One Way or Another(83)

Standing at the top of the stone steps leading onto the terrace which led to the grass, where the “Wetlands” signs were now prominently displayed and also illuminated, Martha told Morrie she should never have taken on the job.

“But why not?” Morrie asked. He was there despite having said he would never return. He’d come for Martha because she needed him, not for Ghulbian.

“Because whatever I do, have done, I know Ahmet will not be satisfied. Men like him, with that kind of money, that power, like to wield it over you.”

“Power makes men crazy.” Morrie knew that. He’d met a few in his career. “Women too,” he added, remembering Mehitabel.

Martha had worried about actually getting the guests to Marshmallows, out there in the wilds, but Ahmet had laid on a fleet of small private jets, helicopters, and limos, driving all the way, as Martha had done, though most were probably wondering what the hell they were doing so far out in the boonies. The party had better be good, Martha thought.

The band—an orchestra, really, a good old-fashioned set of musicians with saxophones and trumpets and violins, discreet in black dinner jackets—had taken their places near the newly installed dance floor. Outside, the rock group, a street-chic bunch of rather sweet guys who were more used to weekend gigs in suburbia and were thrilled Martha had given them a shot at this, were already strumming a few chords. The disco would be set up later. Things, Martha thought, with a rising heart, were looking up. Maybe it would be all right after all.

Her phone buzzed. It was Marco. “Where are you?”

“En route, stuck in a traffic jam caused I guess by Ahmet’s party, more limos than I’ve ever seen even when royalty was present.”

“No royalty here. Best we can hope for is rich.”

Marco laughed. “That’s the kind of people rich men know, other rich people. Anyway, girlfriend of mine, lover, sweetheart, I’m missing you. I’ll be glad when all this is over and we can go back to being normal again.”

“If ‘normal’ means searching out the lost redhead I think I’ll just stay put.”

Martha was weary of Marco’s insistence on finding out what happened to the red-haired girl out in the Aegean. “And anyway,” she added, “I still don’t know what it has to do with Ahmet.”

“What about Mehitabel?”

“That cow.” She couldn’t get her head around Mehitabel; the woman was a mystery.

“Well, I expect she’ll be there tonight, no doubt taking charge, pushing you out of her way.”

“I think I’ll let her do that,” Martha said. “In fact, my real work here is done. Everything’s set, the music, the seating, the flowers, the wines, the food … all Ahmet needs is his guests to show up and he’ll be a happy man.”

“He’ll never be that.” Marco knew in his gut that was true.

“Well, here comes another private plane,” Martha said. “I’d better get back to work as greeter, telling them where to go.”

“Let Mehitabel tell them.”

She laughed as she ended the call. Mehitabel would not be here to work, she’d be here to show off as Ahmet’s woman, dressed to kill in—what else—red satin. On her, it did not look cheap, in fact it looked extremely expensive, simply cut to hug her body, narrow skirt, slit up the front so that when she walked her beautiful long legs were on perfect display, and which caught, as Martha noticed, the eye of many a man as she passed. And, here she came, on her way over to Martha again. What now?

“I need to talk to you about the food,” Mehitabel said. “Obviously, canapés are being served for the next couple of hours. Then dinner, with assigned seating. I, of course, shall sit opposite Ahmet at the center table where I can keep an eye on things.”

“You mean make sure everything’s going well?”

Mehitabel gave her one of those withering sideways glances she was so expert at. “Of course that’s what I mean. Don’t forget I am the one in charge. I am personally responsible to Ahmet.”

Martha wondered who that left her responsible to. Since Ahmet had employed her and was footing the bill and paying her, she had assumed it was her.

Waiters were lighting the tall white tapers in the antique silver candelabra, a dozen or more of them, preparing for dinner. Much later, after midnight, a full breakfast would be served for those exhausted from the dancing or who simply were still dying of hunger, with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, biscuits, pancakes, chicken hash … Martha had covered every possibility. Now, all she had to do was greet the guests, shake their hands, and point them to where the music was playing and drinks were being served. Her spirits rose, she’d always loved a party. But anyway, where was Marco?

Standing outside on the only bit of lawn that was actually real grass and not marsh, Martha looked back at the massive house, remembering her hard work, thinking how good it now looked with its softened Syrie Maugham interior, pale and romantic, dotted with sumptuous Oriental rugs and Knoll sofas, the kind with tilted arms you could lean comfortably on, the fabrics all chosen to harmonize and blend, the antiques rounded up by her compatriots in France and Italy, as well as England. Every piece had a place, every piece was perfect. She had done a wonderful job, the best of her life, and she wanted Marco to see it before it got spoiled by the crowds of people, so you couldn’t get a proper look.