All Inclusive (23 page)

‘I'm surprised they still do this arrows business, aren't you? After that nasty incident last year.' Len caught up with Beth. He was carrying a selection of golf clubs, on his way back, Beth was certain, from smashing another unsuspecting contestant out of the Mango tournament.

‘You're right – Ned and I call this bit of the grounds Val's Field, but I don't suppose it would be tactful to talk about it when Jerome is in sight.'

‘Best not,' he chuckled. ‘Poor bugger. They did a lovely job at the hospital on his arm though – I mean look at that: he's got a scar to be proud of.' Len pointed to Jerome as he demonstrated the firing stance to Michael, pulling back strongly on the bow with his right arm and showing a long neat line of scar tissue where one of Valerie's misaimed arrows had pierced the delicate flesh on his shoulder the year before.

‘It's a lovely job. Someone up at the Teignmouth hospital really knows how to sew,' Beth agreed.

‘Don't talk to me about hospitals,' Len groaned. ‘Do
you know what my ever-loving wife did to me this morning? She conned me into getting my blood pressure looked at. If I'd wanted to know, I'd have gone along and queued up for my GP.'

‘And? Was it all right?' Beth asked. Nice one Lesley, she thought to herself, admiring her for finding a sneaky way to sort out what had been worrying her.

‘It wasn't anywhere near as bad as she thought it was going to be! So that's telling her!' He laughed. ‘I mean, I'm not a complete nutter, I only push it as far as I think I can. I ran the Guernsey Marathon – I bet she didn't tell you that. Anyway, I've told her to stop nagging me now or,' and he nudged Beth in the ribs and winked, ‘I've told her we'll be joining the archery class and she knows what that means!'

‘Definitely! I wonder what happened to Val and Aubrey? Did anyone hear?'

‘Ah – didn't Lesley tell you? Aubrey left her. Said he couldn't settle in the house. Being shot at was only the half of it – he'd got to thinking the next thing would be powdered glass and cyanide. So he packed his red spotted hanky on a stick and buggered off.'

‘Oh, that's sad. So he's on his own then?' Beth pictured gaunt Aubrey, a dignified type who'd reminded her of an ex-colonial tea-planter, leaving his Southsea bungalow for the final time, wheeling a small suitcase with one hand and his enormous, all-leather, state-of-the-art golf bag with the other.

‘On his own?' Len gave a great hoot of laugher. ‘You're joking! Last we heard, he'd been taken in by a blonde widow with a chain of jewellers all down the south coast. On his own! Ho ho!'

And, still gleefully laughing, Len wandered off in the direction of the bar, ready for a mid-morning sharpener to set him up for water volleyball at noon.

Beth walked on to the Haven, thinking about what would have happened if she'd thrown Ned out of the house after discovering his affair. Even if he hadn't chosen (assuming he'd
had
the choice) to go and live with The Woman, he wouldn't have been on his own for long. Attractive men, obviously even quite elderly, only borderline-attractive men – as the fate of the shot-at Aubrey proved – rarely had to exist alone for long before some female took them on, adopting them like winsome cats in need of home comforts. How different for women, she thought, her mind on whether plank-thin Valerie regretted the attempted murder of her dull husband, now that she'd lived through months of meals-for-one and a chilly solitary bed. Probably not, she then decided, as Juliana greeted her at the spa entrance. Who knew? Valerie might have booked herself a permanent berth on a cruise ship, acquired a wardrobe full of glittery cocktail frocks and be having the time of her life.

‘And it's all down in the book?' Angela was shouting as if Miriam was stone deaf. ‘Hair? Manicure? Full make-up for Sadie, me and this scraggy little bridesmaid she's insisting on?'

Beth's ears pricked up. She was supposed to be at the relaxing stage, drifting into semi-consciousness to the inevitable Enya soundtrack. She was lying on the massage table, slathered in mud and wrapped in what looked and felt like turkey foil. Beneath it all she was stewing slowly, not so much oven-ready as slowly melting. Her face was rigid beneath a mask of muddy clay. It smelled disgusting (if Delilah was here, she'd be wrinkling her nose and screaming ‘rank'), possibly taking the concept of ‘organic' a stage too far, for this reeked like something scooped up from an estuary
close to a sewage outlet. No wonder Juliana had worn plastic gloves and a surgical mask. Anyone in their right mind would. If she caught Weil's disease from it, she'd sue.

In spite of the ‘Quiet Please' notices on the wall, the strident tones of Angela making a fuss in reception would have been enough to shatter concrete. Beth lay seething in Treatment Room 4, swaddled in her foil and mud wrap as the bride's mother slagged off Delilah, following up on ‘scraggy' with ‘bony'. Bloody nerve – of course the girl was a bit thin – she'd been ill for weeks. And was that any way to talk about someone who would be a major factor in your only daughter's wedding? Who would be smiling alongside her in the wedding photos? And all this from a woman who had laughed and revelled in the attention as she'd dropped her frock to the floor in the bar the other night.

‘And not only her . . .' Angela as in full spate now, grumbling to poor Miriam about arrangements. ‘But her brother's been coming on to my Sadie like you wouldn't believe, angling for an invite, obviously. You'd think when Sadie said “family only” she'd have meant her own – not everyone else's that she could pick up on the beach.'

Miriam's reply could not be heard, but she was a woman used to guests being difficult – complaining that treatments were booked up leaving only inconvenient times, assuming you could swap a Life and Sole foot treatment or an Indian Head one at the very last minute, men thinking (wrongly) that their call would not be traced if they phoned from their rooms asking if, among the massage menu, there was one entitled Relief.

‘So that's three manicures – French for me and
Sadie, don't know what the girl will be wanting. I hope she's not a biter, nothing worse than a bridesmaid clutching a bunch of flowers with her fingernails all ragged at the ends. And hair – put Sadie down to go first, I think, then me. The girl can sort herself out – she's got nice hair, I'll give her that.'

Well thanks a bunch, Beth thought, wriggling indignantly under the foil. ‘The girl', indeed. She needed to break out of her wrapping, go and give the woman a few home truths. At least her family knew how to behave and didn't deliberately shed their clothes in public places or drunkenly slosh drinks all over themselves. The urge passed, which was just as well, she conceded, as how would she have looked, emerging mud-smeared and naked (apart from skimpy paper pants) from the treatment room like something that had rolled in a swamp?

‘How're we doin' in here, honey? Y'all relaxed now?' The slow melodic voice of Juliana reminded Beth that yet again she'd wrecked the calming aspect of her treatment so far. But there was still the massage bit to go, time enough to chill during that if she could evict Angela from her brain.

Juliana carefully unwrapped the crinkly foil and inspected the odorous mud beneath. ‘You been sweatin' here girl!' she said. ‘That's ex-cell-ent! You'll be inches slimmer after this! Rinse off in the shower now, then we rub in the scented potions, and you'll be smooth and soft – that'll get your husband goin'!' she promised.

Delilah's archery lesson was over and she now sunbathed by the pool, watching Sam from behind her sunglasses. He was over by the Sundown bar chatting to Jim the barman and drinking water from a bottle. He
had a towel round his shoulders and looked as if he'd just finished a class, so she guessed it must have been his turn to take the Legs, Bums and Tums session in the gym. She was trying to make out she hadn't noticed him, just to see what he would do. Would he come over and talk to her? She hoped so – and he should do if he'd meant what he'd said. She hadn't seen him since The Kiss and had spent every hour in an agony of waiting for whatever would happen next. What was it going to be? At worst, it could be an embarrassed half-nothing – the sort of pathetic keep-a-distance backtracking that boys at school did after they'd got you in a clinch at a party and wanted to rub it in that you'd be wrong to assume one snog meant you were going out, like permanently. At best it would be something moonlit and romantic on the beach late at night.

Somewhere in between the two was a haze of mild dread based on her own sorry lack of experience. There were girls in her year at school who'd done everything, according to hints they dropped. Two had left to have babies. Delilah felt way behind – she'd never given anyone a blow job, for instance. Suppose Sam wanted her to and she a) hadn't a clue how to do it right, or b) felt mildly sickened at the thought. Or suppose he wanted to go down on
her
– was she ready for that? And how embarrassing would that be? Out of ten, probably a nine. She could feel her face going red at the thought.

Right now, though, he was still at the bar with Jim and she was still on her own on the far side of the pool. He couldn't miss her – she'd made sure of that and had pulled her lounger away from the line along the terrace by the beach so that she was out there by herself, right on the pool's edge, posing as a bikini
babe concentrating on writing a postcard to her best friend. Not that she could bring herself to write more than Kelly's address and ‘Hi!'; she didn't want to risk Sam coming over, grabbing it off her and reading (out loud) something juvenile like, ‘I met someone and he's, like,
sooo
completely gorjus', even if that came close to what she'd eventually send.

She was in her red bikini, sprawled out for maximum effect on the pale blue seat cushion, on her front, propped up on her elbows which she kept as close in to her sides as she could without looking as if she was impersonating a chicken, so as to make the most of her pathetic cleavage. It was hardly worth calling it that, really, that sad broad vale down the front of her top. With luck, Sam was more of a leg man. Hers were stretched out elegantly behind her, one of them bent up with her long slim foot flexed and waving slightly as if she was wafting away a mosquito. Her tan was coming along well – luckily she was the type who went quite evenly brown, not all patchy and pink like Sadie was going. If Sadie's wedding dress really was the full-scale white, she would look like a raspberry ripple in it if she wasn't careful. And only a couple of days away now. Would Sam be there on Dragon Island with them all? He might be – suppose Mark had picked him out as best man? He'd be forced to kiss her then, if he didn't before, because that's what happened with the best man and chief bridesmaid.

‘Hey babes, how're you going?' And suddenly, in the one second she hadn't been concentrating, Sam was there, squeezing onto the lounger to sit beside her and stroking the back of her thigh. She squirmed with a mixture of pleasure and nerves as his finger casually traced along the inside of her thigh, stopping just short of her bikini edge and fondling the soft skin there. She
looked round quickly. Would her dad do something stupid if he saw where Sam's hand had so nearly gone, like grab him and give him a thumping? She doubted it; her dad was a laid-back sort, hardly likely to throw Sam into the pool yelling, ‘Hey, get yourself cooled off!' or anything equally mortifying. But you never knew – he hadn't been faced with seeing anyone touch up his daughter before.

‘Hello Sam. I'm fine – just doing a couple of postcards.'

‘Oh, right. Hey, let me see what you're telling them back home!'

‘Nothing about
you
!' she was glad she could say as he grabbed the cards from her hand.

‘Nothing about anything! You haven't got very far. What have you been doing all this time? I saw you – you've been here a while!'

Delilah felt caught out. ‘Nothing. Just literally nothing,' she told him. ‘It's too hot to think.'

He leaned close in and whispered. ‘Then come into the shade.'

For a moment she couldn't work out if he was simply giving her sensible advice, then she looked into his eyes. Wicked thoughts were lurking there, she could tell. She smiled at him, waiting for him to suggest a suitable cooling venue, though exactly for what, she preferred to keep unclear for now. She'd wing it, somehow, when the time came.

‘I have to work the rest of the day and tonight,' he said, taking her hand and kneading her palm gently with his thumb. ‘We could get together later tomorrow though, after the great Mango Experience weekly barbecue?' He laughed. ‘You can't miss that, it's one of the highlights of your trip!'

‘Mmm,' she agreed, nodding eagerly like a toddler
promised an ice cream. Why couldn't she be like a grown-up, as if this was just a perfectly everyday kind of thing for her?

‘I'll catch you in the Sundown bar, round about nine? I have to do the early greeting and seating shift but I'm off by then.'

‘Fine. See you around nine or so.' She tried not to squeak, but to sound more casual this time, as if she
might
happen to be around then, but couldn't be sure. Of course she'd be there, no question. Or rather
big
question, several of them – what would he expect from her, and was she up for whatever it was, really?

I must be very wicked, Beth thought, as Juliana smoothed dollop after dollop of unguents (sweetly scented this time) into her skin, because I'm getting no peace at all. In spite of the lavender candles, the subdued lighting and the hushed music (they were on to Sea Sounds now), Juliana was in full conversational flow on her favourite topic: the fickle nature of men.

‘On this island, they don't want to settle down with a nice local girl. They wanna travel, find a rich lady from Miami and get a job over there.'