferdi is on his day off. As we drive away from the lines of huts, I hope he didn’t see us. I feel humbled and horrified to have seen his life. I can’t tally the man I thought I knew with this environment, that little plot of earth from where he gathered his smile and his dreams before bringing someone their breakfast in bed in a hotel featured in The Lives of the Rich and Famous.
Leaving the village we return to the coastal route and breathe in the fresh sea air as the car speeds along, passing colourfully-painted houses, mango groves and ruined sugar plantations. We begin driving up a hill towards a large white colonial house amid acres of lush gardens and lines of tall palm trees.
‘So, tell me about this lunch – what’s the great mystery?’ I ask.
‘It’s not just a lunch – it’s a wedding! Yes, Sarah, I’m inviting you to the wedding of the decade – no, actually, the wedding of the century! Joseph West and Sylvia Amery’s wedding! Aaarrrh!’ she squeals bobbing up and down in her seat.
‘You know Joseph?’
‘No! Never met him but Rebecca Hobson, his agent, is my best friend. We were at nursery school together before she got expelled. Anyway, watch this.’ She slows the car and presses redial on her phone.
‘Hello? Paul – Ottilie – I’ve got the info you wanted. It’s La Belle Rêve, Dorian’s Mangrove … 15hoo. Cheers.’ She clicks her phone shut and looks at me. ‘Aren’t you totally
over-excited! It’s all been kept under wraps – all the press know is what’s been leaked by a “close friend” of the couple –’
‘They have a close friend?’
‘Yes!-Me!’
‘So why would you tell the press … if –’
‘Well of course they want the press to know! It’s just … it’s how it’s done! The cat and mouse stuff with the tabloids just builds the hype more! Get it? But there’s also something else going on – Rebecca said something is going to happen today which has never happened before. That’s what all the secrecy’s about – but only Sylvia and Joseph know. I can’t wait! It’s going to be so cool – so many celebs in one place and we’re going to be there!’
7
The wilderness changes from yellow to green, from dry to verdant, from towering rushes to manicured lawns and meticulous flowerbeds. Ottilie chats away while we drive closer and closer to Joseph – Joseph and his future bride.
At the top of a driveway with marble columns and iron gates, above which reads La Belle Rêve, Ottilie slows down.
‘We’re here!’ She presses the intercom and sings out her name. A camera eye rolls around before tracking us. The gates swing open. We continue driving until Ottilie stalls the car six metres in front of a wedding cake of a mansion.
She jumps out of the car leaving me still trying to absorb the shock.
‘Sarah?’ she asks finally, leaning through the car window. ‘Need a hand?’ She opens my door, and I spill out onto the driveway. ‘Oh my God! I just can’t wait for today to happen! Beautiful, isn’t it? God knows what it cost to rent but apparently the magazine exclusive is paying for it all – that’s why it’s all top secret because if anyone else publishes a photo, the deal’s off!’ She turns to see me lagging. ‘Come on – we’ll get you a strong drink.’
‘But look at me, I’m not dressed properly or –’
‘Don’t worry. They’ve got an outfit for you. And me. We’re going to be the bridesmaids!’ she squeals.
‘No! I can’t! I –’
‘Come on – they only had a week to organise this thing and apparently Sylvia doesn’t have any girlfriends – she’s always running off with their boyfriends or dads, so Rebecca wanted to make sure there were at least a few single girls in tight dresses to hold flowers and wink at the boys – I said I’d love to and I thought you would too. It’ll be a hoot.’