One Way or Another(84)
*
Marco was sitting in his car behind a snorting eighteen-wheeler that had no reason to be on a one-lane country road anyway and should by rights have stuck to the motorway, except, he guessed, like himself, the driver had taken a chance and gotten off, hoping for better luck, trafficwise.
He knew he was close to Marshmallows because of the glow of arc lights on the horizon and the rainbow lights flashing through the sky, along with several beautiful small jet planes skimming the hedgerows on their way in to land. He sighed, engine idling, arms folded. He might as well be a hundred miles away in this lot.
It was then he noticed something different in the sky. A drift of gray across the tiled roof, where those bloody great birds nested. Could that be smoke? Probably it was; Martha had always lit log fires, “for effect,” she would say, believing there was nothing worse than an empty grate. She’d be showing off the new Italian limestone mantels she’d had made for the drawing room, if you could ever call any room in that pile a drawing room. It still looked like a mausoleum to Marco, fancy decor or no fancy decor.
He wasn’t looking forward to this party, nor to seeing Ahmet displaying his portrait. There were times when he wished he’d never met the man. One of them was now.
60
At ten minutes before midnight, Mehitabel checked that the guests were all wearing their feather masks. She had to admit that thanks to Martha they had drawn an A-list crowd. Ahmet would be forever grateful to that superior bitch, or he would if Mehitabel did not do something about it. First, she had to find Lucy, who she knew was here somewhere. She had seen her arrive earlier on one of the chartered buses. She had been sitting next to—hand in hand with, in fact—a very attractive blond young man who Mehitabel had definitely not expected. No matter, she would take care of him. Meanwhile, she must get Lucy alone.
Ahmet, who was not wearing a mask at his own masked ball, stood by the door greeting the revelers, hidden behind their feathers and satin, eyes gleaming with pleasure as they saw the masses of flowers and the tubs of Taittinger and the amber candles softening the light and almost managing to make the big old house welcoming.
Mehitabel had to admit Martha had done an excellent job. Much good it would do her now. She thought of Angie, locked upstairs, gauntly beautiful in her black velvet frock, the Cartier necklace at her throat, her red hair restored via the wig. And of Lucy, in the identical black velvet—how had Angie described it? “Black as the dark side of the moon.” And she thought of how when he saw the two of them together, she would shock Ahmet out of his charming man-of-the-world image, what he might do. He might resort to violence and that would be the end of Ghulbian’s social aspirations. No one would want to know him.
The crowd had thickened, small planes were still making their runs, bringing even more guests, and helicopters rattled overhead, spoiling the music for the guests, who wandered restlessly toward the food tents, wondering what was to come next.
ANGIE
I was alone, upstairs in the boudoir I had so suddenly been given, in the black velvet dress that might have been inspired by a Goya portrait of a Spanish maja, expensive and certainly fit for royalty. I crossed my legs and leaned on one elbow, inspecting my shoes. Black suede heels, not too high, simple, expensive of course, as was everything I was wearing, including the lacy underthings. It was a long way from Houlihan’s Steak and Crab House, that was for sure. No use thinking about that now. It was gone for good.
There had to be a way out of here. This house was not the Bastille, it could not be escape-proof. I had to be the one who thought it out, discovered a way, something that would draw attention to this boudoir window, above which the herons nested, and beyond which the marshland glimmered, wet, sinister.
Music filtered up from the terraces, arc lights swept the night sky, chattering voices, laughter, the wonderful smell of food, the kind I’d only dreamed about in this prison. I swept my hands over the black velvet, loving the silken feel of it, patted the wig into place, touched the gold necklace. This girl was ready for the ball. Only thing, I had to get out of here.
There was one sure way. In the bathroom was the perfumed candle Mehitabel had lit, and its soft jasmine scent filled the room. I went and got it. I was taking the biggest risk of my life, but I had no choice.
The curtains were a plain heavy silk. When I first put the candle to the hem it turned brown. The brown crept slowly upward, then quite suddenly flames crawled up the length. Smoke poured through the open window.
Terrified, I thought of jumping but saw it was too far. Unless someone noticed, came running to help, I was a dead woman.
“Oh, Mom,” I whispered. “What have I done?”
61
Standing at the foot of the staircase of his newly refurbished home, Ahmet greeted his guests, his “friends” as he liked to think of them, because he knew once they had seen the splendor of his home, experienced his lavish lifestyle, and observed for themselves what a good man he was despite the reputation that preceded him, they would want to come again, return for more of the same. After all, the champagne was excellent, the food different, thanks to the Tunisian and his helpers in the vast kitchen, and the house looked superb with the tables set with his own “Marshmallows”-emblazoned china and the old silver cutlery. The wineglasses were the only thing that disturbed him, the inexpensive greenish Biot glassware when he would have preferred Tiffany crystal. But Martha had her say, and what she said was “enough is enough.” Reality had to begin somewhere and for her it was with the glasses, and maybe with the straight-from-the-meadow cow parsley flower arrangements instead of only the expensive white roses Ahmet preferred and which flowers, anyhow, were not even, at least to his eye, properly arranged with a bunch of greenery, merely stuck in tall mason jars that might once have held jam.