Dear Beneficiary (8 page)

‘I'm sorry, Cynthia,' said Mavis, who kept her eyes focused away and towards the door. ‘I didn't think you had email. I just assumed that someone would let you know what was going on.'

‘Well, they haven't. So I'll inform you of the address and I hope you'll be sending me details of all events in future,' I said, somewhat haughtily.

I sat firmly on the only available chair in the hall and wondered if this is what my life had come to. I missed having Darius and the anticipation of a thrill, however short-lived. I wondered if that was what it was like to give up a drug and started to feel for the people I'd seen in court. They were driven to do things to repeat the buzz that made them feel alive, special and above the mundanity of everyone else's tired and tiring existences.

Tears were rising alongside an acid indigestion brought about by repressed emotion so I busied myself with my bag and coat. It was as Mavis was giving out pens I decided to make my stand.

‘So, can I be assured you will now be sending me emails? I'm fully on the interweb and have my own address and hard driver. So no excuses, eh?' I expelled a forced laugh to make sure she knew that while I was quite happy to be jovial at this stage, things could get difficult.

‘No excuses, Cynthia, no excuses,' replied Mavis, looking a bit despondent. I should have noticed she hadn't asked for the actual address.

The games began and I lost. It was my partner's fault. That silly Cecil D'Eath, who refused to acknowledge how his name was pronounced.

‘It's Death, as in the act of being dead,' I told him once but he insisted I'd got it wrong.

To make out it's some kind of French derivative was downright pretentious. If you hate your name that much, even if you have grown into it by dint of the inevitability of ageing, change it. No one cares anyway, but they do care if you make a twerp of yourself.

Throughout the afternoon all I could think of was sex. Having been deprived of it in any meaningful way for most of my adult life, until the recent enlightenment with Darius, I was hankering after a good old seeing to. Shocked by the change in my own desires, I wondered if it was Darius who'd opened up my horizons, and a fair few other things, or the onset of late middle age? After all, sixty is the new forty, or so I'm led to believe when reading
Cosmopolitan
magazine at the hairdresser's.

I don't see anything wrong with stretching the boundaries of propriety after a lifetime of compliance. Everyone over fifty should think about throwing away the rules now and then, particularly if you have played by them for so long. I no longer cared a jot what sandwiches were available or whether everyone got their chosen filling. Let them eat bloody cake.

At the end of the bridge session, I left the hall hurriedly and was a little surprised to find my car had been moved and a rude note left about parking in the spot reserved for the hearse. A large yellow parking ticket was stuck to the windscreen, right in front of the driver's seat. I pulled at it but it wouldn't budge so had to drive with my head out the window for the entire journey home.

I raced back as quickly as possible not only because of the ticket but in case anyone wanted to mention the last hand, the one that led to a spectacular downfall. At the time I'd been looking at the ace of clubs and reminiscing about Darius and his expert tongue.

It was about time I got in touch with him – in person.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Will the last passengers for flight NA345 to Lagos please go to gate number 105,' a voice boomed over the tannoy at Heathrow airport.

I'd been in the toilet, throwing up what appeared to be the remains of my macaroni cheese from the night before. I was surprised to note the strange addition of carrots, which I couldn't remember having eaten, but other than that felt a lot better. I don't like being sick and haven't been for years, so can only put it down to nerves. At least at my age I knew it wasn't pregnancy.

It could've been the bottle of wine I'd drunk by myself before going to bed. I'd been looking around for something to take my mind off the flight and found one of the good burgundies Colin had laid down for an occasion he never came to see. He was a bit like that – keeping everything for ‘best', but then nothing was ever good enough to qualify. I decided just the simple fact a good bottle was available to me, and I was able to open it with a waiter's friend, unaided, was good enough reason to celebrate.

There was no doubt the decision to go and find Darius was getting a bit nerve-racking. I knew I couldn't ignore his plight when I received his email. I just booked the journey and made a decision not to worry about the consequences. I didn't have time to reconsider, until it was too late.

I took a quick look in the mirror and had to adjust my hair as it had fallen out of place while I was in the unfortunate position required for vomiting.

You don't look too bad under the circumstances
, I thought, as I applied a fresh layer of the ‘Delicate Rose' lipstick I've been wearing for the last decade. The woman at the beauty counter said it matched my English rose complexion. And that if I bought three I qualified for a free make-up bag, which I've never used.

‘Would the final passengers for flight NA345 to Lagos please go to gate 105 for boarding. This is the last call for this flight, which will close in two minutes,' the anonymous voice warned.

They can call as much as they like, they can't go without me, and as I was still feeling a little shaky I didn't want to rush about. Numerous trips with Colin have taught me if the baggage is on board, the passenger has to be too or they will delay the plane. He used to delight in sauntering his way to the plane, particularly if they'd had to call for him by name. I suppose it made him feel important.

Normally, on my own, I'd have been a good ten minutes early and waiting at the front of the queue to get settled in the plane first, as I always hated the looks of contempt from seated passengers while we made our way to the last available seats. However, I didn't want any more stress or the embarrassment of having to find another toilet quickly so I stayed near the one I knew about for as long as possible.

I swung my travelling bag over my right shoulder. It was brown leather and probably very expensive as Colin had bought it on one of his trips to New York. He gave it to me on his return rather than wait for a birthday or Christmas which did make me wonder what he was feeling guilty about. Probably looking at an air hostess on the way home, or accidentally tuning in to the hotel's porn channel. He wasn't the type you could imagine doing anything to warrant claims of cheating, on any level. He'd even refuse to put kisses on birthday or leaving cards for female colleagues in case it was construed as sexual harassment.

I strolled towards the gate. The queue had dwindled and there were just a few people left to check in. As I got to the desk a large, black woman dressed in a myriad of colours pushed in front of me. She was wearing a swathe of thin cloth wrapped loosely in various directions, which I thought looked strangely stylish. Normally I'd have said something at the woman's rudeness but I was fascinated by the clothing. I could never work out how anyone could wear all that material without looking like they were going about their business in a set of sheets.

‘I love your dress,' I said to the woman, who was at least a foot taller and probably five stone heavier than me. ‘Did you make it yourself?'

As I was waiting for an answer, hopefully a polite one in the interests of making conversation, the woman turned to me and sucked her teeth, ignoring my question and gliding forward as if she had rollerblades concealed under the voluminous folds of her outfit. She made it clear she wasn't interested in any discussion.

‘Please yourself,' I muttered under my breath, as I opened up my passport and tickets for inspection. I wasn't sure where I'd be sitting on the plane, although I'd asked for a window seat.

I was amazed at the lack of interest the Nigerian Airway's representative had shown in my ticket or passport. I tried to make small talk, but to no avail, as she wouldn't make eye contact. I hadn't seen anyone look so bored since Titch was asked to play a tree in a school production of
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Dressed in a cardboard tube, painted green, and covered in a variety of twigs from top to bottom, she was expected to remain static for a little under two hours. Her nose never recovered; she'd dropped off halfway through, waking only in time to realise she was going to hit the stage, and couldn't get her hands free to break her fall.

The walk down the various poorly constructed corridors was long and tedious. I wondered whether Nigerian Airways planes were kept as far away from the airport as possible. It's a good job I'm fit or I might not have made it.

Finally at the door I handed over my ticket to the bored stewardess who pointed me in the direction of the interior of the plane. I found it vaguely amusing as she showed me down the aisle of the plane. I'm not quite sure where else she thought I would go.

I looked around at the seat numbers for 47C and in doing so tripped over a wayward foot which some great oaf had poked out into the path of those in the aisle.

I landed face down in the bosom of the woman I'd tried to speak to in the queue. She sucked her teeth again, more loudly this time.

‘Oh, we meet again,' I said, trying to deal with what I found to be quite an embarrassing situation.

I pushed myself up to a standing position using the woman's substantial knees to do so.

‘Will you git arf me,' she drawled in a strong accent I didn't recognise but assumed was African of some kind. ‘Wart is da mutter wit you?' she said, rubbing down her thighs and blowing out her breath in big puffs, which I noticed smelled of garlic.

Her manner was most unpleasant and I have to admit to being somewhat taken aback. I opened my mouth to say something just as one of the hostesses took my elbow and guided me to a seat some way from the woman I'd just fallen upon.

‘Don't take any notice of her,' said the willowy hostess. ‘That is Lady Buke Osolase. She was the first African woman to get a university degree and so can be a bit strident.'

‘Downright rude, if you ask me,' I said, although not without some regard for a woman who would have had to fight against an even stronger cultural prejudice than I did, one that stated women did not deserve or require education.

I made a mental note of Lady Osolase's name, despite the likelihood my brain would act like an Etch A Sketch drawing pad after it has been shaken, wiping out all notations once laid flat.

I shuffled over to my seat which I was cross to note was in the aisle and not by the window as requested, took off my shoes and settled into as comfortable a position anyone can adopt on an economy flight from London to Lagos.

It was then I noticed a strange smell emanating from the back of the plane, which I would have dismissed had it not been for the comments of my neighbouring passenger.

‘What the bloody hell is that awful stink?' said the bleached blonde woman next to me. ‘Smells like burning flesh or something.'

I looked round to get a closer look and wasn't entirely happy with the fact I was going to have to spend eight hours on a flight with someone whose dark mouse roots were showing through permed, yellowing hair. Do these people not have mirrors in their houses?

She also had a bright pink hairband featuring two baubles and a daisy, which only added to the general inappropriateness of her dress, particularly for someone who was probably fighting off fifty from one direction or another.

‘I'm sure it isn't anything to worry about,' I replied, hoping it would shut her up. I noticed that each finger and one thumb had a cheap ring on it, sometimes two. More offensively she also had false nails shaped into a square at the top and painted fluorescent orange, which quite frankly announce low class like an identity badge. At least she didn't have those ones that look like you've had an accident with the Tippex. I looked at my own neat, pearly-painted, oval-shaped nails and gave myself an internal nod of approval.

‘I bloody hate flying, don't you, babe?' said my fellow passenger in the gravelly voice of one who smokes on a regular basis.

‘Well, not really,' I said, wondering if my new companion knew Nigeria has the worst air safety record in the world. Darius had told me that fact after some crash where the plane had been declared unsafe but the pilot flew it anyway – into a block of flats killing all the passengers and destroying the homes of many families. The airline's management admitted manslaughter and closed their company, after investigations revealed they were uninsured and heavily underfunded.

‘The name's Tracey. Or Trace. Why you going to Lagos, then? Got yourself a bit of black?'.

I baulked at my relationship with Darius being described as getting myself ‘a bit of black', and wanted to argue my case, although I thought an honest explanation of my relationship could be deemed implausible, however vehemently I might have defended it. I also stopped myself from automatically saying I was pleased to meet ‘Trace', as I felt quite the opposite.

However, I did feel the need to ask why this common-looking woman, dressed in what I thought could only be described as highly irregular attire for her advancing years, was on her way to Lagos.

‘Cos me man is out there, hun. I love him like no other,' said Tracey, turning to reveal a nose piercing which I'd previously thought was a spot. ‘Can't do nuffin about it when you want him, know what I mean? He's asked me to marry him,' she said – showing a ring that probably cost less than forty pounds, including the presentation box. ‘I said yes, although he's only a baby. Twenty years older than him, I am. The number of people who ask me if I worried about the age difference and how it might affect our future. But if he dies, he dies!' she said, cackling to herself.