‘I was.’ Angela told him what had happened. ‘It’s lucky you’re here. You can take me back to the boat. Come to think of it, why are you here?’
‘I was dropping the other guests off, ma’am. The ladies have all got spa appointments at the Byblos and the gentlemen are lunching at the beach.’
‘And my husband?’
‘Mr Cranley … er … Mr Cranley is still on board. I believe.’
Working, thought Angela. You couldn’t part Brett from his precious deals for long, not even here.
‘OK. Well let’s head back. I’ll cancel my cards and get some cash, and then you can bring me back to town again.’
The boy hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the local police first? As we’re here.’
‘Oh, they’re not going to do anything,’ Angela said dismissively. ‘One more robbed tourist. They couldn’t care less.’
‘Still,’ Danny persisted. ‘If no one reports these guys, it’s hopeless, isn’t it? They can act with impunity.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘But I really don’t feel like trudging up to the gendarmerie. I’ll call them from the yacht.’ Stepping past him, she began to climb down into the waiting speedboat. ‘Better yet, I’ll get Brett to do it. He’s bound to have more joy than I am. The French are such sexists, they won’t take a woman seriously.’
Danny stood frozen on the dock for a moment, as if unsure what to do next. Angela looked at him curiously.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, Mrs Cranley.’
‘Well come on then!’ Angela laughed. ‘I don’t know how to pilot one of these things by myself. The sooner we get back to the yacht, the sooner we can turn around again.’
The boy climbed in and started the engine.
Five minutes later, Angela was climbing the stairs up to the Lady A’s lower deck and the entrance to the family living quarters. Dropping her basket in the TV room, she headed towards the study.
‘Brett?’
No answer. Pushing open the door she saw his computer open on the desk, but he wasn’t there.
Everything on the boat was quiet. Danny must have been wrong. Had Brett joined the others for lunch at the beach after all? Walking down the corridor, she opened the door to the master suite.
‘Oh my God.’
At first she thought she was seeing things. It can’t be her. Not here! She closed her eyes and opened them again, but the apparition was still there, sprawled out on the bed in a pair of tiny Agent Provocateur knickers.
Tricia Hong, Brett’s mistress from Australia, was exactly as Angela remembered her. The same tiny, gym-toned body, the same smooth golden skin and silken black hair, the same tiny, perky breasts like two glued-on apples. And the same ruthless look of naked hatred in her beautiful, snake-like eyes.
Tricia neither moved nor spoke. Both women remained frozen, like actresses in a play who’ve forgotten their lines. From the en-suite bathroom, Brett’s voice ricocheted off the walls like a stray bullet.
‘Hold on a minute, angel. I’ll be right there.’
He was opening and closing cabinets. Looking for a condom, thought Angela numbly. She should probably scream or cry or throw something, but she was in absolute shock.
How could Tricia be here, now, in France? On her boat? In her bedroom? She was supposed to be in Australia, thousands of miles away. There was a time and a place for every enemy, a time and a place where Angela might have felt prepared for such a betrayal. A year ago, back in the Sydney apartment, she could have made sense of it. But not now, not like this. It was like going for a walk down the High Street in Fittlescombe and finding yourself face to face with a tiger. The unexpectedness of the situation almost trumped the fear.
Brett burst into the room, a smile a mile wide plastered across his face. Then he saw Angela.
‘Oh, shit,’ he said quietly. There didn’t seem much else to say.
Ashen-faced, Angela turned and ran staggering down the corridor.
Brett ran after her. ‘Ange wait! Please.’
She quickened her pace. Tears bleared her vision, but she kept going, knocking against the walls as the yacht rocked gently from side to side on the water.
‘Angie!’ Brett grabbed her by the arm. She tried to wrench herself free but his grip was too tight.
‘Let go of me,’ she sobbed.
‘No. I won’t. I can’t. Ange, I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry you did it? Or sorry you got caught?’
‘Both,’ said Brett truthfully.
‘She knew you’d be here! You’ve been in contact.’
Brett said nothing.
‘Oh my God,’ Angela shook her head in disbelief. ‘Did you fly her out here?’
Again Brett didn’t deny it.
‘You planned this.’
The pennies dropped one by one, like acid on Angela’s skin.
‘Look, Ange, she called me. She was relentless. I know it was stupid of me and weak. She doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘I have to get out of here,’ Angela said quietly.
‘Please! Don’t go. I don’t mean anything to her either, and that’s the truth. She’s got a new boyfriend. They’re getting married …’