After the Honeymoon

by Fraser, Janey

  Nothing happened, she kept telling herself. Only in her head. And that didn’t count, did it?

  ‘Shall we go back to our room?’ Tom suddenly suggested meaningfully. He took her hand as he spoke, interlacing his fingers with hers.

  Now he wanted it! Emma’s heart sank as they made their way back across the sand. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. Not when her head was still so full of the striking Greek, who had showered her with an attention that no one else had given her for a very long time …

  Back at the cottage, Tom began to fumble with the zip of her shorts. His naked body against hers was hot and sticky. His movements, never confident at the best of times, made her feel slightly repulsed. He was pumping away, clearly waiting for her to get there. But she couldn’t. Not unless …

  Yes.

  Oh God. There it was. That pendulum swinging sensation that took her breath away. She was even crying out loud, something she never did at home. Not because it might wake the children but because Tom never made her feel like doing so.

  Tom had rolled off her now and was looking down at her with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. ‘So I haven’t lost the old magic then?’

  It was all Emma could do not to cry. Easing herself out of bed, she made her way to the bathroom. Vigorously, she began to wash herself. How could you? she asked herself in the mirror, trying to wash away the picture of Yannis in her head, with his piercing eyes and goatee beard that she found so strangely attractive. How could you imagine making out with a man you hardly know, instead of your husband?

  It was wrong. Horribly wrong!

  Then again, hadn’t there been a survey in Charisma the other week about women who visualised making love to someone else during sex? The funny thing was that Winston King (whose picture Bernie had pinned up in the staff room next to a list of his ‘Five exercises-a-Day’) had come out second.

  By the time she got back to the room, Tom was sitting up in bed with the air conditioning blaring out noisily. He patted the place next to him expectantly.

  ‘Sorry – I promised to meet Melissa for the painting class near the pool,’ said Emma, trying to hide her distressed face as she squeezed back into her shorts. ‘Then there’s the fishing trip. Are you coming?’

  She held her breath, knowing that Yannis was going to be part of the crowd, helping Rosie with the picnic.

  ‘Mind if I don’t?’ Tom made a little boy face. ‘I’m just beginning to feel better and I don’t want to get seasick.’

  Emma felt a mixture of relief and irritation. ‘That’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘See you later.’

  Head spinning, she made her way to the pool, unable to clear her mind. Hadn’t she always said there was no excuse for infidelity? Of course she’d never do anything like that. Yet Yannis had looked at her in a way that Tom never did. He made her feel beautiful. Her body melted every time his eyes drank her in, even though she knew it was wrong.

  Why couldn’t she feel like that with Tom, the father of her children?

  Then again, if the price for being a mother was a rather average marriage with pretty boring bedroom routines, surely it was worth it?

  Even so, it was impossible to ignore the sexually charged air that hung over the island, what with Melissa and Winston; the French couple; Rosie and the Greek; and now Yannis. She’d just have to ignore it, she decided, and concentrate on what was important. Still, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something she had seriously missed out on …

  Melissa seemed in a sombre mood when Emma reached the pool. Her daughter was with her, too, although obviously not willingly. ‘I’m so bored,’ she was whining.

  ‘Then give the painting class a go, darling. It’s something different.’

  Alice scowled. ‘Something to keep me away from Jack, you mean. It won’t work, Mum. This is my life. Not yours.’

  ‘I know,’ said Melissa in a weary voice, ‘but you’re still very young.’

  ‘I’m nearly fourteen! Unlike you.’ The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least I act my age. I’ve told you before, Mum, just because you wear leopard-print sunglasses, doesn’t mean you’re fashionable.’

  Melissa flushed. ‘Shh. We’re about to start.’

  The artist, a bohemian-looking young woman with a long cheesecloth skirt and yellow beads in her black hair, had given them all a sheet of paper. There was a large box of watercolour tubes and, in front of them, a vase with flowers.

  After the demonstration (it looked so easy!), Emma set to with gusto. How wonderful it was to lose herself; to forget about Tom’s fumblings and that strange attraction to Yannis.

  But Melissa seemed keen to talk. ‘Can I confide in you about something?’ she hissed quietly.

  Emma flushed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Melissa glanced around to check no one could hear. The two of them were sitting on the edge of the painting group and the others seemed very absorbed in their work. ‘I haven’t known you very long, Emma, but you seem like the kind of person who can keep confidences.’

  ‘I am.’ Emma thought of all the things Bernie had told her about her marriage to Phil. Things which she wouldn’t tell anyone.

  ‘The thing is, my husband is the Winston King. The one on television.’

  Emma nodded importantly. ‘I guessed that.’

  Melissa looked alarmed. ‘Winston said you would. I just thought that maybe you might not recognise him with his shades.’

  That was daft! Everyone in the UK knew who Winston King was, shades or not. The thought struck Emma that maybe Melissa wasn’t particularly bright.

  ‘I mean,’ Melissa continued, ‘there are other Winston Kings around. I looked them up on Google once. There are over a hundred.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t all look like him, do they?’ Emma couldn’t help commenting.

  Melissa looked scared. ‘You haven’t told anyone that you guessed, have you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Emma touched her friend’s hand briefly in assurance. ‘I reckoned you needed your privacy like anyone else.’

  ‘Thanks so much.’ Melissa gave her a brief hug. ‘The thing is, Winston’s a bit upset because the Globe’s doing a series of articles on him.’

  Emma, who really wanted to go back to her painting – the pink flower she was copying was so beautiful – tried to give her friend her full attention.

  ‘It doesn’t say very much,’ Melissa continued.

  There was the sound of footsteps. Alice was coming up and had caught the tail end of the conversation. ‘It doesn’t say very much because Winston’s boring. Dad says he’s a waste of space.’

  ‘Alice!’ This time, Melissa did seem annoyed. ‘That’s very rude.’

  She waited for Alice to go back to her painting on the other side of the group. Then she turned back to Emma. ‘So far, it’s just the usual stuff about the Marines that’s been said before. Winston says it’s to get people to buy today’s paper. But it’s tomorrow he’s worried about.’

  ‘Why?’ Emma whispered, flattered that Melissa felt she could trust her.

  Then she nudged Melissa to warn her that the art teacher was coming round now, making small exclamations of praise combined with gentle suggestions. The French couple were there too: their ‘flowers’ looked more like a pair of nudes entwined in the shape of a nutcracker.

  ‘Because,’ said Melissa in such a quiet voice that Emma could hardly hear her, ‘my first husband has apparently given them an interview.’

  Emma gasped, glancing at Alice, who had given up on the painting and was furiously texting, doubtless running up an enormous phone bill.

  ‘What has he said?’ asked Emma.

  Melissa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried to Skype Marvyn but he isn’t answering.’

  Emma’s heart gave a little jump. So she had Skype! Bernie had that on her computer. ‘My mum always says that there’s no point in worrying about something until it happens.’

  Melissa nodded. ‘I know. She’s right. But it’
s difficult, isn’t it? Still, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.’ She squeezed Emma’s hand lightly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It was nothing. Any time.’ Emma had almost forgotten her painting now. ‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is it possible to use your Skype? It’s just that I’d love to try to contact the kids; I’d give anything to see their faces.’

  ‘Sure. I’d better not lend you our iPad as Winston will want it, but you can borrow Alice’s.’

  ‘No way.’ The girl had crept up on them again. It was slightly unnerving. ‘It hasn’t got much battery left and I forgot my charger.’

  ‘Alice! Emma wants to talk to her children.’

  ‘Well, maybe they don’t want to talk to her, just like I don’t want to talk to my mother.’

  Emma tried not to show her shock, but Melissa just looked resigned rather than angry. Reluctantly, the girl got it out of her bag. ‘Do you know how it works?’ Alice demanded, as though Emma was the child and not the adult. ‘You can only talk to someone if they’re online.’

  With any luck, Bernie might be around. She was having the children, Mum had said, so there was an outside chance.

  Emma could hardly wait for the class to finish (the teacher had nodded approvingly at her flower!) so Alice could show her how to look up Bernie’s Skype address. Within minutes, her friend’s warm, chubby face swam into view.

  ‘Emma!’ She was eating something. A chip, from the look of the bag next to her. ‘What are you doing online? You should be making wild, passionate love on the beach with your new husband.’

  Emma flushed. ‘Hah!’ She went beetroot, unable to look at Melissa or her daughter, who was sniggering. ‘A … a friend has lent me her iPad so I can talk to the children.’

  Her heart was thumping with excitement.

  ‘Gawain!’ Bernie yelled out, swallowing her mouthful. ‘Come and look at this. It’s Mummy on a special television. No, love. Not like the one that Granny lets you watch all day long.’

  There was an ‘ahh’ sound from Melissa as her little boy came into view. ‘Isn’t he sweet? What gorgeous blond hair. And is that your daughter sitting next to him? She’s beautiful.’

  Emma gazed with longing at her little ones, perched on stools at Bernie’s kitchen table, making Play-Doh shapes.

  Willow was staring at her with her wide blue eyes, as though she didn’t even recognise her. The pain made Emma feel sick. But Gawain’s voice called out through the miles. ‘Mummy!’ he was saying, reaching out to her. ‘Mummy.’

  Oh dear. He was crying. Banging his little arm on the table, the way he did when he was upset. This was selfish of her, Emma realised. Gawain couldn’t understand why he could see her but not touch her. She was unsettling him.

  ‘Mummy’s going on a boat trip later on,’ she said in as light a tone as possible, as though it was quite natural for her to be doing something different away from the children thousands of miles away.

  But Gawain was yelling so much now he didn’t seem to hear her.

  ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,’ said Bernie hurriedly. Even though the screen was getting blurry and out of focus now, Emma could make out her friend’s arms wrapped protectively round her son. It should be her doing that. ‘It’s all right,’ her friend was saying soothingly. ‘Your mummy will be home soon. Let’s have another go at telling the time, shall we?’

  Teaching him the time? That was her job!

  Then Gawain’s face disappeared and Bernie’s swam back into view. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll stop crying when you’ve gone. Having a good time, are you? Your mum says Tom’s feeling better now. Everyone at this end has stopped being sick too.’

  That was good. Then she remembered her manners. ‘Thank you so much for looking after them and for organising the honeymoon,’ she began. What? How did that happen? The screen had gone blank.

  ‘The Wi-Fi reception is shit here,’ said Alice scathingly.

  ‘Darling, I’ve told you before not to use words like that.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Alice leaped up, snatching the iPad back. ‘I’m going for a walk. Yes, I am, Mum. You can’t stop me.’

  The two women watched the young girl flounce off, texting furiously as she went. ‘She thinks she’s in love with Jack,’ said Melissa quietly. ‘I hadn’t expected this so soon.’ She smiled sadly at Emma. ‘There’s nothing like your first boyfriend, is there?’

  Emma, still aching from the sight of the children, thought of Tom, wryly. Bernie had been right when they’d been at school. She should have had more fun before settling down.

  ‘You’ve got all this to come,’ continued Melissa. ‘Make the most of it while your two are young. At least you know where they are. Teenagers are like fleas: always jumping in and out of the house without notice.’

  She patted Emma on the arm. ‘See you on the boat later tonight. I’m hoping it might distract Winston. Sounds rather good fun; there’s going to be a wonderful picnic, apparently.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Thanks so much for listening. It really helped to talk.’

  Emma felt a glow. It was so nice to help others out, even though she didn’t think she’d done much. Meanwhile, she didn’t feel like going back to the cottage. Not yet. She would have to tell Tom that she’d Skyped Bernie and that Gawain had got upset. Then he’d tell her that she should have left them to it and that might lead to another argument …

  Instead, she dangled her legs in the pool, thinking about the future. Seeing the children had put life into perspective. It would be all right, she told herself, when she got back into the groove of things at home. The routine with the children; her little job; Mum; Bernie and her other friends. They would all distract her from these silly unsettled feelings she was having about Tom. She watched Rosie walk past with a small, wrinkly-faced woman. Maybe it was natural to have these doubts. They were no more than post-wedding nerves, that was all.

  As for Yannis, with his handsome Greek face and his way of looking at her as though she was the only woman in the room, she’d just been really silly. She wouldn’t drink tonight, she told herself. Just stick to non-alcoholic punch.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice, slicing into her thoughts. ‘Is this the Villa Rosa?’

  Emma turned round. Even though she had never met a journalist before, she had a funny feeling that this young woman, with her sharp, foxy face and notepad sticking out of her bag, wasn’t your usual tourist.

  She nodded.

  The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘I’m looking for someone called Winston King. Don’t suppose you know him, do you?’

  Emma found herself shaking her head. ‘He was staying here but he’s moved on.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Well,’ said the woman, handing her a plain white business card with a number on it, but no name or mention of a company, ‘if you happen to hear, can you give me a ring?’ She smiled coldly. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

  HONEYMOON FACTS

  More than half of all newly-weds are too tired or argumentative to have sex on their wedding night.

  National newspaper article

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WINSTON

  WHAT IT WAS REALLY LIKE TO WORK FOR WINSTON KING

  ‘Self-absorbed, paranoid about privacy and a loner’ – that’s Poppy Pops’ verdict on her old boss.

  ‘He made me book different hotels all over the world to keep his Greek honeymoon destination under wraps,’ reveals Poppy. ‘But I got my own back by cancelling his reservation. I know it was wrong, but I felt he needed to be taken down a peg or two.’

  So the muddle over rooms had been Poppy’s fault and not Jack’s! Winston reread the opening lines to the feature on his iPad. How dare she?

  ‘He never spoke about his experiences in Afghanistan or Bosnia …’

  Why should he? He wasn’t the only ex-Green Beret to block it out.

  ‘And once, when he’d fallen asleep in his dressing room after filming, I
heard him muttering someone’s name. I can’t say for certain what it was but I always felt that Winston was hiding something …’

  Winston stiffened, running his eye down the rest of the feature. There was nothing else as far as he could see. But it was enough.

  Did these hacks have any idea what damage they did to people, digging into their private lives like this?

  It was really unfair, thought Winston angrily. Everyone had a past, didn’t they? Frankly, he had a sneaking sympathy for politicians whose earlier lives were keenly scrutinised for anything that might have been at all dodgy. After all, they hadn’t known when they were younger that they were going to be in positions of power. Besides, how else could a young man (or woman) learn about life, unless they made mistakes?

  His eye was drawn to the paragraph at the end of the offending article.

  ‘Don’t miss tomorrow’s issue! ‘How Winston caught my wife on the rebound,’ by Mrs King’s former husband.

  The rebound? Winston’s heart gave a little thud. Melissa’s divorce had come through two days before they had met. She’d been vulnerable, certainly.

  Was that why she’d married him? Not because she’d been carried away, as he had been?

  The bedroom door flew open. Hastily, Winston made to put the iPad away. ‘Are you coming or not?’ Melissa stood there in her white shorts and tee-shirt, her black eyes cool. ‘We’re meant to be going on the trip now.’

  She glanced at the iPad. ‘Don’t bother filling me in on today’s feature. I’ve already read it.’

  ‘So is it true?’ he heard himself say. ‘Did you marry me on the rebound?’

  Melissa gave a little laugh. ‘It’s not that you should be worried about, Winston. Let’s just hope that Marvyn hasn’t told the world that you tried to pay the owner’s son to take the kids off your hands. It doesn’t make you look like a great stepfather, does it?’

  ‘How would he know that?’

  Melissa’s cheeks coloured.

  Then he realised. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’