The Turtle Run (37 page)

‘White OK? Or do you prefer red?'

‘White sounds good,' said Becky.

If the restaurant staff were aware Matthew was checking out the restaurant, far from resenting it, they seemed pleased to have his patronage – almost anxiously pleased. After the chilled white wine was brought to the table and he approved it, Matthew pleasantly, but firmly, discouraged any more fussy attention so they could study the menu without feeling rushed. It turned out Matthew was particularly interested in the lobster dishes so Becky elected to have some sort of salad with lobster and mango. He chose a lobster pie. She thought it prudent to avoid mentioning Richard had cooked her lobster last night.

‘I suppose Richard won't get his bid in now if he's in hospital.'

‘His brothers will. When Richard says he's doing something business-wise it's really his older brothers who are doing the actual work. Richard just sits on their coat-tails for the ride.'

Matthew's mobile rang. ‘Sorry, I thought I'd switched it off.'

‘Don't worry, go ahead,' said Becky.

He answered the call and listened to the person on the other end, giving Becky a pained look. ‘Well, don't poison them then.' He ended the call and pointedly turned off the mobile.

‘What did I tell you? That was the headwaiter at the Monmouth in a panic because Derek Carrington – that's Richard's oldest brother – has taken a friend there for a meal. What do they expect me to say? Poison the potatoes? Do him in with a steak knife?'

Becky laughed. ‘I assume Richard can't be that poorly if his brother is eating at the Monmouth.'

‘I'm sure he'll be fine. His family would pay whatever they had to to get him the best treatment.'

The maître d' arrived with their dishes just as a dam above was breached: rain pouring down with such force that it seemed to bounce off the ground and collide with itself. Becky watched, bemused, as a few other diners pushed back their chairs and started the chaotic procedure of collecting their bags, drinks and, in some cases, their half-finished meals, to take into the restaurant.

‘Would you like to move inside?' the maître d' asked. Matthew looked at Becky who grinned and shook her head. They were perfectly dry and the rain crashing down just a few feet away charged the air with energy.

‘We're fine here, thanks,' Matthew said and the maître d' told them to enjoy the meal and went back inside.

‘Do you mind if we share?' asked Matthew. ‘I'd like to taste both dishes.'

‘That's fine,' said Becky.

They each helped themselves to some of the other's meal before trying their own and neither could decide which was the nicer dish. ‘Yummy,' said Becky. ‘However are you going to compete?'

He took the teasing good-humouredly. ‘No problem. I can match it – at least my very fine young chef can. But I have to admit this is really excellent.'

‘Is everything OK?' The maître d' reappeared, looking anxious.

‘The lobster pie is absolutely superb,' said Matthew, ‘and my companion has pronounced the salad – what did you call it?'

Becky winced. ‘Um, I said “Yummy”.'

‘So please pass on our compliments to the chef.'

The maître d' looked relieved and promised to pass on the comments verbatim.

The rain continued as they finished their main course making conversation a little difficult but they were both so relaxed in each other's company it didn't matter.

The waiter took away their empty plates and brought them the dessert menus.

‘It all looks lovely,' said Becky. ‘But I don't think I can manage more than a coffee.'

‘Same here.'

Matthew ordered two coffees and the waiter nodded and went inside.

‘We must do this more often,' he said.

‘That means,' she said wryly, ‘that you've got a busy day tomorrow and you want to go home now. I can read your mind.'

His gaze lingered on her mouth. ‘I doubt that very much.'

Becky laughed. ‘Well now I can definitely read your mind.'

Matthew grinned then looked past her and frowned. ‘What are they doing here?'

Becky turned round to see Francesca holding an umbrella over an elderly man, as he hung on to the banister of the short wooden stairs leading to the covered terrace and levered himself up. Francesca saw him safely to the top and he looked around him disapprovingly as she disappeared down the steps again. At least Becky thought he looked unimpressed – his frown may just have been the stock expression of an elderly person trying to adapt to unfamiliar surroundings.

Francesca reappeared with a similarly disapproving-looking elderly woman who also looked around as though she found everything wanting. Their gazes flickered over Matthew and Becky without interest but Francesca, once she had dealt with her soaking umbrella, looked up and first smiled then scowled as she saw Matthew, then Becky.

‘Mum, Dad, look. It's Matthew.' She came over and gave Matthew a peck on the cheek while her parents peered at Matthew with apparent lack of recognition or, at any rate, a complete lack of enthusiasm.

‘Huh? Matthew? Have we met him?' said her father.

‘Yes, you remember Matthew,' said Francesca loudly.

‘Oh, Matthew,' said her mother. ‘Yes, of course we do.' She obviously had no idea whether to smile, shake hands or turn away. She smiled awkwardly.

‘And this is Becky,' said Matthew.

‘She's working for Matthew's mother,' said Francesca.

‘Hi,' said Becky, brightly.

‘Hwuh?' said Francesca's father, which could have been a greeting or an outward expression of his internal confusion, which had been made worse by being introduced to a girl he'd never seen before, who worked for the mother of a man he still couldn't place.

‘Shall we join you?' asked Francesca. ‘My parents are over from Philadelphia for a few days so I thought I'd bring them here. All my friends are raving about the food.'

‘It's certainly an excellent restaurant,' said Matthew with bland politeness.

‘Is there a table inside?' asked her mother.

The maître d' shook his head and regretted they were absolutely full up inside so the choice was either to take one of the unoccupied terrace tables or to come back in half an hour.

‘It's going to have to be outside then,' said Francesca. Becky could see her eyeing an empty table a few feet away. ‘Can you move that table over here and –'

But just then the waiter brought out Matthew and Becky's coffees. Francesca looked disappointed. ‘Ah, you've already eaten.'

Whatever Francesca's motives for getting the two parties together, her mother had already sat down at the table which was furthest away – though the terrace was too small for this gesture to be very meaningful. Francesca's father followed her, sat down, and said ‘Hwuh?' again.

‘It's Matthew.
Matthew
,' hissed his wife.

Francesca's father buried his head in the menu the waiter handed to him and shouted to an unspecified audience, ‘Why can't you get turtle soup any more? Can get it in Philadelphia, can get it in Singapore, but Barbados – not even a turtle head.'

Francesca smiled at Matthew, rolled her eyes then joined her parents. ‘Because it's illegal, Daddy,' she said loudly.

‘Hwuh.'

Matthew and Becky swapped a look and quickly drank their coffees.

‘Bill, please,' Matthew said to the waiter. He leaned forward to Becky. ‘I really do want an early night tonight. Not just because of the unexpected floor show but because Alex will be round at nine tomorrow morning and I want to make sure I have the bid ready to go.'

‘So tomorrow's the big day?'

‘And midday's the time.'

He paid quickly and they ran through the rain and got into his car. Matthew had called a brief ‘goodnight' as they passed Francesca's table but even if a response had been forthcoming they were moving too quickly to hear it. He drove off promptly.

‘So they'd have been your father and mother-in-law?' asked Becky, then remembered Matthew had never admitted to her that his first love had been Francesca.

He just made a ‘disgusted' face. ‘Hwuh.'

The journey home took slightly longer than the outward one because the roads were awash with water in parts though the rain had stopped by the time they reached St Lucy. There was no goodnight kiss tonight as Clara's three bridge-playing friends came out to see how Becky was after ‘her ordeal' at Richard's house. While Becky could see Renee was genuinely appalled Becky had had such an appalling experience, (which she insisted was ‘very rare in Barbados'), Becky felt the other ladies were more interested in some gossip.

‘And do you know why he was attacked?' asked one of them.

‘No idea,' said Becky though Matthew was watching her with rather mischievous eyes. To his credit it seemed he had not divulged details of sawn-up beds and scattered Viagra tablets to Clara.

In front of the bridge-ladies, Becky formally thanked Matthew for the dinner and he formally thanked her for helping with the ‘restaurant review'. Then he went off in the direction of his office and Becky went upstairs to bed.

Chapter Twenty-two

Becky woke up later than usual – nine o'clock, which she put down to the sleep deficit from two nights before. There was no sign of Clara – presumably having a post-bridge night lie-in, so Becky had some breakfast and exchanged a few words with Cook before going to the morning room. She looked through the window and marvelled at how the sun bounced off Matthew's Nissan Sedan: what a contrast to the previous grey day. Then she was surprised Matthew's car was still in the yard – and there was no sign of Alex's. Maybe they had already headed off to Bridgetown in Alex's car.

She went out to the veranda and found Matthew sitting quietly, head bowed, holding a sealed envelope in both hands. He was oblivious to her, checking his mobile, staring at the envelope and checking his mobile again. Something was wrong.

Becky went back in to get him a coffee and, when she brought it out for him, he looked at her and smiled a ‘thank you' but then immediately turned back to the yard.

‘Alex isn't here yet?' she asked.

Matthew shook his head. ‘He's late.'

Becky's one experience as a passenger in Alex's car had shown him to be a competent driver but she worried that, when negotiating the sinuous single-lane roads in this area, he was very much at the mercy of boy-racers like Richard coming in the opposite direction.

‘Have you tried his home?' she suggested. ‘Find out what time he left?'

Matthew got up and Becky followed him into the hall, watching while he dialled a number. It must have been answered immediately. His voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his concerned tone. ‘He's not there? No, he's not here either. And he's not answering his mobile.'

He listened to the person on the other end and his voice became graver. ‘OK, let's not worry yet. He was at the hotel last night. He probably worked too late and stayed over rather than waking you up. I'll ring them.' Becky thought she could make out a woman's voice coming through the receiver, not shouting but definitely a tone of distress.

‘Of course I'll call you straight back, Deborah.' Matthew ended the call and immediately dialled another number.

Becky looked up and saw Clara coming down the stairs. She waited for her to reach the bottom then told her what was happening.

‘That's worrying,' said Clara. ‘No matter how late Alex works I'm sure he always makes a point of getting home. Poor Deborah must be beside herself.'

‘So Matthew's got two hours to get to Bridgetown?'

‘Which of course is doable,' said Clara. ‘But it leaves no contingency time.' She sighed with exasperation. ‘I wish Mr R wasn't so paranoid. I'm sure everyone else simply posted their bids days ago rather than leaving it to the last minute.'

Matthew appeared behind them, obviously furious.

‘Would you believe it? Today of all days Alex's crashed out at the hotel. He's OK but they're having a job trying to wake him up.'

‘That doesn't sound good,' said Clara.

‘They think he's just very tired.' Matthew looked at his watch then at Becky and Clara.

‘Would you two like to be my bodyguards instead?' He gave a slight smile. ‘Mum, I thought you could be a decoy while Becky holds the envelope and fends off any would-be attackers as she's had the practice recently.'

‘Matthew,' admonished Clara. ‘Poor Becky.'

‘No,' Becky laughed. ‘It's better to joke about it.'

‘I must change,' said Clara, worriedly.

‘No, Mum. What you're wearing is fine. No make-up, no formal dress, no time. It's just if I can't park the car properly at least I can leave you two in it while I deliver the bid.'

‘I'll be ready in one minute,' promised Clara. ‘Just need my handbag.'

‘I'll ring Deborah,' said Matthew. ‘Becky, can you tell Cook?'

Maureen walked through the front door at that moment and seemed to pick up on the urgency in the atmosphere. She looked at Becky and raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘We have to dash off to Bridgetown,' explained Becky.

She left Maureen to update Cook, grabbed her own bag from the morning room and shepherded a handbag-clutching Clara into Matthew's car before getting in herself. Matthew ran down the steps after them, jumped into the driver's seat and passed Becky the sealed envelope. She noticed, with relief rather than amusement, that his first action after starting the car was to engage the central locking; her experience at Richard's had left her believing anything could happen. It was unlikely but still possible that someone could open the door when the traffic lights turned red and make a lunge for the envelope.

Once they were well on their way and no landslides caused by yesterday's rain or traffic accidents seemed to be hindering them they chatted more easily. Matthew was driving fast, but not recklessly, and Clara was enjoying the ride.