Away for the Weekend (11 page)

“Because we need it.” Remedios dips the fingers of her free hand in her water glass and dries them on the tablecloth. “You saw how useless the SatNav in the car was just trying to get here from the airport. But with this we can’t possibly get lost. And that’s not all. Wait till you see what else it can do.” She starts tapping the printed keyboard. “Internet … email … maps … directions … limitless in—”

“Remedios!” Otto shoves her hand away. “Heavenly hosts, you’re an angel not a teenager.”

“Not right now, Otto. Right now I’m more or less a teenager.” Remedios slips the pad into her bag. “And anyway, I was just trying to make things pleasant.”

“No, you weren’t. You were trying to bamboozle me. But it’s not going to work.” He pushes back his chair, so irked by her that he’s forgotten he vowed not to leave until he knows what she’s done. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but we’re not going to waste days looking at trees. We’re going back to Jeremiah. Now.” That seems to be what she doesn’t want, so that’s what they’ll do. Otto tosses his napkin onto his plate and stands up. “Now. I’ll clear out the room. You take care of the bill.”

“Whatever you say, Otto.” Remedios looks down at the table so that he doesn’t see the look on her face. “You’re the boss.” Her smile is so bright that if her plate weren’t covered with blueberry-pancake debris, he would see it reflected up at him.
Gotcha again
. Manipulating Otto is as easy as picking a flower. Possibly easier. It’s definitely a lot more fun. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Remedios finishes her coffee, and then gets up to go. She is feeling pretty pleased with herself. She has accomplished what she came to do, and she has pulled it off right under the nose of Mr Holier-than-thou. If anything should go wrong, which it won’t, she will be safely back in Jeremiah when it does. But pride, as we know, is often one step ahead of a really big fall – a saying that Remedios is about to prove.

She is so full of self-congratulation that as she reaches the door, she almost walks into Otto. He is standing just outside the restaurant, watching a group of girls near the hotel entrance. There are six of them, and each one is more attractive than the next. Make-up flawless. Hair perfect. Clothes to die for (assuming you’re a teenage girl). As they peer through the window for a sign of their car, which has been delayed by traffic, they look like a patch of highly cultivated flowers turned towards the sun. They could be models or pop stars. Only one of them isn’t smiling as though she’s looking at a camera; she’s smiling as though she’s waiting to be arrested.

“Otto! What are you doing?” Remedios gives him a friendly push. “I thought you were going to get our stuff from the room. You know, so we can check out?”

“Just wait a minute,” says Otto.

A very large Cadillac is pulling up in front of the building. Shimmering with excitement, the girls start towards the doors, all of them striding forward as if they’re on a runway. All, that is, but one. She moves unsteadily, as if she isn’t used to heels. And now he can see that she isn’t quite as perfectly turned out as the others. Her face is bare of make-up. Her hair is wriggling out of its pins. She gives the impression that she’s uncomfortable in her clothes.

“Otto.” Remedios gives him another, less friendly, shove. “Let’s go.”

He holds up one hand. “Not yet.”

For the love of Lazarus! She doesn’t think he’s quite figured it out yet, but he will if the girl who’s never walked in four-inch heels before stumbles before she gets into the car.

“Otto!” Remedios jerks him around to face her. “Let’s—”

There is a sudden and audible gasp behind her – of horror, or surprise, or both – and then a girl’s voice screams, “Wait!”

Remedios doesn’t bother turning round. She knows what she’ll see as well as Otto does; she’ll see Beth Beeby, as she’s never been before, probably with a look of anguish on her face.

“Remedios.” Otto clamps a hand over her wrist. “I believe you have some explaining to do.”

And so the day begins

“This
is the first chance I’ve had. It’s been like a sled dog race since we got here – all go-go-go,” Lucinda is saying into her phone as she steps into the hall. “We’re on our way downstairs. The car’s picking us up— Of course it’s a limo… This is Hollywood, remember?” Her laughter bounces down the corridor of identical doors. “Oh, it’s awesome. Totally awesome. I wish you were here. You would die! Really. You can’t even imagine. It makes Maine look like it’s on another planet. You know, the poor-cousin planet…” Lucinda is talking to her best friend back home. “I know… I know, but I really lucked out. My room-mate’s the best. She’s like a fashion genius. It’s awesome. I’d be more nervous than a moose in hunting season if I didn’t have her… I mean, you should see the other contestants. Man, they are sooo scary…”

Lucinda sashays down the hall in a polka-dot skirt that, to the eyes of some, is little more than a ruffle.

Normally, Lucinda’s comments about the other contestants would strike as much terror in Beth’s heart as a madman with a chainsaw, but she has more to worry about than them at the moment. She’s learning how to walk. Teetering on heels like chopsticks, Beth grasps the door frame and looks both ways before following. She wanted to wear the trainers she found at the bottom of Gabriela’s bag of shoes (brought in case they played tennis), but Lucinda wouldn’t let her. Lucinda said that she gets how edgy and original Gabriela is, but, to be really honest?, even she would look like a hick in them. Apparently, it’s better to risk permanent spinal damage than look like a hick.

Beth shuts the door behind her and takes a few tentative steps. Every time she moves, something swings or jingles (earrings, bracelets, the chotskys hanging off her shoes and bag and pinned into her hair). Lucinda walks as if she’s crossing a carpet of rose petals being thrown by smiling admirers; Beth walks as if she’s in a typhoon and she’s crossing a carpet of JELL-O. Right foot, left foot … right foot, left foot … She doesn’t actually hold on to the wall, but she stays close to it – just in case. She gives a silent prayer of thanks when they finally get into the elevator.

Lucinda loses her signal. Finding herself in a phone-free zone, she says, “I meant that, Gab. I am just
so
glad you’re my roomie. I really would feel like I was from another planet if it wasn’t for you.”

You may not think that for much longer
, thinks Beth. And takes a deep breath as the doors open and they step from the elevator.

There are four girls across the lobby – a blonde, a redhead, a brunette and one with champagne-pink hair – all pretty, all dressed from the kind of magazine that Beth never reads. Indeed, they are so perfectly turned out that they might be mannequins lined up by the front window like palm trees on an oasis. They have obviously been waiting for them, because Beth has barely tottered out of the elevator when they suddenly come to life, smiling and waving. “Gabriela! Lucinda! Over here!”

Lucinda waves back. Beth can’t risk a wave – she’ll fall over.

The girls are carrying on as if she and Lucinda are their new best friends, but Beth sees the look in their eyes as they cross the room: they’re being scored.

“Lucinda!” shrieks the redhead. “What an awesome outfit! Nobody’d ever think you come from the backwoods of Maine!”

So at least that’s one mystery solved; her room-mate’s name is Lucinda.

Lucinda tightens her smile and returns the gush. “And what about you, Isla? You look fantabulous!” But under her breath mutters, “For someone who comes from a major urban area teeming with vice and violence.”

For the first time this morning, Beth feels like laughing, but it’s a feeling that passes quickly as the blonde’s eyes clamp on her like handcuffs. “Good Lord, Gabriela!” Her voice is sweet enough to cause toothache. “What absolutely amazing pants.” And her smile could freeze rock. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were wearing pyjamas.”

“They’re trousers.” Beth avoids even a glance at Lucinda, though she knows that Lucinda is glancing at her. Lucinda tried to talk her out of wearing the spare pyjama bottoms – the only article of clothing Gabriela owns that comes below the knees (no one will ever accuse
her
of looking like a Pilgrim) – but Beth wouldn’t be talked. The shoes are bad enough; she can’t stagger around on them
and
spend the day worrying that every time she climbs a staircase some guy is looking up her skirt as well.

“Well, they sure look like pyjamas,” says the blonde. “My Mom had a pair like that in pearl grey.”

“They’re silk,” chimes in Lucinda. “Pure silk.”

“So were my Mom’s.”

“I suppose it’s not a bad look, even if people might think you just got out of bed and didn’t have time to dress,” muses the brunette, her eyes on Beth’s legs. “Were they inspired by an old movie, too?”

“At least you’re not inspired by the sixties,” says Isla, “or you’d be wearing bell-bottoms.”

Lucinda’s laugh flops between them like a dying fish.

“And … oh my God!” The girl with the champagne-pink hair and the nose ring leans towards Beth. “Can I believe my wondering eyes? You’re not wearing any make-up! Not a drop!”

Amazingly enough, considering that she’s almost paralyzed with tension, Beth can hear Lucinda’s words to her friend on the phone.
I’d be more nervous than a moose in hunting season if I didn’t have her… Man, they are sooo scary…
Now she understands what Lucinda meant. She’s only known these girls a few minutes and already they’re annoying her. She smiles so they can’t possibly know just how much. “It’s this really subtle, natural look,” says Beth. “It’s all the rage in Europe. Heavy make-up’s considered so
passé
.”

Hattie pretends to yawn. “And no make-up’s considered so primitive here.”

“Practically Neanderthal,” murmurs Isla.

“Oh, you are so funny, Gab!” Lucinda laughs again, turning to the others. “Don’t you think she’s just hilarious?”

“That’s a joke?” says Nicki. “That make-up’s
passé
?”

“Well, I don’t know about hilarious, but you’re pretty brave – or insane,” says Isla. “I mean, it is daylight.”

“The only person who sees me without make-up is my mother,” says Hattie.

Paulette smiles like a movie star who just became the face of a billion-dollar ad campaign. “I wonder what Taffeta’s going to think,” she croons. “I mean, you saw how she does her face. No one’s told her make-up’s
passé
.”

“Oh my God, Taffeta!” gasps Lucinda. “Isn’t she just awesome? She was even more impressive than I expected.”

This, at last, is something they can all agree on. Taffeta is definitely awesome. Remember her winter collection? Remember what she wore to the Academy Awards? Remember when she was invited to the White House? Remember the dress she made for that royal wedding? Taffeta proves to be the doorway to other conversations – conversations that have nothing to do with Beth, her naked face or her pyjamas. It gives Beth the small comfort of something for which she can be grateful.

She has no idea what they’re talking about. Clothes. Fashion. Names she’s never heard of. Things she’s never heard of, either.
Colour cues … princess seams … basque waist … placket … back yoke … ringspun fabric … trend boards…
But she acts as though she does know. She owes loyal Lucinda that much. When she hears a word she recognizes – “shoe” or “hemline” – she perks up like a dog who’s heard her name. When they laugh, Beth laughs. When they fizz with agreement, she fizzes. When they roll their eyes and groan and sigh because they’ve spotted someone wearing some outrage against fashion or good dress sense, she rolls and groans and sighs too. But, of course, she has nothing to say, so she says nothing and smiles like a doll.

Everybody looks at them. The men and boys look twice. And not (as you might think) because they can’t believe that these girls can stand there, their heels holding them six inches off the ground and their spines pitched forward, wearing so little that it’s a miracle they’re all not blue and shivering from the air conditioning. They smile at them; they wink. Yesterday, when Beth walked through this lobby she was virtually invisible – bumped into and shoved; hit with someone’s golf clubs; trodden on by someone else. But today she is one of the fashionistas, under a spotlight; attracting appreciative smiles, good mornings and hellos. When Lucinda accidentally whacks someone with her bag, the other person apologizes. When Nicki drops her phone, two guys stop to pick it up. The manager passes them with a nod, “You young ladies have a nice day.” Beth fidgets and tries not to notice. It’s like being under constant surveillance. No wonder they spend so much time getting dressed.

Losing the thread of the conversation again, Beth glances towards the entrance to the restaurant. Is Gabriela in there right now? Even if she could get away from her group and hobble all the way to the other side of the lobby before the car comes, she wouldn’t. How could she ever stop herself from bursting into tears in front of Professor Gryck and everyone else? But still she keeps glancing over towards the room where she should be. And that’s when she finally notices the guy standing just outside the restaurant entrance. There’s something peculiar about him. Besides the fact that he looks as if he’s just stepped out of a Graham Greene novel. Something not right. It’s undoubtedly because of her state of agitation that she thinks so, but he looks faintly luminous. She squints. He really does, as if he’s lit from behind. And even though he’s wearing sunglasses, Beth suddenly realizes that he’s standing there because he’s watching her. She couldn’t feel his gaze more surely if it had weight and force. Why is he watching her? He could be some Hollywood type, of course. A director. Or an agent. Or a talent scout. It could be that. He’s thinking of discovering Gabriela. But he hasn’t moved a muscle in minutes; he just stands there like a pillar of light. Maybe he’s not a Hollywood type. Maybe he’s just a regular, run-of-the-mill pervert. Maybe that’s why he’s watching her. Can he see her underwear through the silk? She moves her bag to her outside hip.