‘Is that any way to greet your second best friend,’ is his wounded response, which would normally cause me to raise my eyebrows at his dramatics, but of course, at the moment, I can’t. ‘Where’s the beauty therapist?’ I ask instead.
‘Nowhere to be seen lovey,’ he answers cheerfully, ‘She’s probably popped out for a sneaky fag, so I’ve got you all to myself.’
I groan but don’t deign to answer. Perhaps if I refuse to rise to the bait, he’ll get bored and go away – but needless to say I should’ve known better.
‘Are you going over for Noah’s Thanksgiving bash this evening on your own perchance?’ is his next question. His voice is deceptively casual which doesn’t fool me at all. I have two choices – come clean now and deal with the twenty questions, or save it until later and face the consequences.
But, to be honest, I’m a little tired of keeping everything to myself – although Freddy is not the best person to open ones heart to. I should have told the whole sorry story to Tory when I had the chance.
Sighing, I lift off the eye pads and tell him everything. By the time I’ve finished, his eyes are like saucers and my face resembles Thing out of the Fantastic Four. ‘Bloody hell, I was only going to ask if you wanted to share a taxi,’ is his eventual response.
‘Do you think I’m making mountains out of molehills?’ I ask quietly.
He’s silent for a moment, and his eventual answer is uncharacteristically serious. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think sweet pie, or anyone else for that matter. It’s how you feel about it. Are you in love with the knob?’
‘Don’t call him that,’ I answer wearily, ‘And no.. yes… oh I don’t know.’ The last comes out as a wail and Freddy pats my hand in sympathy.
‘Well, all I can tell you is that no relationship can go the distance with fear and uncertainty as its root. You have to speak to him Kitty Kat. You’re meeting him early this evening, so that’s an ideal opportunity.’
I actually feel physically sick at the thought of questioning Jason. ‘But is it any of my business?’ I mutter desperately, lifting my head off the pillow.
‘Well if it isn’t, then you should knock the whole thing on the head right now,’ is his matter of fact retort and I sink back with a sigh of acknowledgement. Freddy’s right I know he is. I want to cry, but that will finally finish off the face mask.
I lift my head again to see Freddy looking out of the window. ‘Is the bloody therapist out there?’ I ask irritably, ‘Can you see her?’
‘I think she must have forgotten about you sweetie,’ is his absent response.
‘Well what are you looking at then?’ I crane my head forward in an effort to see in his line of vision, just in time to see the Admiral loitering on the opposite side of the road.
‘That’s strange,’ Freddy murmurs, getting up, ‘Tory said her old man was going over to Torquay this morning - said he had a hospital appointment at ten.’
‘Why did you want to know what the Admiral was doing,’ I ask, watching Tory’s father glance down at his watch then take out his mobile phone.
‘I called the Admiralty first but there was no answer, so I gave Tory a ring on the off chance he was there. I just wanted to ask him if he’s got an old uniform we can borrow for the panto.’
We’re both staring over at the Admiral. ‘Is it my imagination, or does he look, sort of, well, furtive to you?’ I ask at length. There’s a pause, then Freddy nods his head.
‘He does a bit. Wonder what he’s up to?’
‘You have to follow him and find out.’ I clutch Freddy’s arm as he looks down at me in surprise. ‘Whatever for darling?’ he asks with a frown.
‘Don’t ask questions,’ I hiss, just as the errant therapist comes through the door, ‘Just don’t let him see you. Let me know where he goes. I’ll fill you in later.’
‘Madam, we won’t get rid of those horrible dark circles around your eyes if you insist on removing the eye pads.’ The beauty therapist pushes me unceremoniously back onto the couch, giving a venomous glance at Freddy.
‘Can I help you sir?’ she asks primly after slapping the patches back onto my eyes, nearly poking one of them out in the process. Never mind dark circles, I could end up with a black eye. And this is supposed to be therapeutic.
‘He’s just leaving,’ I answer trying to resist the urge to check my eyeball’s still in place. ‘Go on, get going Freddy,’ I whisper urgently, pushing at what I think is his arm. Freddy sighs and a couple of seconds later I hear the door open.
‘Keep me posted,’ I call, just as the therapist slaps more mud on my face. The door closes and we’re back to waves crashing against the shore. Damn it, I really do need the toilet…
~*~
Freddy emerged from Dartmouth Beauty in time to see the Admiral finish on his phone, turn on his heel and disappear. With a small shiver of excitement, he gave a quick glance around, and took a deep breath before closing his eyes briefly to get into character.
Naturally, he needed a disguise, so opening his satchel, he dug around for his Gucci sunglasses and popped them on. Unfortunately, the day being very overcast, they didn’t do anything to improve his vision and he nearly got run over as he scurried over the road to peer round the corner.
Undaunted, he slid them down his nose slightly so he could actually see, and nodded to himself in satisfaction as he watched the Admiral hurry up Victoria Street and disappear into the Windjammer Inn. Humming the theme tune to Mission Impossible, Freddy gave chase.
Five minutes later, he pushed open the pub door and a blast of heat hit him from the wood burning stove in the corner, immediately steaming up his sunglasses. He glanced around the room but everything was so dark, he couldn’t see a thing. Stepping forward, he tripped over a stool, crashed into a table and went down like he’d been pole axed.
Momentarily stunned, he remained on the floor, expecting the Admiral to clock him at any second and the game to be up. When a few minutes past and nothing happened, he cautiously lifted his sunglasses and looked round. The room was empty. Frowning he climbed to his feet, wincing as he tried to put the weight on his left knee.
This bloody Raymond Chandler malarkey wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
At that moment, the Admiral appeared through a door at the other end of the room - he must have been using the gents. After hurriedly putting his sunglasses back on, Freddy squeezed himself into the nearest booth and picked up a menu, holding it in front of his face. He heard the Admiral speaking to someone, then a loud squeak as the large man sat down in another booth near to the fire.
After five minutes supposedly perusing the menu, Freddy sneaked a quick look. From what he could make out through the bloody sunglasses, the Admiral was nursing a pint of beer and staring pensively at the table. There was another, untouched glass of beer sitting next it. Freddy narrowed his eyes. Kit was right, there was definitely something fishy going on.
Looking over the top of his glasses, Freddy spied the bar maid looking back at him, obviously wondering whether he wanted anything.
Bugger, now what? If he got up, the Admiral would see him, if he didn’t, he could tell the bar maid was getting ready to say something. Either way, his cover was about to be blown.
Uncomfortably he felt the sweat begin trickling down his back. He didn’t think he was cut out to be a private investigator. To be fair though, it was bloody hot in here.
Just as he was about to throw caution to the winds and climb out of the booth, a welcome blast of cold air accompanied the door opening. Hiding behind his menu, Freddy lifted his glasses and watched as a small elderly man made his way laboriously into the room. The old chap looked well over ninety and for a second, Freddy was afraid he was going to keel over, but after a brief pause, he seemed to gather himself together and tottered over to the Admiral, slowly seating himself opposite.
Freddy covertly watched the two men over the top of his glasses while trying to look as if he was still perusing the menu. There was definit
ely an art to this.
‘Can I get you anything?’ The barmaid’s strident tones right next to his ear elicited a loud expletive as Freddy nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d been so focused on the Admiral that he hadn’t seen or heard her approach.
Leaning back hastily, he stared into the barmaid’s suspicious eyes. She was so close, he could see a pimple on the end of her nose and there was a large hairy mole on her top lip.
Freddy stared at the vision in horror, his Crockett impersonation disappearing faster than you could say, ‘Miami Vice.’ He had absolutely no idea what to say.
Just as he was convinced he was about to be thrown out, the barmaid suddenly lifted her head, sniffing at the air like a bloodhound. Freddy frowned, wondering what on earth she was doing, then, all of a sudden he smelled it, an invisible miasma that coated the inside of his nostrils like a thick layer of Vaseline. The barmaid looked down at him in disgust and Freddy glared back at her indignantly. She couldn’t possibly believe that he was capable of producing a smell that bad.
‘I’ll have a latte,’ he said loudly, rediscovering his courage in the face of such a potentially hideous miscarriage of justice. She hesitated briefly, then rushed away with her apron over her nose.
Once she’d disappeared, Freddy gave in and fumbled in his satchel for one of his special lavender scented handkerchiefs. Holding it in front of his face, he glanced back over at the two men who were still sitting in the booth as though nothing had happened.
They were deep in conversation and Freddy couldn’t help but note that the Admiral had his nose almost buried in his nearly empty pint glass – a bit like a gas mask. So the smell was obviously coming from his elderly companion.
Leaning forward, Freddy propped the menu up against the saltcellar, bent his head behind it, and unashamedly ear wigged.
‘The thing is, I know it’s none of my business Boris, but I think the shit’s about to hit the fan and I know for a fact that Flo hasn’t told Kit that her brother and his wife are not her real parents.’
Shocked, Freddy lifted his head up from the menu and his hankie, forgetting for a second both about the terrible stink, and the fact that he was supposed to be incognito. Despite holding his breath and straining forward, he was unable to hear old Boris’s reply.
‘Well of course I bloody well know,’ the Admiral answered irritably in response. ‘You only have to look at her to see it. Can’t you just talk some sense into Florence?’ Again Boris’s answer was indistinguishable and Freddy wondered if he could somehow manage to get closer.
Then another dose of noxious fumes hit the back of his throat and it was all he could do not to gag. It was a few seconds before he could process the Admiral’s answer, but when he did, his heart plummeted into his Paul Smith trainers.
‘Bollocking hell Boris, you really are going to have to do something with that arse of yours if you’re going to officiate at Victory’s wedding.’
Chapter Sixteen
How is it that you can spend literally all day getting ready and still be late? The pile of clothes on my bed is testament to my indecision about what to wear, and I only narrowly avoided setting fire to the whole flat in an incident involving my hair straighteners and the nylon carpet.
I’ve also been trying to contact Freddy on and off all afternoon, but I keep getting his voice mail. That’s not like Freddy at all, and now I’ve run out of time. Still, I’m sure I’ll be able to pin him down sometime during the evening’s festivities.
Anyway, I think I’ve scrubbed up pretty well. Standing in front of the mirror I survey myself critically. I’ve decided on a black crocheted dress which flares from the hips (actually makes me look as though I’ve got some). The top half is fitted so, after hesitating for a moment, I plump for my good old Wonderbra. It might be like shutting the gate after the horses bolted, but it makes me feel better.
I finish the ensemble with black knee high boots (flat obviously – I don’t fancy hobbling a couple of miles up to Noah and Tory’s house in heels), and instead of my usual soft approach, my lips are a bold vibrant red. Tonight I’m determined to take control, and ask the questions that need to be asked.
Freddy was totally right (for a change). A relationship based on deceit is no relationship at all.
Quickly grabbing my coat and wrap, I take a last look at the mess that is my flat and reflect ruefully that at least I won’t be tempted to bring anyone back.
Jason is already at the boat float when I arrive, and my heart beats faster as he turns and smiles at me. With a wry glance at my statement red lipstick, he bends forward to kiss me on the cheek.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he murmurs as he straightens up and takes my gloved hand in his. The air is cold and crisp causing our breath to steam as we walk down the slipway towards the passenger ferry.
‘Do you think it will snow?’ I ask looking up at the first stars of the evening twinkling above us. Helping me onto the waiting ferry, Jason shakes his head.
‘Not for the next few days anyway, but who knows, we could be heading for a white Christmas.’
We make our way to the forward deck as the ferry begins to move, and Jason stands behind me, wrapping his arms tightly around me to keep me warm. After a second, I relax back into him, deciding to simply enjoy the warmth of his body and the feel of his heart beating against my back.
The lights of Dartmouth fade away as we reach the middle of the river, slowly replaced by the more subdued ones in Kingswear on the opposite side, and a few minutes later we’re walking up the steps to the Ship Inn.
Just as we get to the door, Jason stops and turns towards me, lifting his hand to stroke the side of my face in an almost perfect imitation of the unknown woman’s action. My heart thuds uncomfortably as I stare up at his face, virtually lost in the shadow.
His voice, when it comes, is husky and slightly uncertain. ‘I think we need to talk.’
~*~
The Admiral glanced down at his watch and felt like crying. It wasn’t even six o’clock yet. He still had another hour and a half before they had to be at Noah and Victory’s place.
Gloomily he stared down into his pint glass. Mabel was rattling on about some damn film she’d watched with her daughter – Magic Mick or something. Sounded like some kind of bloody Disney cartoon.
Emily’s answer was fortunately drowned out by Jimmy’s cough, causing the Admiral to look up across at his friend. ‘Ready for another Sir,’ Jimmy asked. Charles Shackleford nodded his head, too choked up to speak.
‘How about you dear?’ The small man pointed towards his wife’s tonic water. ‘And you Mabel – can I get you another tomato juice?’
A foursome. The Admiral couldn’t believe it. Here he was, actually out on a double date with his old Master at Arms and the bloody dragon he lived with. This is what his life had come to – farting vicars and foursomes.
This would never have happened in the old days. He blamed it on the Berlin Wall. Everyone knew where they stood in the Cold War. When the damn wall came down, everything seemed to blur around the edges, and this was the result. An admiral on a foursome with a matelot. Charles Shackleford shook his head sadly.
‘Would you like a packet of cheese and onion crisps Sir?’
‘Ooh lovely, I’d like a packet of crisps, what about you Emily?’
‘Don’t mind if I do Mabel, it’s a while before we eat. Bring me a packet of Salt and Vinegar Jim.’ Emily patted her husband’s arm with a smile as he leant over to put down her drink.
The Admiral frowned. He’d never gone for outward displays of affection, but it was beginning to look as if Mabel was turning out to be the touchy feely type. She seemed to be more like Celia every day.
Sometimes it worried him that he’d started mixing them up. He couldn’t seem to remember what Victory’s mother looked like, and when he tried to imagine her laugh, it sounded like Mabel’s.
Troubled, he glanced over at the elderly matron’s smiling face as she handed him a packet of crisps,
opened in such a way that he could get to the chips inside easily. He felt panic swamp him. Celia used to do exactly the same.
He wanted to dash the bag out of her hand, tell her that no he didn’t want a bollocking packet of crisps, and if he did want one, he could bloody well open the bollocking packet himself. Instead, he found himself staring down into the kind warmth of her eyes, and slowly the panic began to subside.
Mumbling his thanks, he took the packet and dipped his hand in. Nothing like a packet of cheese and onion crisps to bring a man back from the edge. Not to mention the touch of a cold nose. The Admiral looked down at Pickles’ hopeful face. ‘Here you go boy,’ he murmured gruffly, handing the spaniel a handful of crisps.
Taking another for himself, he sighed. Times change and it was up to him to change with them. Either that or he might as well top himself now, but Celia wouldn’t want that. She’d like Mabel, he knew, and what the hell did it matter if he got them confused every now and then. He took a swallow of his pint as Jimmy sat back down.
‘Have you ever been to a Thanksgiving dinner before Sir?’ Jimmy enquired after the silence began to stretch between them - they never seemed to have trouble with conversation when it was just the two of them.
The Admiral glanced over at the two gossiping women next to them and coughed. ‘Err, well, I seem to remember attending one on a Yank warship when I was a midshipman. You?’
‘No Sir, never had the pleasure. I’m really looking forward to this evening though. It was very kind of Tory to invite us.’ And bloody stupid, was the Admiral’s private opinion.
The uncharacteristic silence descended again as the two men sat and stared helplessly at each other. Suddenly a draft of cold air swept the table as the outside door was pushed open. Grateful for any diversion, both men looked towards the entrance to see Kit Davies and Jason Buchannan walk through the door. The Admiral frowned then looked over at Jimmy eyebrows raised.
All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3) Page 15
