by Tina Seskis
The doorbell rang.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked.
Dan shrugged and made no effort to go, which surprised her. He was usually so gallant. Instead, Jemma got up herself, wrapped her stripy dressing gown around her diminutive frame and padded down the carpeted stairs to the front door. ‘Who is it?’ she called, and even though the response was unintelligible, she opened up anyway, her security routines quite lacking, as Dan had told her often enough over the last several months.
An unknown man was standing in the porch, scowling, the rain dripping off him. He was holding the most enormous bunch of flowers, which bemused Jemma yet further. He shoved the bouquet into her arms, and promptly turned around and stomped off, yet still she didn’t fully understand. She took the flowers into the kitchen – they were a wondrous mix of pale-yellow roses, freesias and daisies that smelled of the summer. There was a card with them, and when she opened it, and it said, ‘Happy anniversary, let’s hope today’s date is better than the first, love D x’, she gasped so loudly Dan surely must have heard it from the bedroom.
And now Jemma was back in bed, sobbing into Dan’s arms, unable to explain how she felt. How could she possibly articulate it? I had no idea it was a year. I’m gutted that it is. It was never even meant to go beyond the first date – it was Sasha who engineered the whole thing. You might be a lovely guy but this has gone on for far too long. You’re just not the one for me. You’re not my type. It was all too dreadful. Dan held her as she cried, which only made her feel worse. How much had those flowers cost him? A fortune, she was sure. He didn’t have the kind of money to spend on someone like her.
‘Jemma,’ Dan said.
‘Yes?’
‘I know.’
‘You know what?’
‘I know you’re upset that it’s been a year.’
‘Oh God, is it that obvious? I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ Dan kissed the top of her head and then he gently unravelled himself from her, got out of the bed and walked naked across the room. She stared at the smooth breadth of his back, at the faint T-shirt tan marks on the arms that a moment ago had been holding her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going.’
‘Where?’
‘Home.’
‘Oh,’ Jemma said. ‘Why?’
‘Jem, it’s OK.’ He dressed quickly. Jemma cowered under the duvet, and she felt words forming in her chest, yet still she couldn’t say them. All she could do was watch him, her eyes wide and startled, her amber hair post-coitally awry. Was it over? And if so, who was dumping who here?
Dan came over to the bed and kissed her lightly on the top of her head. She pictured the flowers, fresh, delicate, dumped in the kitchen sink.
‘I’ll give you a call,’ he said. And then he was gone.
13
Now
Day Two zooms in, as if it’s on steroids. Dad calls me, even though it must be gone one in the morning in England, and that’s so typical of him – that he waited until I might be awake, and his considerateness during a time of such crisis makes my heart break. He needn’t have bothered, though: I’ve barely slept. Anyway, he’s done it, he tells me. He’s rung my in-laws – yesterday evening, England time. Twenty-one or so hours after their son was last seen Peter and Veronica were informed. Was that too late? Should we perhaps have done it earlier? I try to convince myself that there might yet be an entirely innocent explanation; and besides, Peter is unwell, and his heart might not have taken it. I hadn’t wanted to worry them unnecessarily.
As Dad and I talk, I long to just blurt out everything to him, but of course I mustn’t. I mustn’t tell anyone what was going on in the dun depths of my shiny new marriage – and then I remember that I might have told Chrissy. What the hell did I say to her on the beach? I feel trapped by the hotel phone’s cord and wish I was on my mobile so I could move around, run at the walls, get my stress out. Instead, I force myself to stand still, contain my hysteria, keep my feet planted on the smooth, cool tiles: try to let the tension drain downwards, like an earth. As I hear Dad’s steady, smooth tones, so clearly he might as well be in the next room, I thank God for his calmness, his ability to make the decisions that need to be made. He was the one who’d insisted my in-laws were told, and he was right, of course he was. He hadn’t actually said it as such, but he’d made me realize that we needed to know. We needed to know if they knew where their son was. That he might yet have disappeared deliberately.
Dad is again suggesting he comes out here, but still I don’t know what to say. I want him to come, but also I don’t. I’m pretty sure he’s never been further afield than Italy. We’ve never had the kind of relationship where we hang out together. And what would he do? Poke about in the bushes? Go out on the boats? Lie on the beach? Yet I’m truly grateful that he’s offered. I might not have a husband any more, nor a mother for that matter, but if I need my dad, he will come, whenever I ask him to, and that makes me feel better. I feel almost happy about it, in a weird sort of way – although happiness is an abstract construct right now, something pale and off in the distance. Perhaps there for the taking, perhaps not.
Despite how it’s looking, I’m praying that there could still be a good outcome. One theory is that maybe my husband has managed to get off the island somehow. They have counted the boats and the kayaks, and they’re all here, but you never know. Maybe that’s why he spent so much time down at the dive centre, hanging out with the marine biologist. And there are plenty of islands nearby, nearly all uninhabited, all potential hiding places. Maybe Pascal helped him, and then paddled the boat back – that would explain why he’d seemed so odd when I went out in one of the search boats with him. It’s a possibility, and I pray it’s true. I pray anything is true other than that my husband is dead. I don’t care how outlandish it is, or how much we’ve betrayed each other. ‘Please don’t let him be dead,’ I cry down the phone to my dad, and all he can do is shush me gently from afar.
When I finally hang up, I feel even more bereft. I can feel Dad’s absence too, now, as if it has a solid form to it, like a father-shaped force-field – and then I metaphorically shake myself off, tell myself to stop being mad. It’s a new day. It’s time for action. I put in yet another call to Reception, and my voice sounds like that of an imposter. They finally connect me to the manager, and although I try to keep calm, I soon resort to shouting that he needs to do something – but all he says is that he’ll be in touch as soon as possible with details of the next stage of the search, whatever that may be. Afterwards, I take a long seething shower that I find hard to end, and not just because the bathroom is so heavenly. When I go to get dressed, I still don’t know how I should look. What should I wear? Should I brush my hair, or leave it wild and dishevelled? I search my wardrobe, but I only have beach clothes in bright, vivid colours. I have no widow’s black. My thought processes appal me.
Finally, I settle on a simple blue sundress. I comb my hair neatly. I dab some powder on my face, and it makes me look paler. And then I screw up all of my courage and head out on foot to the breakfast buffet – I left my bike there last night and I can’t face calling Moosa to pick me up. When I arrive, the staff are so wordlessly sympathetic they make me want to weep. Bobbi is double quick at bringing me my tea, and the buffet servers are more assiduous than ever in trying to offer me food, but all I can face is a croissant. The American woman who normally forms one half of the ear-licking couple is there on her own for a change, perhaps out of solidarity with me. She sits down opposite, without even asking, and tells me her name is Laurie, and then she tries to engage me in pseudo-sympathetic conversation, and I wonder if she’s being kind, or just being nosy. I end up making my excuses and legging it, having taken barely a bite out of my breakfast. I retrieve my sand bike and take it for yet another pointless ride around the island, searching for any sign of my husband, although I worry that it might simply look like I’m on a bike ride, enjoying myself. Even going out now, to
eat at the restaurant, to join in the search parties, is beginning to feel beyond me. I can’t bear what people might be saying.
I give up and head to Reception, where I demand to see the manager. I want to ask him face-to-face what is going on. Leena shakes her head sympathetically and tells me that he’s not available right now, but that he’ll come to see me soon, to update me. I’m too wired to make a fuss, and so I nod wordlessly and cycle back to my bungalow. I feel exhausted, and it’s still only ten o’clock in the morning. I check my phone for messages, but there are none, scan the Internet for any news, but there’s nothing (thank goodness), and then I slump helplessly onto the bed.
After maybe half an hour the doorbell rings. It’s the manager, as promised. He says he’s just contacted the Maldives National Defence Force, and they’re on their way, with speedboats, and seaplanes, and thermal imaging equipment, whatever that is. I don’t know what to say. He asks me if I want anything else, and I shake my head wordlessly, and he leaves. The scale of the planned operation is utterly numbing. Panic has been replaced with torpidity. Disbelief. I go out onto the terrace and stare out through the bush to the smooth, winking water, but I don’t search for someone snorkelling any more. Now I look for pale mottled skin, bloated and buoyant. Now I search out there only for death.
Chrissy comes by the bungalow around lunchtime, ostensibly to see how I am, and it revives me a little. She reminds me in a way of Sasha, and I am grateful to her, although I still can’t quite work out her motivation. But perhaps I didn’t incriminate myself the other night, after all, and maybe she genuinely cares. I don’t dare broach it. I politely offer her a drink from the minibar, and she politely asks for a gin and tonic, and I have one too, and we take them outside and sit down at the table.
‘So, how are you doing?’ she asks, after an awkward silence. Even she looks a bit rough for a change. Her cut-off denim shorts and vest top are as revealing as ever, but her hair is piled on her head in a messy topknot and her eyes are tired.
‘Oh. You know …’ I don’t know what to say. There are verbal landmines wherever I look.
‘Is there any news?’
‘No. None.’ Should I ask her about what happened the other night, now that Kenny’s not around to hear? Or will I implicate myself? I tell her that the Maldivian army’s coming, and she seems as shocked as I was, and then we sit in silence – and it’s as if we’re both holding counsel, waiting to see what the other one leads with.
‘Don’t you think you should ask someone to come out and support you?’ she says, at last.
‘Who?’
‘I dunno. Your mum and dad?’
‘My mum’s dead.’ I’m aware how harsh that sounded, and feel bad for her.
‘Oh … Sorry.’ She fishes in her bag and I hear the popping of pill packets, and then she puts her palm to her mouth, and swigs down whatever she’s taking with gin. I almost ask for some tablets too, but not after last time. Maybe that’s where all the trouble started. I just wish I could remember.
‘That’s all right.’ I say it softly, trying to make up for my bluntness.
Chrissy sounds hesitant now. ‘Have you … Have you got a dad?’
‘Yes, he’s offered to come.’
‘Oh, fab.’ Her relief is touching.
‘But I’ve said no.’
‘Oh.’ Chrissy drains her drink and stands up. She looks close to tears, and I feel sorry for her. She seems almost tormented now, and I think about Kenny, and his bad leg, and his possible mean streak, and I wonder.
‘Look, just call me,’ she says. ‘If you need anything.’
‘Yes, I will,’ I reply, although we both know I won’t. She briefly hugs me, but I can tell she can’t wait to get away, like yesterday at Reception, and who can blame her? I wonder again if I’m becoming unhinged, and for a moment I long to call someone – Sasha, perhaps – to confess what I’ve done, but I know that I mustn’t. That would be a very stupid move indeed.
Once Chrissy’s gone I realize I’m ravenous. I’ve barely eaten anything since that last fateful dinner, but there’s no way I’m going to dine out tonight. The shameful dull thrill of being the centre of attention has completely left me now, and I can no longer entertain being seen around the island, cannot stand the suspicion on the faces of the other guests, the faux sympathy. Neither can I stomach the choices that the behemoth of a buffet offers up, and I’m glad to give it a miss. Yet, despite my hunger, even calling room service seems trite somehow. Instead, I’m about to raid the minibar for a chocolate bar and a bag of cashew nuts when, almost miraculously, my favourite chef arrives with a plate of food, a delicious local curry that tempts me even in this state, despite myself, and I would better show my gratitude to him if I weren’t so embarrassed. He’s so sweet and smiley, it brings a lump to my throat, a sting to my eyes – especially as the housekeeping staff, who still attend to the bungalow assiduously, tend to stare at me now. I worry what rumours might be circulating amongst the staff.
Time becomes fluid, like the ocean. After I’ve eaten, more hours drift by, hours of rigid boredom and fear and helpless gazing out to the unrestrained sea, and somewhere amidst this torpor army boats start appearing and seaplanes begin to sully the sky. Just as the sun is saying its showy goodbye to this most agonizing of days, more delicate culinary offerings are delivered to me like unexpected gifts, and I’m truly grateful. And then the phone rings in the bungalow, and it’s my mother-in-law. She’s on her way, she tells me, and terror grips me, but I tell myself I have to be strong, and I say that I’ll see her tomorrow.
14
Six-and-a-half years earlier
This time, Jemma almost wished that Sasha would help her out and do her dirty work for her. It was Monday evening, and she still hadn’t heard from Dan, although before the events of Saturday they’d taken to speaking most days. More than sixty hours had passed since he’d left her flat on the one-year anniversary of their first abortive date, and Jemma had had time to run through a whole gamut of emotions since then. She wondered whether she would hear from him again, although he’d definitely said he would call, and he was usually utterly reliable. She found the thought of him not calling unpalatable, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Part of it was pride, certainly, and part was indignation – but perhaps it was more than that.
Jemma stepped out of her work skirt and put on some old tracksuit bottoms and a pair of Dan’s (dirty) thick work socks that she’d foraged through the laundry basket for. She cooked herself a carbonara for dinner, but it wasn’t as good as the one he’d made for her two weeks ago, even though she’d taught him how to do it. She sunk into her sofa and put on the TV, but watching Curb Your Enthusiasm wasn’t as funny without him. Grand Designs made her think of him, of his love of the earth and its resonance with architecture, his guileless enthusiasm for life’s simple pleasures, the effect he’d had on her own equilibrium. She switched off the TV, picked up her iPad, and browsed online idly and pointlessly. She went on to Facebook, but she wasn’t in the mood for other people’s clever children, or their latest exotic holidays, or pictures of what they’d had for dinner. Even Sasha, who could usually be relied upon to make her laugh, had taken a serious turn this evening and had shared an anti-global-warming post. The fact that the Maldives were in danger of disappearing in the next few years didn’t cheer up Jemma either, and she swore that she would visit before it was too late. And when her next thought was that maybe she could go there on honeymoon with Dan, she knew that she was definitely in trouble, and perhaps ready to grow up at last.
‘Hello?’
‘Dan, it’s me.’
‘Hi, Jemma.’ His voice was neutral, hard to unpick. She huddled into her pyjamas, curled her toes.
‘I thought you said you would call.’
‘I was going to call tonight.’
‘Oh.’ Six words to make her heart leap.
‘I’m glad you called first.’ Five more.
‘Dan, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Sasha told me.’
‘What?’
‘I rang Sasha, and she told me to give you some space.’
Jemma couldn’t keep up. ‘What are you talking about? How did you even have Sasha’s number?’
Dan sounded nonchalant. ‘We swapped numbers ages ago, when we went there for dinner – just in case, she said, but fortunately I didn’t get the wrong idea.’ Dan laughed, but Jemma said nothing. ‘She obviously knows you too well. Look, I don’t want to pry into anything, but Sasha said that you could sometimes be a bit, er, erratic – her words, not mine, Jem.’
‘Oh.’ Jemma couldn’t trust herself to say anything else. Why was Sasha always interfering in her life? She wasn’t her mother, for God’s sake.
‘So she suggested I give you some space for a bit.’
Jemma stared up at her bedroom ceiling, which Dan had helped her paint. He’d taken her to the timber merchant’s in his van, too, and put up the shelves in the corner alcove for her. He’d done a good job, she thought, as she looked at them now. He was always nice to her. Why had she pushed him away? What was she frightened of?
‘Well, I’ve never had anyone sob that they were still going out with me,’ Dan continued. ‘I must admit that was a first. But, you know, unpredictable’s good.’
‘Dan,’ Jemma said. ‘Can I come over?’
‘When?’
‘Now. Right now.’
Dan hesitated. She thought his voice caught a little as he said, ‘Sure,’ and then he hung up.
A few hours later, Dan and Jemma were at his place. They’d had a takeaway and were cuddled up on the sofa watching a movie she’d perversely insisted on. It made Jemma freak out a little, and he squeezed her tighter and asked her if she was OK, but she didn’t feel OK. She didn’t like horror movies, and she didn’t like crying in front of Dan. Yet it felt so safe with him, and he was so nice, and the moment bore the faint poignancy of the ordinary, of normalcy. As if this was what other couples did. She was relishing the mundanity of it.