by Ruby Soames
I don’t think for one minute that he ever expected me to answer my door.
Peter steps up behind me. ‘We’d like breakfast out on the beach, thank you.’
‘By all means, Sir.’
Ferdi glides around Peter’s room lifting up his terrace furniture and taking it down to the beach. Asari arrives, and they set up the meal right by the shore.
I follow Ferdi out as he leaves.
‘Ferdi, I’ve heard rumours that there might be a wedding – Joseph West and –’ I swallow, loath to say her name.
‘Sylvia Amery. Yes, it’s true. They’ve taken the Bellevue Mansion, it’s very near my village. Isn’t it exciting?’
‘Thanks. I just … wanted it … confirmed.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘I guess so.’ I return to Peter’s room while he runs through his tai chi exercises. I’m numb and can’t even begin to work out why Joe would’ve written that email when he was simultaneously organising his wedding.
Peter looks at me with a worried expression.
‘I’m just not hungry. I’m sorry,’ I slide my chair back. ‘I need to sort a few things out.’
‘You don’t want to spend the day together? My plan for the afternoon will include crayfish, getting drunk and lots of rubber?’
What I had in my mind is to spend the day alone and wallow in my grief. But I’m getting over Joe, so I have to do things differently: if he can marry someone else, surely I can eat crayfish, get drunk and whatever else Peter has in mind.
‘Sure.’
Peter puts his heavy, square hand on my shoulder and kisses my lips. It’s a slightly exaggerated kiss to reassure me, and it works. This morning could have gone either way, but we are going to make the best of it. Moving on.
31
My room has been made up, clean white sheets taut over the bed, a refreshed vase of flowers and my few possessions neatly lined on the dresser.
I sit on the bed. Yawn and bring the phone to my lap. I dial Kamilla’s number and hear Kamilla’s sleepy voice.
‘Tell me it isn’t true about Joseph,’ I say.
‘I’m really sorry, Sarah.’ she says softly.
I don’t speak, just collapse under the weight of a killer heartache.
‘Tom and I got a wedding invitation a few days ago, Joseph and Sylvia invite you to … blah, blah. It’s in Barbados. And you’re in Barbados! I don’t get why he’d do that! But there’s a note from Joe – his handwriting – that says: Please come. You are going to be very, very surprised … everything will become clear. Can’t wait to see you both. Kiss Kiss. That’s sick, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, honey.’
‘So are you coming out?’
‘No way! I wouldn’t do that to you. He’s lied to us too,
Sarah.’
Tears stop me from speaking any more, but Kamilla’s there on the other end of the line. ‘I left a lot of messages … with Ferdi?’ she says. ‘He sounds cool.’
‘He is. He’s my personal butler –’
‘Personal butler!’
‘Yeah, it’s horrible here.’
Kamilla laughs, ‘I’ll trade with you – I’ve been working in a house with no roof, it’s snowing, the owners want to move in next week, I’ve started IVF and blown up like a balloon, I’m either crying or shrieking, Tom thinks he’s going to be fired and every time I call you’re swimming in the Caribbean! Why didn’t you return my calls?’
‘I was waiting to say that I was a bridesmaid at my dad’s wedding.’
‘Don’t!’
‘Oh yes!’
We talk for about two hours until Kamilla and I are up to speed with all the dramas.
‘Sarah, you don’t have long to talk to your dad, I mean, if you want to do it in Barbados. Soon, eh?’
‘I know it’s just this woman he’s married, she doesn’t let him out of her sight. But don’t worry, he’s going to pay for what he did to mum.’
‘Break the cycle,’ she says firmly.
Saying goodbye is difficult but we promise to speak again soon. After I put the phone down I sleep for a few hours until Peter calls to invite me out for the afternoon.
32
From the ridiculously large and powerful Jeep Peter’s hired, he points out houses, waterfalls, secluded coves and bars, all landmarks from his childhood holidays. Finally, he pulls up on the scree outside large gates which seal a property from prying eyes.
‘This was my parents’ home,’ he says.
He leads me through a gap in the fence hidden by a laurel tree and races me toward a huge house on a headland. The front is lined with carved balustrades holding up overflowing curtains of bougainvillea. There’s a porch with big cane sofas and armchairs, and tree trunks forming arabesque patterns up the side of the house. Peter points out his bedroom, his parents’ suite, the dining room, library. His index finger moves over to the empty swimming pool, then the look-out he built as a child.
‘It’s not fair my parents sold it. They decided one day they preferred St Barts. But it was my house too! When your folks do stuff like that you realise you mean nothing to them. They’re always selfish, selfish to the core, just like everyone.’
He looks one last time at the house. ‘They can’t look after anything.’
I take his hand.
‘I’m saying this Sarah, because … you think growing up without a father was the worst thing that could happen, but sometimes, growing up with one can be just as difficult. Remember that.’
We drive in silence to the Starfish School of Diving.
‘You’ll like this,’ Peter says.
‘Aren’t you supposed to do lessons before you scuba dive?’
‘Nuh, that’s just for tourists.’
His friends, Nick and Tandy greet him with slaps on the back. I realise that there’s another side to Peter when he’s with people. He has a kind of cult status here in Barbados – people all seem to know him, want to touch him – ruffle his hair or slap him on the back – but few seem to have any idea what he does or where he does it.
We load the speedboat with cold beers, greasy crisps and speed out to sea.
In addition to running the school, Nick works for a marine research company. We immediately strike up a friendship based on our interest in animals and ecology.
When Pete mentions I’ve never scuba-dived before Nick shakes his head. ‘Pete! She can’t deep-sea dive with an aqualung without lessons – you’re crazy, man!’
‘She swims great in the pool – and she’s a beautiful diver.’
‘You guys go down and I’ll give her an introductory lesson. OK? Sarah, I have a face-mask with an extended snorkel. We’ll swim through those reefs, you’ll see plenty.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t show her too much, Nick,’ says Peter, ‘I’m kind of attached to this one.’
‘That’s why it might be good to keep her alive.’
When the boat stops, the mainland looks like a toy in the distance. Peter leads me to the edge of the boat, gives me a kiss and dives into the water. Tandy follows. There’s no sign of them, Pete’s gone right down. I jump in and tread water. It feels good to kick at the sea, stamp out the residue frustration from last night. Nick tumbles in after me, gives me the thumbs up.
The two of us, with our long snorkels and masks, move through the underwater universe. It pays little attention to us.
Once my head’s above water again, I gaze at the quiet coastline, it’s almost bare except for another diving school where a lone diving student takes off his mask, laughs a little and nods to his instructor. He’s young, dark and familiar – he looks over at me and stares.
‘You know him?’ asks Nick.
‘I don’t think so. Maybe he’s at the same hotel as me,’ I say.
At the end of my lesson I’m on a high. Nick gives me their leaflet and tells me of a group I could join. Our next stop is a shack bar which Peter claims makes the world’s best grouper sandwich. The swimming experience followed by the beer and fis
h has lifted our mood.
‘I’m still rocking with the boat – is that normal?’ I say.
‘Sea legs – I got a remedy for that,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll concede to doing something classically touristy and I wouldn’t do this for anybody else.’
If you ignore the three coaches waiting outside, then the rum factory is a relief from the glitz of our hotel. Huge signs from the 1950s deck the walls, and everything stinks of sweet alcohol. The tasting glasses are still warm and sticky from the previous tours. Still, Peter and I go at it as drunkenness takes away that viscous layer of awkwardness between us. Neither of us wants to spend a sober evening together.
At dusk we make our way back to the jeep, giggly and light-hearted, each carrying a bottle of Mount Gay rum. I’m walking slightly ahead of Peter when he stops. ‘Sarah, I need to go back … use the toilets. I’m not feeling –’ he winces, hopping from foot to foot.
‘Oh, yes, sure, take your time,’ I try to look sympathetic and avoid wondering if he had the squits when he was in his wet suit.
Fighting the effects of the alcohol, I watch the green monkeys swing through the branches. A Land Rover glides toward me then veers away. I watch them drive past, five of them. One hands a map to another in the back seat. They’re singing Ain’t no Mountain High Enough with the soundtrack at full volume. One of them looks out of the window – and I see Joseph.
The way he turns his head, his dark hair brushing the side of the window. It stops my breath. I want to call out to him but the car drives away.
‘You OK?’ Peter’s voice brings me back to reality.
‘Erm … yeah.’
Peter pulls me by my arm. ‘Sarah? You coming? What is it?’
‘Nothing … I … I just thought I knew someone in that car.’
‘Don’t tell me, more of your family turning up on holiday with us.’ He puts his arms around me and kisses my ear. I don’t want him near me. I want Joseph. The fleeting vision of him caught onto my viscera and is dragging me along the road. A hit and run and there’s nothing left of me.
The last rays of sun settle on my back as I scramble into the jeep.
‘I sure can’t make you out, Sarah,’ Peter says.
33
I spend the night with Peter again. After our ritual of nightcaps and chat, we undress and lie in the dark together.
Peter touches my cheek. ‘You OK just to lie here and snuggle?’
I wish I were, but having this other man next to me makes me miss Joseph more.
‘I’m not the kind of guy who can just meet a wonderful girl like you and fall in love and do all those … things. I want to – but … I can’t … You understand?’
‘Peter, I’m not following a schedule. There’s nothing to apologise for.’
He moves his legs to lie across mine. ‘I’m still sorry. It’s complicated for me … I have this thing –’
‘Uhum?’ I ask.
‘Things that people do, that make them happy, they don’t work for me.’ He turns his head in my direction, draws me closer. ‘Maybe one day someone will put a gun in your mouth, you’ll hear a click and then you’ll know how it changes everything.’ Peter lifts the sheets up over me and starts tucking me in. He kisses my eyelids. ‘I’ve wanted to do that all night.’
‘That’s sweet.’
‘I’m not sweet Sarah. I’m anything but sweet. But I wouldn’t have stopped last night if I didn’t feel something for you … I just can’t fake it with you. I can only fuck people I hate.’
I focus on the shadows and try to subtly slide away from him. He traps me in his legs and arms.
‘Please stay,’ he says, reading my mind.
Before I fall into a deep sleep, the last vision I have is of the man in the Land Rover who looked like Joseph. The turn of the head, the way he was able to capture Joseph’s Josephness. Every night we lived together, the last thing we said before we went to sleep was ‘good night’ and still, I can’t break the habit. Wherever you are Joe, Goodnight.
Families
1
Dear Daddy,
Sorry I haven’t written for a while, stuff’s been going on. Mum and I had a big row last week – so I went to stay with Kamilla but then I had a feeling something was wrong so I went home. Mum’d taken loads of pills. Luckily I found her just in time and called the ambulance. In time to save her but not all of her. They think she might have lost the use of her kidneys. She’s still in ICU. I visit her everyday but if she gets worse I might have to go to the Rowlands again. I’d rather not go into care but … they’re OK, I guess. He’s a cosmetic dentist and says he’ll do my teeth on the NHS – make them like a Hollywood star.
Don’t think I’m partying and having all my friends over – I’m actually using the peace and quiet to revise for my GCSEs and my one AS level in Maths. They start next week!
Mum’s psychiatrist said maybe it’d be good if she got a kitten to ease the transition of my growing up – apparently he’s got a campaign going to have more animals in mental homes.
Oh my God! The big news! The other day there was a knock at the door – I wouldn’t have answered because quite a few of the flats here have been burgled recently but it was a little old lady – I know, I know you shouldn’t trust people but … anyway, the old lady had a cake and a bag of presents in her hands. I thought she was lost but she was looking For Me! She was Granny Tyler! Y’know, mum’s mum. She said ‘Happy Birthday’ because it was my sixteenth birthday! Over tea and cake, we curled up on the sofa and she told me all about her life and how sad she was that her husband wouldn’t let her see her daughter, Mum.
When Nana Tyler’s husband died and the first thing she wanted to do was get back together with Mum and meet me. For all these years she’d ‘longed’ to see me, her granddaughter, but she’d been too afraid of her husband’s rages. Now he’s gone, she’s sold her house and wants to get a flat in London and go back to college – she wants to study Horticulture, plants and flowers.
We went to see mum who was awake and sitting up with Robert Atkins, her boss, who really fancies her. He paid for her to have a private room and consultant. His wife died recently and we think he wants Mum to marry him – if the suicides and DDU haven’t put him off already!
Robert is trying to get me into a private 6th Form College so I can get the best chance of getting into a good university. I want to study law so I can help mum fight the council tax people. Robert is SO nice – he says I’ll be a great lawyer. He read all the business and legal letters I wrote for Mum and he couldn’t believe a child had written them! I’ve chosen the subjects, everything I’ll need to go to Uni to study Law. What subjects are your sons going to chose? Where are they thinking of going to University?
Do you think you could write back to me? Just say ‘hi’ or something.
Lots of love, Sarah xxx
2
‘Today is the day you talk to Henry,’ says Peter as we walk to the breakfast room.
I nod as a hummingbird hovers in front of me.
We’re taking breakfast in the botanical greenhouse, it’s less intimate than eating in Peter’s room. He points to a table next to a giant bougainvillea tree set with the napkins folded to look like doves.
‘They’re here,’ he says.
Before I can ask who, Yuleka strides over. ‘Well! Look at the two lovebirds!’ She cups her hand over her mouth in mock-geisha modesty. ‘Sarah! My darrrrrling! I told Hard-Dick there’d be fun people around at breakfast time!’
She turns to Henry. ‘Oi! Look who I’ve found!’
My father chuckles.
‘Come on darlings, sit with us.’ She calls over to Ferdi, ‘Boy! Set these two a place at our table.’
Ferdi sees me wince at her rudeness, we exchange a look.
‘He’s a bit of alright, your one … hum? Deee-licious!’ she says, pointing to Ferdi as if he were a ripe melon in a fruit market. ‘Look at ours – he’s like a big, fat hippopotamus and just as bloody slow.’ She wipes hai
r from her mouth, ‘and I think he’s taking drinks from our mini-bar. I’m going to put poison in one of them and if he pukes everywhere we’ll know I’m right!’ She tugs at Peter’s arm and sits him down. ‘We were wondering where you two were yesterday. We all had breakfast at three o’clock in afternoon! Can you believe it? Then we did the glass-bottomed boat thing with Bunny and that man – what’s his name? Then we went down into a grotto, saw a deserted island and had an English cream tea – all in time for Happy Hour!’ She kisses Henry loudly on the top of his bald patch like an old dowager would her Chihuahua.
I break into a bread roll.
‘OK, the breakfast buffet! You guys – don’t go anywhere – we’ll be back!’
‘And that’s a threat!’ says Henry which makes Yuleka screech.
‘You hear what he said? “That’s a threat!” Baby you are so funny!’
The two of them knock into the cold meats platter.
‘Sure he’s your dad?’ asks Peter when they’re out of earshot.
I half-laugh, half-grimace back. ‘We’ll find out today.’
Peter raises his coffee cup to me, and we chink rims.
‘What is it about buffets that makes people fill their plates four times as full as they usually would?’ says Henry. ‘You’d think some of these people had never seen food before!’
‘They probably haven’t,’ Yuleka groans, ‘The people at this hotel are so common.’ She scrapes the fish from her plate into a saucer. ‘Henry, this is smoked trout not salmon. Typical!’
‘Poor baby,’ says Henry patting her wrist, he then turns to me. ‘What do you do in London, Sarah?’
I watch him take a bite on his toast. ‘I’m a lawyer.’
‘These career women, eh? Peter?’ He levers a dollop of scrambled eggs onto his fork, dumps it into his mouth. ‘What area?’
Peter watches me, eyebrows raised.
‘Family Law.’ It’s not true but lays down a trap. I stick the knife into the butter and slice it down the middle.