One Way or Another(66)
The other matter lurking at the back of his mind was the red-haired girl. Angie Morse. “Missing, believed dead.” Did he believe Angie was dead? For some reason, perhaps because she had disappeared so completely, he’d found himself drawing quick sketches of the way he imagined her; the sideways glance he felt sure was her practiced look for the guys who came into the bar, the kind of come-on look they expected, or at least hoped for, from their attractive hostess. The bar restaurant where Angie worked catered to guys on the loose, out for a good time, hoping to get lucky or at least look as though they were, impressing the other guys. Not that Marco would do that. He was his own man, whatever that might mean; he would bow down to no one, try to impress no one. He had no need, it was as simple as that.
Marco walked back to the port where the Lady Marina took up more space than any other yacht. As a large boat it had to anchor out at sea and ferry its guests back and forth in smart little Riva speedboats, plush with white leather and complementary white baseball caps to keep the wind out of the women’s hair, with sailors standing hands-behind-backs, awaiting their return. The life of the superrich was enviable in a way, yet remembering his own simple life, his gulet, his cottage, his evenings under the old olive tree with the glass of arak he’d often wished was a French chardonnay but really enjoyed anyway, Marco wondered why Ahmet needed all of it. All this.
*
He was alone, but for Em, when the captain came to inform him that Mr. Ghulbian was arriving in Antibes, that the helicopter had been sent to pick him up and that Mr. Ghulbian would be joining them for dinner later. Around nine if that was all right with Marco.
Sitting on the afterdeck, cold beer in hand, Em at his feet, the unbeatable view of dozens of large yachts, sails furled and men sluicing down the decks, the aroma of barbecued steak hovering in the air along with the faint tang of jasmine blown on the breeze from land, Marco agreed it was all right, though he very much wished he could be alone with Martha. Well, and Lucy, of course. He thought he’d better keep an eye on her; Martha was worried about Ahmet’s intentions. Then the two women came back loaded with shopping bags, Lucy with a big grin on her face.
“I’ve never been on a real shopping spree before,” Lucy said, thrilled. “Martha said it was because I was still at school and who needed much there, I mean we sometimes made our own stuff for a party, bought polyester in the local market and draped it around, it’s amazing what you can do with safety pins. Once, we were going to a party in London, sneaking out and I had no tights and somebody lent me stockings. I had nothing to hold them up so I tied a piece of string around the tops. Worked a treat. Until they started slipping down, that is.…”
“Lucy, for God’s sake!” Martha was laughing, though.
“I’m going to put one of my new dresses on for dinner,” Lucy said. “And please, please, could I have a glass of wine? White and very cold,” she added, giving them a mischievous upward grin.
“It’s yours,” Marco called after her, “once I’ve approved the dress. Nothing too short, now.”
“Nothing is too short when you’re seventeen,” Martha said, dropping a kiss on his cheek, scooping up Em and sinking into the chair next to him, propping up her feet on a cushion, accepting the chilled glass of wine from the ever-attendant steward. “This must be what it’s like to be rich,” she murmured, taking a sip.
Marco raised a brow. “Like it?”
“It’s okay. For a change.” Then she laughed. “Yeah, I like it, but I also like to earn my money, and believe me, with this boat and the ghastly Marshmallows I will earn it. Morrie Sorrie is already coming up with more ideas, but he’s scared to death of the place, swears it’s haunted. And besides, he hates what he calls ‘that woman.’”
“I’m guessing you mean ‘this woman.’” Marco indicated the jetty with his bottle, and Mehitabel striding along it, rail-thin and looking, Martha thought, like the old Katharine Hepburn in a terrifying movie, wearing gray flannel slacks and a buttoned white silk shirt, her Medusa curls pinned severely back, the over-large sunglasses covering a good part of her face.
“What’s she doing here?” She sat up, glass clutched tightly; the feeling of well-being had disappeared.
“That’s for us to find out,” Marco said.
46
ANGIE
I thought there was a certain honesty about Ahmet; it was apparent in his eyes when he believed you wouldn’t notice; I might almost call it an “otherworldly” look, as though he was somewhere in a place he kept private from the world, and mostly, I suspected, even from himself. It would seem that the famous man did not want us to know the real man. I’ll bet I’m one of the few ever to catch a glimpse of that side of him, much good it will do me now.
The scarecrow that used to be me stood before him, head unbowed, eyes fixed on his. You do not remain locked up, alone for who knows whatever length of time, without going crazy, and there is no doubt now, that “crazy” is what I am. More, it is who I am. Vanity still creeps in, though, but really it’s not vanity, it’s a matter of self-worth. I knew I was better than the figure I was presenting to Ahmet; the beaten-down woman, scarcely even female, a nothing person simply waiting for the end. Courage. My mother’s remembered voice came back to me in a whisper that had grown fainter as I sank deeper into the sloth of acceptance of my fate. I had nothing left to fight with.