The Turtle Run (19 page)

Matthew nodded. ‘I'll take care of it. But I don't understand why you can't start working now. My mother said something about going through notes.'

‘I thought maybe we could work on the book in the evenings,' Becky said. ‘But –' She wondered how to put this delicately.

‘Her friends keep dropping by?' said Matthew.

‘Yes.'

‘So how do you spend the evenings?' asked Matthew.

He was staring at her. Maybe he was trying to picture her playing bridge and sharing island gossip. ‘I have company.' She did not need to tell him she preferred being with Cook in the kitchen.

He looked again at the slumbering Alex and growled, ‘I hope it's strong.' He nodded at the cafetière.

‘He doesn't get enough sleep,' said Becky.

‘Rubbish,' said Matthew pressing the plunger and pouring two cups. He looked at her. ‘Do you really think so? Or are you assuming that because he's fallen asleep now? I should add that if you'd just read the new American health and safety guidelines for tourists too stupid to stand
inside
the railings of their hotel balcony unless there's a big notice telling them to, well, you'd be asleep as well.'

‘OK,' said Becky. She had probably overstepped the mark in implying that Matthew overworked his right-hand man but she didn't regret saying it.

Alex woke up with a start and murmured some apologies.

‘Becky says you don't get enough sleep,' said Matthew, pushing a cup of coffee towards him.

‘She's right,' said Alex, wiping his hands over his face. ‘I don't mind the day job. It's having to entertain in the evenings that's finishing me off.'

‘Oh, well, I hate that too,' said Matthew taking a sip of his own coffee.

Becky was unsure quite what they meant by ‘entertaining'. A very odd vision of the two men and a woman called Francesca popped into her mind.

She was heading back inside the house when Matthew spoke again. ‘Tonight, you'll come too.'

‘That's a great idea,' said Alex, brightening up at the prospect. ‘She'll be good.'

‘What will I be good at?' asked Becky. She didn't think they were talking about lap dancing but even so.

‘It's the time of year when travel companies choose the hotels to put in their brochures for next year,' explained Matthew. ‘But of course they can't just come and check our hotel. They have to stay there – free – for a few days and get as much out of us as possible. We have to bribe them with drink and food and witty conversation.'

Of course, thought Becky: Matthew hated freeloaders. But maybe this meant he wasn't spending his evenings with a woman called Francesca.

‘You can take care of the witty conversation,' he added.

‘Oh no,' said Becky. ‘Really, I wouldn't be good at that.'

‘Yes, you would,' said Alex.

‘And I haven't got anything to wear,' protested Becky.

‘We have a great boutique in the hotel,' said Alex. ‘Selling dresses for the casinos. There's bound to be –'

‘Can I see what you've brought along?' said Matthew, standing abruptly.

Becky nodded and led the way up the stairs to her room, conscious of him padding behind her in his bare feet. Part of her felt she should have told him to keep his nose out of her space but she also knew that he would take one look at what she'd brought and realise she was not the right woman for this mission.

It took more than one look. Matthew examined her clothes with great attention, extricating individual items on hangers and holding them up, sometimes rubbing the material between his fingers. He looked puzzled as if he had been expecting something different. Becky felt a little uncomfortable. It was a bizarrely intimate action. But at least it was affirming what she had said: she really had nothing to wear. Apart from the business suit she'd worn on the flight over all her clothes were inexpensive and practical, chosen for a hot climate. There was not a single thing that could be described as ‘sophisticated'.

Matthew put back the last item, closed the cupboard door and frowned. ‘We'll have to leave a bit earlier so you have a chance to find a dress.'

Becky backed towards the door. ‘Can we have this conversation outside, please?' His barely dressed presence seemed to sucking all the energy out of the room.

‘Yes, of course.' Matthew appeared to realise their over-intimate situation too. ‘Let's go back downstairs.'

Alex gave them a grin when they reappeared on the veranda. ‘Sorted?' he asked.

‘Not quite,' said Matthew, looking Becky up and down as if already mentally fitting her out in a dress. ‘But if we leave at five we'll have time to choose a dress and get changed.'

‘Five o' clock?' said Becky, anxiously. It was four now. ‘I want a shower first.'

‘Fine,' said Matthew. But don't worry about what you wear. You'll change at the hotel.'

‘But –'

‘No buts,' said Matthew. ‘I'm buying the dress.'

Alex seemed to understand what was worrying Becky. ‘It's just drinks with some pompous people, followed by dinner with the same pompous people and then coffee with the same pompous people.'

Becky smiled. ‘OK. But I warn you, I'm not –' She looked for the right word.

‘Neither are we,' said Alex.

‘Anyway,' said Matthew. ‘You've been here for weeks. Have you been out anywhere? Apart from the kite competition.'

‘We went to the cinema. And there was one trip to Bridgetown with Alex but that was for research. Oh and we took Pitcher to the clinic.'

‘I heard about Pitcher,' said Matthew. ‘Thanks for helping take care of him.' He frowned. ‘So your only real outing has been to the cinema?'

Becky nodded.

‘High time you had a night out then.'

‘Yes, it is. Thank you,' said Becky. She was baffled by Matthew's seeming change of attitude but assumed this was really about business. However, if he thought she could discuss the effect of quantitative easing on the global travel industry or make similar conversation she was going to fall very short of his expectations.

It was with some trepidation that Becky climbed into the passenger seat of Matthew's Nissan Sedan about an hour later. Matthew, who must have quickly showered and donned a crisp short-sleeved shirt and smart trousers, hung up his jacket and tie on the side bar of the car and got behind the wheel. Alex was driving his own car and Becky half wished she had his easy company for the journey instead of Matthew's.

They drove in silence though Becky suspected this was due to Matthew running through checklists and chores in his mind rather than because he was struggling to find things to say. In fact he'd probably forgotten she was in the passenger seat. It was time to remind him.

‘Is tonight particularly important?' she asked.

There was a pause as if he were looking for somewhere to save a thought for retrieval later. ‘Very. The biggest travel company in the UK. But of course they aren't sending over their salaried staff to examine the hotel. The chairman himself is coming – a Lord, no less – and bringing his retinue.'

‘Ah,' said Becky. ‘Freeloaders.'

Matthew looked puzzled. Becky wondered if he remembered using that very word about her and Ian.

‘I wouldn't mind if they knew what they were doing. But they won't even bother to check a sample of the guest rooms or find out about the local transport. They just want to stay in the most exclusive suites and be chauffeured to the sights round the island. Anyway, I'm sure they'll like
you
.'

Becky didn't ask any more questions after that. She was wondering if Matthew had brought her along because he thought that being freeloaders they would sense a mutual trait in one another and swap tips on how to scrounge.

After another twenty minutes Becky saw a sign for the ‘Monmouth Hotel' and Matthew turned left on to a drive which was in better condition than the roads on which they had just travelled. The hotel was a grand white stone building with crenellated walls and mock towers. Becky had expected it to be located by a calm blue sea and was surprised when they got out of the car that she could hear the water pounding the beach like a wild drummer. She looked over a low wall to the side of the car park to see waves making their own white-knuckle rides on to the beach, breaking furiously over the sand. To breathe was to taste the sea.

‘This is the east side of the island,' said Matthew, sweeping the horizon with his jacket. ‘The wild side of the Atlantic.'

‘Oh yes,' said Becky, taking in a deep salty breath and feeling very alive. ‘I'd read that the west coast was tamer.'

‘The west coast is for wimps,' said Matthew with a slight smile. ‘Though I mustn't be too disparaging of the sunbathing crowd. I'll be building a hotel on that side when I get the land.'

Becky remembered what Richard Carrington had said at the airport: the land for Matthew's new hotel must have been what he was referring to.

Alex pulled up next to Matthew's Nissan and got out but before he could say anything both his and Matthew's mobiles went off simultaneously. Becky had to jog behind the two men as they marched towards the white building, each with his head inclined towards his phone.

Matthew ended his call with what Becky took to be a French blasphemy and glared at Alex, who had just finished his own call more quietly.

‘Lord Fotheringham arrived early,' said Matthew. ‘He's already complained to one of his directors
in England
who then has to ring me to pass on the complaint.' He looked accusingly at Alex. ‘Who did you put on reception? Please tell me it wasn't Caroline.'

Alex groaned. ‘Sorry, I completely forgot to get one of the senior receptionists. I think it is Caroline's shift.'

‘Go and check what's happened,' ordered Matthew. ‘And then take Becky to find a dress. Get a bandage gown – a Léger, not a cheap one. Black or midnight blue.' He turned on his heel and walked off. He was not happy.

Becky had no idea what a ‘Léger' bandage gown was and was about to unleash a torrent of annoyance at Matthew's bossiness but stopped when she saw Alex's stressed face: dresses were not the first thing on his mind.

‘Our receptionists can deal with famous people, rich people, normal people – pretty much anyone,' he said, ‘but they aren't used to titles.'

She could see how Alex forgot his tasks. In the short walk to the reception desk he was stopped twice by members of staff telling him of late deliveries of food and problems with the air-conditioning in the dining room and then his mobile rang again. He said ‘Hello', switched to French and issued some instructions. ‘Tour group arriving from France,' he explained to Becky as he ended the call.

She followed him to the reception desk where a cheerful young woman was dealing with guests. She had a sunny smile and a particularly sing-song Bajan accent.

‘The trouble,' Alex said quietly to Becky, ‘is that a lot of the old calypso stars are called Lord this or Lord that. You know, they have to have fancy names. If you were in Trinidad at carnival time you'd think you were surrounded by aristocracy.'

Becky nodded. She didn't really know what he meant but didn't want to add to his burdens by asking for an explanation. When the young receptionist had finished telling guests about the floor shows planned for that evening she grinned at Alex.

‘Hi Caroline,' he said. ‘Now were you on the desk when Lord Fotheringham arrived?'

‘Lord Fotheringham. Lord!' Caroline laughed and did a little jig behind the desk. ‘Silly man,' she said. ‘Couldn't even get his own name right. I had to ask him three times. And he was getting annoyed with
me
.'

‘Oh God,' said Alex, weakly. ‘Can I have look at the booking?' He walked behind the reception desk, checked the screen and closed his eyes briefly with a ‘Beam me up, Scotty' look of desperation.

‘Is that wrong?' said Caroline, frowning.

Alex pointed at the screen. ‘Lord' should be in the title field not in the forename field. Just leave the forename field blank.'

‘Oh,' said Caroline doubtfully, as though she wasn't sure Alex had got that right. She typed in the details then did another little jig.

‘Um, did you do that dance in front of him?'

‘Yes,' said Caroline, cheerfully. ‘I told him I hadn't seen many white calypsonians.'

‘Oh God,' said Alex, again. ‘We can expect trouble later.'

He nodded to Becky and she followed him to a boutique further down the corridor. The sides of the boutique were glass, enticing hotel guests to gaze within as they walked past. While Alex talked to the very elegant woman in charge, Becky watched as casually dressed or swimsuit-clad guests slowed their pace when they passed – their eyes drawn to the gorgeous suits and dresses hung in tiers within. As for the prices, a few simple dresses had a price tag in triple figure dollars but most of them were over a thousand dollars. Becky felt herself getting annoyed. She could see the forlorn looks of the casually dressed women as they wandered by, glancing greedily at the sort of clothes the femme fatale in a James Bond movie would wear. No doubt some of these holidaymakers had already overextended themselves paying for a Caribbean holiday. Now they were to be made ashamed of their perfectly reasonable holiday attire. No wonder Matthew Darnley had made it in business.

‘So it's to be a Léger?' asked the lady. ‘Yes, I can see that would suit you.'

‘I'm afraid I have no idea what a Léger is,' said Becky.

The woman waved a slender arm dismissively. ‘It's just a French fashion house. We have a few of their dresses. So you want dark blue or black.' She took a few dresses off a rack and, after holding them up and darting critical looks at each dress then Becky's body, she handed her a black, sleeveless gown and showed her to a changing room. Becky almost gasped at the thought of getting into something so stylish. The trouble was, if she slithered into that black number, she would need a new bra, new shoes and a new handbag. And probably a new personality.