After the Honeymoon

by Fraser, Janey

  ‘Greco knows what he is doing,’ she said meaningfully, partly to support him and partly to try and calm herself. ‘Besides, I am sure that someone from the mainland will come out to find us.’

  As she spoke, there was a splutter from the engine followed by another. Then a whirring noise which stopped almost as soon as it started. Rosie’s heart sank. Then, to her huge relief, it began again. Hesitant at first and then growing increasingly confident.

  The Frenchman began to clap, even though his arms were firmly around his wife (did those two ever take their hands off each other?). Someone else followed suit and Emma exhaled a huge sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  Rosie’s eyes slid across to the beach where Jack and Alice had been sitting, talking, for the last hour or so.

  Sweet. Yet at the same time, dangerous. What if Jack made the same mistake as she had and went too far?

  ‘Come on, you two.’ She waved furiously. ‘Quick! They’ve got the engine started.’

  Greco took a mock bow as she spoke, making Rosie wince. After everything she’d thought about leopards changing their spots, this arrogant gesture made him look vain in front of Winston, who was nonchalantly returning to Melissa’s side.

  ‘Well done,’ Melissa said quietly.

  Winston nodded. ‘Team effort.’ He looked down at Freddie, who had fallen asleep next to his wife. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘And night,’ added Melissa, frowning, looking at Alice as she came aboard. ‘Sit with us, can you, darling?’

  The girl scowled. ‘I’ll sit where I like.’

  ‘Don’t be rude to your mother.’

  Rosie started at Winston’s heavy-handed reproach, which reminded her of Dad. Yes, the girl had been rude, but Rosie couldn’t help feeling a sneaking sympathy. It couldn’t be easy having a stepfather. Supposing Greco started getting heavy-handed with Jack?

  Darkness was falling, but the Siphalonian was now making steady progress across the bay. The wind was helping too. Lights were on, she could see, glimmering on the water. Were they from the houses, or were some of the fishermen coming out to find them? Oh my God! There was a little dinghy! She recognised it as belonging to Greco’s uncle.

  ‘Are you all right, nephew?’ a voice yelled out.

  ‘The engine broke! But all is well. I fixed it.’

  That wasn’t fair. ‘Along with one of our guests,’ Rosie added in Greek.

  Greco visibly bristled. ‘It is clear whose side you are on.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she retorted, taking care not to use English so as not to embarrass Greco in front of Winston. ‘I just don’t like it when someone takes all the credit instead of sharing it.’

  For a minute, they looked at each other challengingly. Don’t look away, Rosie told herself sternly. This is important.

  Eventually, Greco shrugged. ‘You are right.’ Then he called back to his uncle. ‘The English helped. Perhaps they are not quite so useless after all.’

  There was a loud chuckle.

  Rosie nodded her approval. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  Greco looked pleased. ‘In fact, he saved a boy from the seas,’ he called out. ‘We have many tales to tell.’

  So they did. Thank goodness the trip was ending well. It could all have been so different.

  Meanwhile, Greco was mooring the boat and helping her guests to make the short jump onto the shore.

  ‘I don’t know that I can do it,’ Emma was whimpering.

  Yannis loomed up from the bottom of the boat as though he had been waiting. ‘I can help you, yes?’

  ‘Get off me!’ Emma was pushing him away furiously. ‘I don’t want you to touch me.’

  Rosie caught her breath. Something had definitely happened there and, if she wasn’t mistaken, she wasn’t the only one to have noticed.

  ‘It’s all right, Emma,’ Melissa was saying kindly. ‘Winston will carry you, won’t you, darling?’

  Suddenly Rosie noticed a commotion on the beach. It wasn’t just curious villagers who had come out to greet them. There were lights flashing – camera lights, she realised.

  ‘Mr King! Mr King! Can you give me a comment, please, on a story that’s running in today’s newspapers?’

  Rosie froze. What was going on?

  Winston’s angry voice could be heard clearly from the jetty. ‘I haven’t seen the article yet and I do not wish to be bothered. This is a private holiday.’

  The voice – a woman’s voice – cut through the air. ‘Don’t you mean honeymoon? Congratulations, Mrs King, by the way.’

  Rosie shone her torch onto the speaker. She was a tall, foxy-looking woman with a confidence that rang out through the night air. ‘Perhaps you would like to give me a quote on your first husband’s allegation that Winston stole you from him.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Melissa’s voice was furious. ‘We were divorced when I met Winston.’

  The woman was holding out a microphone. ‘But only just. Your ex-husband claims you were on the rebound. There’s something else I’d like to ask you, too.’

  There was a tense silence. The beach was crowded with locals, Rosie saw, gripped by this drama being played out in front of them. It wasn’t every day that the British press descended on Siphalonia.

  ‘Is there any truth, Mr King,’ said the woman slowly, ‘in the rumours that you have a love child?’

  What? Rosie put a hand to her mouth, in an attempt to suppress the little scream that came out.

  There was a gasp from Melissa, followed by a loud laugh from Winston. ‘You people are disgusting, making things up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now leave, or else I’ll call the police.’

  Even Greco was waving his fist at the journalist and so were many of the others, including Greco’s uncle. Their English might be limited but they understood enough to realise that bad publicity might not be good for the island.

  ‘Did you tell the journalist?’ Rosie demanded furiously as they left them to it and made their way up the beach.

  Greco shook his head. ‘Of course not. I would not betray you.’

  But he had overheard her on the phone to Gemma. Of everyone around them, he was the only one in a position to betray her, possibly out of spite for Winston. Unless it was someone else …

  Rosie glanced at Cara, who was waiting at the top of the beach, her shawl flapping in the cool evening breeze. ‘Do you think it was her?’

  Greco shook his head. ‘She would not do that.’

  ‘Then who?’ hissed Rosie urgently. ‘How has someone found out that Winston has a child? And what if someone links him with me?’

  He shrugged. Together, as if by unspoken agreement, they searched the beach for Jack. There he was, holding hands with Alice, walking ahead, oblivious to anyone else save the girl he so obviously cared for.

  ‘He must not know about Winston,’ hissed Rosie again. ‘Otherwise he will never forgive me.’

  ‘Mustn’t know what?’

  She whipped round. Melissa was standing right behind her. The woman’s eyes were flashing.

  Rosie felt herself stammering. ‘N-n-nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Mrs King’s voice rang out with fury. ‘I don’t believe you! I want the truth, do you hear? Otherwise I will Twitter and Facebook and do whatever else I can, to make sure that no one else ever visits your villa again. Now tell me!’

  CELEBRITY HONEYMOONS: WHERE DID THEY GO?

  Zsa Zsa Gabor: the Venice–Simplon Express (first time)

  Michael McIntyre: the Maldives

  Duke and Duchess of Cambridge: the Seychelles

  Reese Witherspoon: Belize

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  EMMA

  Emma stumbled back to the cottage, her heart pounding and head whirling. Not just from what had happened with Yannis, but the other thing too. She hadn’t meant to listen in on the conversation between Melissa and Rosie just now, but she’d reached the top of the beach and then remembere
d that she’d left her beach bag on the harbour wall.

  So she’d come back to get it, only to hear an angry exchange between the two women.

  It was difficult to hear the exact details – not that she was trying, of course – but the words ‘Jack’ and ‘Winston’ were clearly audible.

  What had happened? Melissa looked terribly upset, and as for Rosie Harrison, she looked as though she had seen a ghost.

  Luckily, the bag was still there, so she just grabbed it and walked away as fast as she could. But then, when she got close to the villa, she could hear more raised voices. This time it was Winston and the woman she had seen earlier.

  Now, instead of having a notebook poking out of her bag, she had a camera slung round her neck.

  ‘I won’t have any pictures!’ Winston was yelling. Emma gasped silently as he stepped forward. Surely he wasn’t going to hit the girl? Then she realised he was about to rip the camera from her neck until Greco stepped in, holding him back.

  ‘No, man,’ he was saying. ‘You will make the situation worse, I think. Let us go. Now.’

  Then, even though it had been clear on the boat that Rosie’s Greek boyfriend and Winston didn’t like each other very much, Greco put his arm round Winston’s shoulders and was virtually pulling him away as the girl took snap after snap.

  Emma only hoped that she wasn’t in one of the pictures. She was in enough trouble as it was.

  Wrapping her jumper around herself, even though it wasn’t that cold, she began to shake as she picked her way across the strange tough grass, towards the cottage.

  God, how she hated herself! How could she have been so horribly stupid? She’d vowed to herself that she wouldn’t drink on the boat trip and now she’d done something that could never be undone. Something that made her feel dirty, through and through.

  Stumbling over a sharp stone, she began to cry silently – and not just because it had stubbed her toe. ‘You’ve been married for one week,’ she told herself, ‘and already you’ve been unfaithful.’

  Even as she said the words, they felt unreal, as though the situation belonged to someone else. Now she was no better than her father. Why had she done it? Because she’d had cold feet about getting married; had been flattered by another man’s attentions; and had had too much to drink.

  As for Yannis – she could hardly bear to say his name – she must have been mad. When he’d given her that smug, satisfied smile at the end of the evening, she had felt nothing but loathing for him. Very different from the lust (there was no other word for it) that had taken her over earlier, almost like a body-snatcher.

  She was despicable. But then again, so was he.

  Creeping into the bungalow, Emma braced herself. It was past midnight but Tom would still be up. He would be pacing the floor, worried out of his mind because she was so late. He might even, she told herself, as her hand shook on the bedroom door, be outside, looking for her. Or …

  Her heart almost stopped as she took in the snoring mound on the bed. Tom was fast asleep. He wasn’t worried that she hadn’t come back from what was meant to be a ‘day trip’. Or if he was, it wasn’t enough to keep him awake.

  Tiptoeing into the bathroom, Emma held the shower against her body for as long as she dared, in case the noise of the water woke her husband. Wash it away, she whispered to herself. Make me clean.

  But when the warm water turned to cold, she still felt as dirty as ever. Desperately, she rubbed her thighs with the towel. If only she could turn back the clock! She would never have gone on the stupid boat trip. Would never have taken that drink which Yannis had offered to ‘steady her nerves’.

  Instead, as she slipped into bed next to Tom, whose snores were becoming progressively louder, Emma knew she had crossed a line which could never be rubbed out.

  Opening her phone to check there hadn’t been any urgent messages from Mum or Bernie, she pressed her lips to the picture of Willow and Gawain on her screen saver.

  If she told Tom what she had done, he would leave her. They’d have to share the children (what an impossible thought) and then, if Tom married again, another woman would have them for half the week.

  Emma felt sick. That sort of thing happened to other people. Not to her and Tom.

  But if she didn’t tell him, she would have to live a lie for the rest of her life. Every time they celebrated their wedding anniversary, she would think back to that time on the island she’d slept with another man: a man for whom she had felt an irrational drunken attraction.

  Suddenly, Tom turned over and took her in his arms sleepily, holding her so tight that she could hardly breathe. He might not stir her body in the way that a virtual stranger had, but he loved her. They shared two children, a bond which was, she could see now, far more precious than cold-blooded sex. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered silently. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  Emma’s uneasy sleep was punctuated by a dream in which she was swimming along the sea bed, looking desperately for her children. She was calling out for them, even though she was under the water while Tom swam along beside her, refusing to talk or to acknowledge that she was there.

  Then he suddenly shot up out of the sea and when she followed him, all she could spot was a small fishing boat on the horizon with three small figures on board. Tom. Gawain. And Willow.

  Tom was ignoring her again but the children were waving frantically and screaming. ‘Mummy. Mummy!’

  Someone was shaking her. Who was it? Yannis! ‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘Go away!’

  ‘Emma?’

  Dimly, she was aware of Tom’s voice. How was that possible? He was on the boat, taking the children from her. Leaving her far behind. She should never have told him the truth …

  ‘Emma, wake up! We’ll miss the plane if you don’t get a move on!’

  Slowly, the room swam back into focus. Relief flooded her body as she realised that she wasn’t in the sea at all and, more importantly, Tom hadn’t stolen away on a boat with the children. Instead, he was stuffing clothes into his suitcase, including her own, without even folding them.

  ‘We’ve overslept!’ He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Come on, love. Rosie has already been down once to chivvy us along. They’re all waiting for us.’

  There was no time for another shower, even though her body was still crying out to be washed.

  ‘Did Rosie tell you what happened?’ Emma asked as she slipped into her travelling jeans and smudged her mascara in her haste.

  ‘Happened?’ Tom repeated, picking up the cases. ‘What do you mean?’

  Emma hesitated, wondering how much to say, mindful of the dream which might have been a warning to keep mum. ‘The engine broke down and we were late,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Were you?’ Tom was casting an eye over the room in case they’d left something behind. ‘I didn’t notice. Flat out, I was.’ He gave her another kiss on the cheek. ‘Still, the good thing is that I feel a whole load better now.’

  If only he’d felt a bit better before, none of this might have happened. But that was no excuse.

  ‘Next time we go away, we’ll stick to Britain and take the kids with us,’ said Tom as they walked up towards the villa where their car was waiting. ‘I’m sorry I was a bit of a stick-in-the-mud during the holiday. Weren’t too bored, were you?’

  Emma felt herself colour up furiously. Swiftly, she turned away to try and hide it. ‘Not really. I had Melissa to talk to.’

  Tom gave her a big grin. ‘Making friends with the celebrity wives, are we?’

  Again, Emma flushed. ‘It’s not like that. Melissa’s really nice.’ Then she thought of the argument last night between her new chum and Mrs Harrison. ‘I don’t think it’s very easy for her.’

  Tom looked bewildered. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Emma vaguely. ‘Marrying someone famous means you lose your privacy, doesn’t it? Some photographer has already turned up to interview Winston, and there’s a big piece about him in the Globe, app
arently, dishing the dirt.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘They get paid enough. They have to put up with the shit too.’ Then he nudged her. ‘From the way you’re talking about them, you’ll be asking them round to dinner next!’

  BEEP, BEEP.

  Tom broke into a run as the driver hooted impatiently. ‘Come on,’ he called out. ‘The sooner we get there, the sooner we see the kids!’

  Emma felt her skin crawling with guilt. What if Gawain and Willow ever found out that their mother had cheated? They’d never forgive her. Just as she had been unable to forgive her father.

  At the tiny airport, it was noticeable that Melissa and her children were sitting at a table while Winston was at the bar. ‘Perhaps I’ll go and chat to him,’ suggested Tom brightly. ‘It’s not every day you have a chance to talk to a bloke on the telly.’

  But he was back within a few minutes. ‘Moody so-and-so,’ he sniffed. ‘Didn’t want to talk at all. Just sat there, nursing his beer.’

  On the plane, Melissa sat with her children while her husband was three rows behind. The plane wasn’t full – surely they could have been nearer each other if they’d wanted?

  ‘Looks like they’ve had an argument already,’ remarked Tom, slipping his hand into Emma’s. ‘I thought, from what you said, that she was all over him for rescuing her son. Do you think something happened afterwards?’

  Emma froze, recalling the conversation she’d overheard on the beach. ‘I don’t know,’ she managed to say weakly.

  Tom squeezed her hand so tightly that it hurt. ‘I’m glad we’re not like them,’ he said, lightly brushing her cheek with his lips. ‘I wouldn’t want to be famous if that’s what it does to you. Nice and normal. That’s what I want.’

  It’s what I want too, Emma thought miserably. But all she could think about was Yannis holding out that golden liquid, urging her to knock it back. Thank God he hadn’t been around when they’d left the villa that morning. She never, ever wanted to see him again.

  ‘Right!’ Tom was decidedly chirpy as he heaved the cases off the luggage belt. ‘Let’s go.’