I must have been a complete ostrich.
Mal might have meant what he said to me about second honeymoons and new beginnings when under the influence of guilt and compunction at the hospital, but clearly, once he met up with Alison again out here, my dream holiday became just a game of charades I didn’t know we were playing.
Have you ever seen that old horror movie where there’s this big, black, mysterious cloud sitting on top of a mountain, and the ski lift keeps taking people up until they vanish into it, where unspeakable and unnamed things are done to them? Well, I felt I was on that ski lift, a one-way ride that I couldn’t stop.
The sound of the surf whispering sweet nothings on the beach began to be drowned out by rustlings, clickings and soft dragging noises as the creatures of the night got going—and I remembered the spidery crabs and rushed back inside.
Once I’d closed all the doors I turned the air conditioning on full blast and headed to the kitchen for a drink—which was when I spotted Mal’s final list of instructions under the lump of coral on the counter, wrapped around a small wad of banknotes.
It more or less repeated what he’d said to me about the car and phone just before he went, then added that he’d left me some cash to keep me going for the rest of the holiday, the equivalent of a hundred pounds in USA dollars. This isn’t exactly munificent considering the price of everything out here.
I’d have liked to have ripped his money up into shreds and put it back under the coral, but it looks like I’m going to need every penny I can get: I think I have to fill the car up with petrol again before I return it, and I might want to eat and drink in the next week, unlikely though it seems just now. And isn’t there some sort of exit tax I’ll have to pay when I leave the island?
The house felt very empty. I switched on the TV for some background noise and it was another old British comedy series, which was sort of comforting, as was the big glass of cold Mudslide over crushed ice: manna from Cayman heaven.
Do you know what was really rankling? That barbed comment about my never having really loved him, I’d just married him as a meal ticket for life! That is so untrue. We were in love, and the me he fell in love with was the scatty, arty, hopeless-at-getting-rich Fran. It’s the only one of me there is.
I’ve never spent any of his money on myself—except, come to think of it, with the guilt card recently…
The guilt card!
Making a dive for my handbag I found it still nestled in my purse. Had he forgotten I’d got it? Or just assumed I wouldn’t use it any more?
I sat in front of the burbling TV holding the rectangle of plastic and thinking things over while I downed most of the rest of the bottle of Mudslide. I worked through the hysterical broken-hearted sobbing bit, including another weep over my poor lost baby, whom he’d never wanted anyway, and moving on to a sodden state of searing anger that he could string me along like this and then dump me the moment it suited him.
Mal Morgan owed me something, and if he thought he could make it up with money then I’d just have to become a Material Girl until he remembered to cancel the card.
Anger and depression are now slugging it out between them. May the best mood win.
I haven’t called anyone to tell them what’s happened—I just can’t face it yet. It all seems so unreal, especially being alone here on Grand Cayman.
All I’ve bought to eat and drink for the rest of my stay is Mudslide, Ting and rum cake in various flavours. I’m going to eat myself to death, one way Dorothy Parker seems never to have thought of. The big black cloud has got me, and my whole existence is pointless, but I need to kill myself very slowly, since Rosie will need me for a while yet.
I’m feeling slightly revived today, after reading a magazine article that hit just the right chord: all about what horror writer Cass Leigh would like to do to the book reviewers who rubbish her novels. I simply can’t believe her appalling inventiveness and my eyes are still stretched so wide I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to close them again—especially at night! And maybe ‘pulling their intestines out through their ears with eyebrow tweezers while forcing them to listen to loud Bee Gees music played backwards’ was going too far even for the most horrible reviewer?
Still, visualising it all happening to Mal was terribly cathartic, and I revived enough to go on a huge spending spree, clocking up a frightening amount on the guilt card.
Mal should just be grateful I didn’t visit the expensive tourist outlets at Kirk Freeport. Most of my purchases were gifts for the family and friends, including lots of miniature boxed rum cakes. Oh, and a lovely leather holdall from De Bag Man for me, and another visit to The Mermaid’s Cave in search of a gift for Ma.
I bought her a big sarong, which she will probably wear as a shawl, or tied around her waist over her skirt, or something. No, on second thoughts, she’ll probably turn it into a turban.
I love their unusual clothes, though I don’t know what the effect of bright floaty cotton batik and tie-dye silk will be like in Wales. But I did also get cool cotton trousers and T-shirts and stuff, handy for gardening—if I’ve still got a garden after the dust settles, that is.
I don’t know what is going to happen to the cottage, except that I can’t afford the mortgage. The studio is mine, though, bought by my own money. Could I move it somewhere if I have to leave? And what about my roses? I can’t leave them…but I can’t take them, either, they are too big and too well-established, though I could put one or two of the newer, still small ones in large tubs just in case.
I must try not to panic. I’ll work something out when I get home.
On my last day I paid one more visit to my favourite spot, the pavilion overlooking the water lily pond at the botanic park, and afterwards sat with an iced drink at the open-air café in the courtyard behind the information centre, feeling calmly widowed.
Then I went back and tried all the permutations possible to fit my belongings into the suitcase, had a last swim and walk along the beach—then finally phoned Nia, to tell her what had happened.
‘Mal’s left you?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘He’s gone back to his ex-wife?’
I could hear male voices exclaiming in the background, and realised she wasn’t alone. But, then, everyone is going to know Mal’s left me soon enough; it’s such a small village that anything that happens is round the place like wildfire.
‘Who’s that I can hear in the background, Nia?’
‘Rhodri and Gabe,’ she said apologetically. ‘Sorry, I was just so shocked I couldn’t help myself.’
‘It’s OK, it’ll get around fast enough.’ I poured out all that had been happening.
‘So you’ve been alone the last few days? Why didn’t you call me before?’
‘Oh, I don’t know—shock, I suppose. Do you know what really rankles, Nia? Alison is the same age as Mal, so I’ve been left for an Older Woman!’
‘You sound really down,’ she said worriedly. ‘I wish you weren’t so far away.’
‘So do I, but I’ll see you when I get home tomorrow…or will it be today when I arrive? Or the day after tomorrow?’
‘Whenever,’ Nia said. ‘I’ve got it down on my calendar that you arrive tomorrow our time, and I’m going to come and pick you up.’
‘No, don’t—I’ll get a taxi back. I’ve used the credit card for everything I’ve needed this week, but I’m leaving that behind, and I intend using every last penny Mal gave me by the time I get home. If I can still call it home. What am I going to do, Nia?’
‘Not panic, that’s the first thing. We’ll make a plan of action when you get back.’
‘I want my studio and my roses, even if they won’t be mine for much longer.’
There was a voice in the background again.
‘Gabe says your roses are doing well, the hens are fine, and he can’t wait to show you how the Regency garden is doing. The filming’s almost finished.’
‘I wish I was home now,’ I said wistfully, ‘without the en
dless flight, and the hassle of catching the connection up to Manchester.’
‘Last hurdles,’ she said. ‘Try not to worry too much. And one bit of good news: the Wevills have been arrested and—’
‘What? Nia, can you hear me?’ I demanded, jerked to attention. ‘Did you say the Wevills have been arrested?’
But the battery had died a death, and by the time it recharged it would be too late over there to phone her…it would have to wait until I got home.
Everything would have to wait until I got home, back through the looking-glass into the real world.
Homecoming Queen
I left the apartment behind me with mixed feelings. It was a lovely spot, a hothouse paradise, but now I had to go home and face up to reality—alone.
Remembering the fiasco of my outward flight I pondered two survival strategies for the journey back. One was staying sober, refusing all alcohol and most of the food, existing only on water and very thin air; the second was to drink even more than last time in the hope that I would pass into a drunken stupor for several hours.
I plumped for the second, fearing it would otherwise turn into one endless Groundhog Day of a flight, and discovered that, providing you stay pleasant and quiet, the stewardesses just keep them coming.
When the shopping brochure came round I impulse-bought two tinned racoons, and had I not left the chopped-up remains of my guilt card bobbing about in Mal’s bottle of Appleton premium rum back at the apartment I could have done even more captive shopping.
Remembering that water helps prevent DVT, I drank lots of that too. Self-induced DVT is another method Dorothy Parker missed, but I don’t think she’d have fancied it; eating myself to death seems a much better option.
Having drunk and slept my way back to Britain I found my co-ordination was a bit shot by the time I arrived at Gatwick, and it was a miracle I managed the transfer on to the Manchester flight…on which they also served drinks. You could go around the world in eighty whiskies and I almost had.
But it was just as well, because when we arrived at Manchester everything looked grey and cold, just the way I felt inside, and a great big northern front of depression was sweeping across me.
Yawning and shivery, I weaved my way out on to the airport concourse, a drunk pushing an obstinate, equally inebriated trolley, wishing I hadn’t told Nia not to meet me.
A voice calling my name stopped me in my tracks, and not just me—heads were turning.
‘Fran!’
‘Gabe?’ Maybe I was hallucinating? I zigzagged nearer, but he looked real enough. ‘Gabe!’
Letting go of the trolley I clutched him instead, and found myself in a warm, strong bearhug.
‘But why are you here? Everything’s all right, isn’t it? Nia isn’t—’
‘No, everything’s fine, don’t worry,’ he said soothingly. ‘I just felt like coming to meet you.’
‘You did?’ I gazed up at him and tears came to my eyes, for this endless day had left me so exhausted I could have fallen on anybody’s neck and wept…though admittedly he would have been first choice. ‘That’s so kind, Gabe!’
‘Oh, well, I thought you could use a lift, and so did Nia. My car’s right outside in the short-stay car park, but we could have a sandwich or something first, if you’re hungry. Aeroplane food is so disgusting, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I seem to have lost my appetite temporarily,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s a pity, because I can eat anything I want. Anything,’ I told him earnestly.
‘Of course you can,’ he assured me. His face seemed to be receding and then looming forward in a very strange way.
‘Are you shrinking or expanding, Gabe?’ I asked him.
‘I think you’re very tired,’ he said sympathetically. ‘It always makes everything look strange. And what on earth have you been drinking?’
‘Whisky, whisky…more whisky,’ I said. ‘Gin makes you sad.’
‘Very true. I think you may feel pretty sad in the morning as it is. Is this all your luggage? What’s the matter with the trolley?’
‘It’s drunk.’
I let him take charge of it, and after kicking the back wheels briskly a couple of times it gave in and meekly rolled forward just like anyone else’s.
I was wearing a straw hat and a tropical dress with my jacket over it, and when we went outside I was freezing, which sobered me up a bit, I can tell you.
‘I’m really, really grateful,’ I said as we sped off towards North Wales and the haven that was mine…temporarily. Soon perhaps to be on the market, my roses sold into strange hands.
‘I’ve got to go back and short—sort—things out…decide where to go and what to do and…’ I gave a great yawn. ‘Excuse me!’ Waves of sleep seemed to be pounding me down in my warm seat. My very warm seat…
‘My bum’s on fire,’ I said drowsily.
‘That’s all right, the seat’s heated,’ he said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry about it—don’t worry about anything now: tomorrow is another day. Why not have a nap?’
And I must have done, because that was about all I remember until we were nearly home. I came to as we rattled over the hump-backed bridge into the village and turned into our lane.
‘No,’ I said suddenly, waking fully as he slowed outside my house. ‘No, Gabe, I don’t want to go back home tonight. I want my own room in Fairy Glen.’
‘But, Fran—’ he protested reasonably.
‘No! I don’t want to be here alone tonight,’ I insisted. ‘If you don’t take me, I’ll come and hammer on your door until you let me in!’
‘Well, we certainly can’t sit out here all night!’ he muttered, and drove on.
‘Go and put the kettle on while I bring your luggage in,’ he said, opening the door of Fairy Glen for me. ‘You can have hot cocoa and go straight to bed.’
‘I don’t want a hot drink, I want whisky,’ I said mutinously.
‘I think you’ve had enough whisky. I’ve installed a shower over the bath, though, if you want to get under that.’ He looked at me judiciously. ‘It might do you good.’
Suddenly a shower was the one thing I longed for most, and I took his advice. When I came out, he’d put my luggage in my old familiar room and was waiting with the steaming mug of cocoa.
‘I borrowed this,’ I said, holding the dressing gown up with both hands to stop it trailing on the floor.
‘Looks better on you than me,’ he said, smiling. ‘Here’s your cocoa—and then straight to bed, I think. You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.’
‘I’ve felt like hell for days,’ I muttered, looking at the contents of my mug in disgust.
‘Try not to worry too much, Fran,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sure it will all work out in the end.’
Suddenly I wanted to wrap myself in his comforting arms again, but I don’t think it was personal, he was just the nearest big warm male.
In my room I opened the window and tipped the cocoa out, then found the bag with the Mudslide rations in it and filled the mug to the brim—anything to stop the cold, shivering desolation I was feeling. But even though I was exhausted my mind wouldn’t let me go to sleep, and after a while I heard Gabe come upstairs and go into the turret room.
When the soft sound of his movements had ceased I walked silently down the landing and climbed into bed next to him, and his arms came out as though he’d expected me.
He did try and resist—he got as far as, ‘Fran, I really don’t think this is a good idea…’ before I made it impossible for him to say anything else.
My body clock jerked me wide awake in the darkest, earliest, cruellest hours of the next morning, disorientated and scared—until my eyes adjusted to the light from the landing and outlined an unmistakable nose and familiar knotted-silk hair on the pillow next to me.
Déjà vu—only no camper van this time, just the circular shape of the turret at Fairy Glen.
There was no blinding flash of illumination to show me the chain o
f events that led me from leaving Cayman yesterday, or whenever it was, to now. I did remember how pleased I was to see him at the airport, and after that I expect one thing just naturally led to another.
But shouldn’t he have seen how tired and distressed and—well, frankly, drunk—I was, and not taken advantage of me?
OK, OK, it’s coming back to me and I’ll rephrase that to ‘he should have fought me off’.
I eased out of bed. He was sort of half hanging off the other side, and I hoped he wouldn’t be suddenly precipitated on to the floor so I’d actually have to talk to him.
He muttered a bit, turned over (fortunately the right way) and with a deep sigh was fathoms deep again.
Light-headed, I tiptoed out of the room and into my old one, where I scrambled into my clothes, found my handbag and sandals, and then let myself out into the lane.
Walking through the darkness home I felt disembodied, as though it was all some nightmare. The house was chilly and unwelcoming and I trailed through it straight to my bed, where I didn’t so much fall asleep as suddenly pass out with flying colours.
I resurfaced around six, feeling parched and with a headache trying to split my head in half like a coconut, but if there had been any of the milk of human kindness left in there it had gone rancid. I hated the world and everyone in it, but especially myself.
After drinking about six gallons of water I was just about to climb back into bed in the hope of another few hours of oblivion (please, please let last night’s recollections be just a nightmare), when there was a thunderous knocking at my door.
It went on, and on, and on…and finally I grabbed my dressing gown and staggered down to open it, more to stop the hammering echoing through my skull than anything.
On the doorstep stood Gabe, and even through half-slitted eyes and a thick fog of hangover I could see he was in an almighty rage. His eyes were practically shooting off green sparks and he looked like Thor about to annihilate me with a well-deserved thunderbolt. Actually, it would have been a merciful release.
Sowing Secrets Page 31