Sleeping Arrangements (4 page)

'Can I please ask you to return to your seats,' she said, looking icily at Sam.

'These are our seats,' said Sam. 'We've been upgraded.'

The air hostess looked as though she wanted to punch him. Instead she turned on her heel and marched smartly to the front of the plane. Sam grinned at Nat.

'This is excellent. Isn't it? Now we can tell everyone we've flown Club.'

'Coolissimo.' Nat grinned back.

'Look, the seats go right back if you press this button.' Sam reclined his seat as far as it would go; a moment later Nat joined him.

'Mmm, darling,' said Sam in the voice which always made Nat giggle. 'I do so love to fly whilst lying down. Don't you, darling? I mean, why bother to sit when you can lie? Why bother to—'

'OK, boys.' A voice interrupted them. 'The joke's over. Sit up, the pair of you.'

The man staring down at them had an official-looking gold badge on his lapel, and was holding a clipboard. 'Right,' he said, as their two seats gradually reached the upright position.

'I want you straight back to your seats and not a sound out of you. That way, I don't have to bother your parents. OK?'

There was silence.

'Or else,' said the man, 'we can all go back now to Mum and Dad—and explain exactly what's just been going on.'

There was another silence—then Sam shrugged.

'C'mon, Nat,' he said, raising his voice slightly. 'They don't want the plebs in here.'

As they struggled out of their seats, Nat noticed that everyone in the section had turned to watch.

'Bye,' he said politely to the girl with the red dreadlocks. 'Nice to meet you.'

'Bye,' replied the girl, pulling a sympathetic face. 'Sorry you couldn't stay. Hey, you want a souvenir?' She reached down and produced a smart wash bag, embossed with the words REGENT AIRWAYS. 'Have it. There's soap, shampoo, aftershave . . .' She tossed it through the air and Nat automatically caught it.

'Cool!' he said in delight. 'Look, Sam!'

'That's nice,' said Sam, examining it. 'Very nice indeed.'

'You want one?' came a voice from in front. An elderly woman turned round and handed Sam an identical wash bag. 'Have mine. I won't use it.'

'Thanks!' he said, smiling broadly at her. 'You Club Class people are all right.'

A ripple of laughter went round the cabin.

'Enough of this,' said the man with the gold badge sharply. 'Back to your seats, the two of you.'

'Bye, everybody!' said Sam, waving around the cabin. 'Thank you so much.' He gave a little bow and disappeared through the curtain.

'Bye!' said Nat breathlessly. 'Enjoy your champagne.' As he followed Sam back into Economy he could hear another ripple of laughter following him.

When the two boys had disappeared from sight, there was a muted hubbub as the Club Class passengers gradually turned back in their seats and resumed normal business.

'Honestly!' said Amanda, reaching for her copy of Vogue. 'The nerve of it. I mean, I know it's a cliché, but children today . . .' She flicked over a page and squinted at a pair of snake-skin boots. 'They think they own the bloody place. Don't you agree?' She looked up. 'Hugh?'

Hugh didn't answer. He was still looking towards the back of the cabin, where the two boys had disappeared.

'Hugh!' said Amanda impatiently. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' said Hugh, turning back. 'Just . . . that boy. That elder boy.'

'What about him? Bloody hooligan, if you ask me. And the way he was dressed . . . Those awful baggy shorts they all seem to wear these days . . .'

He looked familiar. His eyes. Those eyes.

'What about him, anyway?' Amanda's disapproving eyes met his. 'You don't think they should have let them stay in Club, do you?'

'Of course not! No. I'm just . . . it's nothing.' Hugh shook his head, ridding it of ridiculous thoughts, smiled at his wife and turned safely back to his FT.

The road up into the mountains zigzagged steeply back and forth, a narrow strip carved out of the dusty rocks. Hugh drove silently, concentrating on the road, negotiating each bend smoothly. The air-conditioned people-carrier had been waiting for them at the airport; their luggage was all present and correct: so far, everything had gone to plan.

As he neared a particularly tricky bend he paused and lifted his eyes, taking in the endless green-grey mountains stretching before him; the scorched rocks and relentlessly blue sky.

Was that a glimpse of the sea in the distance? he wondered. He couldn't even tell if they were facing in the right direction. Perhaps it was just a mirage. It was known that the mind played tricks on one in the mountains, under the sun. Perspectives were altered, judgement was im-paired. A man could act quite out of character up here. Up above the rest of the world, above scrutiny.

His eyes ranged over the rocky peaks again and he found himself revelling in the sheer exhilaration of being up high. There was an elemental desire in man to rise, he thought. To rise and conquer—and then immediately look for the next peak; the next challenge.

When he'd first met Amanda, they'd also been up in the mountains—but very different mountains from these. He'd been in Val d'Isère with a party of enthusiastic skiers he'd known since university; she'd been staying in the next chalet along with a bunch of old schoolfriends.

The two groups had soon realized, with the kind of faux coincidence typical of such ski resorts, that they knew each other. That was to say, one of Hugh's chums had once been out with one of the girls—and several others recognized each other from London parties.

Hugh and Amanda, on the other hand, had never laid eyes on each other before—and the attraction had been immediate. Both were excellent skiers, both were fit and tanned, both worked in the City. By the third day of the holiday they'd begun skiing off-piste together; soon, to the appreciative jeers of his friends, Hugh was spending every night at the girls' chalet.

Everyone had agreed they made a perfect couple; that they looked so good together. At their wedding, eighteen months later, a guard of honour had been formed outside the church with crossed pairs of skis and the best man's speech had been peppered with après-ski jokes.

They still went skiing every year. Every February they returned to the magical, sparkling mountains in which they'd met. For a week every year they were like honeymooners again: besotted with each other; with the snowy peaks; with the excitement and adrenalin. They skied fast and furiously, saying very little, knowing instinctively where the other was heading.

Hugh knew Amanda's skiing like he knew his own. Having skied since a child, she was more accomplished than him—but she had the same measured attitude to risk. They took chances—but no more than they needed to. Neither could see the point of risking life and limb, simply for an extra thrill.

They had not yet taken the children skiing. Amanda had been keen for them to start as early as possible—but Hugh had resisted it; had been uncharacteristically firm about it. He needed that week every year. Not for the holiday, not even for the sport—but for the rekindling of his relationship with Amanda. Up there in the mountains, in the sunshine and the powdery snow, watching her lithe, athletic body encased in designer Lycra, he would feel again the desire, the admiration, the headiness, which he'd felt that first time in Val d'Isère.

Why he needed this yearly boost—and what would happen if he couldn't have it—he didn't ever ask himself. With a slight roughness, Hugh changed gear and began to ascend a steep stretch of road.

'Beautiful scenery,' said Amanda. 'Children, look at the view. Look at that little village.'

Hugh glanced briefly out of the window. As they had rounded the corner, a cluster of stark white dwellings had come into view, perched on the side of the mountain. He glimpsed tiled roofs, tiny wrought-iron balconies and strings of washing hung out to dry—then the road swung away again, and the village disappeared from sight.

'That must be San Luis,' he said, glancing at Gerard's instructions. 'Quite pretty, isn't it?'

'I suppose,' said Amanda.

'I feel sick,' came Beatrice's voice from the back.

'Oh God,' said Amanda, turning in her seat. 'Well, just hold on, darling. We're nearly there.

Look at the lovely mountains!' She turned back in her seat and murmured to Hugh, 'How much further is it? This road's a nightmare.'

'They're not mountains,' said Octavia, 'they're hills. Mountains have snow at the top.'

'Not much longer to go,' said Hugh, squinting at Gerard's instructions. 'It's about five miles from San Luis, apparently.'

'I mean, it's all very well, having a villa in the middle of nowhere,' said Amanda in a tight undertone. 'But if it means driving for bloody hours along hazardous mountain roads . . .'

'I wouldn't say this was hazardous, exactly,' said Hugh, concentrating as he swung a sharp left. 'Just slightly tortuous.'

'Exactly. Tortuous is the word. God knows where the nearest shops will be . . .'

'At San Luis, I should imagine,' said Hugh.

'That place?' said Amanda in horror. 'It looks absolutely one-eyed.'

'Anyway, we don't need to worry about shops. Gerard promised he'd arrange some food supplies for us.'

'Which means absolutely nothing,' said Amanda. 'I've never known anyone so disorganized!'

'I don't know about that,' said Hugh mildly. 'He faxed us the instructions all right, didn't he?'

'Only just!' retorted Amanda. 'Only after I rang his assistant three times. And she didn't seem to know anything about it.' Her chin tightened. 'If you ask me, he'd forgotten all about us. He probably doles out invitations to this place whenever he's had a few glasses of wine, and then completely forgets about it.'

Hugh's mind flashed briefly back to the lunch at which Gerard had first mentioned the villa.

It had been, to begin with, a slightly awkward occasion. The two had not seen each other since school, but had met by chance the week before at an exhibition which Hugh's firm was sponsoring. They had arranged a lunch meeting, which Hugh had considered cancelling several times, but eventually he had gone along out of curiosity as much as anything else. For after all, Gerard was a minor celebrity now: on television and in the newspapers and clearly relishing every moment.

The invitation to the Spanish villa had at first seemed part of his grandiose act. It went along with his constant name-dropping, his bespoke suit, his continual references to flying first class. It had only been towards the end of the meal—by which time they had consumed two bottles of wine between them—that Hugh had realized Gerard was, rather drunkenly, insisting that Hugh should borrow the villa; that he was pulling out his diary, refusing to take no for an answer. When Hugh had agreed, a flash of delight passed over Gerard's chubby features—and Hugh had had a sudden memory of him as a schoolboy, once putting one of the housemasters straight over table etiquette and glancing around the dining room with an equal delight. Of course no-one had been impressed. Gerard had not been particularly popularat school—looking back, Hugh suspected that behind the bravado he had not had a very happy time. Perhaps this rather lavish invitation was an attempt to show how far he had come since then.

As Hugh's mind drifted, the car edged towards the outer barricade, and Amanda gave a small shriek. 'Hugh! You're driving us off the mountain!'

'It's fine,' said Hugh, quickly swinging the steering wheel back. 'No problem.'

'Bloody hell, Hugh! We would like to get there alive, if that's not too much to ask?'

'Hey, look!' said Jenna. 'There's our villa!' Everyone turned to look, and Hugh automatically slowed the car down. A hundred metres or so away was a pair of grand wrought-iron gates, behind which a dirt track led to a concrete mixer sitting outside a half-finished construction, consisting of two concrete floors, a number of supporting pillars and little else. 'Joke!' added Jenna, and the two little girls giggled.

'Yes,' said Amanda tightly. 'Very funny. Could you drive on, please, Hugh?'

The car carried on in silence. As Hugh glanced in his rearview mirror he spotted Jenna pulling faces at Octavia and Beatrice and silently instructing them not to laugh. A stifled giggle suddenly broke from Octavia's mouth and Amanda turned sharply in her seat.

'Nice house,' said Jenna innocently. 'Seriously. Look, over there. That's not ours, is it?'

Hugh glanced to the right and glimpsed a large, apricot-coloured villa set boldly on the mountainside.

'I don't think so,' he said. 'Apparently we have to turn off left to get to ours.'

'Crikey Moses,' said Jenna as they passed the villa. 'Will ours be as big as that?'

'I think it is on the largish side,' said Hugh, peering again at the instruction sheet. 'Whether it's quite that big . . .'

'So your friend Gerard must be pretty wealthy, huh?'

'Well, yes,' said Hugh. 'I think he is. I don't know him that well, to be honest.'

'I've never even met him,' said Amanda.

'You don't know him—but he's lending you his house?' said Jenna. 'Must be a trusting kind of guy.'

Hugh laughed.

'I used to know him much better. We were friends at school, then we lost touch. A few months ago we met up again, quite by chance, and all of a sudden he was offering us this villa for the week. Very generous of him.' Hugh paused and frowned at the road. 'I don't quite understand. According to this, we should be there by now. Unless I've missed something . . .'

He reached for the instruction sheet again.

'Oh, for God's sake,' said Amanda. 'We're never going to get there! That assistant probably faxed over the wrong instructions or something. We're probably on the wrong mountain completely. We should be over there somewhere!' She gestured towards a distant peak, and Hugh looked up.

'Amanda, have a little faith.'

'Faith in what?' snapped Amanda. 'In you? In this Gerard, who seems to live on another planet?' She smacked the instruction sheet impatiently with the back of her hand. 'I should have known this whole Spanish villa idea was too good to be true. We haven't even seen a picture of it! Just this scrappy fax.'