False Charity (26 page)

It wasn't Max in there, but Nicole. Nicole had just come from the salon, her hair was immaculate but she was sweating, trying to shift some of the belongings she'd stored in Bea's closet. Her little dog was sitting on Bea's dressing table, chewing one of her bedroom slippers. Ugh.

‘Can I help?' asked Bea, trying not to care at this intrusion, trying to dismiss the wish to fall on the bed and weep, trying to be the Iron Lady.

Nicole gave a great start. ‘Oh, I didn't realize you were back. I'm trying to find my Jimmy Choos, which I could have sworn I'd taken with me, but they're not at the flat and I must have them because they match my new dress.' She dashed her hand across her eyes, holding up her hands to show that she'd ruined a recent manicure. Her lips were quivering. ‘Now look what's happened.'

Half the packages from the closet were strewn around Bea's bedroom. Some were on her bed. Bea sat on a clear portion of the bed, and closed her eyes momentarily. ‘I'm very tired, Nicole. I was just planning to have a nap before dressing to go out.'

‘I'll die if I have to wear my old ones.'

You won't die, thought Bea. But you'll sulk all evening. It was all too much. The phone was ringing downstairs. Oliver was working all hours, she really shouldn't ask him to do so much for her.

Bea felt a bump on the bed, and Nicole was seated beside her, noisily weeping. Over a pair of shoes! Bea felt like putting one foot into Nicole's slender back and shoving her off on to the floor. It would be a very satisfying thing to do. She controlled herself with an effort. Instead, she patted Nicole's shoulder. ‘You poor thing. What are you going to do?'

Nicole sniffed. ‘Wear the old ones, I suppose. But everyone will know they're last year's, the heels are quite obviously not this season's. If only …' She sniffed again.

If only, thought Bea, I hadn't come back from the dead. Well, not exactly the dead, but near enough. Poor Nicole, your horizons are so limited. I do understand that to you the wrong pair of shoes is a matter of life and death. I understand, but I do not condone. ‘So sorry, dear,' said Bea. ‘But maybe it's an excuse to buy another pair? The shops are still open, aren't they?'

Nicole lifted her head. A much smaller sniff this time. ‘I suppose. Yes, but Max will kill me if I buy another expensive pair of shoes just because I can't find the others.'

‘Perhaps the Second Time Round shop …?'

‘I couldn't possible wear second-hand shoes!' Nicole was scandalized, but the thought took root. ‘Well, I could look, I suppose.' She got off the bed, and inspected her image in the mirror. ‘What a fright! And just look at my nail varnish! I wonder if I could get them to give me some first aid?' Nicole picked up her handbag, and rescued her dog. ‘Sorry about the mess. I'll get Max to give you a hand tomorrow, shift some of the stuff.'

So Nicole was going to leave the room in disarray? Bea sat up. ‘I won't ask you to put it all back in the closet because I'm going to need to get in there myself, but please stack it all tidily away from my bed, right?'

‘Oh.' Nicole was disconcerted, but put down her dog and did as she was bid.

‘Thank you,' said Bea, seeing Nicole plus dog down the stairs and out of the front door.

Bea had been conscious of the phone continuing to ring all this time. She went in search of Oliver, who was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, surrounded by pieces of paper. Bea reminded herself that though the boy had been acting like an adult most of the time, he had still only just left school.

‘Sorry, Oliver,' said Bea, sliding on to a stool next to him. ‘I dumped everything in your lap, didn't I? Most unfair. How have you been coping?'

He firmed his shoulders. ‘I'm, like, treading water. I keep telling people that I'll have to ask Mrs Abbot and ring them back. Some of them shout at me.'

The phone rang again. Neither of them made a move to answer it.

Bea said, ‘I don't know the answers, either, and I'm supposed to be grown up. I think you've done terribly well, Oliver. I can't think what I'd have done without you.' She remembered she'd said much the same thing to Maggie. ‘We're both well out of our comfort zones in this, aren't we?'

His eyes glittered. ‘It's exciting, but I keep thinking, what if we fail? I mean, they've only got to keep their nerve, and we're stuffed.'

She'd been thinking the same way, but it didn't do to let him know that. ‘Fingers crossed.' She glanced at the clock. Time marches on, etcetera.

Pulling her scattered wits together with an effort, she said, ‘Couple of things. Did you get Coral sorted out with a job at the hotel?'

‘She rang back to say it was all fixed and she starts at six. Oh, and there was a garbled message from that odd friend of hers, the wine man, to say he thinks he's struck pay dirt but he can't be sure. Whatever that may mean. He enjoys being mysterious, doesn't he?'

Bea stroked her temples. ‘Well, I can't worry about that now. Do we have transport laid on for this evening or take a taxi?'

‘Piers rang. He'll collect us. That man rang from the Garden Room, Tommy something, wanting to know where we were going tonight, and I told him.'

Oh. Was he going to turn up and alert the baddies that someone was on to their scam? That would be disastrous.

Oliver looked anxious. ‘Was that the wrong thing to do?'

‘Heaven only knows,' said Bea, feeling tired. ‘One thing, Maggie's being transformed from ugly duckling into swan even as we speak. Let's you and I go over everything just once more, make sure we've got all the paperwork on your computer, work out exactly what we're going to say. Then we'd better get ourselves ready for the fray.'

Saturday, afternoon

Noel went over his plans again, point by point, to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

For the first part of the evening he'd play his part as usual, of course, charm the pants off les girls, smarm and smile, take pretty pickies and rake in the cash. Then he'd take the little Asian girl round the tables, drum up some more business. Cash only, no cheques. Mummy would be proud of him.

The complicated bit came just at the end, when he had to separate Maggie from her aunt. Perhaps he could get the DJ or Richie to give her a note to meet her aunt upstairs?

The honeymoon suite was already booked in the name of someone he'd known at university. He might have to keep an eye out for the little receptionist. If necessary he'd promise to take her out the following night, knowing that by then he'd be long gone. She'd believe him. Women always believed him. It was one of his strong points.

Saturday, early evening

B
ea massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. She was getting a pressure headache. Painkillers would dull her senses, so she'd try to manage without. She applied her make-up and pulled a face at herself in the mirror. Nothing bar a face transplant was going to turn her into a raving beauty at her age.

She had a bad feeling about tonight. What they were trying to do was impossible, they were badly prepared, didn't know enough about the con men, had no back-up plan, nothing.

She put on the first evening dress that came to hand, which happened to be in gun-metal grey satin with a long-sleeved black lace jacket over it. Plain black satin court shoes went with it. The jacket was beaded in jet and the whole rig-out had cost a fortune. She'd bought it for a function that she'd been going to attend with Hamilton, but he'd been so unwell that they'd not gone. This would be its first outing. Was that a bad or a good omen?

If Hamilton had been around, he'd have sent up an arrow prayer or two before going out to confront the enemy. In the old days she'd have smiled tolerantly, thinking that if it helped him to prepare then that was just fine by her, but he needn't expect her to go down on her knees and join him. Not that he'd been one for going down on his knees in later years, what with his arthritis and all.

But now she sat on the chaise longue at the end of the bed, calmed herself, closed her eyes, and asked for guidance.
Please, Lord, show me the way to defeat these bad people and restore what they have stolen. Help me to right wrongs and defeat evil. I'm not asking anything for myself … well, no. Not really. Well, perhaps I am asking for something for myself, too. Only, I don't know the right words to use.
Hamilton used to say words weren't needed, that you just need to remind Him that you're in trouble. So that's what I'm doing.
Amen and all that.
She could only hope He was listening.

She opened her eyes, clipped on her pearl earrings, swiped the hairbrush across her forehead to make her fringe lie at an angle, and told herself that she was as ready as she would ever be.

Evening bag; she chose the largest one so that she could pop her small camera in it; if all else failed, she could at least take photographs of these people to hand to the police. Oh, and also her specs.

She went down the stairs to the sitting room. No Maggie, no Oliver. Sighing, she climbed the stairs again. Oliver was descending the stairs from the top floor. He'd smarmed his hair down and looked more grown up than she'd imagined he could. His evening dress fitted him well enough, but his bow tie hung loose.

‘I don't know how to do it. I asked them to show me in the shop, but I can't remember how it goes.'

She was soothing. ‘You go on downstairs. I'll fetch Maggie. Maybe she knows how.'

She tapped on Maggie's door, and went in. A tall, willowy creature with a close-cut cap of mahogany-coloured hair stood, looking at herself in the mirror. The new haircut showed off the fine shape of Maggie's head, she'd emphasized the lines of her mouth with a gentle colour, and the same pale colour shone on her fingernails. She was wearing a slinky black dress, bias cut and very plain, with a bow on one shoulder. Maggie was transformed from punk to supermodel.

‘I feel most peculiar.' This new Maggie didn't take her eyes off her image in the mirror. ‘I don't look like me, do I?'

‘This is the real “you”, I think.' Bea glanced down at Maggie's shoes, which were her own and not particularly sophisticated, but would just about do. Bea glanced at her watch. ‘Have you a jacket to wear over that?'

Maggie picked up a Day-Glo pink sweater, and Bea almost fainted with horror.

‘You don't think it goes with the dress?' asked Maggie, catching Bea's disapproval for once.

‘Er, no. I'll lend you a stole. It's such a warm night, you won't need anything heavier.'

Maggie turned away from the mirror with reluctance. ‘Do you think he'll recognize me?' Presumably she was referring to her ex-husband. ‘What will I say if he comes up to me?'

‘Look through him. He's history.'

Maggie shook her head. ‘I may look different on the outside but I'm still the same person inside.'

‘Aren't we all?'

Down in the hall, Piers had arrived and was standing behind Oliver, arranging his bow tie for him. ‘All hail, fair ladies,' said Piers, giving the tie a final tweak. He was in evening dress himself, and looked impressive.

Oliver gaped. ‘Maggie, you look fantastic!'

‘Doesn't she just,' said Bea, glad that she'd given up her own time slot at the salon for such a good result.

‘The chariot awaits,' said Piers. ‘Stretch limo. Champers in the back if you wish. Oliver, don't you dare touch that tie again. Maggie, I'd like to paint you some day soon. Do you have a wrap? Bea, you look cold. Are you all right?'

‘Fine,' lied Bea. ‘Has everybody got everything? Keys, money, handkerchiefs, mobile phones, the number of the local police station, indigestion tablets?'

Oliver picked up his laptop. ‘I'm ready.' He was hoarse with nerves.

‘I don't need a wrap,' said Maggie, wafting herself to the front door.

The child didn't even have an evening bag with her, thought Bea, crossly. Oh well, I suppose Cinderella didn't, either. Or a watch. Will a limo summoned up by Piers turn into a pumpkin at midnight? It might, because he might well have forgotten to order it to return for them. She followed Maggie down the steps and into the stretch limousine.

Nobody drank champagne on the way to the hotel. Piers was abstracted, frowning, playing five-finger exercises on his thighs. Oliver wetted his lips. He clutched his laptop as if it would take wings and fly away if he let go of it. Maggie kept looking at her reflection in the window to reassure herself that she looked different. Bea wanted someone to rub the tension away from the back of her neck. Dear Hamilton had always done that for her.

They arrived. For two pins Bea would have asked the chauffeur to keep on driving around London. If she did that, they could all go and dine somewhere on the river. There was absolutely no need to put themselves through what promised to be an extremely difficult evening.

Piers alighted, and handed Maggie out. Maggie looked up at the façade of the hotel, standing straight and tall, her expression remote. Oliver tumbled out, catching his foot as he did so, and almost dropped his laptop. Maggie didn't notice. It was Piers who steadied the lad, and then helped Bea out.

‘I don't think it's going to rain,' said Piers.

He led the way into the hotel, and the others followed. Inside, a stream of people in evening dress were making for the cloakroom while others were returning from it. There was a queue of well-dressed people winding their way along the dark corridor to the function room. Bea caught sight of the manageress, fielding an enquiry from some newly-arrived tourists. The manageress was backed up by a different receptionist, who didn't look old enough to be out this late.

‘Mother!' Max bore down on them with a hunted expression on his face. Behind him came Nicole, teetering on new high-heeled shoes. ‘Mother, Nicole's just told me that—'