One Way or Another: A Novel (34 page)

Standing at the top of the stone steps leading onto the terrace which led to the grass, where the “Wetlands” signs were now prominently displayed and also illuminated, Martha told Morrie she should never have taken on the job.

“But why not?” Morrie asked. He was there despite having said he would never return. He’d come for Martha because she needed him, not for Ghulbian.

“Because whatever I do,
have done,
I know Ahmet will not be satisfied. Men like him, with that kind of money, that power, like to wield it over you.”

“Power makes men crazy.” Morrie knew that. He’d met a few in his career. “Women too,” he added, remembering Mehitabel.

Martha had worried about actually getting the guests to Marshmallows, out there in the wilds, but Ahmet had laid on a fleet of small private jets, helicopters, and limos, driving all the way, as Martha had done, though most were probably wondering what the hell they were doing so far out in the boonies. The party had better be good, Martha thought.

The band—an orchestra, really, a good old-fashioned set of musicians with saxophones and trumpets and violins, discreet in black dinner jackets—had taken their places near the newly installed dance floor. Outside, the rock group, a street-chic bunch of rather sweet guys who were more used to weekend gigs in suburbia and were thrilled Martha had given them a shot at this, were already strumming a few chords. The disco would be set up later. Things, Martha thought, with a rising heart, were looking up. Maybe it would be all right after all.

Her phone buzzed. It was Marco. “Where are you?”

“En route, stuck in a traffic jam caused I guess by Ahmet’s party, more limos than I’ve ever seen even when royalty was present.”

“No royalty here. Best we can hope for is rich.”

Marco laughed. “That’s the kind of people rich men know, other rich people. Anyway, girlfriend of mine, lover, sweetheart, I’m missing you. I’ll be glad when all this is over and we can go back to being normal again.”

“If ‘normal’ means searching out the lost redhead I think I’ll just stay put.”

Martha was weary of Marco’s insistence on finding out what happened to the red-haired girl out in the Aegean. “And anyway,” she added, “I still don’t know what it has to do with Ahmet.”

“What about Mehitabel?”

“That cow.” She couldn’t get her head around Mehitabel; the woman was a mystery.

“Well, I expect she’ll be there tonight, no doubt taking charge, pushing you out of her way.”

“I think I’ll let her do that,” Martha said. “In fact, my real work here is done. Everything’s set, the music, the seating, the flowers, the wines, the food … all Ahmet needs is his guests to show up and he’ll be a happy man.”

“He’ll never be that.” Marco knew in his gut that was true.

“Well, here comes another private plane,” Martha said. “I’d better get back to work as greeter, telling them where to go.”

“Let Mehitabel tell them.”

She laughed as she ended the call. Mehitabel would not be here to work, she’d be here to show off as Ahmet’s woman, dressed to kill in—what else—red satin. On her, it did not look cheap, in fact it looked extremely expensive, simply cut to hug her body, narrow skirt, slit up the front so that when she walked her beautiful long legs were on perfect display, and which caught, as Martha noticed, the eye of many a man as she passed. And, here she came, on her way over to Martha again. What now?

“I need to talk to you about the food,” Mehitabel said. “Obviously, canapés are being served for the next couple of hours. Then dinner, with assigned seating. I, of course, shall sit opposite Ahmet at the center table where I can keep an eye on things.”

“You mean make sure everything’s going well?”

Mehitabel gave her one of those withering sideways glances she was so expert at. “Of course that’s what I mean. Don’t forget I am the one in charge. I am personally responsible to Ahmet.”

Martha wondered who that left her responsible to. Since Ahmet had employed her and was footing the bill and paying her, she had assumed it was her.

Waiters were lighting the tall white tapers in the antique silver candelabra, a dozen or more of them, preparing for dinner. Much later, after midnight, a full breakfast would be served for those exhausted from the dancing or who simply were still dying of hunger, with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, biscuits, pancakes, chicken hash … Martha had covered every possibility. Now, all she had to do was greet the guests, shake their hands, and point them to where the music was playing and drinks were being served. Her spirits rose, she’d always loved a party. But anyway, where
was
Marco?

Standing outside on the only bit of lawn that was actually real grass and not marsh, Martha looked back at the massive house, remembering her hard work, thinking how good it now looked with its softened Syrie Maugham interior, pale and romantic, dotted with sumptuous Oriental rugs and Knoll sofas, the kind with tilted arms you could lean comfortably on, the fabrics all chosen to harmonize and blend, the antiques rounded up by her compatriots in France and Italy, as well as England. Every piece had a place, every piece was perfect. She had done a wonderful job, the best of her life, and she wanted Marco to see it before it got spoiled by the crowds of people, so you couldn’t get a proper look.

*   *   *

Marco was sitting in his car behind a snorting eighteen-wheeler that had no reason to be on a one-lane country road anyway and should by rights have stuck to the motorway, except, he guessed, like himself, the driver had taken a chance and gotten off, hoping for better luck, trafficwise.

He knew he was close to Marshmallows because of the glow of arc lights on the horizon and the rainbow lights flashing through the sky, along with several beautiful small jet planes skimming the hedgerows on their way in to land. He sighed, engine idling, arms folded. He might as well be a hundred miles away in this lot.

It was then he noticed something different in the sky. A drift of gray across the tiled roof, where those bloody great birds nested. Could that be smoke? Probably it was; Martha had always lit log fires, “for effect,” she would say, believing there was nothing worse than an empty grate. She’d be showing off the new Italian limestone mantels she’d had made for the drawing room, if you could ever call any room in that pile a drawing room. It still looked like a mausoleum to Marco, fancy decor or no fancy decor.

He wasn’t looking forward to this party, nor to seeing Ahmet displaying his portrait. There were times when he wished he’d never met the man. One of them was now.

60

At ten minutes before midnight, Mehitabel checked that the guests were all wearing their feather masks. She had to admit that thanks to Martha they had drawn an A-list crowd. Ahmet would be forever grateful to that superior bitch, or he would if Mehitabel did not do something about it. First, she had to find Lucy, who she knew was here somewhere. She had seen her arrive earlier on one of the chartered buses. She had been sitting next to—hand in hand with, in fact—a very attractive blond young man who Mehitabel had definitely not expected. No matter, she would take care of him. Meanwhile, she must get Lucy alone.

Ahmet, who was not wearing a mask at his own masked ball, stood by the door greeting the revelers, hidden behind their feathers and satin, eyes gleaming with pleasure as they saw the masses of flowers and the tubs of Taittinger and the amber candles softening the light and almost managing to make the big old house welcoming.

Mehitabel had to admit Martha had done an excellent job. Much good it would do her now. She thought of Angie, locked upstairs, gauntly beautiful in her black velvet frock, the Cartier necklace at her throat, her red hair restored via the wig. And of Lucy, in the identical black velvet—how had Angie described it? “Black as the dark side of the moon.” And she thought of how when he saw the two of them together, she would shock Ahmet out of his charming man-of-the-world image, what he might do. He might resort to violence and that would be the end of Ghulbian’s social aspirations. No one would want to know him.

The crowd had thickened, small planes were still making their runs, bringing even more guests, and helicopters rattled overhead, spoiling the music for the guests, who wandered restlessly toward the food tents, wondering what was to come next.

ANGIE

I was alone, upstairs in the boudoir I had so suddenly been given, in the black velvet dress that might have been inspired by a Goya portrait of a Spanish maja, expensive and certainly fit for royalty. I crossed my legs and leaned on one elbow, inspecting my shoes. Black suede heels, not too high, simple, expensive of course, as was everything I was wearing, including the lacy underthings. It was a long way from Houlihan’s Steak and Crab House, that was for sure. No use thinking about that now. It was gone for good.

There had to be a way out of here. This house was not the Bastille, it could not be escape-proof. I had to be the one who thought it out, discovered a way, something that would draw attention to this boudoir window, above which the herons nested, and beyond which the marshland glimmered, wet, sinister.

Music filtered up from the terraces, arc lights swept the night sky, chattering voices, laughter, the wonderful smell of food, the kind I’d only dreamed about in this prison. I swept my hands over the black velvet, loving the silken feel of it, patted the wig into place, touched the gold necklace. This girl was ready for the ball. Only thing, I had to get out of here.

There was one sure way. In the bathroom was the perfumed candle Mehitabel had lit, and its soft jasmine scent filled the room. I went and got it. I was taking the biggest risk of my life, but I had no choice.

The curtains were a plain heavy silk. When I first put the candle to the hem it turned brown. The brown crept slowly upward, then quite suddenly flames crawled up the length. Smoke poured through the open window.

Terrified, I thought of jumping but saw it was too far. Unless someone noticed, came running to help, I was a dead woman.

“Oh, Mom,” I whispered. “What have I done?”

61

Standing at the foot of the staircase of his newly refurbished home, Ahmet greeted his guests, his “friends” as he liked to think of them, because he knew once they had seen the splendor of his home, experienced his lavish lifestyle, and observed for themselves what a good man he was despite the reputation that preceded him, they would want to come again, return for more of the same. After all, the champagne was excellent, the food different, thanks to the Tunisian and his helpers in the vast kitchen, and the house looked superb with the tables set with his own “Marshmallows”-emblazoned china and the old silver cutlery. The wineglasses were the only thing that disturbed him, the inexpensive greenish Biot glassware when he would have preferred Tiffany crystal. But Martha had her say, and what she said was “enough is enough.” Reality had to begin somewhere and for her it was with the glasses, and maybe with the straight-from-the-meadow cow parsley flower arrangements instead of only the expensive white roses Ahmet preferred and which flowers, anyhow, were not even, at least to his eye, properly arranged with a bunch of greenery, merely stuck in tall mason jars that might once have held jam.

“Give it a rest, Ahmet,” Martha had said to him. “You can’t be rich all the time.”

Ahmet supposed not, but when you came from his background it was the only security, showing it off so no man, or woman, might ever think he had been poor. They’d believe that he was born into this, knew how to behave, just like them. Actually, women didn’t seem to care much either way, only that he was rich, that he was generous, that, in fact, he was pleasant to be with. Most of the time. It was only later at night alone with him that women found he might become a little over-demanding. Not every woman was willing to feel the lash of the whip as well as the lash of his tongue as his anger against them spilled from his mouth. Ahmet was two men. He knew this was the truth and he liked it that way. He could be everyman. He could be his own man.

Music swelled from the drawing room that was big enough to have been called a ballroom, only Martha would not allow it. “Keep it small,” she had warned, “or else they’ll think you are showing off.” Well, forgive him but he was showing off; he wanted them all, all these people he did not really know and who certainly had never invited him into their homes, to see who he was tonight. They shook hands and smiled into his eyes, said how lovely the house looked and wasn’t Martha clever, while the orchestra played “Strangers in the Night” with a nice extra touch of violins that somehow made his house seem more intimate.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching for Mehitabel. She should have been there, she was his assistant, goddammit, she should be working, not cavorting off somewhere, acting like she owned the place. In that red dress that had cost him a fortune. As had the dress for Angie, the secret woman he could not bring himself to dispose of. Maybe later tonight after the party, when everyone had gone, the parking valets, the waiters, the cooks, the dishwashers who took care of all that expensive tableware by hand, the cleaners who vacuumed and wiped and tidied and cast out the wilting cow parsley. Then, he would deal with Angie. It was so convenient that the house stood on marshland.

And then there was Lucy. His own darling little Lucy, the innocence in his life. He had not yet dared buy a ring, he didn’t want to rush her, but he had bought pearls, the real thing, a chest-length string of natural pearls clasped with a round eighteenth-century old-cut diamond. No glitter for his young girl. Gentle was what she needed. And, anyhow, where was she?

He pushed back his cuff, checked his watch, glanced round for Martha. She was nowhere in sight either. Goddammit, where was everybody when he needed them? Didn’t he pay enough for them to at least be at his side ready for his orders?

The house felt suddenly quiet: no one was coming through the door. He stood next to his portrait, which he was not the least bit satisfied with though everyone had remarked how like him it was. He didn’t see it himself; thought he looked old, worn, hard even, when the truth was so different. He was kind, caring. When he was in the right mood, the right personality. He thought of Cairo, of his childhood, of his hated mother, and immediately wished he had not. This night was a celebration, not a wake. He had never mourned her, never would. He touched the pearls in his pocket, slipping them through his fingers, imagining fastening them round Lucy’s slender young neck, how pleased she would be. The image made him smile.