It was the one and only Candy.
She beamed at me and planted a lip glossed to perfection kiss on my cheek, “Flora Tate! How simply too divine to see you again, I was simply thrilled when you called!” she cooed, whilst ushering us all inside.
I introduced her to the Ambles and to my horror and discomfort it appeared that Sylvia and Archie actually knew her! How in the name of papal bulls was this possible?
They twittered around me and I gathered that they had fallen into the Dolphin after some sort of business dinner a year or so ago. I was furious. This was what comes from not having read the damn notes. I blamed it fairly and squarely on the non appearance of my usual driver. He wouldn’t have had the car windows open and strewn the pages across the metropolis. Oh no. He would have delivered me in style and comfort and given me time to digest the material. I fumed inwardly whilst trying to maintain a pleased expression on my face. And you know how hard that is. Most trying, not to mention aging and fractious making.
Hal and Bella were trying desperately to take Candy in their collective stride. They were hampered in this by the interior of The Dolphin.
It was as if a paint factory had exploded somewhere in Sussex and the pigments of matter had found their way into the interior of the building. Lime green, burnt orange, strawberry pink, lemon yellow and acidic tangerine dazzled the eye. The floor was black and white tiles that were dotted with swirling rugs, and massive broken mirrored mosaics of dolphins and angels leapt over the walls and ceiling. The room was the entire ground floor of the house, made into a bar, complete with glitter ball lights and zebra skin bar stools. It was a gloriously kitsch dazzling effect, and somehow, god knows how, it was invigorating rather than confusing.
“I have the very thing for you all,” Candy said, her voice a curious mixture of huskiness and squeaks, making her sound as if she were reading for a part that she was desperate to get, but knew she wouldn’t with laryngitis.
She wove her way through the forest of gilt chairs and glass tables to the bar, where a silver tray stood. Five iced glasses of a pale pink creamy liquid were waiting.
“Do have these, they are simply perfect after a train journey! Ellie’s out the back in the ballroom, I’ll go and get her and she can show you your rooms. I’ve put you in Marlene,” Candy rasped at me, showing shiny pearly teeth as she smiled.
“Marlene?” Bella ventured politely, mentally congratulating herself I could see at having said anything at all.
I smiled at her and said, “All the rooms in The Dolphin are named after famous, well, famous-“
“Old dykes,” Candy interrupted, beaming again at us all.
Archie spluttered into his frozen strawberry daiquiri whilst Hal tried to look worldly. Only Bella stood with a polite frozen smile on her face and enquiring eyes.
“Women with comfortable shoes,” Sylvia helpfully whispered to Bella, earning herself a huge wink from the irrepressible Candy. I spluttered into my drink. Really. This was not what I expected from her at all.
“I remember, “ said Candy taking Archie’s glass away from him and substituting it with a single malt, “You’re not really a daiquiri sort of chap. Ellie will be pleased, tell me, do you play billiards?”
Archie accepted the drink from her and responded in a very-man- about town way. “Oh, I’ve been known to shuffle a few in my day,” he replied, catching Candy’s eye, delighted to be able to show off his cosmopolitan manners.
I had the very beginning of a headache as we all finished our drinks and trooped up the stairs to the first floor. I waved Archie and Sylvia into The Sappho Suite whilst Hal found his way to Frida Kahlo and Bella had Vita Sackville West.
The rooms, luckily, had no dazzling eye display of colour and were just supremely comfortable with the highest standard of linen and elegant accessories: crystal decanters of water and bottles of cologne, an understated arrangement of emerald ivy leaves, and crimson berries, and a small box of delicious Audrey’s chocolates. The latest TV screens and internet services, along with a well chosen selection of CDs, DVDs, books and games were to be found on the antique dark wooden chests dotted around the room. Really, it was like home from home, and I was delighted to be back there again, if under very different circumstances from last time I’d paid Candy and Ellie a visit. Back then I’d been in hiding practically, but so are a lot of people who stay here. The Dolphin Hotel, or to give it its full name, The Angel and Dolphin Private Members Club for Ladies of Literature is one of this country’s best kept secret institutions. The rooms are never empty yet they never advertise. People have to be recommended and vouched for and the waiting list is phenomenally long. (I was very sweetly given a membership by Ellie in the opening week, but that’s another story all together. Let’s just say that Ellie has always appreciated my help in the matter of legalities and leave it at that.)
We were due to meet Mr Carlton at six on his yacht, so I took the opportunity for a small doze on the bed, trying to re-group my thoughts and plans for this weekend, which I don’t mind admitting were being scuppered by the fact that Candy, of all people knew the Ambles.
Of all the gin joints in the world.
Part of the essence of bringing them here I thought crossly, was the surprise factor involved. That had been taken away from me, so had the rather devious (I thank you in advance) plan I had half formulated for Sylvia and Candy. It seemed that that particular fruit had been plucked. Well, really, who would have thought it?
Certainly not me.
It seemed that I had perhaps underestimated the sophistication of Sylvia and Archie. Drains and Vicars and all things base.
Of course, I didn’t think that Sylvia had danced the light fantastic with Candy, or even got as far as the first steps in a Tango, but it was enough for her to have had her acquaintance for my conniving schemes to be, if not thwarted, then at least dented.
But, I pride myself on opportunism and wasn’t going to be downhearted. I did after all have Mr Carlton up my sleeve. He was a fairly good trump card if I was going to shake the Ambles up a bit.
I thought that we’d be in for a very tiring evening and I anticipated needing all my strength for it. I worried a little about Sylvia and Archie having the delights of The Sappho suite all to themselves, but really, what could I do about it? No-one can ever accuse me of shirking my duties, but I could see no immediate solution to it. I consoled myself with the thought that if Archie did make love to Sylvia it would be his usual five minute tumble that she would endure stoically. No, I didn’t read that part of the notes. But experience tells me that I am seldom wrong on these matters.
There was something that was troubling me about Archie at the moment to tell you the truth. A certain smugness he was displaying that was starting to bother me. It would have to be dealt with.
I dressed with great care that evening, not that I don’t anyway, but I reminded myself that Mr Carlton was a man of wealth and taste and deserved that extra special attention to detail. I stood in front of the full length mirror and sighed in admiration. The dark night would suit me to perfection. Diamonds glinted at my throat and ears, and the only colour that could be seen was in the scarlet slash of my lipstick and the peeled greengage colour of my eyes. I peered closely at my reflection, and knew that I didn’t have much longer left, looking like this. Probably another six weeks. But then, I had so efficiently made an appointment. How I adore being so efficient.
A tightly fitted black velvet dress that was probably made in 1942 sheathed my body and I needed no eyes other than my own to tell me how beautiful I looked.
I sauntered down the stairs and saw that the Amble family were sitting at the bar, talking to Ellie. She was a large woman with the build of a swimmer, wide of shoulders and slim of hips, she moved behind the bar with grace and dexterity. Her short dark hair gleamed under the twinkling lights and her smooth skin was evenly tanned, showing off to perfection her clear blue eyes and wide strong mouth.
I heard Archie who was the first of the
Ambles to see me descend the stairs mutter something to Sylvia about Gloria Swanson and Sunset Boulevard, which I took as a compliment and smiled as sweetly as I could at him. I don’t keep up with modern films but I was wise enough to know that when a man compares you to a film star they are usually fairly smitten.
“Flora! How wonderful! I was delighted when Candy told me you were coming. How are you my dear? You look like the queen of the night in that dress,” Ellie said in her clear low voice, running her eyes appreciatively up and down my body. I smiled and she came from behind the bar to embrace me.
Archie was looking almost conceited, watching the two of us and I deduced from his hard little smile that he thought he’d cracked it. His presumption made my skin crawl, and I decided right there and then that Archie Amble was going to get the shock of his life.
I embraced Ellie back and admired her dark trouser suit. “Armani?” I asked, running my hand over a very neatly tailored shoulder.
Ellie smiled and nodded.
“I see you’ve met everyone,” I said, “Now then, I have a favour to ask you Ellie, do you think that my friend Bella here,” I glanced quickly over to the podgy teenager and caught a proud smile from her, “Could make use of your kitchens? I know that she’d love to make bread and rolls and croissants for all of us tomorrow and frankly we’re having supper with Mr Carlton and I think she’d be terribly bored. What do you say?”
I saw Bella give me a smile of thanks to be excused from a tedious dinner. Ellie beamed at Bella, “Goodness, what a talented young woman you are, of course! I’ll show you the way in a moment.”
“Good, that’s settled then.”
I sat at the bar with the Ambles and wondered if they knew that their lives were all about to change forever. People rarely do of course, I mean, you see photographs of people, maybe days, or even hours before they are hit by a car, shot, blown up, tortured, and nothing in their eyes knows. Nothing says that today is the last day you’ll eat a boiled egg, or see your cat, or brush your teeth. Terribly unfair I think. Of course, it doesn’t always have to be so final. I suppose that the beer swillers in shell suits patting a German Shepherd on a sink council estate five minutes before they win the lottery would still be as blankly unknowing. The day our lives change should be marked in a celestial calendar and somehow, perhaps in a dream, we should be made aware of it. At least we’d all be dressed appropriately.
Rule Number Nine
“The taking of risks is to be encouraged. From an early age children should learn that if nothing is ventured nothing is gained. The loss of one or more fingers is acceptable. This rule can be applied with equal candour to the world of finance though not, perhaps, as vigorously as by my dear friend Mr Maxwell.”
Miles away in London a frail looking elderly woman called Veronica was drinking her customary glass of pre dinner sherry. After her first sip, she had to sit down quickly on the nearest chair – a rather nice pale green watered silk affair – as she experienced one of the horrible effects of hyper realism that she was plagued with. It was the effects of an overdose of adrenalin, and it caused remarkably horrid fight or flight symptoms. These nasty attacks happened because of two things. Veronica was remarkably sensitive, some might say even psychic and was attuned to magnetic currents, infra red, and ultra violet rays that we normal humans don’t detect. And she also knew when her husband was back in the country. A handy gift, one might imagine if one had been married to that monster.
The horror of him hadn’t abated one whit over the years. He could wear any disguise he liked, have plastic surgery, change his name, but she knew when he was near at hand. Something vibrated in her skull and for one moment she was helpless, trapped in the nightmare of her own sensitivity. It had happened once, back in 1991 when she had been in Harrods buying a set of crystal glass rummers. The shop assistant had stared, horrified, whilst she had slid down the glass display, toppling the lot over onto her head. It had cost her a small fortune. But when hadn’t it? Anything to do with her husband had always ended in her losing money. Of course, the newspapers offered increasingly large sums for her story, but, over the decades that had slowed down. Although every now and again, a sighting of the man in some far flung unlikely place had prompted the return of the phone calls that badgered her till she had to change her number again. Veronica waited for the moment of awful clarity to pass, patiently as she had learnt to do. Then she poured herself another glass of sherry and settled down to watch Coronation Street, whilst waiting for her Marks and Spencer’s ready made sole mornay to cook in the oven. There were no staff to bring it to her any more, but, reflecting on the past, maybe that was no bad thing really. If her husband (and she still called him that) was in the country, Flora would deal with him, as she had in the past. Veronica didn’t want to know.
Mr Carlton had no such finer feelings. He too was having a drink, but it was a glass of champagne and he was toasting his reflection in a looking glass screwed to the bathroom wall on his yacht. Technically he was in British waters, he knew the three mile rule as well as any pirate of the sea, but he was, as most gamblers are, very superstitious. If he didn’t place a foot on the soil, he wasn’t in England. That’s the way he looked at it anyway. He was still a handsome man, despite the facial scarring caused by the cowboy surgeon he’d had in Rio – the damned charlatan. A large man, still with some military bearing. He squared his shoulders to the reflection and gave a ghost of a smile to himself. Every time he sneaked back into Blighty he teased himself with the idea of returning to his club, or walking through Eaton Square. Maybe motoring past Eton or the club. He knew it wasn’t possible, but my god, it was tempting. If he had been a lesser man… He quaffed the champagne, and shouted at the staff that he was expecting his guests soon, and was everything ready? The staff, being young, blonde, stoned pot-heads and Australian shouted back that he should just take a chill pill. Mr Carlton groaned and buried his face in his hands. It was bad enough he had to live abroad, but living with foreigners was practically impossible. He wondered idly about the British press. Perhaps Flora would give him the latest on where he had supposedly been spotted. Last time it had been a re-constructed photograph of him taken by two backpackers up a mountain in Nepal. Ludicrous. Simply ludicrous. He did hope that there’d been another so-called sighting, on the whole he rather liked his name kept alive. Many years ago Flora had helped him, helped him to leave the country, and helped his wife, Veronica, to claw some sort of normality back into her life. It came at a price, of course, these things always do, but then Mr Carlton knew the cost of everything.
Ellie ordered us a taxi, and soon we were swooping along the seafront towards the marina. The sea was a black oily swelling mass, only visible when the moonlight caught at it. Hal was sitting on a jump seat opposite me and I could see his admiring eyes travel my body. I smiled at him and he smiled back, already a trace of his father’s conceit making itself known on his face.
“Do you think Bella will be alright?” Sylvia said, making herself sound like a typical worried mama.
“Oh yeah, she loves messing around in a kitchen doesn’t she?” Hal replied, glancing out of the window as we passed a group of young girls staggering along the seafront in flimsy dresses and badly made high heels. One of them had a white veil attached to her head and an ‘L’ plate pinned to her back. They were all carrying bottles of something that the fun loving youths of the day referred to as Alco pops and, although the evening was young, they were undoubtedly quite tipsy.
Sylvia tutted in disapproval.
“I think it’s called a hen night,” I explained to Sylvia. “An increasingly common phenomenon in the lower classes these days. Dreadful behaviour, I grant you. But then marriage has always been a bit of a pill for women, hasn’t it? Perhaps they are just trying to make the most of a night free of conjugal boredom? After all they’ll have the rest of their lives for that, won’t they?”
“Not with the divorce rate galloping the way it is,” Archie said knowingly. “They’l
l all be on social security within years.”
“Really? Do you think so? I’ve always held the catholic belief that marriage is for life. Which is why of course I’ve never done it.” I tapped my fingers on my chin, already bored with the predictability of Archie’s comments.
“Never?” Archie said, looking sceptically at me.
“Do I look like a divorcee?” I asked, allowing myself to look affronted at the suggestion.
“I don’t know, what do they look like?” Hal asked curiously. Obviously hoping that he could be the panacea to all divorced women. That is of course, if they all were like moi.
“Usually desperate and disappointed,” Archie answered his son whilst looking at me.
Sylvia remained silent.
I ignored this slight and thought briefly of my ex husbands. Charming men, all of them. Though of course I had never married for love - so banal I always think - so I was a marriage Virgin in my mind. Love was always fatal, and very rarely successful. Far better to keep vows for matters of expediency.
We had reached the swooping tunnel that led to the marina. It was the usual playground for yachts of different means. Floating gin palaces rubbed sides with tiny family weekend sailing boats. I spotted Mr Carlton’s obscenely large motor launch in the allotted bay and we all click clacked over the wooden slatted jetty. A brilliant white 181’ monstrosity leered out the water at us, it had everything that you could get, including helipad and Jacuzzi.
“Christ!” Archie breathed, “What tonnage is it? It looks like The Queen Mary.”
“The Jolly Spree is 829 metric, I believe,” I said clicking smartly up the gangplank. I understood his admiration. For a man like Archie (a true Tory if ever I’ve seen one) where wealth and accumulation of money is the yardstick of success, this must be awe-inspiring. Conspicuous consumption at its grossest. Never mind of course that it’s intrinsically hideous and complete nonsense. Man’s vanity knows no bounds when it comes to expensive, tasteless toys.
Before and After Page 9