The Butcherbird (32 page)

She’d loved it from the minute she’d arrived at the cute little airport and been escorted through customs by a handsome, young, darkish man who told her he was there to look after her during her stay. How thoughtful of her host, whoever he was. She’d really no information about him other than a name and the name of a boat and a time to meet. She loved the idea that the board meeting would take place on a boat. She loved everything about this company Sir Laurence had introduced her to. They paid their directors fees in advance and all she had to do was sign a few documents, share transfers and bank drafts, and come to Bermuda. The hardships of corporate life were bearable. Obviously it was a cover for someone who wanted to stay hidden. Fine. She hoped he’d stay that way forever. Although, probably, he’d be on the boat tomorrow.

Her hotel suite was pink and white—oceans of pink and white. Although the ocean itself was, of course, blue. It was spread before her through the tall French windows and the sun jazzed from it when she lay on one of the pink and white striped lounges on her vast terrace. She looked down on people below who did not have such vast terraces, but did not feel sorry for them. Try harder was all you could say.

She barely needed to try at all anymore. What a delicious feeling of comfort and security to know you could do absolutely nothing for the rest of your life except eat chocolate and have massages. What a sense of accomplishment. The money poured in and now the bucket stayed full. She’d won the Grand Prix contract, hired the most wonderful manager who produced graphs and accounts and full buckets, and wasn’t bad looking either—although she’d vowed never to fuck him. No distractions for that little moneymaker.

She, however, was very much distracted by all the waiters and houseboys wandering about in their crisp uniforms, white shorts on dark legs. They were all that sort of light chocolatey colour, not black at all. Absolutely edible.

The last few months had been the most exciting time of her life. She’d barely had a minute to speak to Angus, not that she would have had much to say if a spare minute arrived. Angus was irrelevant. She was a woman of complete independence now, with her own business, her own money, carefully sequestered away from any joint assets in her own accounts, beholden to no one. Although she was terribly grateful to Sir Laurence for the chance to arrange the Biddulph Gallery opening party. And the suggestion to start her business. And that help with the Grand Prix contract, not to mention being here in Bermuda. Yes, all in all, she owed a great deal to Laurence Treadmore. She would find an opportunity to repay him, she was sure. Indeed she was anxious to see Sir Laurence. Not least because he would have the inside story on the latest with the Mac Biddulph opera. It was an opera, with great arias and sweeping scenery and even some bad acting. All of Sydney was in its thrall. The auction had merely confirmed it as the number-one news story of the year. Popsie had drunk in every minute of the auction night, despite the absence of any beverages. She’d even bought a small Aboriginal painting she’d had no intention of buying and didn’t much like. It had some sort of serpent twisting across a brown background covered with small yellow dots. Perhaps she’d hang it in a toilet.

When Mac Biddulph himself had bid on those books, well no opera, soap or otherwise, had ever produced such drama. All sorts of serious academics and do-gooders had analysed the contents of the poetry books he’d bought, or re-bought, and suggested this was a truly cultured man, a man of taste and sensibility, morals, ethics even; that no one who appreciated those exquisite tomes, who understood the sentiments within, could be the callous fraudster painted by the authorities. And to want to keep only these from among all the other grander possessions on offer, this was the final proof of his complex character. And then an editor of a computer magazine claimed he’d found the very same books offered for sale on eBay just ten days after the auction. A newspaper rushed to buy the books, hoping to expose Mac or the magazine editor or anyone else it could implicate, but the items were withdrawn from sale. No one could track the email address and the mystery remained unsolved.

Popsie needed to be able to speak with authority on issues of this kind, important social issues. It was part of her persona now, as a doyenne of Sydney society, a sort of duchess of the dinner table, a diva of the cocktail circuit, to know more than anyone else about people who mattered, or at least to be able to appear to know. A wink, a nod, a nudge—maybe two nudges. Why, they might even ask her about it on the boat tomorrow. It would be embarrassing not to have inside information at her first meeting with these generous fellow directors. She’d called Sir Laurence several times, her lovely Laurence as she thought of him now, but his secretary, who Popsie disliked intensely, said he was away for two weeks.

After a light lunch—well not so light, but healthy, surely, in that it contained some fish and a great deal of lobster—she decided she would make her way to Hamilton Harbour to check on the whereabouts of the boat she was to sail on the next day. In fact, she wanted to measure the boat, more than find its mooring. She believed, and was firm in this belief, that it paid to know the size of a person’s boat before you met them.

The afternoon was blessed with a light zephyr to keep the temperature perfect as Popsie wandered along the dock admiring the phalanx of handsome craft and their equally well-equipped crew. No wonder people came here to avoid tax; although obviously one had to be prepared to travel to less pleasant parts for the same reason. But the combination was heady. Perhaps she should have a residence here herself. A cottage on a hill, pink and white of course, with a couple of chocolate houseboys, one firm, one soft. She giggled at her own wit and sashayed further past more and larger boats. They seemed to be arranged in some ascending order and clearly her boat, the Butcherbird (a curious name, she felt), would be at the apex of the boat hierarchy.

But what was this? There, nestled in a vast berth between two suitably enormous craft, was a mere pup of a boat—a whimpering, cowering, snivelling puppy amidst all these magnificent beasts. And disappointingly, horribly, the name on its tiny rear bore the word she was looking for: Butcherbird. Certainly it was a pretty little thing in its own way. But a navy hull and cream canvas and polished brass, no matter how attractively presented, couldn’t make up for lack of substance. Length was what mattered in boats. Popsie resisted the obvious parallel thought—she was not a vulgar person.

She sighed. She normally preferred not to sigh because that could be seen as a vulgar habit also. People who sighed a great deal were expressing cynicism, or resignation, or disgust or some other negative sentiment. It was better to express energy and sex. Those were the two characteristics Popsie admired most. She’d been in readiness to express both in a devastating manner on the decks of the Butcherbird tomorrow, but she doubted if it could contain her performance. Oh, well. It would have to suffice. Perhaps the mysterious owner was indifferent to boats and flew his own 747 instead. That was a gripping thought. Just one long reception room, one cocoon of a bedroom and a huge spa bath off it—now that would make up for this disappointing sprat bobbing about in front of her. She wandered back along the marina consoled by this image. Next time she flew into that cute little airport she’d be fresh off Air Force One or whatever it was called, and feeling very relaxed.

When she returned to the hotel and lay on one of her four lounges, she found she was anything but relaxed.

The evening stretched before her in blank monotony. What was she to do? She knew no one in Bermuda and could think of no visible activity that interested her. People seemed to be either playing tennis or riding about on those little mopeds. Popsie disliked any activity that made you sweat, and the idea of puttering about on a motorbike to no great purpose was extremely unappealing. There appeared to be no places to visit on Bermuda; no art galleries, museums, theatres—no cultural life of any kind. Not that cultural life was all it was cracked up to be, but at least it was something. You couldn’t lie about on lounges all your life.

She rang for a bottle of champagne. It arrived with a box of chocolates, so to speak. She thought about that while the cork was being twisted gently from its resting place. Why not?

‘Do you massage?’

‘You would like a massage, madam? I could ask the concierge to arrange it, of course.’

She sipped. How to phrase it delicately, so as not to offend. ‘No. I don’t like all those people with folding tables and smelly oils. I just want someone to relax me. Surely you can do that?’

And he could, and did. And when she woke in the morning she felt refreshed and ready for her board meeting. She dressed in a businesslike yet nautical fashion. Navy linen blazer, white slacks, no shirt. That was the point of difference—no shirt. The blazer covered most of her perfectly tanned breasts, but not quite all. And then the strand of South Sea pearls glistening above. Subtle, yet obvious. Disappointingly, there were no board papers to carry to the meeting. She rather fancied arriving with a sheaf of important-looking documents, but she was carrying a slim leather briefcase in any event, even though it was empty except for a spare handkerchief and a new BlackBerry which she hadn’t yet learned to switch on.

She arrived at the dock exactly on time. Whoever these people were they would soon learn they weren’t dealing with an amateur. Professionalism in all things was her new motto. She strolled confidently to the Butcherbird and waved to a crew member.

‘Mrs Trudeaux? Good morning, madam, and welcome. Please come aboard.’

It really was a pretty little thing when you examined it closely, Popsie decided. What it lacked in length and breadth, it partly made up for in the beauty and luxury of its fittings. Everything was of the highest quality and in exquisite taste. No doubt the plane would be the same. She lifted her arms above her head to stretch her muscles, or where she assumed muscles should be, and sipped her freshly squeezed juice. The crew seemed to be readying the boat for a departure but so far she was the only one aboard. She called out to the nearest sailor, ‘Are we meeting here at the wharf, or moving somewhere?’

‘I’m sorry, madam?’

‘Are we picking the others up somewhere else?’

‘The others are already on board, madam.’ This was very confusing. She looked around the saloon. The boat simply wasn’t large enough to hide her fellow directors on the face of it. Perhaps there was another level below. But why wouldn’t her host come to greet her? Was he going to spring from a secret panel or something? She hoped so. It was mysterious and exciting—particularly now that the boat had slipped its moorings and was winding its way slowly through the maze of other craft. And then, when it was clear of the marina, it seemed to almost leap into the air in a surge of power and plane away at impressive speed with a great plume of spray behind. Popsie could restrain herself no longer. Gauche it may be to ask too many questions, but gauche it would have to be.

‘Excuse me, but we are to have the meeting on the Butcherbird, are we?’

‘Yes, of course, madam. The meeting is on the boat, as arranged.’ This was not illuminating. ‘I see. And the others are on board?’ ‘Yes, madam.’ There was no help for it. ‘Where are they exactly?’

Now the young crewman, immaculate in his whites, appeared as puzzled as she was herself. ‘I’m not sure, madam. On deck, I imagine.’

Popsie looked about. There was no deck they could possibly be on unless they were invisible. ‘On this boat? On the Butcherbird?’

His wonderful brown face cracked at the seams and a mouthful of the whitest teeth were presented in a wide smile. ‘Oh, this isn’t the Butcherbird, madam. This is just the tender. The Butcherbird is out there.’

She followed the brown arm to the brown finger. There, on the horizon it seemed, was a wondrous sight. A casual glance might have suggested some ocean liner was anchored in the harbour, but Popsie’s glance was anything but casual. The vessel her gaze was directed to was clearly the largest private motor yacht she, or anyone else, had ever seen. Why the Honey Bear, previously her gold standard for size (and she’d paced it herself from stem to prow on the night of the auction), would sit on the top deck of this fabulous monster.

And the closer they zoomed, and they were zooming, the bigger it looked. Forget the plane. Who cared if there was a plane? Probably there was a fleet of planes if he had a boat like this. But this was it. This was life. This was what mattered. Length and breadth and, probably, depth, for all she knew. This was what the game was all about. You could say it wasn’t, if you weren’t in the game. Or if you were a trier who hadn’t made it. Or a Mac Biddulph who’d lost it.

But this was what everyone wanted, like it or not. To be the biggest, the richest, the most powerful. It was the law of the jungle. Popsie knew it, even if the losers didn’t. She sighed despite herself, but it was a sigh of deep satisfaction. She was racing to her destiny with a triumphant shower of spray in her wake.

The tender, her charming tender, she’d grown to love the word, eased back into the water as it approached the shadow of the great ship in its path. Crew persons were scurrying back and forth over its innumerable decks and she could just make out a group of guests under a long canopy at the stern. She must be the last to arrive. Excellent. She loved making an entrance. She checked her clothing and stroked her pearls for luck. Somehow stepping on board this boat would take her into a new life. She could feel it. You’d sell your soul for this.

And then, as they pulled alongside, a familiar voice drifted down from above.

‘Come aboard, dear lady, come aboard.’