Excess Baggage Read online

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got one of those families you have to join,’ Henry said.

  ‘What, like a golf club with rules and a waiting list?’

  ‘You got it. I reckon with families there are two sorts,’ he went on. ‘The family that’s happy to see you set sail on your own, do your stuff and be pretty casual about when they see you and when they don’t. Then there’s the sort that wants to keep you on strings. Like anyone you get involved with has to join the clan, not claim you for themselves, and kind of almost abandon their own folks so the control stays in the same old hands. Seems to me you got one of those.’

  Lucy thought for a moment. ‘You could be right. Those who are happy with it call it a close family. With Plum and Mark, my parents got a pair of highly suitable candidates to join the family, not people who would remove their kids to an alien world. But don’t forget they live a couple of hundred miles from all of us. It’s not surprising that when they come down that motorway they want some sort of gathering that will let them go back home reassured we’re OK. Anyway, what about yours? Joiners or quitters?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Quitters. Glenda and I have our own lives, which means we’re free to be close. This island is completely my home. Apart from a few years I’ve been here all my life. Glenda could go back to England and fit right in but she likes it here. It’s choice.’ He leaned close to her and stroked her wrist. ‘You should come and see her work.’

  Etchings time, Lucy thought, her insides lurching a bit.

  ‘You could come maybe a couple of nights from now, the night before the storm’s due say? I’ll cook. Bring Colette,’ he said. Lucy’s stomach resettled itself. Just when she was up for a spot of stolen sex, he turned out to be A Friend. Well, maybe that was OK: she liked Henry, so friends would have to be fine. She thought about the condoms in her bag and smiled. She would throw the damn things away, she decided. They didn’t seem to be required.

  Becky scrubbed at her teeth for at least ten minutes, rinsed and slooshed with half a bottle of mouthwash and could still taste Ethan. She felt used and furious. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what she’d wanted and she’d been had, but only in the sense of being conned. She looked at herself in the mirror. Still a fucking virgin. Or rather not fucking. It would go down all right in one of the morning cloakroom sessions at school. She could picture herself combing her hair, doing her mascara, saying breezily, ‘Oh yeah and I gave him a blow job on the beach, under a coconut palm, completely stoned.’ Definitely it would be a worthy contribution, it would sound great. She wouldn’t tell them it had been about as interesting as chewing the gearstick on her mother’s Volvo, and tasted like something that had been too long at the back of the fridge. Nor would she tell them that the only bit of her he’d wanted to get hold of had been the back of her head, and then, painfully, a grip on her ears, making sure she kept going, couldn’t even come up for bloody air. Still a virgin. God. She snapped the bathroom light off and dived into her bed, landing on the TV remote control. There might be something on, she thought, fishing it out from under her tummy and flipping through the channels. And she wasn’t giving up yet, there was still time. After all, he owed her now.

  Ten

  ‘THEY WANT THE girls to be bridesmaids.’ Theresa thought that if she just announced it over breakfast she could find out whether this actually sounded like a good idea or not. She didn’t think it was; these people weren’t really her type. The girl had a gold ankle chain with a dangling tiny padlock and he had one of those walks that flicked out from the knee, reminding her of a very cocky plumber she’d had in when the downstairs loo gave up flushing.

  ‘Who wants bridesmaids?’ Colette asked, adding quickly, ‘Yuck, frilly sticky-out dresses,’ to fend off anyone who might consider recruiting her for the job.

  ‘That young couple, the ones that are always kissing. Cathy and Paul, I think they’re called, the ones who are getting married on Tuesday,’ Theresa explained. ‘The ceremony is in that gazebo thingy down by the pool. They asked me just now. What shall I say?’

  ‘But we don’t even know them,’ Shirley pointed out. ‘Haven’t they got any family they could have asked? And isn’t it all a bit late?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the point,’ Lucy said. ‘I expect they’ve come away to escape from all the hectic organization you usually get and now they’ve met some cute little children and thought it would be jolly for them. Maybe not knowing them is part of the fun. It’s spontaneous.’

  Theresa bit her lip. Cathy and Paul had dragged her out of the water that stupid night. Just because they claimed they’d saved her life, now they’d decided they could claim her. They’d been laughing about it when she’d met them just now in the hotel lobby on her way to breakfast. ‘You can’t say no, we saved you from drowning so we own you!’ Cathy had laughed. ‘You’re our slave!’

  ‘It’s an old Chinese tradition,’ Paul had joined in. Theresa had smiled, rather stiffly, but had refrained from pointing out that as none of the three of them had even a smidgeon of blood from anywhere east of Epping Forest, it was hardly relevant. The night-swimming episode was one she’d hoped to forget. Marisa was with her, too, listening with her inexpert ears, quite probably picking up completely the wrong impression. It was hard enough getting au pairs to come out and live in Surrey – commuting to an exciting London nightlife being just too expensive – the last thing she wanted was to find that her name was mud at the agency when she called up to replace this one.

  ‘What are we going to wear, Mummy?’ Ella pulled at Theresa’s arm.

  Perry laughed. ‘Well there’s your answer, I think the girls have already made their minds up.’

  Theresa frowned. ‘I can’t imagine, darling. I expect the bride will think of something.’ She looked around and aimed her smile at Lucy. ‘I suppose they might as well, it might be the only chance they ever get.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Theresa,’ Plum said, ‘you could always divorce Mark and give it another go with someone else.’ Startled into silence, everyone immediately looked at Mark.

  ‘Hey, don’t ask me!’ he said, managing a charming but unconvincing smile.

  ‘Sounds like Plum’s getting sour,’ Theresa commented with a warning smirk.

  ‘Goodness, I am sorry.’ Plum was flustered, thrown by the lack of easy laughter that she’d anticipated. ‘I didn’t mean anything, it was just one of those flippant things you say.’

  ‘You say.’ Theresa wasn’t going to let it go.

  ‘Yes, all right, if you like, one of those things I say.’

  She reached across the table for another comforting croissant. It was getting hard, being so nice, so even-tempered, to this same collection of people every single day. They were all, as a family, terribly good at Not Mentioning. A few hours’ sleep and deleted from the collective memory was the sight of Theresa head-down in her pudding. All smiles at breakfast, and not one of them asked the poor woman if she was feeling better (or rather – for let’s not join in the pussyfooting – recovered from her drunken tantrum), not even Lucy. That was probably in case Shirley and Perry got to hear about it. They couldn’t have that, oh no, mustn’t upset Mommy dearest, who might respond with another little ‘turn’, though of course no-one was going to get Shirley on her own and ask her about her dizziness, just in case it Spoilt Things. Had none of them noticed that Theresa was drinking herself silly or that Mark was wandering around in a daze or that Lucy was leaving Colette in the care of her cousins while she went slinking out at night like a cat going mousing, and Becky … where did she disappear to last night? And worse, why did she come scuttling back so early and start running the shower for such a very long time?

  Plum had tried talking about it to Simon but all he could think about was the symptoms of heart failure and whether his mother was spending too many hours in the sun. If only all this consideration extended beyond his precious parents. They were supposed to be the family he’d grown up and left. Surely his first concern should be th
e family he’d made. Plum had found a stunning little gallery in Teignmouth, with a painting of the harbour that she’d love for the dining room at home. It was expensive enough to need a second opinion, but dragging Simon away from his parents to come and look at it with her was even harder than getting straight answers out of Becky.

  Plum took solace in food. That was the best thing about a buffet system, no-one noticed how much you were putting away. She could go up for a small, modest plateful, the kind of amount that would keep her safely on the foothills of the Shape Sorters’ calorie mountain, but then, if she felt stressed enough, it was so easy to pop back for another go. ‘Just a tiny bit more of those spicy sweet potatoes,’ she’d mutter, as if anyone was counting, adding the smallest extra spoonful of curried swordfish to go with it, and then possibly another. After all, you didn’t get to sample much of that kind of thing at home, so you had to, didn’t you, while you could. It wasn’t as if being abstemious was going to shift the weight right now and turn her into a sylphlike beach-babe at this late stage in the holiday. And whatever she gained, well, you didn’t balloon overnight. It wouldn’t need to be dealt with till she got home.

  ‘Mark and I are going diving at eleven,’ Lucy was saying. ‘And then I want to take Colette into the town, so she can buy presents for friends.’

  ‘And there’s a museum I’d like to look at,’ Theresa joined in. ‘So I could come with you if that’s OK. We’ll take our Jeep.’

  ‘We might as well all go,’ Shirley decided. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting one or two bits and pieces. And I haven’t sent any postcards.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Simon agreed. ‘Plum wanted to show me a painting she’s found. We could all look, give it the all-clear. All right Plum?’ It would have to be. Plum sighed. She’d only wanted a second opinion on the painting, not a third, fourth and fifth. She piled more guava jam on her croissant. When she got home she would sign up to help out as an extra body on the college biology field trip. She was getting plenty of practice at travelling mob-handed, she’d be quite good at it.

  The notice summoning all the guests to a meeting that morning was on a large board, propped up against the wall and blocking the hotel’s main doorway, so unless guests had made a very early start on their excursions, they couldn’t pretend they’d missed it. Those who looked as if they were inclined to treat the situation lightly were being hauled into line by tour reps, who hung around the reception desk clutching clipboards and looking bossy. Lucy was passing through the lobby with Colette on her way out to the shops across the road in search of chocolate, but was firmly turned back. She sat on the big pink sofa by the reception desk to wait for the others.

  ‘Have you seen the notice?’ One of the Steves plonked himself down next to her. ‘We’ve all got to be there, half an hour from now. It’s like a three-line whip. The management’s called a meeting.’

  ‘I have seen it. It’s about the hurricane I suppose, unless we’ve been naughty guests and we’re all going to be told off,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I haven’t been naughty. Have you?’ he asked, putting his mouth closer to her ear than she’d have liked. Without actually moving, she could feel her flesh creeping away from contact with him. Back home, if she’d never met Henry, Steve might look reasonably appetizing, say at a party, or to chat to in a bar. He was tall, had a body that probably owed its shape to an expensive gym membership, and he had boyishly appealing fair hair, floppy like Hugh Grant’s. His skin, though, compared with the rich ripe brown of Henry’s, reminded her of the greyish dull tint of cheap gravy granules. In winter he would resemble a giant maggot.

  ‘Is there really going to be one?’ Colette broke into thoughts that were beginning to alarm her.

  ‘A hurricane? Looks like it!’ Steve seemed pleased.

  ‘Well, there might not be …’ Lucy didn’t want Colette to start worrying before they found out if there was anything to worry about.

  ‘Oh, I think we’re for it, no question. Doom and destruction! That’ll give everyone something to write about on their postcards!’ Steve got up and wandered away, pleased with himself, looking for someone else who would listen to his gleeful tidings.

  Simon wondered if the awful possibilities had crossed anyone else’s mind. This hurricane could be the death of all of them. It wasn’t a joke: they didn’t call this kind of thing Extreme Weather for nothing. They might all be crushed by falling buildings, roof tiles could slice through their skulls. Deluges of wild water could cascade down the hillside behind them, sweeping the hotel and its frantic residents into the sea. The sea itself, perhaps, would come pounding up the beach and simply not stop. Did hurricanes involve tidal waves? It would not surprise him. He doubted any of this had crossed anyone else’s mind, not in such calamitous detail as he was capable of imagining. Most people didn’t see disaster looming the way he did.

  He’d been blighted with this vast capacity for expecting the worst ever since his mother’s terrifying kerb drill when he was about six. Other mothers held their children’s hands firmly, simply stopped at the roadside and guided their little ones across without any fuss. Shirley hadn’t been like that. She’d always let him run along the pavement like an unleashed puppy. He’d enjoyed that, having both hands available for pulling on bits of hedge and jumping to grab the lowest branches of the sycamore tree on the corner by the fish shop, being able to swing round lamp-posts. He’d race and whoop and jump past his envious classmates, every one of them being clutched by the hand and marched along as if the only thing that mattered was the simple speedy getting home. Sometimes he’d just run backwards, all the way from school to the big crossroads. That was where the trouble was. He knew to slow down as he got near the heavy traffic, but he was never slow enough, never decelerating quite soon enough for his mother.

  ‘STOP! Stand STILL!’ The order, which came every day and was loud enough to scare the sparrows from the trees, wasn’t even bordering on negotiable. The other children, with their good little hands grasping their careful mummies, used to turn and smirk as he cringed at the traffic lights, waiting for death to bear down on him with every family saloon. Even then, when the crossing-time came, Shirley didn’t hold on to him. ‘You’ve got to learn,’ was her dubious reasoning, as Simon trotted terrified into the street, as close to her side as a champion poodle in Cruft’s obedience trials, pretending there was a thread linking the two of them, like mittens on a string. Awful things could happen on roads, the very worst things. A boy in Theresa’s class had had his head crushed under the wheels of the brewery lorry because he’d run into the road chasing a football. Theresa had whispered to him, just when he was trying to get to sleep, that some of his brains had trickled away down a drain, all mixed up with beer. Shirley had said he should let that be a lesson: that boy hadn’t STOPPED! or stood STILL! when he’d got to the kerb.

  The dining terrace had been hastily rearranged, with the tables all pushed to the wall and rows of chairs facing the sea. There was the lingering scent of grilled bacon. Another noticeboard, easel style with a large pad of drawing paper clipped to it, faced the lines of chairs and there was a stubby blue crayon ready in an ashtray on the table beside it.

  ‘It’s like a bloody sales conference,’ one of the Steves called from the back row. ‘Where’s the overhead projector?’

  Shirley bustled into the room and went to sit next to Lucy and Colette, a couple of rows from the front. She smiled past Lucy at her granddaughter and then half-whispered, ‘You don’t want Colette listening to all this. The poor child will get frightened to death.’

  Lucy smiled and gripped the edge of her chair in an effort to keep herself quiet. Nothing changed, certainly not her mother and her ‘You don’t want’.

  The possible response, ‘Oh but I do want’ was just too juvenile. She felt tense with frustration that she couldn’t come up with an instant something-smarter. After all these years, she should have a well-rehearsed collection of them at the ready. Ironic, really (not to mention maddening), tha
t just at the point where she’d decided she didn’t mind too much giving her mother a sharp dose of the truth, Shirley’s health should start to be vulnerable.

  ‘She likes to know what’s going on, and anyway it might be important for her safety that she listens, that way she won’t take risks,’ Lucy replied with simple truth.

  ‘She doesn’t know what she wants at that age.’ Shirley leaned past Lucy again and said, ‘Colette love, why don’t you pop down to the pool? Marisa’s there with the little ones, so you won’t be on your own.’

  ‘No thanks Gran, I’m OK.’

  ‘You don’t want her being clingy like this.’ The half-whisper was back.

  ‘I am not clingy.’ Colette was leaning across Lucy now, her head so close Lucy could smell the Sainsbury’s Sun and Swim shampoo she’d been using every evening. ‘I’m just interested, OK?’

  ‘Hoity-toity! There’s no ice creams for little madams.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m not five.’ Colette sighed. Lucy nudged her arm and gave her a private calming grin.

  The room was now full. Simon and Plum were the last to arrive and had to scuttle to empty seats on the front row, like embarrassed last-minute cinema-goers. Shirley looked around for the rest of her party and waved to Mark, who was sitting near the back next to the gold lady. She couldn’t see Theresa or the teenagers and concluded that very sensibly Simon had told them not to come. They’d only fidget and start chatting anyway.

  The hotel manager was tall and businesslike in a smart navy suit and a tie with the hotel’s green and white leaf motif. He wore heavy-rimmed oblong glasses and his expression of grim foreboding reminded Lucy of Trevor McDonald on the news when he had a major disaster to announce to the nation. Using the blue crayon, he sketched a rough map of St George and the surrounding islands. Out on the pale blank right side, he then added what looked like a big Polo mint and an arrow.