Cross Check: The second Posh Hits story

by Caron Allan

  After our meal we went for a walk along the seafront, then another mooch round the marina etc, all very lovely, and me hanging off his arm like the devoted wife I am, and him looking all proud and manly and phwoar… before a night-cap in the bar – though actually I had a cup of tea. (No hot chocolate here, esp not with marshmallows and squirty cream!) It was truly wonderful – we chatted. It felt all comfortable and nice, and I felt all soppy and happy to be with him. Because I’d had the usual bridal jitters – what if I can’t think of anything to say to him, what if he’s fed up with me after an hour or two – all that stuff. And also, I keep thinking back to the deep, deep hole that I felt inside when I lost Thomas, and I never thought I would meet anyone else, and along came this gorgeous man, without me even really trying to meet someone. I’ve been incredibly lucky. Maybe someone up there likes me. Though if so, not quite sure why, in view of some of the things I’ve done in the last year.

  On the way back to our room, we saw an old couple walking along hand in hand, and I thought, that’ll be us in twenty or thirty years. Again (and I know, I know I must stop doing this but meeting Matt, marrying Matt has forced me to re-evaluate everything in my life) I used to think I would grow old with Thomas, and when he died, it was as if my future died too. Matt has given me back all my possibilities for a happy life.

  We’ve been given a load of bumpf about the area, and will hopefully do a spot of sightseeing, and I said I’d love to go out on a boat trip, so of course, Sweet Matt said we would find out about that in the morning. Sleepy now. The wind is blowing softly, stirring the voile curtains, there’s no moon but the stars are bright enough to light the room, and I can see the outline of his face, his ear, the darkness of his hair against the pillow. Matthew Hopkins. I knew you would be trouble as soon as I met you, and now look at me. Head over heels in love with you. And your family. And when I thought that the baby moved.

  I kiss Matt’s cheek and after writing this, I will set my journal to one side and settle down for sleep. I’m happy.

  Friday 22 August – 11am

  Woke rather late and dashed down to breakfast – ought to have ordered it to be delivered to the room, with hindsight, as feel absolutely shattered today – far more tired than I was yesterday. I suppose all the events of the last couple of weeks, or even the last few months, must be catching up on me.

  In fact, when I think about it, I have had barely a minute to myself for about eighteen months now … and what with one catastrophic event after another (loss of Clarice, Huw, oh – and Thingy, his receptionist slash secretary-girlfriend person, then my poor Darling Thomas, then Cess, Thomas’ evil sister and her revolting husband Parker – and then (oh so nearly!) Monica, only to have her come back from the dead like some bedraggled, bony phoenix with skanky hair. And then Mavis’s soon-to-be Ex Simon whatsisname, and Matt’s ex, Tracey and her new abuser, Mick) it’s a wonder I can even stand up, let alone function so beautifully and elegantly on a daily basis. And, I’m now newly-wedded and pregnant, so that’s even more kudos to me for weathering all manner of storms and traumas. No wonder I needed a holiday!

  BUT.

  I don’t want the about-to-be murder to be hanging over my head the whole time and ruin my perfect honeymoon with my wonderful hunk, so I’m thinking I need to get my butt in gear and nail that sucker, as the Americans say, ie get it out of the way so I can get on with my life. Trouble is, I just can’t be bothered. Am going to lie by the pool and watch Matt doing energetic diving and splashing about, and maybe, if I snooze most of the day, I’ll have enough energy to have a little dainty swim late-afternoonish. Might go for a walk. Might not. Might just cough down a few more cups of tea and some croissants and carry on laying here and doing my very best impression of a beached whale and just soak up a bit more sun. Feel very lazy and comfortable. Ah! Matt has just arrived bearing a tray of non-alcoholic cocktails with enough fruit in them to provide both of us with our five-a-day. He is so thoughtful.

  Same day – bit later - 2pm

  Hmm. Am now officially pissed off. Of all the bloody cheek!

  Had a text from my MOTHER (who texts their daughter on their honeymoon for God’s sake???) What do you think she says? I’ll bloody tell you!!!

  “Drlng jus had a call from Dsmnd – wants a recncltion!!! Said I’d think abt it. Told him u in Cannes – he sez cum for drinks 2moro 8pm hes havin a parti. Heres drections. Don let me dwn luv Mther PS Whspr and I hv agreed on Uni.”

  I told Matt. He said what a nice idea! The man is a complete and utter moron! Then when I freaked out and told him what Mother had told me about Desmond and his revolting abuse of Whisper, Matt looked at me through narrowed eyes and said in what I call his council-estate-dangerous voice, “you knew he was here! That’s why you wanted to come to Cannes! Are you planning on offing him too?” (Horrid vulgar phrase)

  Right in front of everyone! What was I supposed to say to that? So I just looked hurt and shocked and said in a grumpy baby voice, “no! What on earth do you think I am?”

  He just looked at me with those eyes again and said, “hmm.”

  So tomorrow evening – when I should be either shagging my new husband or gazing at the moon with said man or pottering about by the pool or on the beach or similarly engaged in pleasurable enterprises, I’ve got to put on a posh frock and some heels and a bit of slap and go and smile graciously at an Utter Sleaze and all the while convince said husband (who is surprisingly suspicious slash cynical for one so young) that there is most definitely not murder on my mind, when in fact, that’s pretty much all that is on my mind at this particular moment in time.

  God!!!!

  I thought honeymoons were supposed to be fun?

  Saturday 23 August – 11.45pm

  What an effing disaster! (Have decided to be more responsible about my language now am about to Become A Mother as cannot countenance one’s offspring’s first word being Fuck, as happens on council estates where, as Television tells us, people regularly have sixteen children or more and hardly ever realise they’re pregnant until they go into labour, usually in the frozen-food section of a budget supermarket.)

  Okay – so a brief summary of events of the evening:

  First of all, just in case the opportunity presented itself, I decided I’d better go prepared. So, in my handbag, (a truly divine Chloe bag, with the lambskin lining and the gazelle trim, you know the one, I wanted it in lime green but in the end had to settle on black as it was mainly for formal slash evening anyway!) I had secreted a tiny bottle of ethylene glycol (heaven in a bottle!), and also a long bit of fishing line (you never know when a simple garrotte may be the best way to go and Murdo had some extra strong stuff for salmon), and also, (third time’s the charm!) a tiny crochet hook with the hook part snipped off and sharpened to a lethal point in Sid’s man-cave when he was out. Surely one of these items should be able to deliver some kind of useful result when push comes to shove? I topped off my criminal’s kit with a pair of those thin latex gloves like doctors use, and a small duster I had nicked from the housemaid’s trolley yesterday.

  Of course, this did mean nearly ripping Matt’s head off when he went to rummage in my bag for some change to tip the valet for bringing the car round. Poor lamb. (Matt not the valet). But I absolutely could not risk him finding out more than was good for him. My plans all depend on his total ignorance.

  So off we set, a teensy bit late, but no one cares about that sort of thing. And it’s only 25 mins to the rambling villa Desmond is renting. I had a quick review of Mr Maps whilst Matt was in the shower. By now I’d looked at it loads of times, and even when we first arrived I spotted the road up into the hills.

  Therefore it was a bit frustrating not to be able to say to Matt “you’ve missed the turning!” when he, you know, missed the turning and took us off at a long, twisty-turny tangent. Because obviously, how could I possibly admit to knowing the right way? It was about ten minutes before I managed to suggest in my helpless-girlie way that very possibly we mi
ght just have gone ever-so-slightly off course a teensy bit. Maybe.

  So then he made me look it up on the interweb on my phone for him, and fortunately I briefly had a signal so I was able legitimately to look it up. Luckily he didn’t see that I’d only tapped in the first two letters of the villa’s name before the autofill bit supplied the end of the word like a sneaky little password and brought up everything I’d looked at not forty minutes earlier!

  Found it eventually. Quite a nice (no pun intended!) if a rather remote spot. But it would never do for us – just far too middle-of-nowhere. If one has run out of milk late at night due to too much hot chocolate consumage, one would have simply miles to go!

  And then there he was Desmond the B – er – Desmond the not-very-nice man. Much shorter and older than I had expected and part of me felt a bit of scorn welling up as I thought “Him? Surely not!” But then I thought about poor old Whisper and even my mother, damn her, and how bullies often turn out to be pathetic, feeble little people with zero backbone and the sex-appeal of a squashed slug.

  Of course he was very charming. And he congratulated us on our wedding, and from out of nowhere produced a large and exquisitely wrapped gift which he made a show of presenting to us in front of everyone, to rounds of applause and ahs and ohs of appreciation and awe. I realised at that moment that he was a man who likes to be the centre of attention, who craves admiration and makes ostentatious gestures to gain notice. So I said, with my sweetest smile, “I do hope you’ll forgive us for not opening it now, but of course we have to get it all the way back home undamaged, and the best way to do that would be to keep the package intact, for protection.” He had no choice but to smile and agree, but I could see he was not entirely happy and then his audience turned away almost at once, bored again.

  There were about forty others there, all of them glamorous strangers, most of them British or American, with a smattering of Italians and French. A few minor celebrities and politicians but mainly well-to-do, though not very polished businessmen, with their trophy wives draped all over them. And he was the King Bee in this little hive. I saw the way they crowded round him, eager to note his next move or to hang onto his next word like a pronouncement from some god.

  The house was beautiful, the décor simple and expensive, obviously designed by a professional – I doubt Desmond would know couture if he fell over it. The night was balmy and the glass doors had all been set ajar, to allow groups of guests to spill over into the garden. They were standing talking in little knots here and there, laughter and the sound of glasses clinking filling the air.

  I felt horribly out of place. And Matt even more so. We should never have agreed to come. Or rather, I should have resisted my mother and emphatically declined her invitation. We would not stay long, I decided.

  Then the buffet was served and I saw the luscious desserts on offer! Obviously I ignored all the salads, rice and noodle dishes, the sushi, the vast quantities of shellfish set out on platters of rapidly disappearing ice like the fish counter at Waitrose.

  I had a few portions of various confections, before feeling a little bilious and trotting off in search of a loo so that I could splash a drop of cold water on my face. It was so hot this evening. I waited until I was out of Matt’s sight, and under the cover of several tall gentlemen’s backs and checking no one was looking my way, I put on my latex gloves, and grabbed a couple of colourful cocktails from the table.

  After a trip to the little girl’s room, I had a little nosy around upstairs. I found Desmond’s bedroom without difficulty. It was the one with the gigantic circular bed, lurid red decor and all the mirrors. Yuck. I nipped in quickly, ready to explain that I wasn’t feeling well due to my pregnant state and had come upstairs for a few minutes’ peace and quiet, should anyone barge in and ask. I shut the door behind me. Crossing the room, a glance down to the poolside area showed me poor Matt desperately clutching his tiny glass of lager, and listening to some pompous Old Etonian wittering on about land development, the sound of his waffle reaching me upstairs.

  I stood my cocktails on the nightstand by the bed, and divided the contents of my little bottle between the two of them. I assumed he would have the “if one is good, two must be better” approach to alcoholic beverages and I banked on him wolfing them both down himself. I rummaged in my bag for a notebook, yanked out a page and wrote in large loopy writing, “So sorry Darling, just couldn’t wait any longer. Dream of me! An Admirer. XOXO”. I propped the note up between the two glasses. I nipped back to the door, eased it open to check the coast was clear, and then stepped out into the hall, stripping off the latex gloves and stashing them back in my bag.

  On the stairs a woman rushed past me in the direction of the loo, she had her hand clapped over her mouth and a horrified expression on her face. I followed her back upstairs where I had the dubious honour of hearing her chucking her guts up. I ran cold water onto some tissues and passed them under the door to her.

  “Are you all right? Do you need any help?” I asked. She groaned no thanks, but took the tissues from me. After several minutes she emerged, putty-faced and shaky.

  She splashed her face at the basin. Embarrassed but chatty, as she patted her face dry, she said, “I think it must have been the oysters. Or possibly the crayfish. They definitely tasted a bit funny.”

  “Oh dear!” I said, thinking, fantastic! “How awful for you. Seafood can be so unpredictable.” At that moment another woman burst in, and the same unpleasant result ensued.

  As I went downstairs, I was thinking, ooh goody, an epidemic of food-poisoning. It couldn’t have gone better if I’d planned it. I saw a waiter whipping shellfish platters from the table and carrying them away with a look of consternation. Time for us to leave. I only hoped Matt hadn’t partaken. And I, of course, had been in no danger as I hadn’t even looked at anything unless it contained about twenty tablespoons of sugar.

  I found Matt, still outside, still listening to the land developer chappie. I butted in without apology, and clutching my belly, I groaned loudly and said, “Oh Darling, I don’t feel at all well. Please could we leave now? I need to go back and lie down.”

  He leapt into action, possibly with a little more relief than was polite. He was at my side and taking my arm in an instant, the concerned, thoughtful husband. He bade a hurried goodbye to his ‘friend’ and we managed to find Desmond in a corner arguing with his staff. All I had time to hear was, “well for God’s sake get rid of the stuff and don’t let anyone know what’s happening.” Then he turned to beam at us and tried to put an arm around both of us to steer us back in the direction of the pool.

  We made our apologies and got away almost at once. Our large gift was on the back seat of our hire car, along with a swan-shaped foil doggy-bag. Say what you will about the food in Desmond serves, but you will never fault the efficiency of his staff.

  An hour later we were sitting up in bed sipping cool drinks and I was telling him about the puking ladies. He was fine. He wasn’t a fan of fish-dishes at parties.

  “And thank God you got me away from The Major. I was seriously contemplating chucking him in the pool just to make him shut up.”

  So now all I’ve got to do is sit back and wait for the happy news. Mind you, last time I tried something like this, it didn’t work out, so this time I won’t count my chickens too soon. Am beginning to think I’m not as gifted in the murder department as I used to think.

  Apart from that, it was a complete waste of an evening. But at least now I can concentrate on being on my honeymoon and put out of my head thoughts of everything except my Matthew.

  Monday 25 August – 6.50pm

  We’ve been married a whole week!

  I know I shouldn’t be constantly thinking about it – but I am SO disappointed not to have heard anything yet!

  However am trying to immerse myself in the honeymoon experience, so we have been to the gorgeous Japanese gardens, done loads of shopping, had another potter round the marina, and a lovely lu
nch in a nice place overlooking some gorgeous yachts berthed there, then we went on a coach trip just like ordinary people, up into the mountains to some craft village where I spent an absolute fortune on nice little knick-knacks for Lill and Henrietta. Wondered if I ought to get anything for Madison, but it’s so difficult, isn’t it, when one’s friends have been charged with attempted murder, to think of a really useful yet meaningful gift. Also, as I bought quite a few things for myself, there won’t be much room in the luggage. Bought some beads for Billy and a carved lizard for Paddy, it’s very bright and jolly so hopefully he won’t be scared of it.

  We should have had a bit of a siesta – it’s really so hot from about twelve o’clock until about half past two, three o’clock, and now I feel exhausted. Must remember to keep drinking, too, if I’m not careful I will get dehydrated. Must try not to overdo things. This is supposed to be a holiday, after all, so it’s okay to laze about. Therefore tomorrow will deffo have a nap in the afternoon.

  Same day – later – 11.20pm

  Went down to the hotel bar for a drink before going for a walk before dinner and saw a news programme on the little telly in the corner. It was all in French, but I managed to get the gist, especially when a photo of Desmond flashed up on the screen. Oh Goody, I thought, news at last! (Although I must admit, I hadn’t expected it to be splashed all over the television.)

  We asked the waiter to translate.

  “There has been some – er – seeckness – er – at thee veella of thees English man, where he is stayinggg, you know?”