False Charity (27 page)

‘There you are, dear!' Double kisses on both cheeks. Velma, an old, old friend in a blonde wig and a haute couture outfit. ‘Didn't you get my messages? I've been trying to get hold of you ever since I heard you were back. I would have come to the welcome home party, but there was all that business with solicitors.'

The queue was gradually easing them along towards the function room. Max tried to get at Bea, but Velma clung to her side. ‘Never mind him, dear. I've such a lot to tell you.'

‘Mother, I must—'

Velma tucked Bea's arm within hers. ‘I forget, did you ever meet Sandy? No? Oh, you'll love him. Everyone says—'

Nicole was bobbing up and down, an agonized look on her face. Was it her shoes that were causing her to grimace, or some new tragedy? Maggie stopped dead, just in front of Bea. Her eyes were on someone ahead of her. Piers noticed, put his arm around her shoulders, and urged her on. With Velma firmly on her right, Max wriggled his way to his mother's left.

‘It was really strange the way we met, and there was I thinking he wasn't ever going to get serious, but then he—'

‘Mother, you don't really mean to cause a scene—'

‘—proposed to me, right out of the blue. He said I needed someone to take care of me, and if none of my relatives would, then he was going to do so. He's got this job working for a charity which pays peanuts but I've plenty of money so that doesn't matter, and he's such a sweetie pie.'

‘—tonight, because it will ruin me! I've got a member of the Cabinet—'

‘Of course there was a pre-nuptial. I couldn't risk—'

‘—coming with his wife, and the chairman of my constituency association and his wife and daughter so—'

Bea turned her head from one to the other. The hubbub in the corridor was frightful, so many people crammed tightly together. Was she going to pass out? It was rather airless in here. Was she running a temperature? Concentrate, Bea! This is no time to be playing the fainting widow card.

They burst into the light at the end of the corridor. Piers reached a long arm back and steered Bea, Max and Nicole into a ragged line with Oliver and Maggie, as a camera flash went off in front of them. The photographer gave them a Polaroid photograph which turned out to be not bad at all. Piers paid him for it, and the man said he'd be going round the tables later on if they wanted any more.

Velma said she wanted one with her new husband, who appeared on cue at her elbow. Sandy proved to have the fresh looks of a rugby player who hadn't yet run to seed. He was probably twenty years younger than Velma, but clearly fond of her. His name was Weston, which rang a bell with Bea. Hadn't she been getting lots of messages to ring a Mrs Weston? Messages she'd ignored?

Bea wished the newlyweds well. Velma's first husband had been a hypochondriac who had died unexpectedly early from a heart attack. She'd nursed him devotedly through all his imaginary illnesses, and could do with a bit of pampering for a change. Perhaps it would work.

Once in the function room, Bea saw that a bar had been set up in an L shape near the door. Piers bought drinks for them all. Oliver attempted to look as if he were accustomed to going to this sort of function. Maggie had a frozen smile on her face and tried not to look at a nearby group more than once a minute.

Bea spotted Coral behind one of the bar tables, smoothly dispensing more drinks per minute than either of the two barmen working beside her. Coral might be vertically challenged, but her skills were indubitable. Even as Bea looked towards her old friend, Coral did an eye-roll to the right.

Bea's eyes turned in the direction Coral indicated, into the main part of the room, which was laid out with large round tables around a tiny area of dance floor. There were balloons everywhere. There was a stage at the back on which a man in a dinner jacket was setting up turntables under some powerful lights. Helping him was a rotund little man in evening dress, and further over a tall, willowy blonde of uncertain age was talking to a petite Asian girl in the shalwar kameez of Pakistan.

‘Yes!' said Bea, recognizing the descriptions she'd heard of the gang. ‘We've found her. That's Mrs Somers-Briggs.'

Piers raised his glass to hers in a toast. ‘Well done, Bea.'

Maggie turned to Bea with an abrupt movement and took her arm, ‘Isn't this lovely, just like a dream, I can't believe I'm really here.'

This effusiveness was so uncharacteristic of the girl that Bea looked round for the cause. A youngish man with sharp features in a group nearby was staring at Maggie with an expression which struggled between doubt and recognition. Was this the ex-husband?

‘It is lovely, dear,' said Bea, urging Maggie and Oliver on into the main part of the room. ‘Let's find our table, shall we? Are there place names, do you think?

‘There's a chart over here,' said Piers. ‘It allocates different parties to numbered tables. We're on table nine. Max and his party are also on our table. Shall we drift that way?'

There was some heavy breathing at Bea's shoulder, and Max was back again. ‘Mother, I have to look after my guests, but Nicole says that … you won't cause a scandal in public, will you? I'm out of my mind with worry.'

‘We're not planning to confront them until the end of the evening, so if you leave promptly there'll be no problem. You look after your guests, and I'll attend to mine.'

Max departed and Bea transferred her attention back to the stage, where the rotund man was fixing a mike over an upright piano. His movements were deft and economical. He tested the mike and sent a high five sign to the woman. The DJ was a handsome fellow in his mid thirties, with eyes already roving the room to assess the talent. Who was it who'd said he was too old to be the boss's son? Whoever it was, they were right, even though the lady was probably older than she looked.

Mrs Somers-Briggs had a sharp word with the DJ, upon which he stopped eyeing the talent and went back to his turntables. She moved on to inspect a table full of prizes which had been laid out in front of the stage, and rearranged one or two items to display them to better advantage. She wore a filmy black evening dress with diamond drop earrings and a matching diamond bracelet.

‘Bit of a puzzle,' observed Piers. ‘Is that woman old enough to have sired the DJ, or are we astray on that one?'

‘Late forties, if she's a day,' said Bea. ‘I would say he's too old for it. She's definitely the brains of the gang though, isn't she? Maggie,' she turned to the girl, ‘don't keep peeping at your ex. Ignore him. Give me your opinion on the DJ. How old is he, and do you fancy him?'

Maggie turned her back on the neighbouring group with an effort. ‘The DJ's all right, I suppose. Not as good-looking as … the thing is, you won't mind if I stick close to you this evening, will you? I mean, with Noel here as well.'

‘Your husband's name is Noel, too?'

‘Oh, no. Of course not. I mean, the man who … you know? The other night? The photographer.'

Bea hadn't noticed the photographer particularly. She looked back at the entrance to the function room but so many people had crowded in behind them, that the only evidence of his presence was the occasional flash as he took photos of later arrivals.

Her headache was developing into a real rager. Was the photographer part of the gang? Was the man who'd hurt Maggie really the photographer, and was he the boss woman's son? Bea couldn't think straight. Were there three people in the gang or four? Or more?

Mrs Somers-Briggs was moving around the room now, greeting people, towing the Asian girl along, introducing people to her. The rotund man was double-checking mikes, having a word with the DJ, eyes everywhere. Just as Coral had said.

Nicole surfaced to greet Bea with a kiss. ‘We've been put right next to the amplifiers. I'm sure to get a headache.'

Bea indicated her evening bag. ‘I brought some painkillers with me.' Her eyes wandered to the boss woman, who had met up with the rotund man and was conferring with him by the stage. Bea wriggled her camera out of her purse and handed it to Oliver. ‘Can you get a snap of them, do you think?'

He handed his laptop to Maggie to hold and slipped away in the crowd as the boss woman got up on to the stage and flicked the mike into life.

‘Ladies and gentlemen – and all you wonderful people who have come here to help those less fortunate than ourselves – would you kindly take your seats? The tables have all been set up with the names of your hosts for the evening, and they will arrange that you don't sit next to your worst enemy.'

There was a titter of laughter and a general movement towards the tables. Piers led his party to their table, where Max was already pulling out chairs and attending to his guests.

Mrs Somers-Briggs allowed a few minutes for people to settle, before continuing her spiel. ‘We are delighted that so many of you have responded to the call to help those less fortunate than us. The tsunami that wrecked so many lives has dropped out of the headlines, but that doesn't mean that the scars have been healed, that all the villages have been rebuilt, that people are no longer dying for lack of food and clean water. Or that people have ceased to mourn the dead. The big aid agencies have moved on to deal with other issues, but I want us to do something for the forgotten ones, which is why I have organized this event. We are so comfortable in our lives here in Britain, we have so few tornadoes and monsoons and devastating floods, that it is hard for us to realize how fragile people's hold on life is in other countries. It is greatly to your credit that you are prepared to do something about it.

‘You may ask what we can do to help, living so far away from the seat of the great disaster? Well, every pound that you pledge, every bid at the auction, allows us to provide safe drinking water, secure shelter, and basic foods for at least some of those who have suffered so much. Some people can harden their hearts and turn away from the terrible sights with which we've all become so familiar after the floods, but you are not of their number. You have stood up to be counted among those who care, and who not only care but are prepared to put your money where your mouth is. At least you will be able to sleep more easily tonight, knowing you have done what you can. Remember, every pound you donate makes a difference.

‘Now on each plate you will find a small gift, courtesy of our generous sponsors, whose name you will see emblazoned on the back. We'd love it if you could show your appreciation of this little gift by dropping a fiver or so into the begging bowl placed on each table. I see the caterers are dying to get the food on the table, so I won't hold you up any longer.
Bon appetit
, as they say in France.'

Bea exchanged glances with Piers, seated on her right. ‘That was well done, wasn't it?'

‘Softened us up nicely. A pity she doesn't put her talents to use in a worthier cause.'

Max was taking orders for wine and passing them to a waiter. Max was flushed and expansive. Nicole was listening to one of Max's guests with an expression of interest on her face. Bea wondered, in an idle moment, whether Nicole had ever wanted to enter politics herself. Somewhere under all that superficial glamour, there was a brain of sorts.

Piers ordered wine for his party, but saw that they had a glass of water each as well. A swarm of black-clad teenagers appeared to dish out plates of food. One girl or boy to each table. Bea tried to think how much this would cost in wages. She hoped they'd get their money. Horrid to think of these pleasant boys and girls working their butts off and then not getting paid. The starters were prettily laid out, smoked salmon roulade with cream cheese on rounds of crusty bread, a small side salad.

‘I've had worse,' said Piers, ‘but the wine's not up to much.'

‘Mm,' said Bea, remembering that the hotel had down-graded the wine for the function in case they made a loss.

The waiters removed the first course. The second course was duck's breast with red cabbage and mashed potatoes. A little heavy going. Bea told herself to eat it all up before she took any painkillers. Piers was talking easily to a woman in Max's party, about an eccentric nobleman he'd been painting, who kept a menagerie on his estate.

The sweet was a bit icky, but there was a pleasant enough raspberry sorbet to compensate. Then the tables were cleared and coffee brought round with – Bea was glad to see – some chocolate mints. If there was one thing Bea had a weakness for, it was chocolate mints with crunchy bits. She took two, and reached for her painkillers.

The lights overhead dimmed, and the lights on the stage came up. The boss woman took over the mike again.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are all feeling well fed and at peace with the world. The catering tonight has been done by a new company, Passion for Food. Would you all put your hands together for them, and for the delightful young people who have looked after us so well.'

Applause, not overly enthusiastic, but good enough. The students looked pleased, and refilled coffee cups with a smile. Bea hoped that the applause was not going to be the only thing they earned that night.

‘I imagine you expect long speeches from the worthy charities who help to alleviate the woes of the world,' said Mrs Somers-Briggs, ‘so you'll be glad to hear there are going to be no speeches tonight. Instead, I'm going to tell you what happened to my friend Ana, who was there on the day the sea destroyed her old life.'

She gestured to the Asian girl to come up on to the stage and stand beside her. ‘English is not her first language,' said Mrs Somers-Briggs, ‘although she is studying it. Because she still cannot speak of these things without breaking down, she has asked me to tell you what happened to her.'

She took a sip from a glass of water. ‘Ana lived in a fishing village, which was home to twenty or so families. Her father and the other able-bodied men went out in their boats every day, the children played on the beach and between the houses, and the mothers – ah, the mothers – looked after everybody, as they do all over the world, don't they?'