Excess Baggage (27 page)

‘What’s the matter with them?’ the gold lady asked.

‘No idea. Some private joke I imagine.’

The gold lady frowned and rubbed at her neck nervously, which sent them off into spasms of hilarity again. Her tan deepened into a blush and she jabbed a painted fingernail towards them. ‘Yes, well, you two, just remember that some jokes need to stay more private than others.’

‘
OH GOOD. SIMON’S
going to be Safety Officer. That’ll make him happy.’ Theresa sipped at a glass of white wine as she watched her brother carefully lining up all the wooden louvres on the villa’s windows and doors so that they lay down flat and wouldn’t give any provocative resistance to the wind. It was important (it had said in the instructions) that the air should be able to flow freely across the rooms and out the other side where possible. Otherwise the excess pressure had nothing to do but try to lift the roof off. Simon had no doubt that if he didn’t make all efforts to stop it, it would succeed. ‘Well, someone’s got to do it,’ he said. ‘Unless you want one of these wooden planks hurtling across the room. They’re solid teak. It would be like being whacked with a cricket bat.’

‘I’m not ungrateful, Simon, really,’ she smiled at him, ‘I’m just amazed you can be bothered to be so meticulous.’

‘It’s his job to be meticulous,’ Plum defended him. ‘If he can line up a thumb-sucking twelve-year-old’s overbite, he shouldn’t have any trouble with a couple of dozen slats of wood.’

Simon had a vague feeling that in spite of this superficial support, Plum had joined Theresa in taking the
piss
. Why was he bothering to try to make them safe? Why didn’t he just lock them all out on the terrace and let them die? No-one had any imagination; they couldn’t seem to connect this storm with the donations they occasionally credit-carded over to world disaster funds. They could be reduced to a miserable set of statistics by the morning, mentioned in sombre tones on the international news as being among The Rising Death Toll. They were behaving, he decided, like small children at a birthday sleepover, preparing to giggle the night away wrapped in blankets while they guzzled their way through Shirley’s laid-in supplies of drinks and crisps and ice cream. Or at least ice cream till the electricity gave out and the fridge gave up the ghost. That was the only kind of disaster bloody Theresa understood: running out of ice for the gin. Only Lucy was being quiet and refusing to get overexcited. He put that down to understandable apprehension. At least she’d got a brain, he thought, at least she was sensitive enough to work out that this could be their last night on the planet.

Lucy was out on the terrace with Colette watching the sea and the sky for signs of change. In spite of Simon’s assumptions, she was not praying away her last hours but thinking how beautiful the night looked. The sky seemed as if it were divided into two, with the area directly above them an almost clear rich deep shade of navy, lit by occasional stars and scattered with a few puffy grey-black clouds. Further away was a thick matt blackness, as if the earth had travelled too close to the edge of the universe and was about to fall off into this infinite hole. Lucy assumed it was the leading edge of the storm, though it looked only slightly different from any other night-time rain cloud. It was certainly coming nearer.

‘It’s quite windy now, but nothing special. How will we know when it really starts?’ Luke asked as they perched together on the sea wall.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Becky sneered. ‘I mean what are you going to do, say “Oh is this a hurricane, or do people usually get smacked in the mouth by a flying table?”’

‘Well, the wind’s already stronger than it was during supper, so I guess it just gets worse until you feel it’s time to go inside and make sure the doors are locked,’ Lucy told them.

‘The sea’s
definitely
rougher,’ Luke decided, having stared at the dark water till he could barely focus.

‘And it’s splashing up much higher,’ Colette agreed. Each foaming wave was speeding way up the beach now. The Caribbean tides were normally barely noticeable, but now the sand was covered as far as the first row of thatched beach umbrellas.

‘Don’t suppose those’ll be standing in the morning,’ Mark said, then he leaned over to Becky and whispered, ‘Any sight or sound of our illustrious neighbour?’

Becky squirmed away from him and dashed back into the villa without responding.

‘Something I said?’ he asked Lucy.

‘Probably. She is sixteen after all,’ she laughed. ‘And to answer your question, there’s silence from the Great Celebrity next door.’

‘Probably hiding under the bed.’ Mark grinned. ‘Which must mean he’s a leader of one of the world’s major powers.’

Just then a powerful blast of wind howled across the terrace. It was as if the weather gods had stepped on some kind of celestial accelerator.

‘Time to go in,’ Lucy declared, leading Colette back through the doors.

‘Yes, and time for another drinkie.’ Theresa made for the fridge but Mark got there first. There was a small tussle over a bottle of wine, interrupted by Marisa. ‘You come say goodnight,’ she ordered, ‘so the children will sleep now.’ Lucy watched the Swiss girl shoving herself expertly between Theresa and the fridge. Perhaps she had to do a lot of that at home too. Theresa, unbalanced, staggered a bit. Lucy reached out and steadied her.

‘It’s OK, Lucy, I’m not about to fall over. I’m off to kiss my babies.’ She was smiling in a vague way.

‘We’ll both go,’ Mark said, taking Theresa’s wrist and leading her through to one of the villa’s two bedrooms where all three of the children had been put into the king-size four-poster bed.

‘If you’re this pissed now …’ Lucy heard Mark begin as the door was firmly shut.

‘Oh this is really jolly. All the family together, just how it should be.’ Shirley settled herself comfortably onto the sofa and looked around her. Everyone she cared about was right here, either in the room, or, in the case of Theresa and the little ones, just the other side of that door. The teenagers and Marisa were sprawled about on the floor, blankets at the ready in case they felt like dozing off. Shirley felt there was an air of excited expectation, though, unlike Simon, she didn’t anticipate danger. By Luke’s age she’d done danger in wartime Manchester, seen a whole street bombed out, leaving shattered walls standing, with flowered wallpaper tattered in the wind. Below, the collapsed rooms were nothing but heaped-up rubble, poignantly strewn with shoes and broken crockery and the newspapers the dead inhabitants had been reading that day. Once you’d done a war, she reasoned, you’d done your stint
of
the Worst that Could Happen. What people did to each other was the worst on earth – weather couldn’t come close.

‘It’s just like Christmas,’ she laughed.

Lucy grimaced. ‘I was thinking that too, locked in with your family and no escape. Still, at least with this you don’t have to go through it all again a year later.’

‘Your mother meant it was
nice
like Christmas.’ Perry was frowning, warning.

‘Yes I know she did. I was joking, though actually I don’t see why I’m not allowed to disagree.’

‘Then why say anything at all? Don’t
spoil
things, Lucy.’

Oh, that word again. At one time they used it on Simon, way back. Then Theresa took it over. Why did it always
spoil
things if she expressed her thoughts? And she
had
only been joking – well, almost.

‘I quite like Christmas,’ Luke commented. ‘Can I have another Coke please Gran?’

‘Yes of course you can. Anyone else fancy a drink? I think we could treat ourselves to a little something.’

‘Mark and Theresa have got a bottle on the go up there by the sink,’ Plum said, rising from her chair to go and get some wine. She picked up the empty bottle. ‘Oh. Well, they
had
, it all seems to have gone. Funny, I thought Mark was off booze.’

‘Theresa must have had it,’ Becky suggested.

There was a small, awkward silence in the room while everyone avoided commenting on Theresa’s booze capacity. The murmuring voices beyond the bedroom door were getting louder and nobody wanted to hear.

‘Wind’s picking up now,’ Perry said, going to the window and peering through the louvres.

‘Just as well, if those two are going to have a blazing
row
,’ Lucy murmured to Colette. Colette laughed.

‘What’s funny Colette? Come on, share the joke.’ Shirley was looking hard at her. Colette went silent. ‘Nothing, it was just …’

‘Just something I said, private joke, that’s all.’ Lucy smiled at her mother. There was a tumult of rain battering on the roof. Fat drops of it splashed in through the louvres close to the main door and collected in a rapidly spreading puddle on the tiled floor. The wind, that had at first whispered through the windows on the side away from the sea, now picked up sound and speed, whooping and gusting viciously. Marisa crept behind the sofa and wrapped her blanket round her tightly. Colette went to sit with her and the two of them huddled together between the sofa and the wall.

The noise of the wind no longer seemed real, Lucy thought. It was beginning to sound mad, crazily wailing and roaring as if it was trapped inside something, hurling itself at the edges to escape. The only time she’d heard anything like it was on TV cartoons when the characters were struggling along, bent horizontal against the exaggerated pretend-elements. Simon’s preparations had been all too effective, for the storm now seemed to be using the villa as a conduit. As the wind made its way across the room, it sent Shirley’s magazines skittering to the floor. Suntan-lotion bottles on a ledge tumbled into the sink. Plum got busy, collecting up all dangerously loose items and stuffing them at random into drawers.

‘Are you sure you got it right, Simon?’ Lucy asked. ‘Wouldn’t all the shutters be better firmly closed? Rain’s coming in horizontally.’ It was true. Shirley went into the bathroom and came out with a towel to place under the window by the main door. As she bent, there was a fierce metallic clatter and the mosquito
screen
behind the louvres fell to the floor, just missing her head.

‘God, if it’s like this now …’ Plum muttered.

‘Are you coming out or are you going to stay in here all night?’ Theresa was pacing the bedroom but keeping her eyes on Mark, who had snuggled down on the edge of the bed close to Ella. The children had drifted off to sleep, unaware and uncaring that beyond the window the elements were waging a war. The mosquito net covering them fluttered up and down in the breeze that was sneaking in through unseen gaps.

Mark opened one eye. ‘What’s to come out for?’

‘To be with the others, of course. We should at least try to look as if we’re, you know, together. I’ll make an effort if you will.’

Mark sat up and rubbed his eyes. He’d been drinking hard all day, making up for the days of antibiotic-enforced sobriety. He was tired and if he didn’t get the light out soon he felt his delicate brain would be burned away through his eyeballs.

‘I don’t
need
to show anyone we’re “together” as you so coyly put it. And anyway what sort of “together” do you mean? As a so-called happy couple or as people who can just about walk a straight line with their eyes shut?’

Theresa paced harder. ‘You’re so fucking exasperating Mark.’ Sebastian rolled over and grunted so she lowered her voice again. ‘I just don’t want everyone else knowing our sordid bloody business. Or even suspecting it.’

Mark smiled lazily at her. ‘Ah. So we’re not “together” but we’ve got to look “together” just for the sake of dear Mumsy and Dadsy. I get it. What’s it worth?’

‘
Worth?
’

‘Yes,
worth
. You want me to do something for you so what will you do for me?’ He gave her a louche grin and lay back with his hands behind his head.

‘You’re disgusting,’ she hissed. ‘There won’t be any of that for … well, ever.’

He shrugged. ‘Then why should I be nice to you? Come on Tess, lighten up. I made mistakes, got caught and now you’re going to make sure the punishment’s worse than the crime. How fair is that? If you loved me …’

‘If
you’d
loved
me
you wouldn’t have …’ She was shouting now.

‘I do but I did. Can’t we put it behind us? Move on? Because if you won’t, there’s no point pretending any more. I might just as well go right in there and give your precious sodding parents a divorce announcement. That should make their bloody night for them.’

A gust of wind blew one of the louvre slats to the floor. Mark stood up, alarmed. All three children stirred in their sleep but didn’t wake. Theresa looked at the gap in the window and shuddered. ‘Do we put it back? Will they all fall out?’

‘The rain’ll pour in if I leave it out.’ Mark pushed the piece of wood back into place, not holding out much hope that it would stay there. It seemed to be bent. The noise outside, he now noticed, was horrendous. Through the gap in the shutter he could just about make out trees wildly waving. ‘Jesus, it’s like something out of a horror movie,’ he said.

‘I’m scared.’ Theresa was next to him. He put his arm round her and she didn’t pull away.

‘Come on, let’s join the others for a bit,’ she said. ‘But if it gets any worse we’ll come back in here with the kids. If we’re all going to die, we’ll all go together.’

‘So I don’t tell them we’re getting divorced?’

‘No. Anyway we’re not. I’ve put twenty years into this marriage, I’m not giving up on it now.’ She sounded almost as fierce as before, which confused Mark.

‘You make it sound like a life sentence.’ He risked a grin.

‘You’ve just defined marriage,’ she said, opening the door.

‘We could play a game,’ Plum suggested.

‘What about Botticelli?’ Colette suggested.

‘Boring. Anyone got any cards? We could play poker, for cash,’ Luke said.

‘No cards,’ Shirley decreed. ‘In fact, before we do anything else, this might be a good moment now we’re all together …’

‘Yes. We’ve got something to tell you.’ Perry sat on the sofa next to her.