Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

When she returned to the hotel and lay on one of her four lounges, she found she was anything but relaxed.

The evening stretched before her in blank monotony. What was she to do? She knew no one in Bermuda and could think of no visible activity that interested her. People seemed to be either playing tennis or riding about on those little mopeds. Popsie disliked any activity that made you sweat, and the idea of puttering about on a motorbike to no great purpose was extremely unappealing. There appeared to be no places to visit on Bermuda; no art galleries, museums, theatres-no cultural life of any kind. Not that cultural life was all it was cracked up to be, but at least it was something. You couldn’t lie about on lounges all your life.

She rang for a bottle of champagne. It arrived with a box of chocolates, so to speak. She thought about that while the cork was being twisted gently from its resting place. Why not?

‘Do you massage?’

‘You would like a massage, madam? I could ask the concierge to arrange it, of course.’

She sipped. How to phrase it delicately, so as not to offend. ‘No. I don’t like all those people with folding tables and smelly oils. I just want someone to relax me. Surely you can do that?’

And he could, and did. And when she woke in the morning she felt refreshed and ready for her board meeting. She dressed in a businesslike yet nautical fashion. Navy linen blazer, white slacks, no shirt. That was the point of difference-no shirt. The blazer covered most of her perfectly tanned breasts, but not quite all. And then the strand of South Sea pearls glistening above. Subtle, yet obvious. Disappointingly, there were no board papers to carry to the meeting. She rather fancied arriving with a sheaf of important-looking documents, but she was carrying a slim leather briefcase in any event, even though it was empty except for a spare handkerchief and a new BlackBerry which she hadn’t yet learned to switch on.

She arrived at the dock exactly on time. Whoever these people were they would soon learn they weren’t dealing with an amateur. Professionalism in all things was her new motto. She strolled confidently to the Butcherbird and waved to a crew member.

‘Mrs Trudeaux? Good morning, madam, and welcome. Please come aboard.’

It really was a pretty little thing when you examined it closely, Popsie decided. What it lacked in length and breadth, it partly made up for in the beauty and luxury of its fittings. Everything was of the highest quality and in exquisite taste. No doubt the plane would be the same. She lifted her arms above her head to stretch her muscles, or where she assumed muscles should be, and sipped her freshly squeezed juice. The crew seemed to be readying the boat for a departure but so far she was the only one aboard. She called out to the nearest sailor, ‘Are we meeting here at the wharf, or moving somewhere?’

‘I’m sorry, madam?’

‘Are we picking the others up somewhere else?’

‘The others are already on board, madam.’ This was very confusing. She looked around the saloon. The boat simply wasn’t large enough to hide her fellow directors on the face of it. Perhaps there was another level below. But why wouldn’t her host come to greet her? Was he going to spring from a secret panel or something? She hoped so. It was mysterious and exciting-particularly now that the boat had slipped its moorings and was winding its way slowly through the maze of other craft. And then, when it was clear of the marina, it seemed to almost leap into the air in a surge of power and plane away at impressive speed with a great plume of spray behind. Popsie could restrain herself no longer. Gauche it may be to ask too many questions, but gauche it would have to be.

‘Excuse me, but we are to have the meeting on the Butcherbird, are we?’

‘Yes, of course, madam. The meeting is on the boat, as arranged.’ This was not illuminating. ‘I see. And the others are on board?’ ‘Yes, madam.’ There was no help for it. ‘Where are they exactly?’

Now the young crewman, immaculate in his whites, appeared as puzzled as she was herself. ‘I’m not sure, madam. On deck, I imagine.’

Popsie looked about. There was no deck they could possibly be on unless they were invisible. ‘On this boat? On the Butcherbird?’

His wonderful brown face cracked at the seams and a mouthful of the whitest teeth were presented in a wide smile. ‘Oh, this isn’t the Butcherbird, madam. This is just the tender. The Butcherbird is out there.’

She followed the brown arm to the brown finger. There, on the horizon it seemed, was a wondrous sight. A casual glance might have suggested some ocean liner was anchored in the harbour, but Popsie’s glance was anything but casual. The vessel her gaze was directed to was clearly the largest private motor yacht she, or anyone else, had ever seen. Why the Honey Bear, previously her gold standard for size (and she’d paced it herself from stem to prow on the night of the auction), would sit on the top deck of this fabulous monster.

And the closer they zoomed, and they were zooming, the bigger it looked. Forget the plane. Who cared if there was a plane? Probably there was a fleet of planes if he had a boat like this. But this was it. This was life. This was what mattered. Length and breadth and, probably, depth, for all she knew. This was what the game was all about. You could say it wasn’t, if you weren’t in the game. Or if you were a trier who hadn’t made it. Or a Mac Biddulph who’d lost it.

But this was what everyone wanted, like it or not. To be the biggest, the richest, the most powerful. It was the law of the jungle. Popsie knew it, even if the losers didn’t. She sighed despite herself, but it was a sigh of deep satisfaction. She was racing to her destiny with a triumphant shower of spray in her wake.

The tender, her charming tender, she’d grown to love the word, eased back into the water as it approached the shadow of the great ship in its path. Crew persons were scurrying back and forth over its innumerable decks and she could just make out a group of guests under a long canopy at the stern. She must be the last to arrive. Excellent. She loved making an entrance. She checked her clothing and stroked her pearls for luck. Somehow stepping on board this boat would take her into a new life. She could feel it. You’d sell your soul for this.

And then, as they pulled alongside, a familiar voice drifted down from above.

‘Come aboard, dear lady, come aboard.’