It suddenly dawned on me that we were going to the Cayman Islands not on a knees-to-the-chest charter flight but on a private jet.
No wonder I hadn’t had to book my own ticket.
Henri grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “I didn’t think you knew.”
“But why only one suitcase?” I asked.
“Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary always have at least two each, while lesser mortals like us can have only one. There’s not that much room in the hold, and if the aircraft’s too heavy, we have to make two fuel stops instead of one.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Last time, it was Bermuda. I think it depends on the winds.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Martin and Theresa were meant to be with us, but Martin had to go on ahead over a week ago. I don’t know if Theresa will be coming.”
We found out soon enough as another vehicle drew up beside the Range Rover and Theresa Reynard got out of one side while Bentley Robertson, the creepy, lecherous lawyer, got out of the other.
“Oh God!” Henri said. “What’s he doing here?”
Traveling with us, it seemed, as we watched his single bag being loaded into the luggage hold alongside ours. Henri was not at all pleased, and I could tell from Bentley’s unfriendly stare that he was just as unhappy about my presence as I was about his.
“Please keep him away from me,” she said.
“I’ll do my best.”
We went on board the jet.
The interior was laid out with no luxury spared. There were ten passenger seats in total, each of them cream leather armchairs that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a stately home.
“How the other half live,” I said quietly to myself.
The ten seats were laid out in three distinct sections, with one on either side at the front, then a group of four—two each side of a table facing one another—and finally four more at the back in two rows coach style.
Henri went straight to the very back and sat in the seat nearest the window while beckoning me to quickly take the one next to her. I knew why. In this way, she was protecting herself from having to sit next to or opposite Bentley Robertson.
She needn’t have worried.
Bentley came on board and immediately sat in one of the seats at the table. He spread out papers from his briefcase and concentrated only on them.
Theresa Reynard boarded and sat down next to Bentley. My suspicious mind went into overdrive wondering if there was a sexual rapport between the two of them. There was just something about their body language that shouted lovers at me.
“Do you think Martin and Theresa’s marriage is OK?” I asked Henri.
“Yeah, I think so,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered why Martin went on ahead and Theresa didn’t go with him.”
“I expect she was too busy Christmas shopping,” she said, smiling.
Sir Richard and Lady Mary Reynard came on board and sat in the two seats at the very front. And then we waited. There seemed to be no urgency to close the cabin door and get going.
The reason became obvious after about ten minutes when a chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up at the steps. I watched through the window as Derrick and Gay Smith climbed out of the vehicle and came on board as their copious luggage was shoehorned into the aircraft’s hold. Clearly, no one had informed them of the one-bag limit.
Gay and Derrick greeted Sir Richard and Lady Mary with polite kisses, then came through the cabin to the two seats in front of Henri and myself.
I stood up in the aisle.
“Hello, Jeff,” Gay said with a broad smile. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
She gave me a peck on the cheek while Derrick shook my hand. “We are just hitching a ride back home,” he said. “Sorry we’re late.”
It was clear that the Smiths were the last of the passengers to arrive, as there was now some activity up front with the main door being closed and the engines started.
“Do you always travel like this?” I asked Henri.
“I wish. The trust is so tight with my money that I’m usually in coach, although I have been on this baby a few times. But not so often that I’m not really excited every time.”
I was excited too. Extremely. And it wasn’t all to do with flying on a private jet. I’d be excited to be anywhere with Henrietta Shawcross.
—
WE ACTUALLY REFUELED at St. John’s in Newfoundland, where the outside temperature was a balmy minus seven degrees. Needless to say, all eight of the passengers remained warm and cozy in the cabin rather than choosing to venture the hundred yards or so across the icy windblown tarmac to the airport buildings.
After forty minutes, we were on our way again.
I could get quite used to this, I thought, as I was presented with yet another plate of delicious food prepared by the onboard steward.
“More champagne, sir?” he said.
I felt it would be churlish for me to say no after he’d gone to all the trouble of opening the bottle.
“Lovely,” I said, and he poured more of the bubbles into my glass.
Henri giggled and I held her hand.
I’d left my troubles behind in winter-gripped England, and there were eleven days ahead of warmth and sunshine in the company of a gorgeous girl.
What could have been better?
With every sip of Veuve Clicquot, I could feel the strength and vigor returning to my body.
Little did I realize how much I would need it.
—
WE LANDED ON Grand Cayman nearly twelve hours after leaving Luton. It was almost four in the afternoon, the local time being five hours behind that at home.
Suddenly, my senses were full of first impressions—the bright colors of the buildings, the intensity of the tropical sunlight, the flatness of the country, the freshness of the ozone-filled sea air and, of course, the warmth.
“Where are we staying?” I asked Henri as we waited to have our passports checked by the Cayman Island immigration officials.
“Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary are staying at Martin and Theresa’s place, but I imagined that you would rather be somewhere on our own.”
She imagined right.
“I’ve rented an apartment in a condominium just down Seven Mile Beach from them.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “How about Bentley? I hope he’s not sharing it with us.”
Henri pulled a face. “If he is, I’m going back to England.”
In the end, Henri had to put her foot down when her uncle suggested that it might indeed be a good idea for Bentley to stay with us in our apartment since it had two spare bedrooms, adding that he could keep Henrietta in order.
I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. Henri thought he was.
“No,” Henri said firmly. “Absolutely not. If he can’t stay with Martin, he’ll have to find a hotel.”
“But it’s Christmas,” said Sir Richard. “There won’t be any hotel rooms free.”
“Then he’ll have to sleep on the beach,” Henri said without the slightest note of compromise. “What’s he doing here anyway?”
“We have a board meeting tomorrow, remember?” Sir Richard said. “I assume you did get the papers?”
She nodded.
Much to Henri’s relief, Theresa announced that Bentley would be staying in their guest cottage, with Sir Richard and Lady Mary taking the guest suite in the main house.
Maybe I was completely wrong, but why did I suspect that Theresa had arranged for Bentley to be in her guest cottage because it was a convenient location for a clandestine assignation between them?
—
THERE WERE three luxury cars waiting for us outside the private terminal. One for Derrick and Gay to take them to their home, another for Sir Ric
hard and Lady Mary—both with chauffeurs—and the third with Martin at the wheel, waiting for Theresa and, it seemed, Bentley.
Martin got out of his car and greeted his parents and his wife, giving Theresa the smallest little peck on the cheek. Hardly a greeting for a loving couple, I thought. Not one that had been apart for more than a week.
He steadfastly ignored me, pointedly not shaking my offered hand.
“You can ride with us,” Sir Richard said to Henri, but it was quite clear that with two large suitcases each, there was hardly enough room in the car for them both plus their luggage.
“It’s fine,” I said. “We’ll get a taxi.”
“It’s only about ten minutes away,” he said.
Henri and I hailed one of the island’s many taxi minivans for the short journey to the Coral Stone Club, a three-story condominium complex nestling between two much taller buildings off West Bay Road.
Henri picked up the key to the apartment from the manager’s office while I supervised the unloading of the bags by the taxi driver and paid him using some of the dollars I had obtained from my bank.
“If I was allowed to lift anything, I’d carry you over the threshold,” I said to Henri as we went in.
“But it’s not our own home.”
“It is for the next eleven days,” I said. “And that’s good enough for me.”
The apartment was on the ground floor and stretched right through the building on the southern edge of the complex. Painted lemon yellow, with white-and-blue furnishings, the open-plan kitchen and living area was bright and cool, but it was the view through the large picture windows at the far end that was totally breathtaking.
The spectacular Seven Mile Beach was just a few steps away, complete with archetypal desert island coconut palms growing at lazy angles out of the brilliant white sand. And, beyond that, the dazzling turquoise blue Caribbean Sea shimmered and danced as it reflected the rays of the late-afternoon sun as it began to dip toward the western horizon.
“Wow!” I said.
Henri opened the sliding door and we went outside together onto the beach.
“Wow!” I said again as I looked either way at the mile upon mile of soft white powder.
“It’s not really seven miles long,” Henri said. “Only about six.”
Long enough, I thought.
We went back inside.
“I’ve told Uncle Richard we would go up to Martin’s house for a drink with them at sunset.”
“What time is that?” I asked.
“Just before six.”
I glanced at my watch. That gave us almost a full hour.
I looked at her and she looked back at me.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she said, grinning.
28
Even though Henri and I had known each other for almost three whole weeks, this was our first time, and it was a journey of discovery and delight, of tenderness and love, with moments of primeval rawness and desire.
For me, it was like a reawakening of my emotions after almost a year of abstinence, a release of sexual tension that sent multiple shudders through my body.
“Wow!” It was now Henri’s turn to say it. “You sure needed that.”
I certainly did.
Afterward, we lay entwined on the bed, our naked skin glistening wet from the exertion. So much for my promise to Faye to take things easy.
I snuggled up to Henri, happy and content, and also rather relieved that my aerobics appeared not to have reopened any of my various incisions.
“Come on,” she said, sitting up. “Don’t go to sleep. It’s nearly time to confront the family.”
“What did Martin say when you told him I was coming with you?” I asked, not moving.
“I didn’t tell him,” she said. “I only asked Uncle Richard. He’s the one who matters. Even though Martin has taken over as managing director, Uncle Richard is the chairman and he’s still very much the boss.”
“Martin didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me at the airport. He just ignored me.”
“Perhaps Theresa told him. I had to ask her if it was all right to bring you to Christmas lunch. It’s at their place.”
She rolled off the bed and I watched as she walked into the bathroom. What a fabulous sight.
I heard the shower start and I soon joined her under the spray.
“That was more lovely than I had ever imagined,” I said.
“For me too,” she replied.
We embraced again and kissed in the stream of water, causing me to shudder once more with pleasure.
“And we still have eleven nights left.”
—
THE SUN was only just above the horizon as Henri and I walked hand in hand along the beach about two hundred yards to Martin and Theresa’s house.
If I’d thought the apartment at the Coral Stone Club was spectacular, then the Reynard residence was beyond compare. The two-story building had been constructed in an L shape, with both wings angled toward the beach to give the maximum number of rooms a view of the sea. And it was vast.
In the inside apex of the L was a terrace containing a kidney-shaped swimming pool surrounded by white sail-like sunshades stretched horizontally on stainless steel frames.
As far as I could see, it was the only private house on this part of the beachfront, with condominiums stretching away, cheek by jowl, on either side. Not that the Reynards were overlooked. Several towering casuarina trees provided both privacy and shade for the terrace. And that is where we found the others, sitting in a semicircle close to the pool, looking out to sea.
“Ah, there you are,” Sir Richard said. “You’ve nearly missed it.”
We watched as the sun appeared to go straight down into the sea, staring until the very last tiny piece of the fiery disk had vanished for another day. It was the most dramatic sunset I had ever seen.
“No green flash,” Sir Richard announced. “Not that I could see anyway.”
“Green flash?” I said.
“Sometimes when the sun finally disappears, you can see a flash of green,” he replied. “At least, that’s what people say, even though I’ve never seen it myself. It’s said to be due to the sunlight refracting through the earth’s atmosphere, but I rather think it’s just an old wives’ tale.”
“It’s perfectly true,” Theresa said. “It happens all the time.”
I wondered if she actually believed it or was just being contrary to wind up her father-in-law.
“What would you like, Henri?” Martin asked.
“White wine, please,” she replied.
“Beer do you?” Martin said to me without any warmth in his voice.
“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”
He stood up and went inside the house, soon reappearing with a glass of white wine for Henri and an opened green beer bottle for me.
“It’s Caybrew,” he said, handing it to me without once looking at my face. “It’s the local lager.”
“Lovely,” I said.
I took the bottle and drank a welcome mouthful of its cool contents.
Even though the sun had only been down a few minutes, it was already getting quite gloomy.
“We’d best all go in,” Theresa said. “The mosquitoes and sand flies are at their worst when it’s getting dark.”
“Are mosquitoes a big problem here?” I asked.
“They were once,” she said. “It was so bad that everyone had to cover up and wear nets over their faces. But, nowadays, the government sprays to keep them in check. But there are still a few about, and the best way to avoid being bitten is to be indoors at dusk. So come on, everyone, I’ve got some smoked salmon waiting.”
She rounded us up like miscreant children.
We went inside to their cavernous living room that sat in the mi
ddle of the L, stretching right up through both floors to an octagonal cupola perched high at the point on the roof where the two wings met.
“It was designed to keep the house cool,” Theresa said with a smile as she saw me looking up. “The windows in the cupola can be opened to let out the hot air, although we tend to use the air-conditioning most of the time anyway.”
It was certainly cool in the house compared to outside.
And it wasn’t just the temperature of the air.
Martin and Theresa were fighting.
Not that they were shouting at each other or anything. Indeed, they were not even talking. But, nevertheless, there was a flaming fight going on between them, conducted exclusively with body language.
No one else seemed to have noticed, but I had been trained by the Army to read the body language of Afghan tribal elders. They would smile at you and speak sweet nothings in your ear while at the same time blowing your brains out with an AK-47. “Never look at someone’s mouth when they are speaking to you,” my instructor had said. “Always look into their eyes. If their smile doesn’t reach the eyes, watch out.”
Theresa’s smiles were never getting close.
—
HENRI AND I didn’t stay long. The time change meant we were dog-tired and ready for bed by eight o’clock. It had been a long day and I’d been up for nearly twenty hours.
“We can’t go to bed just yet,” I said as we walked back along the beach in the dark to the Coral Stone Club.
“Why not?” she replied with a giggle.
“I mean, we can’t go to sleep yet. We’d be awake again in the middle of the night.”
We managed to stay up until nine, chancing the mosquitoes and sitting outside on the patio to share a bottle of white wine that the management had kindly placed as a welcome gift in the refrigerator.
“How long have Martin and Theresa been married?” I asked.
“Eleven years,” Henri said. “I was a bridesmaid at their wedding. Why?”
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