Michael ignored me for the remainder of the week. He hardly came home and when he did, he took himself off to the living room to read his paper and have a glass of whiskey each evening, only forcing himself to be in my company at meal times. I wasn’t sure why I was bothering to cook him a meal. We’d sit at the table in silence, and he would spread papers alongside his plate, no doubt to avoid having to speak to me.
I spent the week making meals for the freezer, washing and ironing my holiday clothes and writing lists of how things worked, which button to press on the washing machine, where the iron was, the hoover. Not that I thought for one moment he’d use any of it.
Carla came over almost daily and we spent ages looking at the Four Seasons web site, planning on what spa treatments to have, how many books to take, whether to go sunset sailing or just sit with cocktails. I got excited and terrified as the week wore on. I hadn’t mentioned to her what I’d seen or the conversation I’d had with Michael. I found myself not confiding in her as much for fear of her taking action; action that needed to be taken but that I didn’t want to confront.
I didn’t sleep well the night before the holiday. I tossed and turned and woke in the early hours. I took myself downstairs to make a cup of tea and have a cigarette. My one a day habit was slowly creeping up to five. Michael hated that I smoked, he hated that I drank wine, and judging by the bottles in the recycling bin, that habit was increasing too.
Dini joined me in the garden as I shivered just outside the back door. I could hear the crunch of his footsteps on the frozen lawn but being black, couldn’t see where he had gone. Dini never barked, but would emit a low growl. A growl that rumbled from his chest and at night, in the dark, raised the hairs on my arms. I shuddered and called him inside.
Ben would collect him at lunchtime and I’d made sure to have his bed and food packed and placed in the hallway alongside my case. Michael had ten shirts washed and ironed in his wardrobe alongside five suits and ten meals in the freezer. There was nothing that I hadn’t thought of. I’d left a message for Casey, but she never returned my call.
I took my tea back to bed and picked up my journal. I wrote about how excited I was, and how upset at the lack of enthusiasm from Michael and Casey I’d been. Ben was thrilled for me, and Kerry rang or messaged with snippets of information she’d found about the Maldives on a daily basis. She was still poorly and I’d urged her to contact her doctor. Although slim, she’d lost a little more weight over the past week or so and I was concerned for her.
It was the crash as someone fell over my plastic suitcase that woke me a little later; I must have dozed off. I heard a curse and the slide of the suitcase as it was shoved across the wooden floor then the bang of the front door being slammed shut. I rose and looked out the bedroom window to see Michael walk down the garden path. He hadn’t said a word, no, ‘goodbye’ or ‘have fun’ the previous evening.
I showered and dressed then walked around the house with my cup of tea to make sure I had left it spotless. I walked to the sideboard in the living room and picked up a family photograph. It was years old. Casey was in a pram but we were smiling, and I think it might have been the last time we did.
As much as Michael was indifferent to Ben, I believed he blamed that pregnancy on him having to marry me, the moment Casey was born he doted on her. He never changed a nappy or got up for the midnight feed but that girl could do no wrong. A pang of something I tried desperately to swallow down hit me. I was jealous of her in one way. I loved her, I loved her spirit and independence but I was also jealous that he could love her and not me. The guilt that followed was often overwhelming.
I treated my children equally. As selfish as Casey could be, I’d never let her feel that I favoured Ben over her. Unlike Michael. The ringing of the telephone interrupted my thoughts.
“Hey, baby girl, I’m just ringing to wish you a happy holiday,” my father said once I’d picked up the phone.
“Hi, Dad. Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Your mum says to be careful. Don’t drink the tap water.”
I laughed. “I won’t. Now, how are you both?”
Dad had been suffering with a cough for a while and I’d nagged him to visit the doctor. He had been a docker in his younger years; a tough, big burly man with calloused hands that were so gentle when he’d stroked my hair each night after putting me to bed.
“Your mum made a cake yesterday. I ate it, of course, but it was awful. Took out a tooth, I did.”
“You never?”
“No, but it was still awful.”
I had the most wonderful relationship with my dad. He was a storyteller. As a child I would sit on his lap for hours on end while he told me of foreign lands with pirates and unicorns. He’d travelled the world, in his mind. It was only in my teens that I found out he’d never left England. “Too many bloody foreigners,” he’d say with a laugh.
Our call was brief but it left me with a smile.
As I waited for Carla to arrive I checked and re-checked my bag. I had my passport, my keys and a little money. Not that I was allowed to take from the joint account but unbeknown to Michael, I had a small savings account with a few hundred pounds in it, a rainy day account. I’d taken out £200, hoping that would be enough.
I had no idea what my husband earned. He was senior to Charles and I knew Carla had been awarded a little over half a million pounds, a flat in London and the house in Kent. Charles had invested the huge bonuses money traders were awarded in the eighties and nineties in property. Bearing in mind how astute Michael was, I believed he would have done the same. It was on my list of things to do when I returned; investigate just what my husband earned and owned. I was sick of having to justify every purchase.
Dini ran to the front door long before I heard a car pull up outside and the clip-clop of heels on the path. I took one last look around the kitchen, left the note to Michael on the table and picked up my bag.
“Oh, I am so excited,” Carla said as I opened the front door.
“So am I. Take my bag while I grab my case,” I said, handing her my oversized handbag.
I bent down to give Dini a cuddle, whispering that I’d miss him before taking the handle of my case and closing the front door behind me.
We chatted the whole way. Thankfully the motorway was clear and the journey took the hour we had expected. I’d texted Ben and Kerry, left another voicemail for Casey and then turned my phone to airplane mode.
There was no queuing; Carla strode straight to the Business Class check-in desk and we were given our passes to the Emirates lounge. Before heading to the lounge, we took a quick tour of the shops. Carla just had to have a new pair of sunglasses. While she tried on black pair after an identical black pair, I browsed. I wouldn’t waste my money on perfume or accessories, although a nice sarong took my fancy; it was something to wear on the beach instead of having to pull on a sundress. With purchases made, we headed to the lounge.
I felt a total fraud sitting in the plush leather seats, being handed champagne and coffee, told where to help myself to snacks. Carla lapped it up. Despite coming from the same background, I’d always told her she was born into the wrong class. She suited the Business Class lounge, she’d suit the First Class one. I was conscious of my unruly brown curly hair that stayed in a permanent ponytail, of the cheap clothes and fake handbag.
“Do we need to go to the gate yet?” I asked, disturbing Carla from her magazine.
“No, they’ll call us when it’s time.”
“But it says a gate number,” I replied, pointing to the screen on the wall.
“They’ll call us, stop panicking,” she said with a laugh.
I settled back and waited. I checked my phone regularly. I wondered whether I’d receive a message from Michael. Although he knew I was visiting the Maldives, he had no idea what island. I rested my head back, closed my eyes and started to think.
The breakdown of my marriage had been a gradual process. If I had to b
e honest, we should never have married in the first place; we were so incompatible. We met at Carla and Charles’ engagement party, something she tells me she regrets. I guess I was enamoured by him. I remembered that I had seen him across the room; it was as if he was holding court. I wasn’t as frumpy back then but I wasn’t a beauty either... I was just plain Jayne.
He blamed me for falling pregnant. I had been on the pill but unwell and didn’t know it would affect it working. The shock when I realised had been overwhelming. I’d sat on the information for nearly a month, hiding the morning, afternoon and evening sickness I’d suffered until Michael confronted me leaning over the toilet and retching. He stomped around, shouted and cried. Not for me, not for our child, but for himself. It was a couple of days later that he announced we were to book our wedding at the local registry office for the next available date. I wore a simple dress, the cheapest I could find, Carla and Charles were our witnesses and our guests extended no further than immediate family. It wasn’t the wedding of my dreams and I remembered my dad telling me that I didn’t have to go through with it; we could walk away.
I guess I was embarrassed, ashamed even. Michael didn’t even smile at me as I walked up the aisle; he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the wall above the registrar’s head. And that was it. Once the formality was over, our guests left, and we went back to the apartment he owned.
“Stop thinking,” I heard. I opened my eyes to see Carla looking at me.
“I’m not.”
“You are. When you think of that prick your jaw works from side to side.”
“He hasn’t spoken to me for nearly two weeks, no goodbye this morning, nothing.”
She didn’t respond but it was hard not to notice the pity that clouded her eyes. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me; I was in a mess partly by my own doing.
“Come on, let’s go board the plane,” she said as she stood and held out her hand.
We linked arms and wandered to the gate. We were shown to our seat and offered yet another glass of champagne. We clinked our glasses and toasted ourselves.
“To a fabulous holiday,” Carla said.
I smiled. No more thinking, no more wishing for something I was never going to have, no more Michael—at least for a couple of weeks.
After a short stopover in Dubai, we arrived and taxied to the airport. The doors were opened and we were allowed to disembark. The heat as I walked down the steps to the tarmac immediately had my shirt sticking to my back. Because we had flown Business Class, our luggage was first around the carousel. We made our way through the airport to a concrete area outside and looked around. Carla spotted a man holding a plaque with the Four Seasons logo; we made our way over.
“Welcome. Can I take your names please?” he said, checking his clipboard. “Your boat is ready. Let me take those bags for you,” he added.
We were shown to a small white minibus and handed cold, wet facecloths as we boarded. I was thankful the air conditioning was on full blast. It was less than a minute drive before we pulled up alongside a concrete jetty and shown to a waiting speedboat.
Yet another cold facecloth was handed to us along with a bottle of water. A crewmember held out his hand to help me board, and as he did, I stumbled a little. Immediately one of the two occupants of the boat rose to help me. I grabbed onto his shirt, feeling solid muscle underneath. I mumbled my thanks before looking up and into the most amazing blue eyes. I made a conscious effort to close my mouth. He was smiling at me, and he was gorgeous. He had dirty blond hair but it was those eyes that had me captivated.
“Ahem,” I heard from behind.
My face immediately coloured. “I’m sorry, and thank you,” I mumbled again before sliding into a seat.
“You’re welcome,” he replied in an accent I was unfamiliar with.
Carla sat beside me; she looked and raised her eyebrows at me before leaning in close.
“Wow, did you see his eyes?”
“I know, they’re the same colour as the sea.”
The Captain, if that’s what the driver of a small speedboat was called, was giving a safety brief; I wasn’t listening. I was mesmerised by the man. He sat with another across the aisle and one row up. All I could see was a side profile as he angled his head to listen to the Captain’s brief. I felt a nudge in my side.
“Stop staring and listen. If we sink, I’m not saving your arse because you don’t know where the life jacket is.”
I giggled. I felt like a teenager who had just been caught out. I straightened myself in my seat and concentrated. Just a few minutes later we were on our way. The boat whipped across a sea as still as a millpond. Flying fish raced us; it was exhilarating. I looked out across the clear sea, a beautiful blue, to see small, white sand islands with loan palm trees and sandbanks.
“This is unbelievable,” I said.
“I know, look at those fish.”
It was a short, too short, journey before the boat slowed and we moored alongside a dark wooden jetty lined with impeccably turned out staff. The two guys stood and he smiled; slightly plump lips framed perfect white teeth. I blinked rapidly. He gestured with his arm for us to climb from the boat first. Hands were extended from the jetty and, without stumbling that time, I found myself on solid ground.
“Wow,” was about the only word I could use to describe the scene in front of me.
The long jetty led to a wooden building with a thatched roof. The sand was so white the sun reflected from it and I had to squint. Palm trees lined the island, some bent so low their leaves ghosted the water.
“It’s certainly better than the brochure,” Carla said. She had taken two drinks from a young girl dressed in what I assumed was traditional clothing.
We were asked to follow the guy that had met us at the airport to the reception area. I kicked off my shoes and followed, hopping from one foot to the other as the soles of my feet met the heat of the wood.
We were led into an open sided reception; my feet sunk into the cool sand floor and we sat on sofas while we waited for our paperwork to be completed. The two guys sat opposite us.
“Have you been here before?” he asked. He had a soft, quiet voice.
I looked up, unsure at first whether he was addressing me.
“Erm, no. First time. You?”
“Yeah, not to this island though. I’m Stefan by the way. My friend, Morton.”
He held out his hand for a formal shake.
“Jayne, and this is Carla.”
The receptionist interrupted introductions as we were handed keys and instructed that a golf buggy would take us to our villa.
“Maybe we’ll see you again,” Stefan said as Carla and I stood.
I smiled and nodded, a little tongue-tied. For a moment, his piercing blue eyes held me captive; I felt my face flush.
A nudge to my ribs brought me out of my semi-trance.
“Me thinks you have the fanny tingle,” Carla whispered as we made our way to the waiting buggy. I stopped in my tracks, staring at her open-mouthed.
“The what?”
“The fanny tingle. He is gorgeous so I don’t blame you.”
I went to speak, then shook my head before laughing.
“He’s just being polite.”
“Polite or not, I could dive into those blue eyes and never need to surface for breath.”
The buggy came to a stop beside a blue gate in a white stone wall. We’d driven along a sand path that centred the island, passing staff that stopped to welcome us. The gate was opened and we stepped into a private garden attached to the side of our villa. It was simply amazing. Palm trees lined a path to the beach; there was a plunge pool on one side and a wooden deck on the other. Sunbeds with cream cushions sat facing the pool along with a small table and chairs.
We were shown through the door to the villa and, at first, I stopped in my tracks. It was a simple wooden construction but beautifully laid out. I placed my handbag on one of the large beds with crisp, white linen and took a w
alk around. French doors opened up into the garden, just a few steps from the pool. Behind the beds was a wall that spanned three quarters the length of the room. Behind that was the bathroom. Two sinks were moulded in a stone countertop, a white bath sat on silver claw feet and through a gap in the wall was an outdoor shower. Thankfully that white wall curved around it for privacy.
By the time I’d done my tour our guide had left us and Carla was already unpacking her case.
“Did you see outside? It’s amazing,” I said.
“I know. And look, a welcome bottle of champagne,” she replied.
On top of a unit of drawers sat a silver ice bucket with a bottle of Billecart-Salmon Rosé champagne. The name meant nothing to me but Carla seemed to be impressed.
“I think we need an hour or two on the beach, recover from the journey,” she said.
“Absolutely.”
While she changed into the skimpiest bikini I’d ever seen, I unpacked. On our walk from the speedboat, along the jetty, I hadn’t seen anyone on the beach so decided to be brave and opt for the red bikini Carla had bought me.
Carla scrunched her long blonde hair into a bun; the messy style looked like a hairdresser had spent hours creating it. She sprayed herself with her factor ten sunblock and grabbed her book.
“Go grab some sun beds, I’ll be there in a minute,” I said as I shrugged off my shirt, having finally unpacked and put everything away.
I stripped and peeled on the bikini bottoms, having to loosen the side ties a little. I wasn’t overweight as such. I was in proportion but had those childbearing hips my mother always told me were a bonus and stretch marks across a slightly flabby stomach where children had nestled for nine months each.
The only part of my body I didn’t mind was my boobs. Still firm, I covered them with the flimsy bikini top and took at look at myself in the mirror. Red was definitely not my colour. I was too pale skinned and even paler by the time I slathered on my factor fifty. My brown unruly curls had already started to frizz in the humidity as I redid my ponytail. I tucked away a couple of tendrils of hair protruding from the bottom of my bikini. Maybe I should have taken Carla up on her offer of a trip to the beauty parlour. Feminine matters had not been top of my list for a long time. Michael and I had given up on sex many years ago, and there never seemed any point in making my bits look tidy just for me.
A Virtual Affair Page 3