The Turtle Run (28 page)

A hush fell over the veranda. In the house muffled conversations quietened as the guests indoors realised something was happening outside. The veranda swelled with people, even filling the steps to the yard.

The front car passenger door opened. Matthew got out slowly and looked at the house. Becky wondered how she would feel if she came back from a difficult business trip and an eight-hour flight to find her house bloated with people.

Francesca turned to her audience and held up a finger. ‘One, two, three. Happy Birthday to you …'

They all joined in the singing while the birthday man stood leaning on the passenger door, his face in shadow. When the ‘to you-ou' had finished he quietly got his suitcase out of the boot, carried it across the yard and up the veranda steps. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, uncertain what to do.

On the top step Matthew put down his suitcase and looked round.

‘Bastards.'

And then he grinned. There was a massed sigh of relief.

‘Darling,' cried Francesca. ‘You must be exhausted.' She kissed him on the cheek and then made a theatrical wince. ‘And wonderfully unshaven.' He ruefully felt his chin and nodded as she draped his other arm over her.

The crowd quickly reformed into little cliques and Becky saw some raised eyebrows and surprised smiles as though the scene they had just witnessed was going to form the main theme of their immediate conversations.

‘Let me take care of that,' said Alex and disappeared into the house with Matthew's suitcase.

‘Hello darling,' said Clara, kissing her son's cheek, and giving him a one-armed hug on his free side (as Francesca was occupying the other).

Matthew looked at the Turners and at Becky, giving a nod and a thin smile. ‘I'm not kissing anyone else until I've had a shower and shave. Mothers are more forgiving.' Then he spoke to Clara in French, usually a bad sign though Becky couldn't glean his mood from the even tone of his speech. His appearance was more revealing: a crumpled suit, lines of exhaustion on his face which was still handsome but haggard. Clara and he exchanged a few more words and then he gently disentangled himself from Francesca and disappeared into the house.

Robin drained his glass. ‘That didn't go too badly.'

‘You don't speak French,' said Clara.

Francesca, suddenly marooned in a group of less friendly people, homed in on Becky.

‘So Matthew told me that your father is in shipping.'

Becky laughed. ‘No, I said he was on a ship. He was a merchant seaman.'

‘Oh.' Francesca managed to endow the word with several syllables.

‘I didn't know that,' said Clara. ‘How interesting.'

Francesca obviously didn't think that ‘interesting' came into it. ‘I fear that you gave Matthew completely the wrong impression.'

‘Not deliberately.'

‘You said he
was
a merchant seaman. So has he found a better job now?'

Becky held up her empty glass.

‘Excuse me. I'm going to get another drink.' She walked away.

Becky didn't get a drink but instead sought sanctuary at the back of the house though Cook was not around to talk to. Becky didn't know whether Cook had been insulted or relieved that her culinary skills had been rendered superfluous by the caterers brought in by Francesca but she'd elected to spend the evening at her son's house. Maureen was tied up making sure that the drinks table didn't run dry. Becky wished it was earlier in the day and she had the distraction of looking after Zena. That would have been a great excuse to get away.

As she walked down the back corridor she saw a plump middle-aged man gingerly open Cook's door and step inside her room. Becky rushed to see what he was up to and almost knocked him over like a skittle as he came out again.

‘Can I help you?' she snapped.

She must have looked angry because he actually raised his hands as if to repel an attack. ‘Yes, you can, please. Someone told me that there was a washroom down here.'

‘You've come too far. You need to go – I'll show you.' She led the way back towards the hall and pointed out the door of the downstairs bathroom.

He frowned. ‘Sorry, I don't know you. Can I ask what you were doing back there?'

‘I live here. But if you want a character reference we could go and find Matthew.'

The man's face blanched. ‘Matthew. Has he arrived?'

Becky wondered how long the man had been ‘looking for the washroom'.

She saw him go into the downstairs toilet and headed back down the corridor to check that Cook's door really was shut but, as she walked past the office, she thought she heard a sound inside. She knocked on the door.

Matthew opened it, gestured for her to come in and closed it immediately behind her. ‘Whose idea was this?' he snapped.

Becky sighed. ‘It wasn't your mother's. I think she got a bit swept along.'

‘And Alex?'

‘He tried to warn you but he didn't officially find out about the party until you were already on the flight.'

‘How could he have not known what was going on?'

Becky didn't know what to say to that. Matthew stared at her impatiently. ‘And he left the office open and the computer on.'

‘Surely not.' Becky couldn't imagine even Alex being that forgetful.

‘As good as. He simply locked the outer door without setting the keypads. Any idiot with a skeleton key could have broken in.'

‘I think he was rather coerced into joining the party.'

‘For heaven's sake, he's a grown man. He could have locked up properly first.'

Becky's temper flared on behalf of poor Alex. She was tempted to explain how Francesca had taken over but it felt a bit like telling tales. ‘If you knew what the situation was like here, you'd have more sympathy for him.'

Matthew looked about to answer this but said instead, ‘You're really telling me that half the island was invited here tonight, people who would barely recognise me in the street, and the most expensive caterers called in and Alex–'

‘Ah, I've got it now,' said Becky. ‘This is about freeloaders, isn't it?'

‘Freeloaders?'

‘Why can't you just be happy that so many friends turned up to celebrate your birthday?'

‘Friends? I've seen at least two people here tonight who would happily search this office for information on my business. What a dream. To be invited to my house and find the office virtually open, the computer on and God knows what paperwork left lying around.'

Becky inwardly groaned at Alex's carelessness. Then again he had probably worked a 12-hour day and wasted valuable time searching for his car keys and trying to reach his fierce boss. Alex had looked almost as tired as Matthew looked now.

‘I'd better get back to your party,' she said and walked away before Matthew could respond with something sarcastic.

Chapter Eighteen

Becky wanted to make sure Clara was all right and looked first in the dining room. She had to concede Francesca had chosen her caterers well: the dining table was covered with attractive platters of prawns, cold lobster, king fish, and smoked salmon with olive eyes and cucumber smiles, all swimming among dishes of luxuriant green salads.

People were now attacking the buffet and taking their spoils to the lounge or out to the veranda; the lucky ones finding a seat, the unlucky ones on their feet trying to balance drinks and plates of food. As Becky approached one small group, she heard ‘… and then she said “being a lord is like being a lady, if you have to say you are, you ain't”‘. Everyone in the group laughed. Becky sensed a collective turning of heads as she walked past, but suspected this was owing to the magic black dress, rather than any recognition she was the originator of that anecdote.

She found Clara in the lounge and was pleased to see the older lady had a seat but there was no room for Becky to join her. Anyway Clara looked brighter and was chatting happily to Margaret Turner. Becky went on to the morning room where Francesca was holding court with a small cluster of giggling ladies. One of them reached out to stroke the blue material of Francesca's dress.

‘It's
gorgeous
! How did you afford it?'

‘Alimony, darling!'

The other women's voices did not carry as clearly but Becky heard one of the coterie mention Florida.

‘Just left him there,' tinkled Francesca. ‘Anyway, silly man. He hired old Belly Baron as his lawyer. He obviously forgot that Belly was a great friend of mine from years ago.'

Becky carried on walking, looking for a friendly face, but the few people she knew were all busy. Robin Turner was talking with a mixed group and Alex was swigging back a beer while listening to a man who was talking intensely. She could have joined in many conversations – small groups of men looked up admiringly as she passed – but she kept going until she reached the veranda. There was no Maureen to talk to – she must have left earlier – and the drinks table appeared to have descended into a chaotic free-for-all.

Becky ignored the small chatting groups and leant over the balustrade, drinking in the sounds of the lonely whistling frogs. She was wondering if she could slip away unnoticed to her room when a pair of arms seized her from behind.

‘Where the devil have you been all evening?' Richard Carrington demanded, rubbing a bristly cheek against hers. ‘The only reason I accepted this invitation was to see you. Matthew will probably poison my drink if he knows I'm here.'

He released her and his roguish blue eyes roamed over her appreciatively. ‘You look wonderful,' he drawled. ‘That dress looks amazing. Or at least it looks amazing on you.'

‘Thank you, Richard. And nice to see you made a bit of an effort too.'

He grinned and gave a mock twirl. His sandy hair was tousled as usual but he was dressed in pressed trousers and shirt and smelt like he'd just walked out of a shower. His only other concession to dressing up was a gold earring.

‘Have you eaten?' he said. ‘There's so much sea life next door Francesca must have sent out a private fishing fleet to hoover up the Atlantic.'

Becky laughed. ‘Actually, now you mention it, no I haven't.'

‘Come on, let's enjoy Matthew's hospitality.'

Becky followed him into the dining room where he managed to find them a couple of seats and insisted she sat down while he loaded the plates. She could see he would be gone some time: the food was so good people were coming for seconds and thirds and haphazard queues had built up near certain dishes.

At least it meant he wasn't in view when Matthew walked into the dining room moments later after what must have been a lightning shower. His hair was still wet but he had changed into fresh clothes and had a beer in his hand. As he moved through the room small groups of people stopped him for a chat and occasionally someone seemed to know him well enough to clap him on the shoulder. Nothing could disguise the weary lines on his face but he seemed to have recovered his social humour.

He was standing only a few feet away but he had his back to Becky and hadn't yet noticed her. She felt like a spy observing his interactions with people. She assumed it was Francesca's friends who blew up to him speaking in hurried sentences.

‘Gorgeous buffet, Matthew.'

‘Happy birthday.'

‘Super party.'

And then a couple of women from Francesca's coterie rushed up to him in tandem.

‘Francesca tells me you've been in London,' said one.

‘I suppose you've got your Christmas shopping in early?' asked the other.

Matthew laughed, seemingly unsure how to answer. He looked round, caught Becky smiling at the ridiculousness of the question and gave her a rueful grin before answering the female duo.

‘That's right. Though I did manage to squeeze in some business between shopping trips.'

He turned back to Becky and looked like he was about to join her – since there was a vacant chair beside her – when Francesca cantered over, telling off the duo.

‘Don't be silly, you two. Poor Matthew has been on a business trip. Clara has just told me he's only had four hours' sleep in the last three days.'

‘Oh, you should try lettuce leaves. Brilliant for insomnia,' said one of the pair, clearly not getting it. Matthew saw Becky laughing at this latest conversational gem but before he could respond his arm was taken by Francesca, who spun him towards the veranda.

‘It's not that he can't sleep,' she told the duo, sternly. ‘It's that he hasn't had
time
to sleep. Now, poor Matthew, let's see if we can find you somewhere to sit down while you wait for all these horrible people to go.'

Francesca propelled Matthew towards the veranda so that the duo were left like disoriented bees bereft of their queen. Becky felt quite sorry for them.

She was quite hungry now and was pleased to see Richard coming back with their plates, tastefully decorated with a selection of each dish. Evidently he knew his food for after a few bites he could names the spices that had been used and the cooking method. He looked hurt that this surprised Becky.

‘I do run hotels as well, you know. My family have several in the islands. I oversee the restaurants. And I'm a fantastic cook.'

He was also a fantastic source of gossip, telling her gentle anecdotes about some of Barbados's more eccentric residents as they ate. They were joined by a few stray women whose husbands were talking with other husbands. Richard chatted easily to all, making them laugh, though his eyes always returned to Becky. After a while the husbands noticed their wives were chatting to Richard Carrington and came to claim them. Only one lady remained with Becky and Richard.

‘It's your reputation, Richard,' she laughed. ‘Shame it doesn't work on my husband. I can see that Frank's boring some poor blighter with his plans for the land near Shermans. He's convinced that Barbados needs yet another golf course.'