The Turtle Run (3 page)

‘I bet you didn't even meet him,' he said, scowling.

‘Would you like to bet where I'm going now?' said Becky. ‘I have to discuss an ethical matter with Mr McBride.'

‘Discuss away,' snapped Ian and slimed off. Becky looked round for the memo and Mr McBride's ‘instructions'. They were no longer on her desk. At the far end of the office Ian was feeding something into the shredder. Evidence gone.

Chapter Two

Only three weeks to go before her twelve-month probation was up and Becky had managed to avoid any assignments that involved Ian. Until now. She'd barely got into the office before Patsy hurried over.

‘Ian says I'm to tell you he's just gone to fill up and then he'll be waiting for you in the car park.'

Oh God; she could look forward to half a day of Ian ogling her breasts while pretending to photograph something. ‘I didn't know he was covering the rally?'

‘Rally?' said Patsy, frowning. ‘That's not what he said.'

‘I'm supposed to be covering the vintage car rally at Marsden Common in an hour,' Becky fumed. ‘They're expecting me. Right, I'm going to speak to Mr McBride. I know Ian's his nephew and all that, but –'

Patsy sighed. ‘Don't bother. McBride hardly ever goes against Ian. Our boss has no children of his own. He thinks the sun shines out of Ian's – camera.'

‘What? Just let him get away with it? If nothing else, it's unprofessional.'

‘And when your probation is over you can say so,' said Patsy. ‘I'm sure Ian's delegated someone else to cover the car rally.'

‘Did he say what this is all about and where we're going?'

‘Somewhere in the country, I gather. You'd better hurry.'

The telephone on her desk shrilled. Becky picked up the receiver but before she could say a word Ian's voice demanded, ‘Are you coming down or
what
?' He rang off before Becky could even reply.

Furious about the sudden change to her day and even more furious she couldn't do anything about it, Becky headed downstairs. In the car park Ian was behind the wheel of his Citroen, revving its powerful engine impatiently.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' she said.

‘That's a fine way to show your gratitude. You should be on your knees, thanking me.'

‘Thanking you for what?'

‘For arranging the most exciting day you've had since you've been in this sad little office. But if you want to go and tell our esteemed editor that you refuse to go –'

‘Your uncle knows about this – assignment?'

‘Oh yes,' said Ian. ‘You know how it is: I suggest things; he agrees. Now, chop, chop.'

Fuming Becky got in and belted up. She remembered the word ‘nepotism' came from favouring nephews – never a more apt use.

‘And don't look so sour,' snapped Ian. ‘I'm doing you a favour here.'

The F-word again – always ominous. ‘A favour?'

He plonked a folder in her lap. ‘Feast your eyes on that,' he told her. ‘And while you're at it, try to be a bit more appreciative of what I've set up for us, will you?'

She didn't respond but, as he tore out of the car park, she opened the folder and examined the brochure inside. It showed photos of a gloriously mellow stone building cloaked in Virginia creeper and surrounded by manicured lawns that set it off to perfection. ‘The Monmouth Country Club UK,' she read aloud, ‘Matthew Darnley's newly renovated oasis of calm in today's hectic world.'

She shut the brochure and gave Ian an unfriendly stare. ‘We're going to a hotel owned by Matthew Darnley?'

‘Yup.'

‘Why? Has it been burgled or something?'

‘Not yet. Unless I take a fancy to the cutlery.' He giggled as though he had said something amusing. ‘Anyway, all you need to know is that I've fixed for you to do an interview.'

‘Hang on a moment. I can do a write-up on the place but an interview? Please tell me you haven't arranged for me to talk to Matthew Darnley.'

‘Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't,' Ian chanted.

Becky wished now she had found out more about Matthew. Having googled him after their first meeting she had suppressed her curiosity; with no professional excuse to research him she had felt the same unease as when her younger brother tried to ‘stalk' potential girlfriends online: it was a bit creepy.

‘I know all you have to do is point a camera and click but I can't talk to someone without doing some research first.'

‘Got you going!' Ian laughed. ‘'Course you won't have to talk to Matthew Darnley. Even if he was at the Monmouth today, I don't think he would bother with a junior reporter from a piddling little local rag. No, you'll be speaking to the manager.'

‘About what? I'm not prepared.'

‘Oh, wing it,' Ian snapped. ‘His name is Chris Harris and he happens to be a friend of mine. While you interview him, I'll mosey around' – he was putting on a very tiresome mock-aristocratic accent – ‘take in the stately rooms, the lounges. Maybe even take a wander upstairs; see if the bedrooms rate my personal approval. Who knows, I might want to stay there some time soon? I mean look at the brochure. Would you say “no” to a stay in their honeymoon suite?'

‘Depends who with,' said Becky.

‘You wouldn't say “No” to Darnley.'

Even if this merited an answer, Becky wouldn't have known what to say. Did she want to bump into Matthew Darnley again? He just might ask about that long embarrassing story. The car jarred over a pothole and she checked to see if Ian was paying attention to the road: nope – he'd been casting a not-furtive-enough look at her breasts. Ian quickly tried to camouflage his inability to stare straight ahead by rabbiting on about the assignment.

‘You could say I got him the job.'

‘Who?'

‘Chris Harris. He was umming and ahhing about accepting the position. I told him to go for it. So now he's manager of the Monmouth Hotel. He'd never have taken the job if it wasn't for me.'

‘And how do you know him?'

‘He and his wife moved into my street. They didn't know anyone – bit lost really. So I introduced him to a few people, you know, took him down the pub.'

‘You're calling in a favour?'

He giggled in that annoying way again. ‘What else can you do with them?'

An unwelcome thought flashed through Becky's mind. ‘Does this Chris know we're turning up today?'

‘Oh yeah. I've told him you're going to write a lovely piece about the hotel – so long as he treats us right. I expect a free lunch out of this at least.'

‘I didn't think Mr McBride was into giving free advertisements.'

‘My uncle likes us to support local businesses.'

Not that local. They had left the A12 before Colchester, and seemed to be slaloming along the sort of B-roads so despised by her socialist taxi driver a few weeks earlier.

‘Got any plans for tonight?' said Ian.

He'd caught her on the hop so she didn't have a chance to invent a night out. ‘Er…'

‘Obviously not,' he said, smugly. ‘Friday night as well. We need to get you out a bit more from whatever dreary bedsit you inhabit.'

Becky sighed inwardly. She was embarrassed that, at twenty-three, she still lived at home with her mother and brother but this was an economic necessity; she was only going to look for somewhere to rent when she knew she had a firm job. She could now look forward to an argument with Ian later about why she wouldn't join him for a drink or meal or whatever evening out he was planning.

But she forgot about excuses to foil Ian's evening plans as they turned into the entrance to Matthew's hotel. The approach to the Monmouth was stunning, a long curving drive revealing a mature, stately building – perfect in its setting of manicured lawns and with an established Virginia creeper hugging the façade. Becky really did feel like she was entering a sequestered place of peaceful loveliness.

‘Why don't you take a picture for our piece? The light's perfect right now,' she suggested as they got out of the car.

‘All in good time,' said Ian. ‘Let's go and winkle out old Chris.'

They didn't have to. A tall figure stood by the main entrance, they saw him right away and she – if not Ian – could tell immediately he wasn't a bit pleased to see them. Apologetically the first thing he did was cry off the interview ‘with Miss Thomson' due to the pressure of other commitments. His accent was similar to Matthew Darnley's, which Becky still couldn't place, so he certainly wasn't local despite living in Ian's street. And, unlike Mr Darnley, Chris Harris seemed unaccustomed to the constraints of formal dress; one hand was constantly tugging at his shirt collar and tie. He was obviously still new to the job, treading warily, his face pale with anxiety to make good. Becky felt really sorry for him.

Not wanting to add to the harassed man's problems, she took herself off to explore; Chris Harris was going to have Ian dogging his footsteps as it was, selfishly determined to get whatever favour he was after, and since she was here she might as well get a feel for the place. Having looked over the beautifully landscaped grounds, and watched as a team of workmen created a fiendish bunker on the spanking new golf course, she went indoors.

Becky introduced herself to the pleasant girl at reception and explained she was doing a write-up for a local paper. The young woman agreed with her that the hotel suggested a more mellow, less hectic age than our own. ‘It's what the owner wanted to achieve; the atmosphere of a comfortable Edwardian country-seat but with modern amenities and French cuisine.'

‘So it's a sort of fusion hotel?'

‘That's right. He's very big on the French stuff. Microwaves are banned from the kitchens. It's only been open for three months but it's really taking off. Quite a few famous people have started coming too.'

Becky laughed. ‘Really?' She couldn't imagine any A-listers wanting to spend time in Essex.

‘Really,' the girl said. ‘This bit's off the record, right? Look who we've got staying.'

She twisted her screen and pointed at a name that meant nothing to Becky; presumably someone who featured in the celebrity magazines she didn't read or in the reality TV programmes she didn't watch. Maybe she should gen up on this sort of trivia for the sake of her career. And then the receptionist panicked. ‘Promise you won't put that in your article?' she said quickly. ‘I'd be out on my ear if the boss knew I'd let you see this. He's really strict about client confidentiality.'

Becky assured her she wouldn't breathe a word then froze, staring at the screen in disbelief. ‘Just a moment – that's my name at the bottom. What's that doing there?
'

The girl winced. ‘Hell. Was it supposed to be a surprise for you? I didn't realise. Your boyfriend just had Chris type the booking in himself. Mr Ian Watt and Ms Becky Thomson – the bridal suite for tonight.'

‘The
what?'

‘The bridal suite. That's what it says here.'

Becky's felt her stomach lurch as she read the linked names on the screen again, furious that Ian would take such a liberty. Furious, too, at his conceit in thinking his ‘charm' was such that he could actually talk her into spending a night with him here – well – anywhere. And then she remembered Ian's earlier set-up.

She forced a smile at the receptionist. ‘I take it you were in on this joke? A very good wind-up, by the way.'

The receptionist looked confused. ‘Sorry?'

‘Presumably my colleague put Chris up to this and told you to show it to me.'

‘No, it's a real booking.' The receptionist looked horrified. ‘You mean Mr Watt isn't your boyfriend?'

‘No, he is not. Cancel it.'

The girl hesitated.

‘You can do that, surely?'

‘Well, no,' stuttered the girl. ‘It's a special code for free stays. Chris typed it in; I can't undo it.' The telephone next to her rang. ‘Look, we'll get Chris to sort it out in a minute. Let me just get this call.'

Seething with indignation, Becky left her to it and sat in one of the classic English antique chairs in the reception area. So this was the extra favour Ian had intended extracting from the manager. And pathetic Chris Harris had gone along with it.

She wondered whether to have it out with Ian as soon as she saw him. Or maybe it would be more satisfying to see how he intended to break the news to her and then deal with it – preferably in front of Chris, who clearly needed to ‘man-up' where users like Ian were concerned.

And here they were: Ian coming along the corridor with a jaunty swagger, followed by Chris Harris, looking deathly, his forehead beaded with sweat.

‘Becky,' exclaimed Ian. ‘Isn't this a lovely hotel? Are you getting enough for your write-up?'

Chris was looking at her with an anxious intensity. God, he really believed she had the power to influence would-be local customers.

‘It's a lovely setting,' she told him. ‘And I'm sure your hotel doesn't need the publicity.'

‘Everyone could do with good publicity,' said Ian, quickly. ‘And isn't it nice of old Chris to insist that we have lunch here?'

‘It's nice that Mr McBride has agreed to cover our expenses,' said Becky. ‘Or shall I just ring him now to confirm it's OK?'

Ian glared at her, while ‘old Chris' looked resentfully at him.

‘Lunch is on the house,' Chris murmured, standing aside. ‘Would you like to come this way, Miss Thomson?'

He led them to a table in the walnut-panelled dining room and handed them each one of the Monmouth's ornate, gold-tasselled menus. He then disappeared into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a waiter who he brought to the table just as Ian was holding up a knife to the light.