Before and After (9 page)

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’ll 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.

A
tousled rather grubby young man was casually holding a tray of drinks as we entered the stateroom, and we all duly stood around holding glasses of champagne, eyeing the decoration.

“
Most
unimaginative,” I whispered to Sylvia, “John Taylor could teach him a thing or two.”

Sylvia
nodded doubtfully, looking round at the cream and gold swathed silks and the pale blonde wood that was so moulded and unnatural it could well have been plastic. Hal and Archie were poking around with all the latest technology that the Jolly Spree offered, satellite this and that, and state of the art sound systems, when our host entered the room.

Mr
Carlton kept his head down and away from the portholes. He walked heavily, and with a slight limp. Dressed in a blazer and cravat he looked like the perfect elderly English gentleman, until he turned sideways, then you may be forgiven for thinking you were looking at the molten flesh of a war victim. The left hand side of his face had vicious scars running from his eyes and nose to his chin. The tram lines of puckered red flesh met around his cheekbone and slid around his face like a small nest of vipers. Livid red and white, it was an angry sight. The flesh had been pressed back together and held there, just, but with a lopsided twist to it. It was as if one side of his face was a jigsaw puzzle put together by a dyslexic chimp.

His
left hand constantly sought and fingered the scars with an unconscious rummaging. He was aware that the blazer, and indeed the cravat, the gold cufflinks, the cigars, were all a little too much. But he needed them. The props from another life were such a comfort.

“Miss
Tate, how lovely to see you again,” his old Etonian voice echoed around the stateroom. I smiled and kissed his cheek, letting my smooth skin caress the damaged side of his face for a second or two.

I
introduced the Ambles and saw that Archie had stood almost to attention when Mr Carlton shook his hand. It seemed that if you had once been in the Coldstream Guards, as Mr Carlton in a previous life had, you never quite shook off the officer’s mess. Even Hal assumed a more rigid posture.

“Wonderful
boat, or yacht, or should I say motor launch,” Sylvia tentatively offered as an opening remark.

Mr
Carlton viewed her, breathing heavily through his nose for a moment or two. “You can call her anything you like my dear,” he said finally, seeming pleased with himself for having answered her at all.

There
were a few muffled thuds from outside the door as the rough and ready Aussie crew struggled with the complicated European concept of small trays of nibbly things on toast.

Mr
Carlton surveyed his staff sadly, he was past complaining, he merely endured. He wandered around the stateroom with a bottle of champagne, filling glasses and breathing like a dragon. I knew that this was caused by a botched rhinoplasty in Paris over a decade ago, but for those who didn’t, it could be alarming.

I
had just accepted a triangle of toast that looked as though it had been covered with tinned dog food when there was a shriek and a sound of breaking china from the door that led to the main salon. Mr Carlton raised his eyebrows at me, and muttered, “It’s the damned Aussie crew, but what can I do?” He moved towards the door with a ponderous tread and I seized the opportunity of popping the triangle of toast back onto the silver tray.

He
ushered us into a dining room that could have seated fourteen, but was haphazardly laid for five. I explained Bella’s absence, and we sat around the table gazing in ill-concealed horror at the food. Silver tureens held cold lumpy mashed potatoes and gritty looking cabbage, whilst on a flat silver tray lay a dozen or so pallid sausages. Truly, is there anything more unappetizing in the world? I doubt it. Anaemic, wrinkled, small and vulnerable they lay like sea slugs on a bed of silvered seaweed. The very sight of the food was enough to make the strongest stomach weak, but add to it, if you will, the slight shifting of the very habitat you are dining in, and the feeling of queasiness grew a plenty. I steeled myself, and drank a glass of water, pushing aside the champagne, and glanced sympathetically at Sylvia. She, bless her boarding school digestion, was helping herself as meanly as she dared to the offerings. Archie and Mr Carlton were admiring the label on a very expensive bottle of claret and had seemed to ignore the food completely. Hal was pushing a sausage round his plate looking distinctly worried. From time to time he glanced at me, hoping to catch my eye, but I ignored him. Really, I had no use for a love sick swain, and didn’t want to encourage him with look or word. That could come later.