All Inclusive (27 page)

‘But as we've only got a couple of days left here and I want to enjoy them . . . and as I don't like atmospheres, we'll forget all about it, OK?' Lesley relented at last and smiled at her, though not quite with her usual radiance.

‘Oh. Oh good. And I really
am
sorry. Um . . . would either of you – or both – like to come into town this morning while Ned and Bradley are out diving? Sadie needs a few last-minute things for the wedding.' She laughed and looked around sneakily. ‘You'd be doing me a big favour – otherwise I'll have to be on my own with Sadie and Angela and they fight like cats!'

‘Oh, OK I'll come,' Beth said. ‘I expect Delilah might, as well; it's her last chance to shop for Christmas presents for her friends back home.'

‘And I'm already on the trip – Angela invited me earlier,' Lesley told her.

‘Did she? I didn't know.' Cyn looked surprised.

‘No – well, what she
actually
said was that we “lardbutts” – borrowing your elegant turn of phrase from last night, Cynthia – we
lard-butts
should hang out together. Charming I thought, but I'm in a mood for assuming it was well enough meant. So I said yes.'

‘She can be a bit blunt, my sister-in-law.' Cynthia sighed. ‘I should probably tell you sorry on her behalf, I think.'

‘I wouldn't do it just yet,' Beth suggested, still mildly seething from Angela's comment about Delilah being ‘scraggy'. ‘I should wait till the last day and assemble everyone in the hotel for a mass apology. By then, I doubt there'll be anyone left she hasn't insulted.'

Low profile. Nick now understood, almost literally, what the phrase involved. That had been a close one,
on the beach. Who would have thought that his own mother would take to going for moonlight strolls on the sand by herself in the dark? What had she been doing out there? And as for Gina, Jeez, talk about up for it! They should have gone back to his room right from the off, not started diddling about on the loungers. He'd only intended to get through the openers on the beach: conversation, a bit of a snog, just to see how the land lay. He should have realized she wasn't going to be the stopping sort, not once she'd got revved up – not that the revving had taken long. Nought to sixty in about ten seconds, a real Porsche of a woman. What did she do, save up all her sexual energy for holiday time? Did all American women launch themselves so enthusiastically into sex, like they were trying out for Cheerleader of the Year? He'd always assumed that women started to wind the pace down a bit by the time they got to her age, whatever her age was – for who could tell under the make-up and the silicone? (No flop-quality in those tits, most strange.) He could hardly keep up. But he was young – he'd managed, and scary though Gina was, she'd been pretty fantastic.

Nick wandered along the beach towards the water-sports hut. It might be an idea to keep out of the way for a bit, in case Gina was prowling around in search of a morning rematch. He certainly wasn't. In fact he was, to be honest, pretty sore in the trouser department. What he really fancied was some time out by himself, where no-one could get to him. He looked towards Dragon Island. It was more or less deserted at this time of the morning. Most of the snorkel parties went over in the afternoons and only a few nudist stalwarts would be there, up at their end of the island sunning their parts. He fancied taking a boat, sailing
over and simply parking himself under a tree, perhaps with a quiet beer and no company.

Carlos was in the hut, feet up on his sofa but keeping an eye on the punters out on the water, one of them roaring around like a maniac on a jet ski.

‘Come on in, man. What do you want? Sail? Waterski?'

‘Just a nice quiet sail by myself out there where it's peaceful,' Nick said.

Carlos laughed. ‘Hey man, you look like you got woman trouble. Am I right or am I right?'

Nick grinned. ‘Not trouble, exactly. Just sometimes you want time on your own, know what I mean? Just chill time.'

‘Sure thing. Nothing like sailing a boat around for clearing your head; just you and the wind and the ocean,' Carlos told him, clambering up from the lumpy old sofa. ‘You hang on here for a minute or two while I just go and sort out the crazy guy on the jet ski and I'll be right with you.'

Nick perched carefully on the sofa's arm and looked around idly while Carlos went down to the sea's edge. Hanging off the end of an oar propped against the wall was, to his surprise, a slinky, silky pair of very definitely feminine knickers, all creamy see-through lack and black ribbon. Expensive, he'd have guessed, thinking back to the photos on the Agent Provocateur website he'd looked at when he'd (briefly) considered treating Felicity. He wondered whose they were, and what they were doing there. A trophy perhaps?

When he was at school, there'd been a boy who collected a pair of knickers from each of his conquests – he'd shown them to Nick once, all folded neatly in a box. There'd been about twenty-five pairs and Nick was supposed to feel envy and admiration rather than
the mild disgust he'd actually felt. The boy had said they'd been the ones the girls had been wearing at the time: but Nick, sharp-eyed, had pointed out that at least three pairs still had the price tags on them. What a div. Had the boy really expected him to believe that either most girls carried spare knickers in their handbags, or that all twenty-five had cheerfully agreed to hand over their pants and go home commando-style?

There was a large chart on the wall, with the names of all the male sports and spa staff across the top and different countries alphabetically listed down the left side. The UK, he noticed, seemed to have the greatest number of ticks in the relevant box beneath each name, with dates alongside. Germany and the USA came next: several of the staff names had scored there. What was that about, he wondered. Something to do with the weekly sailing regatta, staff against the guests?

‘Got you a nice little Sunfish out here, sails real smooth,' Carlos said, coming back into the hut. ‘Hey, you looking at our sweepstake chart? Only one clear winner this season! He'll collect ten dollars off each of us by Christmas, easy!' He pointed to Sam's name and laughed.

‘What's it about? What are you betting on?' Nick asked. He glanced at the pants dangling from the oar and back at Carlos, who was now looking rather sheepish.

‘Just a bit of fun among the boys, you know?' he said, shrugging. ‘No harm. Ladies of all nations and that, you know? Hate to say it to you, man, but your Brit girls are the easiest. A pushover, no, a
fall-over
.' Carlos tittered.

‘Found those.' He pointed to the silky pants. ‘Found those in the bin outside where the returned beach
towels go. People get up to all sorts here,' he chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Stuff you wouldn't believe.'

‘Oh, yeah right.' Nick grinned at him, lamely trying to do man-to-man. He left the hut and ambled down to the sea to take his boat out.

It was the underwear guy from school all over again, another of those notches-on-the-headboard thing. And was he, Nick, really any better? If only, he thought as he pushed the small boat out into the waves and climbed aboard, if only he hadn't caught sight of the last UK entry under Sam's name, dated the day before. Delilah. His lovely, naïve, trusting little sister reduced to a felt-tip tick on a wall chart and a cheap sweepstake bounty. If he felt a bit queasy out there on the boat, it wasn't because of the sea.

‘Orange! I can't wear orange.
Nobody
wears
orange
!' Delilah protested in the middle of the shop. Any minute now, Beth thought, she's going to stamp her foot like a toddler, hurl herself to the floor and scream and scream till she's sick, like Violet Elizabeth Bott. And who could blame her?

‘But it'll suit your colouring, and it'll match Sadie's flowers!' Angela was trying to insist as she held up a long limp dress, a shiny man-made fabric, patterned with vast orange daisies and green tendrils. It reminded Beth of cheap ironing-board covers from a market stall.

‘And you're very pretty, you're the sort who'd look good in a bin-bag.' Cynthia added her rather ill-considered opinion.

‘Mum, Cynthia, don't be ridiculous. It's completely gross,' Sadie declared firmly. She took the offending dress from her mother and hung it back on the rail. ‘There isn't anything good in here – it's all tee shirts and tourist tat. Let's try somewhere else, OK?'

‘I suppose so. Maybe . . .' Angela said, giving Beth and Lesley a sly glance, ‘maybe just Delilah, Sadie and Cyn and I should go by ourselves. Perhaps it's a case of too many cooks?'

Delilah got hold of Beth's arm. ‘I want Mum to come too. She's good at clothes.' Beth blinked, unused to such a compliment. Back in England, she'd remind Delilah of this, if they ever had occasion to fall out over skirt length in the middle of the Kingston shopping mall.

‘Is she?' Angela questioned rudely, looking Beth up and down. ‘Oh, well, if you insist. Though if we can't find a dress this morning, then that's it. Sadie will have to get married without a best woman. After all, it's what you wanted in the first place, isn't it, darling? No fuss, no guests, no
hangers-on
?'

‘Certainly is,' Sadie agreed, teeth gritted as she exchanged looks with Delilah.

The shopping party left the store and returned to the small, busy street and the scorching heat.

‘I need a cold drink,' Lesley gasped, fanning herself with her hands.

‘Me too,' Beth agreed. ‘And as soon as Delilah's found a dress I'm happy to go and get one with you. There's a lovely little bar down by the harbour – Ned and I went there the other day. Just one more shop, OK? Do you want to go on ahead and I'll meet you there?'

‘I think I will. There's a gallery I want to look in. I'd like to take a local painting back home. I'll hang it in the dining room so I can look at it while I'm clearing the guests' breakfast things, and remember having nothing to do but lie around in the sun under palm trees, reading.'

Beth laughed. ‘And you could get a matching one for
Len: a sort of collage of trainers, bicycles, the scent of the Abs and Tums class, a volleyball . . .'

‘. . . and a dozen shots of Jim's rum punch! That's my Len, never knowingly underdoes it. I bet you right now he's in the gym, giving the punchbag what for and sweating like an old gorilla.'

Delilah found her dress in the next shop, tried it on and twirled round for everyone to have their say.

‘Well it's almost orange,' Angela conceded. ‘Peach, anyway. Looks all right with her tan, but it won't suit her when she's pale again.'

Neither Delilah nor Beth cared – for now the dress, strappy, plain, lightweight linen, would be fine.

‘You can always spark it up with accessories,' Cynthia suggested, searching through a rack of shell necklaces and bracelets. ‘This one's pretty.' She held up a long triple string of coral-coloured beads against Delilah's neck and said, ‘You do look lovely. I wish I'd had a daughter. You can't dress up boys once they're past three or so. They're all mud and football after that.'

‘Even your Simon?' Angela said, laughing. ‘I always thought gay boys loved shopping with their mummies.'

Cynthia looked as if someone had hit her. ‘You might think you're being amusingly clever, Angela, but don't you think it's just a bit insensitive, given that Simon lives half a world away from me?' She turned and slammed out of the shop.

‘Shall we go after her?' Lesley murmured to Beth.

‘I'll go,' Beth said. ‘You go and get your painting – I'll see you down at the Harbour bar.'

‘Cynthia can't say I didn't try to find her,' Beth said later to Delilah and Lesley as their cab trundled down
the steep, bumpy track to the Mango Experience. ‘I wonder where she went to?'

‘I don't know why you bothered,' Delilah said. ‘She's a grown-up. If she wants to go off by herself, that's her choice.'

‘You're right,' Lesley agreed. ‘She's probably already back here, in the Sundown bar having her lunchtime rum punch.'

The taxi pulled over by the gate, allowing an ambulance, on its way from the hotel, to drive out.

‘Goodness, I wonder who that was for?' Beth said. ‘Surely not . . .'

‘Dolly?' Lesley said. ‘I never really took her seriously, she can't really have . . . ?'

‘Died?' Delilah blurted out, matter-of-fact as only extreme youth would be on this subject. ‘Why not? She was really old.'

‘Lordy, poor Gina,' Beth said as the cab pulled up at the reception area. ‘Do you think we'd better go and find her?'

‘I'll come with you,' Lesley said, shoving her painting and her bags at Delilah. ‘Here, darling, take this lot up to 112 for me and see if Len's in there. If not, leave it outside the door and I'll be along in a while, OK?'

‘Sure,' Delilah agreed, looking round and wondering if Sam had shown his face in the hotel yet. ‘I'll . . . um go right now.'

‘I'm not sure of Gina's room number,' Beth said. ‘We could ask in reception.'

‘I tell you what though.' Lesley hesitated. ‘It might not be Dolly. We shouldn't maybe race up to Gina's room if it isn't, because Dolly might be out somewhere, maybe in the Haven, and then we'd have panicked Gina for nothing. Let's just go and see if she's in her usual spot on the beach first, in case it's nothing
at all. If she's there, we can just ask her if she fancies some lunch.'

The two women set off along the beach to the far end, where Gina liked to doze the morning away under the last palm tree. Someone was there, that was clear, lying stretched out on a lounger, wearing no more than the tiniest bikini bottom.

‘Is that her?' Lesley squinted at the woman. ‘I can't see her hair, so it's hard to tell from here.'