by Tina Seskis
Six months after Jemma and Dan had broken up, just as she was finally starting to feel slightly better, Jamie rang her. She took the call, hoping for news of Dan, and she got it. Dan was moving to Gloucestershire, Jamie told her, to start a new business there, and he was back with his old girlfriend, Lydia. The girl he’d refused to ever talk about. The one that Veronica had claimed to have adored. How dared he? And so when Jamie went on to ask Jemma if she fancied meeting him for coffee, she was so utterly enraged and heartbroken and drained, all at the same time, that she found herself saying yes, why not?
27
Now
The British police are involved now. It seems they are the media’s puppets, and if the tabloids see fit to investigate Jamie’s disappearance, then so must the Met. Two officers are on their way, the Maldivian police inform me on my doorstep, a little bit sulkily. Lucky them, my cynical self whispers – someone is getting a free trip to paradise.
As the policemen watch me I can tell I’m still not acting right, but what is the correct response in this hellish scenario? Perhaps I’m meant to be grateful? It doesn’t help that I seem to have reached this catatonic state of fear that is occasionally punctuated by a private hysteria. My thoughts are becoming deranged and unreliable, and so I do my best to don an impassive yet suitably grief-stricken mask while retreating ever further into myself. But there’s not enough room inside my own skin for all the conflicting sensations, and I know I need to try harder.
After the Maldivian police take their leave I lie down on the bed, exhausted by the charade. As I find myself going over and over that last evening, snippets of memory reappear, and blind me, like the sun in a mirror. If only I could talk to someone. Even the prospect of being painted a brother-swapping harlot is nothing compared to the vacuum Jamie’s disappearance has created. Yet I daren’t call Sasha or Dad to articulate my feelings, in case the police have tapped the phone – paranoid perhaps, but I mustn’t risk implicating myself. And of course I can’t go near Dan, find out what he makes of it. It wouldn’t look right.
When the British detectives arrive on the island at last it doesn’t seem appropriate to go to meet them, like I did when Veronica and Dan were magicked out of the endless blue sky, in a buzzy little seaplane as bright and bold as a butterfly. Of course I’d only gone that time because I’d thought it was Veronica and Peter. I’d never have done so if I’d even suspected it was Dan arriving – when I’d spotted him the animalistic desire to fling myself into his arms and sob my heart out had been off the scale, and so now I’m doing my best to avoid him. It’s too confusing. It makes me angry.
In truth, I barely leave the bungalow at all any more. Running through the trees was too panic-inducing. Swimming in the sea is out of the question. Being on the beach, I feel spied on. There’s no way on earth I can go to the restaurant and endure the excoriating stares, especially now that, on top of everything else, I’m headline news. And even though I’m still too passive to order in room service, it doesn’t matter, as dear Chati keeps bringing me food. He’s only performing the role that my butler should be doing, but on the rare occasions Moosa does come around now, all he does is stare at me with ill-concealed suspicion, and I want to tell him to just get lost and mind his own business. I think it’s fair to say our servant-master relationship has broken down, and I’m glad. It never felt right to me anyway. Who needs a butler on holiday, for God’s sake?
So what to do? I go into the bathroom and bolt the door, double-check that there’s no-one dead in the bottom of the pool – and then I lie on my back on the hard tiled floor and stare at the sky. It’s impossible to know what to think any more, how to feel. I am stuck in a vortex of in-betweenness, of not knowing what will happen. Who knew a disappearance was such agony? I’ve read similar stories before, of course, and tried to imagine what it must be like, but believe me, it’s worse. It feels as if I’m in a pressure cooker which is well on its way to exploding. My hopes are being cooked. And yet. I told my husband to fuck right off, and now he has. I got what I asked for.
It’s a relief when the phone finally rings. As I get up off the bathroom floor and drift through the bungalow, I no longer feel real. My heart chimes to its own erratic pattern. I approach the phone and it looks like it is shaking, and I suddenly wish it would just shut up. Before I even pick up, I know who it will be, and what she will say, and unfortunately I am right. When I get off the phone I go straight into the toilet and throw up, yet again – and although I want to blame it entirely on the stress of agreeing to see my mother-in-law, I can no longer deny that things might yet be worse than I even imagined.
I’m beginning to think that I might be pregnant.
28
Eighteen months earlier
Jemma had never known what her best friend had against Jamie. OK, Sasha didn’t like bankers. Or gym-obsessives. Or girlfriend-stealers. But, as Jemma had told her a million times, it hadn’t been Jamie’s fault – she’d thrown herself at him, and seeing as Dan had never ever forgiven her, she’d had to move on some time. Yeah, but it didn’t have to be with the brother, Sasha had said once – that was really closing the door. Jemma had had such an uncharacteristic go at her best friend, Sasha had never dared broach it again.
And now, all these years later, Jemma had almost succeeded in forgetting that she’d once been in love with her boyfriend’s brother. The whole debacle had caused such a rift that Jemma hardly ever saw any of Jamie’s family, and Dan and Jamie barely saw each other either. Jemma still felt terrible about being the cause of it, about having switched from one brother to the next – but the reality had been nowhere near as callous as it sounded. For a start, Dan had been back with his ex-girlfriend by then anyway. And Jamie had waited months before calling Jemma, and when they had started going out, he’d been so nice to her. He’d booked tickets to films he’d known she would love, whisked her off to dinner in small, intimate restaurants that felt like going to a corner of Paris, taken her to cool markets she hadn’t even known existed – and his approach had been seductive, and ultimately effective.
My God, Jemma thought now as she sat opposite her long-term boyfriend, that all seemed like a million lifetimes ago. They were in a hip cafe in East London, and it was the weekend and they were sharing the Sunday Times. Jamie had Sport, as usual, and she had the Magazine, as usual. They’d got up late and walked there along the canal, at her suggestion, but the water had been still and grease-pocked, leaden, as if life within it was not possible, and Jamie had barely spoken. She watched him now, studying the Premier League table. These days, and especially since they’d moved in together, he appeared far more smitten with Chelsea and working out than spending time with her. It was as if, as soon as he’d been convinced of her love, he’d started to take her for granted. She’d been his prize catch, his fraternal victory, but now she could stay flailing around in the net as far as he was concerned. Neither let go nor eaten. He could be such a tosser at times.
Jemma tried to knock back her resentment, which was rising relentlessly in her chest like proving dough. Maybe it wasn’t either of their faults that she’d decided it was time they got on with things. Perhaps it was just her age, early thirties, the four years they’d been together, the fact that all of their friends seemed to be getting engaged of late. Maybe it was simply because her biological clock was ticking, ever louder. But whatever the reason, the issue of marriage was forever there now, in the back of his head and hers, like a dirty little secret that they shared. It would be funny if it weren’t so painful.
‘What are you having, Jem?’ Jamie asked.
‘Errrrr …’ Jemma pretended to agonize. ‘Eggs Benedict, I think. For a change.’
‘You are so predictable.’ He laughed.
‘You?’ she said.
‘Four-egg omelette. I need some protein for my weight-training later.’
Jemma tried not to scowl. Why couldn’t he do something with her for the day, like he used to on a Sunday, instead of going off to his
fancy gym for hours? He was so self-obsessed these days.
‘Why don’t we go for a bike ride?’ she said. ‘That’s exercise.’
Jamie looked appalled, and then tried to correct himself. ‘Yeah, if you like,’ he said.
‘No, it’s all right, don’t bother.’
‘Oh, come on, Jem, don’t be like that.’ He crinkled his nose, made his eyes pseudo-sad. It was hard to stay cross with him when he looked at her like that. He paused, took a casual tone. ‘Anyway, I thought we could go to Amalfi.’
‘What? When?’
‘For your birthday.’
Jemma stared at Jamie, disbelieving. The Amalfi Coast was the most romantic place in the world. He knew she’d always wanted to go there. She struggled to suppress the thought, but it came anyway, and although at first the words were unformed in her head, the bridal shapes hollow and ghostly, they were there, and it seemed he’d caught her unawares with his gesture. Yet that was all it was, surely: a gesture. June was a great time to go, he was saying now, as he stirred sugar into his coffee, and besides, there was a La Liga match in Napoli that they could catch, so it would kill two birds with one stone. Yes, he really had just said that. And then he grinned, to show he was joking.
Jemma started to laugh. He took her hand. The sky was bleeding ice, and cold, sad, melting chips were sliding down the steamy windows. The world held its breath.
‘I love you, Jemma Brady,’ Jamie said. ‘Really I do. You laugh at my terrible jokes, curtail my drinking, keep my flat at the leading edge of interior design, and pull me up when I act like a fool.’ His eyes bored into hers. Jemma’s heart had been filling up, like a lock – until he’d said ‘my’ flat. Now she wanted to punch him.
‘What about your boss?’ she said, extra moodily. ‘She’ll probably make you cancel it, like the last time we were meant to be going away.’
‘That was a bone fide crisis, Jem. Honestly, Camille’s not that bad.’
‘Hmph,’ said Jemma. She never knew what bothered her more: the unremitting nature of Jamie’s job itself, or the fact that his boss was French and impeccably glamorous.
‘Oh, come on, sweetheart. We’ll have a fabulous time, I promise.’
Jemma said nothing more, and Jamie was uncharacteristically quiet too as they ate. Afterwards, Jamie paid the bill, and as they walked home the cannonball sky split apart to reveal jags of bright, bitter blue, and Jamie suggested that, as the weather had picked up, it might be good to go cycling after all. And so they did, and it was fun, and Jemma did her best to dispel any misgivings that she’d hitched her wagon to a work-obsessed eternal commitment-phobe whose family hated her. After all, she reminded herself later as they sat in front of Final Score, not only had Jamie come on a mud-spattered bike ride with her, he was taking her to Italy for her birthday, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t let work ruin it. Of course he loved her.
29
Now
The ring on the doorbell is a harbinger. She’s here. My feelings about my mother-in-law are tortured in their ambivalence – in some ways I dread answering the door, in others I yearn to see her, attempt to protest my innocence. She has never liked me, of course, which doesn’t help anything. Yet she has lost her son, and this must be just as tormenting for her. She might even be nice for once.
As I slide back the lock, I find it ironic that I keep the place like a fortress, but then while away the hours on the terrace anyway, where anyone could leap out at me. I think about asking the resort for a bodyguard, as I’m so frightened now, nearly all the time, but I can’t work out just what it is I’m so afraid of. The possibilities are limitless – but there again, I always have had a vivid imagination.
When I finally open the door to Veronica’s bitter-twist face, I want to turn away, as if we’re both magnetic Norths. We repel each other somehow. We always have done – how could I have imagined it might be different now?
‘Hello, Veronica,’ I say. I stand back to let her pass. She’s pristine in white shorts and a navy silk T-shirt, brand-new silver flat sandals. Her smoothly bobbed hair surely should be curdling in the humidity, but the strong lacquer smell gives away her secret, and it makes me feel nauseous. I’m wearing the white beach cover-up again, and I know I look too innocent, too frivolous in her eyes, but I have nothing else better with me. I realized the error of even putting a clip in my hair the first time I was interviewed by the police. My floaty dress had been all wrong, too. Mine is an odd role to try to fulfil. Am I the bereaved bride, or the abandoned bride? Or even the murderous bride? How do I look, Veronica? You tell me. Of course, I wouldn’t dare say it to her. I don’t think anyone has ever petrified me quite as much as she does. I don’t offer her a seat.
‘I’ve just come from lunch,’ she says now.
‘Oh,’ I say. I don’t know what it is with her that leaves my mouth empty of words. Although she seems frailer somehow, she appears more menacing than bereft, and it is odd. It even makes me wonder whether she really does know where her darling Jamie is. Surely not. Maybe it’s simply that it’s so weird to see her here, in the Maldives. Never in my most imaginative of pre-wedding nightmares did my mother-in-law appear on my honeymoon.
‘I just saw that Chrissy woman.’
I stay silent, waiting for her to continue.
‘She had the most enormous plateful of food.’ Ah, Veronica, a snob to the last. People aren’t meant to fill up their plates in a place like this, no matter how bountifully varied or delicious the offerings. Being greedy because it is free is the ultimate sign of ill-breeding in Veronica’s book, and is duly noted, even while her precious son is missing.
‘She was probably getting food for her husband,’ I say. ‘He’s hurt his leg.’
‘Well, she seemed to be enjoying the attention,’ Veronica continues, and I still don’t know why she thinks I would care. A mini-video plays in my head, of Chrissy strutting her magnificent stuff as people swarm around the equally abundant culinary displays, the atmosphere super-charged, thick with mystery. The fact that I’ve gone to ground must be making Chrissy and Kenny even more of a talking point. I have no idea what rumours Veronica may have heard about that last evening the four of us spent together. I dread to think.
‘Oh,’ I say again. Where is this going? ‘Look, Veronica, I’m so sorry about what’s happened.’
‘Hmm,’ she replies, turning her merciless gaze on me, and I’m sure she knows something. Did Jamie tell her? Did he ring her from here, before he went missing? My eyebrow twitches, and I know it makes me look arch, sardonic. I press my back teeth together, to control it.
‘Where is my son?’ she says now, and although the question is soft and rhetorically posited, I feel a swift pulling in of my stomach, as if I am most definitely being accused of something.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, and then I start to cry softly, but Veronica’s not biting. She just continues to stare at me with that equivocal look on her face. But for God’s sake, does she really think I would go to all the trouble of marrying Jamie and then dragging him halfway around the world just to kill him? I’ve had enough.
‘I’m so sorry, I need a lie-down. My stomach’s a bit delicate.’ My voice sounds strong and steady, the opposite of how I feel. I wipe my eyes as I walk to the door and open it. ‘Goodbye, Veronica,’ I say, as she passes through. And then, in a last-ditch change of tack, I raise the cadence of my tone a notch and add, ‘He may be your son but he’s my husband.’ I’m not at all sure of my delivery. Did it convey the despair of a brand-new bride – or not? She turns and gives me a look of such disgust it shrivels my heart, and all I can do is watch impotently as she walks away, her hair immobile, her legs taut and brittle, her silk shirt the only soft thing about her as it swishes gently through the poisoned paradisal air.
30
Eighteen months earlier
Jemma and Jamie were already airside, and miraculously still talking, airports being one of their many pressure points. She’d made sure she was ready to leave the flat
bang on time for a change, and they’d got the cab to the airport at the hour of his choosing, rather than hers, and now that they were through security he seemed a bit less tense, although the real ordeal for him, of course, was still to come. But their new strategy was that they each took their own documents and then only met up for boarding, so she could wander around the shops looking at sunglasses and bikinis (even though Jamie said she had suitcases-full), while he could go straight to the gate and stew. Jamie would rather wait for an hour doing nothing than endure the stress of running for the flight, which he said Jemma did every single time – before proceeding to pick a fight with him in front of everyone. He’d made it plain he would just pretend he wasn’t with her if she was late today, and sometimes Jemma was sure he wished that he wasn’t. The thought made her anxious.
Jemma still didn’t know what Jamie wanted from her in the long term, and it bothered her a little more as each month passed. She even wondered now whether the idea of living together had just seemed a pragmatic next step for him, a convenient way of reducing their respective living costs, instead of an expression of his love. After all, Jemma had felt comfortable in Jamie’s flat, and had been staying there so often it had seemed to make sense that she help him pay the mortgage, although neither of them had ever put it quite like that. Had she really been that gullible? But if not, why wouldn’t he commit to her, after all they’d been through? Had she endured the embarrassment and shame of the long slow rehabilitation into the Armstrong family, as Jamie’s girlfriend rather than Dan’s, for nothing?