I could not have said how much later it was when I heard a knock on the door. Instinctively, I checked the clock at the corner of the screen. With a sense of horror I realised that almost an hour had passed since I had inputted the Private Enterprise Number from the shipping records I had copied from Jeff’s briefcase into Companies House in order to draw up the shareholder history of the company that owned the boats. A British company, it transpired, named Strategic Services. My fingers, damp with sweat, had tapped out the words that led me to the full list of Strategic Services shareholders. Two of them familiar, Clive Witherall and Jeff Mayhew. The third, who the records showed possessed the controlling share – with 51 per cent of the company: Francisco Nguema.
I had copied and pasted Francisco Nguema’s name into a separate tab, waiting with a growing sense of unease as the picture of the man loaded on the screen in front of me. The man from the beach this morning. The same pockmarked skin I’d recognised from the photo which hung in Clive’s office.
‘Anna?’
My legs almost giving way, I stumbled off the bed, pressing ‘sleep’ on my laptop and pushing it and my phone under my pillow before moving towards the door.
‘Hello?’
‘Anna, it’s Clive.’
Adjusting my towel around my chest, I took a moment to rearrange my face before opening the door a crack.
‘Hi!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we could walk to dinner together. I saw David a while ago, he said you were nearly ready, but clearly …’
I rolled my eyes apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry, I think it must be the jet lag. I fell asleep.’
Clive’s eyes remained still.
‘I’ll be five minutes, I have everything laid out.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll just see you there.’
I nodded, pushing the door closed behind me and lunging to the bed, pulling the computer from under my pillow.
My heart pounding in my throat, I opened our email account, just as Harry had taught me. The thrill of knowing I had discovered something that he had failed to; the reassurance of knowing that I was good at this – better, even, than he was – was dizzying. Pasting the information I had gathered into a new message before leaving it in the drafts folder, as instructed, I waited a moment to make sure it had stored, before pressing delete on my history and closing down my computer, composing a text:
Dad, I’ve popped a letter in the post. Miss you.
Hesitantly, I added an ‘x’ to the end of the text before changing my mind and removing it. My finger hovered above the send button when a thought crossed my mind: whatever it was about knowing what I had discovered, without Harry’s guidance, that thrilled me, it also made me pause. And without ever consciously making a decision, the decision had been made. Considering it for only a split second further, I deleted the text.
Drawing breath, laying the phone down on the bed beside me, I opened my computer once more. Before I could fully comprehend the choice I had just made, I found myself going back into the drafts folder and copying the information from the draft email I had just composed for Harry to find when he next checked into our joint email account.
Opening a new blank document, I then pasted the email onto the page and saved that on my desktop instead, under the header ‘architect-transcripts-003-2013’.
Deleting the email draft and then purging the ‘trash’ folder, I erased my search history again and slammed my laptop closed.
It was a split-second decision, based more on a feeling than a rational thought. A feeling that if I gave this away now, it would serve a short-term goal of pleasing him; it would show him that I could do what he needed me to do. But, thinking ahead, what purpose did that serve for me? If I gave him what he needed too soon, there was a chance there would be no more need for me. I would have nothing left – no bargaining chip, should I ever require it. Nothing in my arsenal with which to defend myself against being discarded.
Did I mistrust Harry, then? Perhaps I did. Perhaps I was terrified of being tossed out of the warmth of this secret world in which, for now, we were jointly entombed.
CHAPTER 40
Maria
I was pushing the girls along a paved walkway lined with palms, which ran partially concealed behind the hotel bar, when I spotted David at a table where the terrace meets the sand. His laptop stood on the table in front of him, closed, and from my vantage point I could see his foot thrumming agitatedly against the ground.
Noticing the girls had drifted off to sleep, their heads bobbing towards one another in the double pushchair, I stopped. For a moment I stood there, watching him, savouring this opportunity to simply observe. There was something about his demeanour that prompted a flash of memory. That night at his house in Greece; the helpless rage that had consumed his teenage body as we watched one another, both of us terrified of what might happen next.
And then another feeling took over. The fear I had felt that night was replaced by a sense that I couldn’t put into words, the sense of possibility, perhaps. At home, I couldn’t deny the thrill of the conflicting emotions that took hold whenever he looked at me. The way his gaze followed me as I comforted his babies; the thoughts I could almost read running through his mind – the alternative reality in which it was me and him, just the two of us, and our own children …
But as I tightened my fingers around the handles of the pushchair, I heard David’s voice, and it was only then that I noticed the phone pressed to his cheek.
‘I’ve told Anna you’ll meet her at the restaurant at eight fifteen.’
There was a brief silence before he spoke again. The tightness of his voice once more triggered memories of that awful night in Greece, the night that put an end to whatever it was that might have blossomed between us.
‘I’m doing it tonight, at dinner … I know! For God’s sake, Dad. Do you think I don’t know that? I love her. I just don’t get why you can’t understand that? I loved her from the moment we met. I can’t control how I feel.’
His voice by now was almost a hiss and his hand was shaking. When he spoke again his voice was quieter, almost grief-stricken.
‘Of course I’m not. Do you think I don’t understand what’s at stake? It’s just the lies. The constant lying that … I know. I know there’s no choice, I’m just confused. Please, at least allow me that.’
‘Madam?’
It was the hotel manager, his crisp white tunic almost blinding as I spun around to face him.
‘Good evening.’ I nodded, keeping my voice low, hoping he wouldn’t see the heat I could feel rising in my cheeks.
‘Is everything all right?’
Why did his words feel like an inquisition?
‘Everything’s perfect, thank you. I was just taking the girls for some air.’
Briefly, we held each other’s eyes, and then he nodded, a tight smile crossing his face before he walked on, as I pushed the buggy back the way I had come, not risking another glance back in David’s direction.
CHAPTER 41
Anna
The entrance to the restaurant was domed, like a mouth. I felt myself tipping forward as I followed the thick red carpet down towards the sound of the chamber orchestra, my heels digging purposefully into the floor.
‘By the time we reach the dining room we will be five metres below sea-level,’ my escort, a young Sri Lankan man dressed head to toe in black, explained in perfect English. As he said this, he pulled open large arched double-doors revealing a huge glass dome; above us and all around, fish of every colour and size darted through the water as if escaping an imaginary predator.
‘Anna, my dear!’
I felt a hand on my back.
As I turned, Clive took a step back, moving his fingers to his chest. Any hint of his annoyance earlier had fallen away.
‘My God, darling, you look extraordinary.’
Struggling to keep the smile from my lips, I let him kiss me on both cheeks, careful not to smudge the deep red lipstick
I had selected earlier at the resort boutique, along with a black silk dress, the hem of which gently brushed against the marble floor as we walked together towards our table.
‘Now, tell me, have you ever eaten under the sea before?’ Clive pulled open the wine menu in front of his broad chest, widening his arms like a bear.
‘We’ll have the Sancerre. Or Anna, did you want something else? A cocktail, perhaps, to start?’
‘Wine is perfect.’
I placed my hands in my lap agreeably, following his lead.
‘David had to take a phone call but he said he won’t be long.’
I filled the silence nervously, as Clive picked one of the rolls from a basket lined with a silk napkin.
It was the first time he and I had ever been alone together, and I felt a thrum of excitement but also reverence in his company. In the abstract, through my conversations with Harry and all my research, Clive had come to represent so much. Yet face to face, it was hard to reconcile the monolithic picture of him I had built in my head with the gentleman before me.
‘Good, so I have you all to myself …’
He spread butter thickly on a bread roll before placing his knife on the edge of the plate.
‘I’ve been thinking about you lately.’
The orchestra started up again, a waltz this time, as I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the bread in my mouth dry against my tongue.
‘The thing is …’
He lowered his voice.
‘David tells me you’ve been struggling. With the girls.’
I felt a wash of relief, instantly turning to a sense of betrayal.
‘Don’t be angry. He needed to confide in someone. The truth is he’s worried about you. But …’
He paused, picking up the bread again, tearing it with his teeth, careful not to let any crumbs attach to his beard. He chewed for a moment before continuing.
‘It must be frustrating. I can only imagine what that’s like, to suddenly find yourself … I mean, I sometimes wonder what that must have been like, to suddenly find yourself pregnant with a man – a boy, frankly – you’ve only been with for a few months – and twins! I mean … With your parents not around …’
The violins in the distance swooped in and out of earshot, the blood pounding against my ears.
Taking a swig from his glass, Clive fixed me again with his eyes.
‘You know, David … he can be … Well, David is my son and I love him – you know that – I love him more than anything. I would do anything for him.’
The word ‘anything’ rang in my ear and I reached for my drink, a bead of condensation running down the side of the glass.
‘I mean that, I really do.’ Clive regarded me for a moment, long enough to top up our glasses and mop his forehead with the maroon silk handkerchief in the pocket of his suit jacket, and then he turned, a glistening in his eyes suggesting pain of some sort, a discomfort at what he was being forced to admit.
‘But sometimes … He’s highly strung. You know what I’m saying, don’t you? He’s emotional. It’s his downfall, it always has been – his mother was the same way – and sometimes he lets those emotions get the better of him. The way he is with you, sometimes, the way he can be … it’s because he loves you so very much. I need you to know that. There is nothing he wouldn’t have …’
Following Clive’s eye, with a pang of relief I spotted David talking to the waitress at the other side of the room, his taut frame perfectly held in a navy suit, the collar of his shirt buttoned to the top.
It was extraordinary to think that this was the same boy who had greeted me on campus all those years ago. From a certain angle he was a man who had grown into himself, the way some men did: shoulders pressed back, open-faced, the certainty of someone who was at peace with their lot. As he grew closer, I could make out the sinewy muscles in his neck, like snakes winding through the grass, just below the surface, waiting to shed their skin.
I felt my spine straighten as I saw other women notice him too, lifting their eyes to watch him cross the room.
David held his arms up in a placatory motion as he settled himself in a chair between his girlfriend and his father.
‘What are we having?’
He kept his eyes on Clive. I took a gulp of my drink, surprised by the jealousy that was rising in my gut as I waited for him to notice me, the dress I had bought to surprise him.
‘There you are … We haven’t ordered.’
As Clive looked up, the waitress appeared at his side.
‘Anna, what will you have?’
My voice, when it came, was sticky, as though it had been sitting too long in my throat.
‘I’ll have the reef lobster and the légine, please.’
I struggled again to catch David’s eye, waiting for him to reach over and touch my hand.
‘Fine choice! I’ll have the lobster also, followed by the veal tenderloin.’
Clive looked to his son and David lifted his hand to show that he would have the same.
The evening passed as all evenings with Clive tended to, in a steaming haze; layers of food pressed down with wine and calvados.
I was pleased to see, when it came, that I had ordered fish. David had already finished three glasses of Sancerre by the time the first course arrived. With each glass, the composure he had demonstrated when he arrived unravelled a little more, a sheen of sweat glazing his forehead.
Catching his eye, I brushed my finger along his forearm.
‘OK?’
He moved his arm, avoiding my eye. There was something unnerving about him tonight, laughing too loudly at his father’s jokes, knocking back a tumbler of brandy before pushing back his chair.
‘Excuse me a moment.’
Fumbling slightly, he headed towards the bathroom.
A moment later, I felt the room fall dark, followed by a collective intake of breath, the water in the tunnel above us glowing an eerie green. Following Clive’s gaze to the door, I saw David walking towards me purposefully, with slow, steady strides. The rest of the room followed his progress as he approached, clasping his hands behind his back.
Feeling myself begin to shake, I rested my hands on the table in front of me, pressing my wrists into the edge of the table. The pressure steadied my breathing.
He did not speak at first and then, finally, my name formed on his lips. He halted in front of me, dropping to one knee. Leaning forward, he spoke so that only the two of us could hear, although I was aware of all eyes in the restaurant pinned on me.
His face was a translucent red under the tinted glare of the water, which seemed ready to rip through the glass as his mouth struggled to form the words.
The room started to sway. Above David’s head, a shoal of fish seemed to be rushing at me. Clive, his face obscured by David’s, looked on from the other side of the table.
For a moment, I thought he was going to be sick, but then he opened his mouth and drew a breath.
‘Will you marry me?’
It was important to stay in the present; the past and the future both bulged dangerously with doubt. A side effect of the drugs Dr Blackman had prescribed a month earlier was that generally I had started to sleep better, but the night of David’s proposal my body would not settle; damp bed-sheets clung to my legs as I tossed back and forth.
Meg, David, and then Harry. I saw them now as an island, a churning sliver of land in a sea of black, until gradually the land they stood on twisted and broke away, the gaping black hole opening up again. I was on the edge of a cliff. No matter which direction I took, the ground threatened to fall away.
Just before dawn, my body snapped awake, clammy and cold. Running a cool shower over my head, I wrapped myself in a white padded dressing gown, pouring a glass of water before sliding open the doors to the terrace.
Lowering myself onto the sun lounger overlooking the water, I watched the sun stretching to life over the Indian Ocean, letting memories of the night before slowly gather and take
shape in my mind.
The prospect of a wedding was something that somehow, in all my preparations, all my deliberations, I had never really anticipated. I suppose I had never had time to wonder what the future, beyond next week or next month, might look like. I was pregnant before I had really had time to consider it – and once the girls were born, the web had already been so tightly woven, mine and David’s futures so intricately laced together, that it never crossed my mind.
And yet, while we were already bound together by invisible threads, there was something meaningful about David’s proposal. The pregnancy had been an accident; marriage was a choice. In asking the question, David had shown that he still wanted me, just when I had really begun to question it.
I could never have said no, it would have been far too inflammatory, and yet the prospect of such a significant gathering with all its potential pitfalls, its ability to expose the holes in our life together, meant that there was absolutely no way that a public wedding could be allowed to happen. It would raise too many questions. The prospect of drawing up the wedding list, name-checking old friends, negotiations over which relatives to ask … Then, of course, there was the issue of the father-of-the-bride.
Draining my cup, I rose, fixing my gown before heading back inside the hut.
‘David?’
I pressed my mouth lightly to his ear but he did not budge. While alcohol made my sleep more fitful, it had the opposite effect on David, so that I had to lean the full weight of my body on his to elicit even a tiny stirring.
‘David, I want to ask you something.’
I watched his face slowly come to life, his arms stretching above his head as he became aware of my legs entwined in his.
I kissed him, my lips running softly over his neck, the invisible bristles scratching against my skin.
‘What time is it?’
He finally prised his eyes open.
Pulling the sheet so that it covered the scar across my abdomen, I kissed his mouth until I was sure I had his full attention, then I pulled back.
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