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Consciousness returns like an unloved relative and was welcomed with comparable enthusiasm. It isn’t the pounding headache or the feeling that a family of mice had taken up residence in his mouth for the last month. No, it is more a question of ‘Why am I feeling like this?’ with the related ‘How did I let this happen?’
He keeps his eyes shut. The relentless Caribbean sun feels too bright even through his closed eyes and he doesn’t want to risk the inevitable atomic explosion when he eventually cracks his eyelids apart. Perhaps he should go back to sleep and hope for nightfall. Alternatively, clouds would be good. Anything but this endless, punishing brightness.
He recognises the symptoms, of course, and their probable cause. He’d woken up like this on one or two occasions as a student. Alright, to be fair, there may have been a few more but who was counting? However, since becoming a policeman he had strictly limited his alcohol intake. After all, how could he be expected to investigate a murder if his brain wasn’t working at maximum efficiency, and he couldn’t see straight.
So that was the ‘What?’, the more intriguing question was ‘Why?’ and ‘How?’ Hmm... strictly speaking that was two questions, but he had already conceded the fact that his brain wasn’t working properly yet. It would be easier to work out what was going on if his head wasn’t throbbing so.
If those two questions are beyond his current capabilities, then perhaps ‘Where?’ would be more amendable to a solution which might provide a starting point for the ‘How?’ and the ‘Why?’. There was a familiarity about this place; the sound of the sea, the creaks of the bedstead, the smell of polish and detergent. He was almost certainly in his shack. Certainly?... probably. It had the right sort of feel about it. Not that he would ever rely solely on feelings when solving a puzzle, of course.
He can only conclude that he had found his way home in, what he assumes had been, his inebriated state. Or somebody had helped him... perhaps?
It worries him that most of the previous evening was a complete blank.
It worries him greatly.
Had he done or said something stupid whilst under the influence? Agreed to Dwayne leaving early on Fridays? Admired something French? Insulted Catherine’s dress sense? Propositioned Camille?
The thought of Camille causes something to stir in the recesses of his brain. Like a bubble emerging from a mud pool, it takes its time to surface only to burst before he can get hold of it. He casts his mind back to the previous day – or what he can remember of what he hopes was the previous day. The team had been excited all day about... about something that was happening in the evening? A party? Hmm, a party... connected to Camille...?
Camille’s birthday party!
He almost sits up in the excitement of remembering. Except that to move even slightly makes him feel queasy. He lets out a moan which is followed, inexplicably, by a second one.
His anomaly alarm makes a sluggish attempt to get his attention and, having nothing better to do at the moment, he decides to pay some attention to it.
The first thing he notices is that the second moan occurred whilst he was breathing in. Unusual but not impossible.
The second thing he notices is that the second moan was slightly higher in pitch than the first. Again, unusual but not impossible.
The third thing he notices is that it had seemed to come from one side of him. Which was patently absurd.
He needs to investigate. Discarding the notion of looking – the sun was still far too bright – he stretches out his hand on the side the second moan had appeared to emanate from. He quickly encounters an obstruction that causes his hand to stop. It isn’t a pillow, it is far too solid for that. It is also warm which rules out most inanimate objects. He gently feels around, sensing the texture of cloth overlaying what appears to be a body. And not a dead one at that.
Deciding he needs to look at the body in order to understand whether he was in any danger, of either violence or embarrassment, he moves his hand to cover his eyes. Turning his head towards the body he parts his fingers slightly to be able to see.
He immediately spots a cloud of dark curls shrouding the head of what appears to be a woman’s body. Moving his eyes down he confirms that the body is definitely female, and said female is in possession of a pair of outstanding legs that, although foreshortened by the angle he is looking at them from, seem to go on forever.
Thanks to the many covert surveillance operations he had carried out in the office, Detective Inspector Richard Poole was a self-acknowledged expert on the legs of Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey, so he is highly confident that the body lying next to him is indeed his police partner.
Another piece to the puzzle, but still no closer to answering his two main questions – ‘Why?’ and ‘How?’
Camille, he is confident of identifying the body as Camille, emits another moan and rolls onto her back. Her head continues round until it comes to rest facing him.
Her eyes open.
She winces and quickly closes them again.
Richard sympathises with her plight. She must be suffering as much as he is for all her inherent Frenchness.
She opens her eyes the merest slit, tries to blow a few errant strands of hair out of her eyes and appears to look at him.
“Why are you hiding, Richard?”
That surprises him. It is not one of the first things he’d expected her to say. Her voice had also sounded terribly rough. In fact, she sounded as rough as he felt.
“I’m not hiding!” He’d been aiming for an authoritative, offended tone but it comes out pathetic and croaky.
“Then why have you got your hand over your face? You look like a two-year-old playing hide and seek.”
“I’m trying to cut down on the amount of light. It is causing me some discomfort.” he retorts.
She giggles and then winces. “So, you have a hangover as well.” she states.
Richard decides not to answer that particular question in order to preserve whatever shreds of dignity remain to him.
He decides on deflection.
”Why are you here?” he asks rather more aggressively than he’d intended. It still sounds pathetic and croaky.
Camille turns her body to face him and looks around taking in the surroundings.
“We’re in your shack.” she notes.
“Very good, Detective. But why are you here?” this time the sarcasm manages to bleed out through the croaks.
She pauses with an expression Richard has come to recognise as her searching for an elusive memory.
“I have no idea.” she admits with a best approximation to a shrug she can manage whilst lying down, “Why do you think I’m here?”
To make my life complete? The thought is quickly pushed aside in favour of more obfuscation.
“It’s a bit early for metaphysical questions, Camille.”
He can tell he has irritated her but that usually happens within the first hour of them meeting every day and this is by no means a record-breaking time.
He lowers his arm as his eyes are starting to become accustomed to the light – and his arm is aching.
They lie on the bed looking at each other for several seconds, Richard lost in his contemplation of her eyes. He does note, despite his preoccupation with those limpid brown orbs, that Camille seems to be wearing a skimpy red top and a sparkly midnight-blue mini-skirt. He was still dressed in his suit trousers and a shirt with, unusually, the top two buttons undone, and sleeves rolled up. Consistent with his ‘Camille’s Birthday’ theory but not much help on the two main questions. He wonders what has happened to his tie but defers any consideration of the whereabouts of his jacket.
“We should drink some water.” she eventually says “To combat the dehydration. The hangover... you know.”
“I am aware of the effects of significant alcohol consumption,” he states somewhat pompously, “and even thought it would have been better to drink it last night, I fully intend drinking the required amount of water, just as soon as...” he tapers off into silence.
Her brow crinkles and after a second or two she asks
“Just as soon as what?”
“Just as soon as I feel I can trust my legs to support me.” he snaps.
“Oh!“ is her only reply but it is accompanied by a sympathetic smile.
They lie there for another minute or so before Richard starts feeling uncomfortable. If he keeps staring at Camille like this, he is surely going to be accused of ogling with all the pain and embarrassment that entails. He decides it is time to test how well his legs have survived the evening.
“Right, water.” he suddenly declares and starts moving. “Although a nice cup of tea would be better.” he mutters to himself.
“Just water for me.” Camille chips in, “But... if you have any coffee...?”
Richard, having just made it to his feet without throwing up, gives her a sceptical look before moving, with what he hopes is a calm, unhurried tread, towards the kitchen. The light is still far too bright and, consequently, he misjudges the steps down into his kitchen.
“I’m fine. No problem.” he declares, hanging onto the newel post that had prevented him ending up in an undignified heap on the floor.
Camille watches the comedy from the safety of the bed before declaring “I need a pee!” and getting up with far too much grace considering how she must be feeling. She heads to the bathroom whilst Richard retrieves two large bottles of water from his fridge. He then fills the kettle and turns it on, almost dropping it when a half shriek - half moan comes from the direction of the bathroom.
“Camille! Are you alright?” Richard asks moving to hang on to the newel post again.
“I’m fine.” she calls out. “Do you have any cleaning stuff? I think one of us nearly made it to the toilet before throwing up.”
Richard manages to hang on to the newel post and the contents of his stomach before replying “Hang on, I’ll bring some things.”
He clatters around in the kitchen area for some time before emerging clad in an apron and rubber gloves, carrying mop, bucket with warm soapy water, cleaning cloths, disinfectant, anti-bacterial multi-surface cleaner, extra-strong paper towels, rubbish bag and various other items whose use was only obvious to himself.
Amazingly he manages to make it up the stairs, around the bed and into the bathroom without dropping anything or spilling too much water. He arrives to find Camille attempting to clean the toilet seat using a wad of toilet paper.
Richard wrinkles his nose and stands in the doorway for a few seconds to allow him to get control of his stomach back.
“It’s alright Camille, I’ll take care of it now.” he says and moves in to attack the dubious puddle of... whatever... next to the toilet and various collateral splatters.
“What can I do to help?” she asks.
“Err, well perhaps you could sort out a cup of tea? After washing your hands thoroughly.” he says.
“Richard!” she snarls, “I am aware of basic hygiene, thank you.” and stomps off in the direction of the kitchen. He hopes the sound of her stomping pains her as much as it does him.
Twenty minutes later, Richard clatters his way back to the kitchen area and proceeds to clean and put away his cleaning materials, deposit the bin bag in the bin outside the back door and wash his hands thoroughly. Once she sees him emerging, Camille scurries back to the bathroom shouting “Tea’s in the pot!” as she passes him.
Richard takes the unopened bottle of water and chugs down half of it fairly quickly before slowing down. Once Camille emerges, he offers her breakfast.
“Oh, what’s on the menu?” she asks with a gleam in her eyes, “A full English fry-up, raw eggs...”
“Camille, please!” a rather green looking Richard interrupts, “I don’t really want to have to clean up the kitchen after throwing up in here. I was thinking of something like buttered toast or boiled eggs.”
She smiles at him fondly. It appears that she bounces back from a hangover a lot faster than he does. Practice, he thinks, or those pesky French genes.
“Toast will be fine.” she relents. “Shall I pour you your tea?”
He nods and gets to work preparing breakfast. They talk quietly whilst Richard starts the toast. Inconsequential chatter, both comfortable and comforting, totally ignoring the elephant in the room. Camille passes him his tea and Richard eyes it as though she has just handed him a bag with Curtis’ snake in it. Determined not to make a fuss and upset Camille, he braces himself and takes a sip. He looks up at Camille with a frown and takes another, larger, sip. It was really quite decent. Better, in fact, than some of the tea he has been made to suffer back in England. There must be something about these Bordey women.
Camille watches him with a smirk. “Good?” she asks.
“Acceptable.” he replies unwilling to acknowledge her achievement, but one look at her causes him to be honest. “Actually, it’s rather good.” he admits with his trademark half smile.
“Maman showed me how to make it.” she admits.
This puzzles Richard. Another Camille mystery – why would she bother to take time learning how to make tea for someone she always seems to be annoyed with?
He glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. “If, err, you would like some, there’s some ground coffee in the fridge and a jar thing in the top cupboard.”
She looks at him in faux shock. “Coffee Richard? In your kitchen?”
“Well, it’s for, err, visitors, you know. I thought it only polite.”
She decides not to ask how many coffee-drinking visitors he has and reaches up into the cupboard he gestured towards, pulling out an obviously unused cafetiere which she places on the worktop. She then looks in the fridge whilst Richard fidgets nervously behind her.
She straightens up clutching an unopened bag of ground coffee. She looks at it and her eyebrows go up.
“You do realise this is my favourite blend?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, really? I, um, didn’t realise. It was the, err, first one I picked up.”
Richard can’t help looking shifty, but Camille decides to let it drop.
Once the toast has been made and the coffee brewed, they move out onto the veranda and sit watching the waves.
“We need to talk.” says Richard following his third slice of toast. Camille raises one eyebrow and looks at him quizzically. “Without wanting to be rude, what are you doing here?” he looks at her and quickly adds “and don’t say eating breakfast!”
She pouts. “I have no idea.” she admits. “The last thing I remember is maman bringing us all cocktails and trying to get you to dance.” She pouts again, “You can really be a killjoy at times.”
He opens his mouth to reply but notices her fiddling with something on her left hand.
“What’s that?” he asks, intrigued.
She holds her hand out to show him.
“It’s a ring-pull from a drinks can. I have no idea why it’s on my finger, but I can’t get it off.” She sounds frustrated and gives it another tug.
“Perhaps I can help.” he offers. At her nod, he takes her hand in his left. An unusual sensation travels up his arm into his chest. He finds himself transfixed by her slim, elegant fingers. Fingers which, he knew from personal experience, could pull a man’s arm off without breaking sweat. With some effort he stops rubbing his thumb over her knuckles and focuses on the intended task, grasping the ring-pull with his right hand.
“Don’t pull too hard.“ she says.
Any reply Richard may have made is forestalled by the sound of footsteps coming up on to the veranda and a cheery “Bonjour!” as Camille’s mother appears around the corner.
“Maman!” Camille beams as Richard quickly lets go of Camille’s hand and raises his hands over his face rubbing hard in an attempt to erase this image. “What are you doing here?” Camille asks.
“That seems to be the question of the day.” mutters Richard pulling his hands away and pasting an insincere smile onto his face.
“I came to find out how you two lovebirds are getting on. I’ve brought you a change of clothes Camille and some food since I didn’t think you’d be expecting a guest this morning, Richard. Oh, and your jacket is back at the bar, Richard.”
The two detectives are wearing a similar expression of shock and incomprehension. Richard’s brain had come to a halt at the term ‘lovebirds’ trying to work out in which context it would ever apply to the two of them.
Catherine continues to beam at them, but her smile starts to falter as the look of confusion and lack of any other reaction starts to sink in.
“Well, it was all very sweet really... the way the two of you walked off with your arms around each other. We all thought you were going to celebrate your engagement. That’s why I didn’t come around first thing and...”
She drifts to a halt at Richard’s strangled “What?”
“Surely you must remember? It wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but I suppose being English it doesn’t come naturally. If I remember correctly, you said ‘You are the most annoyingly French half-French person I know but I still want to marry you.’ I’m not sure what caused you to say it, you appeared to be arguing about public displays of affection.”
“I think it highly unlikely that I said anything of the sort, even if I was drunk. Anyway, it doesn’t count unless Camille said yes!”
It occurs to Richard that Camille has been unusually silent during this exchange, so he looks, rather nervously, towards her hoping to get some form of support. But when he looks at her, she is staring at the ring-pull with a bemused expression on her face.
“Oh no.” he moans.
“I believe her reply was ‘You are the most irritating man I know! Why has it taken you so long to ask? Of course I will.’ Dwayne found the ring-pull and you placed it on her finger with a ‘til death do us part’. Then my little girl shot round the table, sat on your lap and the two of you started kissing. You didn’t seem to object even though you had been arguing against it a few minutes earlier. There was then another round of drinks and the two of you set off down the beach in this direction.”
Catherine stops at this point, wearing a smug self-satisfied look, and waits for the reaction.
Richard continues to stare at his partner – fiancé? – trying to gauge her reaction. She eventually looks back at him and he can tell she remembers something.
“You remember!” he accuses her.
“Well, bits sound familiar... and I do have the ring.” she waggles her finger at him.
Richard’s head sinks on to the table and he clasps his hands on the back of his neck.
“Oh my God. What are we going to do?” he moans.
Catherine moves towards the end of the veranda. “Well, I don’t have all day to sit and talk, but the two of you could always practice making babies.”
As she turns to go Richard suddenly shouts out “Wait!”
Catherine stops and looks back at him with raised eyebrows probably expecting Richard to ask how to do that.
“Did you, by any chance, doctor the drinks you were serving last night?” he asks giving her his best Detective Inspector stare.
Catherine is unaffected and opens her mouth to reply, pauses and the says, cautiously, “I may have experimented with a new recipe or two...”
Richard’s eyes narrow “So the fruit juice you were serving me...?”
Catherine shrugs, “it was a party and you really needed to loosen up Richard.”
And before either Detective could react, she flounces away back to her bar.
“You do realise maman has probably told half the island by now?” Camille says quietly after a few minutes' reflection, pouring herself some more coffee. Richard lets out another moan. She twists her hand looking at the ring-pull.
“I had always thought I’d get something a bit nicer when I got engaged.” she says wistfully, “You know, gold band, precious stone...“
Richard’s head shoots up.
“Are you taking this seriously? I’m sure the fact we were both drunk invalidates the proposal. Anyway, it wouldn’t be allowed.”
“Who would stop us?” she asks.
“The Commissioner for one. There are rules Camille.”
“I’m sure if the Commissioner thought he might lose his best team ever, he would manage to come up with something creative.”
Richard opens his mouth as if to raise another objection but closes it again, shakes his head and resumes his forehead-on-table posture.
Camille sits looking at the top of his head whilst Richard is slumped motionless over the table.
“You can do a lot better than me, Camille.” He eventually says to a portion of the floor somewhere near his feet.
“And yet here I am.” she says simply.
Slowly Richard brings his head up to look at her. He sits gazing at her for over a minute trying to extract meaning from her statement, looking for something in her expression. He finally seems to find something there which prompted him to speak.
“To be... honest, I... err, I don’t really want to, um, take it back... you know, the, err... proposal.”
He looks like a man playing Russian Roulette who has pulled the trigger and is waiting for the hammer to fall.
Camille reaches out to take his hand “I don’t want you to take it back either.” she smiles softly at him.
He swallows. “Camille Bordey, will you marry me?”
“Richard Poole, I will.”
His face lights up to be mirrored by a blinding smile from Camille.
“But...” she says suddenly looking stern, “I want a proper ring.“
“First thing Monday.” he agrees “I suppose this means you’re going to be in charge at home?”
“Absolutely.“ she confirms, as if there could be any doubt. After a moment, she frowns at something that puzzles her.
“Why wait until Monday? What’s wrong with today?”
“Ah, err, well, I, err, I don’t want your mother to find out I took one of her, um, suggestions, but I thought we could, err... that we could, um, you know, follow your, err, mother’s advice.”
Her answering smile seems to indicate that she is happy to let the ring buying wait until Monday.