You might have thought Valentina would have sobered up now, after all that dancing. Not on the evidence before us.
‘I think I’ve got a bit dirty shomehow,’ she says, flopping onto Jack’s knee.
‘Have you had a good dance?’ I ask politely.
She lifts up her skirt to demonstrate that the back of one leg and the front of the other is covered in a black streak of grime.
‘Yesh, but I have absholutely no idea how this could posh-hhibly have happened. Have you, Evie?’ she asks me.
Jack, who is trying to ensure she doesn’t fall off his knee and injure herself, looks over to me.
‘I think it’s because you did the splits, Valentina,’ I say.
‘The splits? Did I really? Ha! I amaze myshelf shometimes.’
Jack and I catch each other’s gaze.
‘And everyone else,’ I say, smiling.
She grabs Jack’s glass, obviously realising it’s been, oooh, minutes since she last had something to drink, and almost slides onto the floor in the process. He manages to stop her, but not easily. The veins in his neck are bulging as he lifts her up into his arms.
‘I think I’d better get Valentina back to the B and B,’ he pants.
‘Yeah. Of course,’ I say.
‘Jack, I…think…I think…we should go and have a good old dancsh,’ says Valentina, her head wobbling from side to side. He pulls her in tighter to make sure he’s not going to drop her.
‘It was lovely meeting you,’ he tells me.
‘You too,’ I reply.
‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ he adds.
‘Oh, I think I’m going to go now anyway,’ I shrug.
‘Right,’ he says.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
And off he goes. With Valentina in his arms.
Which feels horribly, horribly wrong.
When Jack has left, I scan the room to see if Charlotte is still around and realise that she must have gone to bed, like most of the other guests seem to be doing. The disco man is packing up now and I see no particular reason to hang around, especially as Gareth is still loitering somewhere like a particularly determined Klingon.
As I lean over to pick up my bag, I spot something on the chair next to me. It’s a phone. A phone that can only be Jack’s.
Chapter 21
Sunday, 25 February
I manage to get down for breakfast just before they stop serving. I find Patrick and Grace, polishing off huge plates of smoked salmon and free-range scrambled eggs.
‘So did he perform all right?’ I ask, as Grace and I meet at the juice table. ‘Or have you had more romantic experiences sitting on the tumble dryer?’
‘The latter, I’m afraid,’ she says, pouring herself a large glass of orange. ‘He couldn’t even stand up, never mind get it up. Still, we have got two weeks in the Maldives to look forward to, so there’s plenty of time for him to make it up to me.’
‘Assuming his hangover wears off any time soon,’ I grin. The bags under Patrick’s eyes currently look like they could be carrying a week’s worth of shopping.
‘Anyway, how did you get on after we left?’ she asks.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘You know what I mean,’ she says. ‘I mean Jack. Did you make any progress?’
I look at her as if she couldn’t have suggested anything more ludicrous–as if she’d asked me about my budding relationship with Ken Dodd.
‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from that I fancy Jack,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s very nice and all that…’
‘Not thick–like I told you,’ she interrupts.
‘No, not thick,’ I agree.
‘Exceptionally good-looking,’ she goes on.
I nod.
‘He’s certainly what some people might call attractive,’ I say, determined to remain non-committal.
‘Including you?’ She raises her eyebrows.
‘Look, for God’s sake, he’s going out with Valentina,’ I say. ‘Why on earth are you trying to set me up with him?’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, I suppose I reckon you’d be good together,’ she says. Then she shakes her head. ‘No, you’re quite right, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’
I pour myself some pear juice.
‘So you don’t think we’d be good together?’ I mumble.
She laughs and puts her arm around me.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘if you must know, I may not have seen the back of Jack this weekend anyway.’
‘Oh?’ She looks interested.
‘He left his mobile phone here last night, and I’ve got the dubious pleasure of dropping it off at the Crown and Garter where he and Valentina are staying.’
Grace stifles a giggle. ‘Good luck,’ she says.
An hour later, I find myself in the reception of the Crown & Garter, face to face with a hotelier who looks about 132 years old.
‘So, you think they may have already checked out?’ I ask, Jack’s mobile phone in my hand.
‘Oooh, I’m not sure,’ he says, doddering over to a large, leather-bound diary. ‘My wife Edith tends to look after these things, you see. But she had her varicose veins done on Friday and is out of action for a few days. So it’s just me. And I’m afraid I’m probably not as on top of things as she is.’
His shaking fingers turn the pages onto February of last year.
‘I don’t think we’ve got anybody by the name you’re after,’ he says. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right hotel?’
I help him turn the page.
‘I think it’s this February you need to look at,’ I say gently, turning it to the right page. I scan its columns silently myself.
‘Look, there they are,’ I say, seeing Valentina’s name. ‘Room 16. So do you have a record of whether they’ve checked out?’
He frowns. ‘I know I’m meant to,’ he says, starting to look around the desk. ‘But I think that’s in another book. My wife Edith is better at this sort of thing than me. Only, she had her varicose veins done on Friday.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, perhaps somebody could go and knock on their door. You know, to see if they’re still there?’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ he says, shutting the book. ‘That would solve the problem!’
I smile. ‘Great,’ I say.
‘A very good idea,’ he reiterates.
‘So, will you ask someone to go up there?’ I ask.
He thinks for a second. ‘Oh, well I would do, but I’m by myself, you see,’ he says. ‘My wife Edith has had her varicose veins done.’
‘Okay–well, maybe you could go?’ I suggest.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that,’ he says. ‘I need to man the desk in case there’s a rush on. You see, Edith has—’
‘Had her varicose veins done, I know,’ I say.
I look around at the empty reception. The chances of there being a rush on in the next five minutes are so slim they’re anorexic. But I haven’t the heart to argue with him.
‘Right,’ I say instead. ‘What do you suggest then?’
‘Only one thing for it,’ he concludes. ‘You’ll have to go up and see them yourself.’
Chapter 22
The noises coming from Room 16 are really not what I want to hear. They consist of long, guttural snores that are audible from the other end of the corridor and bear an uncanny resemblance to a heavy-duty pneumatic drill. They can only mean one thing: Jack must be in there with Valentina.
I take a deep breath and wonder what the hell I am going to do. Coming face to face with a couple who’ve obviously just spent the night shagging like two randy racehorses–what else explains the fact that they’re still sleeping it off at 11 a.m.?–is not an attractive prospect.
And even less so, given who the couple in question are.
I bend down to study the bottom of the door and see if there is
a gap big enough for me to just slide the phone under and run. But you wouldn’t fit a credit card under it. There is no way around this. I’m going to have to knock and get it over with.
Closing my eyes, I give a number of short, sharp thuds before standing back, my heart jumping with the sort of anxiety only dentists usually have the ability to provoke.
But nobody comes to the door–and the snoring continues at a volume that would rival a volcanic eruption. Taking another deep breath, I try again, this time hammering with more conviction, before standing back and waiting.
But after another minute of vainly hoping that the snoring will stop and someone will come to the door, I realise a more direct approach is in order.
‘Valentina! Jack!’ I shout, pounding on the door with my fist.
The snores come to an abrupt halt and are replaced by a series of grunts. Someone is stirring.
‘Jack!’ I say through the door, feeling like a complete idiot but at least wanting to warn him what to expect when we come face to face. ‘Er, I’ve got your phone here. I’ve just come to drop it off.’
The ensuing commotion inside Room 16 involves so many crashes, bangs and other bizarre noises that anyone could be forgiven for thinking it was occupied by a hippopotamus with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
As the door swings open, I steel myself to get this over with as quickly as possible.
‘Jack—’ I begin.
But it isn’t Jack who’s opened the door at all.
‘What? Oooh. What time is it?’
Valentina looks as if she has spent the night in the darker recesses of hell. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say her hair had been backcombed by a chimpanzee. Her eye make-up is smeared down both of her cheeks and would make Marilyn Manson appear a fan of the natural look by comparison. But worse than that is her skin. It’s not even grey. It’s off grey.
‘Valentina,’ I say. ‘I wonder if you could give this to Jack for me? He left it at the Inn at Whitewell last night.’
‘What?’ she says. ‘Oooh. Come in.’
‘Oh God, no–no, really,’ I say, unwilling to come face to face with a post-coital Jack rolling around Valentina’s bed. ‘Can’t you just give it to him for me?’
But as she grabs me by the arm and hoists me into the room, I have very little choice in the matter. Inside is a scene of utter devastation. There are so many clothes, shoes and bags draped over the furniture that it looks as if a bomb has gone off in Dolce & Gabbana.
The bedclothes are tangled up in a ball at the bottom of the bed, the bedside lamp has fallen over, and a G-string so tiny you could mistake it for dental floss is hanging on the bathroom door.
As for Jack, he’s nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 23
‘Ohhh,’ groans Valentina, throwing herself down on the edge of the bed. ‘Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, I’m never at my best in the morning, but something really doesn’t feel right today.’
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, genuinely never having seen such dramatic effects of a hangover before.
‘It’s my mouth,’ she whimpers. ‘There’s something wrong with my mouth. Oh my God, it’s…it’s…furry. And it tastes like…like I’ve been licking a pavement. Ohhh no, it’s not just my mouth, it’s my head as well. My head is throbbing.’
‘Well, you won’t be the only one who feels as if their lives has been pickled this morning,’ I point out.
Valentina tries to prise her right eye open, but it’s cemented together with a gruesome combination of sleep and four layers of mascara.
‘Are you suggesting I’m hungover?’ she says indignantly.
I pause for a second.
‘Valentina,’ I begin, ‘you single-handedly drank more than the average rugby team yesterday, you look like you’ve spent the night sleeping rough, and it’s taken me precisely eight and a half minutes of banging on the door to wake you up. Call me Miss Marple, but, yes, I think you’ve got a hangover.’
‘I never get hangovers,’ she says dismissively as she unsuccessfully attempts to stand up unaided. ‘Oh! Maybe I’ve developed some sort of illness that has caused my tongue to swell up and make me go half-blind. Maybe Jack gave it to me! He has just come back from one of his places in deepest Africa and could have brought anything with him. Now, where’s the bathroom?’
I help her up as she tries to make her way into the corner of the room. But Valentina takes a tumble and bangs her leg on a chair.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams.
‘Oh dear,’ I say.
‘Argghhh!’ she screams again.
‘Oh, come on, it can’t have hurt that much.’ I am starting to run out of patience.
‘It’s not the fact that it hurts that bothers me,’ she says, screwing up her face. ‘It’s that I’m going to have a huge bruise on my leg now, which means I’ll have to wear trousers. And I hate trousers.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can live with them for a few days if it means covering up such a horrendous disfigurement as…as a one-inch bruise,’ I say.
‘Evie,’ Valentina tells me, ‘I haven’t got the sort of legs that should be covered up.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I answer. ‘The very idea is like putting polystyrene tiles on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, I suppose?’
When we get into the bathroom, she sits on the loo, unable to stand up in front of the mirror.
‘Pass me my make-up bag, will you?’ she croaks.
‘Who do you think I am, your bloody chambermaid?’ I sigh, but I pass it to her anyway.
Valentina starts rifling through her bag, throwing various items of cosmetic creams, powders and formulas onto the floor as she does so. I pick up one of them–an Estée Lauder cellulite serum–and idly examine the label.
‘I haven’t got cellulite, just for the record,’ Valentina tells me. ‘I’m taking precautions for later life.’
After surrounding herself in anti-wrinkle formulas, bronzing mitts, facial scrubs and God knows how many more cosmetic concoctions, she finally locates a bottle of Optrex and is about to start squirting it into her eyes.
‘Don’t you think you’d be better trying to get all that crap off your face first?’ I suggest.
‘What crap?’ she asks.
‘Your make-up,’ I tell her.
Valentina stops what she’s doing immediately.
‘What?’ she says, starting to hyperventilate. ‘What did you say?’
‘Calm down,’ I tell her, not sure why she’s getting so excited.
‘I left my make-up on last night? Is that what you’re saying? Surely not. No, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. No way. Never.’
She leaps up, hysterical.
‘Oh my God!’ she squeals. ‘WHAT will it have done to my pores?!’
Valentina scrabbles to the sink and for the first time today is greeted by her own reflection. She gasps for air, speechless.
‘No…no…no…’ is all she can say. ‘This isn’t happening. Dear Lord God, tell me this isn’t happening.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say, as I sit her down onto the loo again and pass her a wipe so she can start to take her make-up off.
She drags it across a cheek, her expression utterly dejected.
‘It’s not that bad,’ I say, wondering why I’m indulging her.
‘Do you really think so?’ she asks pathetically.
I sigh. ‘Well, you’re no Brigitte Bardot this morning, that’s for sure,’ I can’t help saying.
‘Ohhh!’
‘But look,’ I continue, desperate to shut her up. ‘A nice shower will sort you out, I’m sure.’ Privately, I think she needs significantly more than ten minutes of ablution under a Gainsborough shower.
‘What’s that?’ Valentina says suddenly, peering at the back of her leg.
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘You did the splits last night. I think that muck is from the dance floor.’
‘Not that,’ she whimpers, and peels something away from the sole of her foot. On c
loser inspection it turns out to be a cigarette butt.
She puts her head in her hands and starts to sob.
‘This,’ she says, ‘is the worst goddamn day of my whole goddamn life.’
Chapter 24
Valentina has showered, dressed, and spent forty minutes applying concealer underneath her eyes. She looks much better than she did an hour ago, i.e. less like a zombie, but she’s still not in what you’d call a good mood.
‘If this old fool doesn’t get me checked out sharpish,’ she hisses to me down at the reception, ‘I’m going to become very annoyed.’
‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ smiles the elderly hotelier.
‘Hmm,’ she says, lifting up her Jackie O sunglasses briefly to flash him a look.
‘Have you managed to do any walking during your stay?’ he asks cheerily.
I stifle a giggle. Valentina is wearing a pair of £350 Gina shoes with Gucci jeans, and is carrying a top-of-the-range Louis Vuitton travel system. She couldn’t look less like a walker if she had no legs.
‘No,’ she says, without even the hint of a smile.
‘That’s a pity,’ he says. ‘The views in the Trough of Bowland are magnificent.’
‘Perhaps next time,’ I tell him, thinking someone’s got to fill the gap in conversation.
Now she shoots me a look.
‘Is my bill nearly ready?’ she asks tersely. ‘I really do have to get going.’
‘Oh, sorry, dear,’ he says. ‘Listen to me wittering on while you’re waiting. Things will be much better when my wife Edith is back on her feet. She’s just had her varicose veins done. Anyway, your bill’s just coming now.’
‘As a matter of interest,’ Valentina says, ‘the man I arrived with yesterday, Mr Williamson–Jack Williamson–has he checked out from his room yet?’
The hotelier thinks for a second. ‘The man you were with yesterday…yes, strapping fellow with dark hair, I know him. Oh, he checked out a long time ago. He was up bright and early, in fact.’
‘Was he now?’ says Valentina, obviously even less happy now.
‘So do you want to take his mobile?’ I ask when we get outside. ‘I mean, I presume you’re going to see him again soon?’
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