The Honeymoon

by Tina Seskis

  My food delivery rescues the situation, rendering more potentially incriminating words unnecessary. Just as Chrissy is about to leave, Chati appears around the side of the bungalow, and I’m even more relieved to see him than usual. He removes his sandals as he steps onto the terrace. His feet are wide and spread out, as though he has barely ever worn shoes. When he puts down the tray, the curry is rich and enticing, the meat cut into perfect-sized glossy chunks, its aroma dizzyingly spicy. There is a tomato carved into the shape of a flower, and I want to put it in my hair. I want to scatter the pure white rice like confetti. I want to drink the coconut water as if it were champagne. I want to rewind time, spool it back just a week or so, to my wedding day, so I can work out what on earth is going on. My head is spinning with utter confusion as Chati places his palms together and bows, and then quietly takes his leave.

  34

  Eighteen months earlier

  Jemma had known what was coming as soon as Greg and Donna invited them to dinner. Greg and Donna never invited anyone for dinner. Donna was a terrible cook for a start, and their flat was always a mess, and not at all suitable for entertaining. Donna normally suggested a night out at a comedy club somewhere, followed by a curry, and would take great pride in matching the guys pint for pint. She and Greg hosting a dinner party was completely out of character.

  Although Jemma was delighted for her friends, convinced they were the best match ever, she didn’t dare tell Jamie what she suspected. It would only have caused a fight, especially so soon after their trip to Amalfi. And anyway, maybe she was wrong. Jamie had grumbled regardless, of course, saying that dinner parties were for old people, and that her friends were all so pretentious it would be another night of one-upmanship over who had seen the most obscure show, or read the most impenetrable book. It made Jemma insecure. Why didn’t Jamie want to do things with her any more? She just wished he’d be a bit more committed. Yet that was the way things seemed to work these days. People lived together, and then, only once they knew they were compatible, did they decide to get married. There was no need to take the plunge too soon, Jamie had always said. But four years was hardly the plunge, was it?

  Jemma tried to empty her mind of these thoughts. They weren’t appropriate here, and certainly weren’t helping her yogic breathing. She stared straight ahead at herself in the studio’s floor-to-ceiling mirror, trying to follow the directions of the calm-voiced instructor, who was dreadlocked, pale, bare-chested, oddly sexy. Beads of sweat oozed menacingly towards her eyes, but she managed to ignore them as she kept her left foot pressed into the top of her right thigh, her back straight, her hands in prayer position. She breathed. Jaya ganesha jaya ganesha jaya ganesha, she said, over and over, in her head. She tried to bully out unwanted thoughts, stop them entering her mind, but despite her private mantra, they refused to go away – it was as if her brain were in stereo, with two channels going on at once, and she couldn’t turn off the negative one. It was doing her head in.

  Jemma was fully aware that she was becoming fixated. Why was she letting an unhealthy obsession with an outdated institution ruin her life? And Jamie’s too, come to think of it. After all, her own parents had more than proved the fallibilities of marriage – and as she remembered the screaming tantrums, the thudding flung shoes, the smash of crockery, she wondered if she would ever move on from growing up in such an atmosphere. No wonder her father had left her mother. No wonder Jamie didn’t want to marry her, the way she’d been behaving lately. Perhaps she, Jemma, was just like her mother, after all. Maybe it was simply in her genes, and nothing, least of all yoga, could fix it.

  The room was sluiced in heat. The man to the left of Jemma was wearing nothing except a pair of tiny, close-to-obscene shorts, and he was working himself too hard, failing to listen to his body. He was hairy, and drenched in sweat, and far too near to her – but she had got used to it, this communing with strangers, as they each pulled themselves into shapes and curves that were meant to help their minds as well as their bodies. Jemma had tried to get Jamie to come once but he’d just laughed at her and said it was a freak show, so now it was something she did separately from him, at least three times a week. She and Jamie consumed so much time separately these days, what with their jobs and their hobbies and their separate friends, that the least he could sodding well do was come for dinner at Donna’s.

  Jemma came out of Rabbit Pose and lay face down on the floor. She breathed. As she folded into one of the final postures, she felt her throat constricting and blood rushing to her head, and the overall sensation left her mind light and floaty and free … and at last futile deliberations about boyfriends and marriage and babies started to melt away, like the last of the snow, as Jemma settled into a rhythm of unfailing trust, and optimism, and eternal harmony with the universe.

  ‘Yay,’ shrieked Sasha, a few hours later. ‘I knew it!’ She jumped up from the makeshift table and rushed around to Donna and consumed her in a congratulatory hug.

  Greg seemed faintly embarrassed, and Jemma wanted to do something to acknowledge his happiness, so she leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Jamie sat still, looking like thunder, and the aura he gave off was noticeable.

  ‘Another one bites the dust, eh, Jamie?’ said Martin, Sasha’s boyfriend. He shovelled a lump of dried-out chicken into his mouth and ruminated amiably, like a cow.

  ‘Ha,’ said Jamie, mirthlessly. He picked up a bottle of red wine from the centre of the table and filled his glass to the brim. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, in a way that made it clear he didn’t mean it. There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Greg, at last, wiping his cheek where Jemma had kissed him. Donna was smiling so hard that Jemma swore her face would split, and it was lovely to see – Donna was normally far too cool for such shows of emotion.

  ‘D’you know where or when yet?’ Sasha asked.

  Jemma didn’t dare say anything after Jamie’s reaction, so she just did her best to look neutral as she waited for Donna to answer.

  ‘Hmm, we’re thinking of running away and doing it on a beach somewhere, aren’t we, Greg? Saves all the family arguments.’

  ‘Oooh, how lovely,’ said Sasha. ‘I’d love to do that.’ It was Martin’s turn to look alarmed now, and it made Jemma cross that they all had to pussyfoot around their boyfriends like this, as though the men thought they were trophies to win, and the women mere desperate harpies who were obsessed with the contest.

  ‘Not with you, Martin,’ said Sasha, not missing a beat. ‘When I find someone I love enough.’ Everyone laughed, and the pressure lifted, just a little.

  Jamie got up and went to the bathroom, and while he was gone Sasha asked Jemma in a low voice whether everything was all right. Greg was struggling with the cork on the champagne he’d had ready in the fridge, and Donna was collecting up an assortment of glasses to serve it in. One of them was cloudy from the dishwasher and another looked like an ice cream sundae dish, or a vase, but as it was Donna and Greg, no-one minded.

  ‘Of course, why?’

  ‘Just you and Jamie don’t seem …’

  ‘Don’t seem what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Sorry, we’ll talk about it another time.’

  ‘OK.’

  Jemma knew what Sasha was going to say, and she also knew Sasha only had her best interests at heart, but frankly, her best friend hadn’t a clue how her and Jamie’s relationship was. Sasha didn’t see their private moments, when they did the crossword in bed, or when they went out for breakfast, or belly-laughed at Peep Show together. She didn’t see Jamie sorting out her washing for her, tidying away her knickers, folding up her socks, so she’d always find what she needed when she was in a panic in the mornings. She didn’t see him planning her route when she had to drive somewhere unfamiliar, as he knew she got so stressed by her inability to map-read. Neither did Sasha realize quite how into football Jemma was now, nor how exciting the end of the season could get. Sasha had never trusted Jamie, but Sasha was wron
g – and anyway, Jemma thought, people couldn’t help who they fell for. So as she sat there drinking champagne with Greg-and-Donna and Sasha-and-Martin and Kate-and-Angus, her brain became alcohol-softened, and she grew certain that her time would come, as it would for everybody. She and Jamie had been through so much already, and they loved each other. Everything would work out; she was sure of it.

  When Jamie came back to the table, he still seemed angry. His face said it all, as if he thought the whole thing was a conspiracy, and once they got home he would surely tell Jemma that her friends were all so competitive that they wouldn’t be content with trying to prove how highbrow they were any more. Now the contest, according to Jamie, would be wedding venues and baby names. Jemma had heard it all before.

  ‘More chicken, Jamie?’ said Donna.

  ‘Oh. No, thanks.’ Jamie upturned the bottle in front of him, but just a dribble of red slid out of it. ‘Have you got any more wine?’

  Jemma gave him a look, but he ignored her. The evening was already in danger of disintegrating into tearful drama when they got home as it was, although hopefully they’d be drunk enough to simply pass out and avoid any unpleasantness – or would she try to pick a fight, even if he was unconscious? Nothing would surprise her, and if Jemma were honest, that was part of the problem. Why would he want to marry someone like her? She might have her good qualities, and the guilt-laden soap-operatic nature of their getting together had definitely heightened the romance, but perhaps he thought she was just too neurotic to be a keeper. Maybe he needed someone more stable as a wife, someone his mother didn’t hate. Jemma and Jamie. Jamie and Jemma. Did it sound right, or not? Jemma put down her knife and fork and picked at a patch of dry skin behind her ear.

  Sasha was staring at Jamie, who was still acting like a dick, and Jemma saw him blanch. Sasha took no prisoners, and it was good for him to know that her friends were looking out for her. But what could Sasha do? What could she, Jemma, do? She couldn’t make him want to marry her.

  ‘Jamie, should we get going soon?’ she stage-whispered after the dessert had been served and the conversation had turned to engagement party venues. ‘We’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  Jamie looked startled, as though he’d been let out of jail, just when he’d been least expecting it.

  ‘Uh, OK,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry everyone,’ Jemma announced, as she stood up and her chair toppled over behind her. ‘We’ve got to go home.’ Jemma was aware her words and her mouth were very slightly out of synch.

  ‘Oh, OK, Jem. Lovely to see you.’

  Jemma’s eyes danced around the room, taking in the saggy sofa and the art house movie poster prints, and the ‘Congratulations’ cards already propped up on the over-filled mantelpiece amongst the candles and the photos, the happy homely chaos. It all felt out of reach to her suddenly.

  ‘Thanks for having us,’ Jamie said, as he took hold of Jemma’s elbow, a little too firmly in Jemma’s opinion. She teetered next to him, her heels unmanageable. He smiled apologetically. ‘I think I need to get her home.’

  ‘Yessh, I’m very, very tired,’ Jemma said. She beamed at her friends. ‘Shee you all shoon.’

  Everyone was laughing at her, in that affectionate way old friends do, and Jamie went along with it. But once they were in the cab, Jamie wasn’t laughing at her any more; he was telling her she was a bloody disgrace. And when they got home Jemma didn’t remember much, or at least not until the next morning, when Jamie came into their room to get his work clothes and he was obviously not talking to her – and he had a deep red scratch beneath his eye, like you might get from a cat, if they’d had one.

  35

  Now

  The spectre of Jamie swims about in my head, gurgles through my internal network. The more time that passes, the more the fear grows, like hunger. In desperation I turn to yoga, to see if that will help. I daren’t do it on the terrace, in case someone spots me, so instead I retreat into the confines of the bungalow. I start to download a yoga app, but then think better of it, in case the police go through my phone. It might look frivolous. I don’t have my yoga gear, so I put on a fuchsia-pink swimming costume, the only one-piece I brought with me. I keep the doors open, turn off the air conditioning, let in the hot jungle air to help make me bendy.

  I find it hard to concentrate at first, but I burrow my thoughts into my stomach cavity and focus on my breathing. In out in out jaya ganesha jaya ganesha jaya ganesha. I start with side bends, back bends, forward bends. I move into Downward Dog. I do the Cat. I instantly fall over when I attempt the Tree. I’m not sure what I’m meant to be doing, can’t remember the sequence, but it doesn’t matter. I feel a release I haven’t felt before now. My mind is planing over the surf of the anguish, instead of being mired in its swirling waters. I lie on the floor, put my fists under my thighs and arch my back. I breathe. I lift one leg high in the air. I shut my eyes, and breathe. I lift the other leg. I use my arms and my elbows to arch my back and prop up my pelvis. I breathe. When I open my eyes again I am looking up past my body at two people standing in the doorway, and the sun is behind them, and at first I think it’s Jamie and Dan, and I just can’t believe it.

  ‘Mrs Armstrong?’ says the taller of the men. ‘I’m Detective Constable Neil Simpson of the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to talk to you about your husband’s disappearance.’

  I stare up into the policemen’s faces and never have I felt so naked. I move my elbows, drop my bottom to the floor, clumsily sit up, hunch my shoulders. I virtually curl up into a little ball, hiding the bold pink-covered pubis which a minute ago I’d been thrusting at them. For a second I wish I could just vanish too, like Jamie.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘You might want to get dressed,’ Detective Constable Simpson says. I’m not sure of his tone. Is it disapproval, or is he mocking me? ‘We’ll be waiting out the front.’ The two men turn on their heel and leave the terrace. I stare at the space where they were, as if transfixed by their absence … and then I remember myself. I spring to my feet, run in to the bedroom, yank open the wardrobe, and proceed to put on as many clothes as I think I can get away with, layer upon layer, without looking mad. I lick my palms and smooth down my hair. And with that, I leave the relative safety of my bungalow and head out to where the policemen are waiting for me, to face the metaphorical music at last.

  36

  A year or so earlier

  ‘Jamie, I’ve got something to say,’ Jemma began. It was a few weeks after the dinner at Donna and Greg’s, and things were a little better again, and perhaps the hot yoga was finally starting to work, as she hadn’t lost her temper once since that diabolical night. She and Jamie had been getting on well, he’d uncomplainingly missed a key Chelsea game and a night at the pub to come to a work event with her, and she’d been gracious in the extreme regarding his weekend gym visits. Everything was fine-ish. But Jemma had made up her mind. ‘Ish’ just wasn’t enough.

  ‘Jamie. It’s important.’

  Her boyfriend looked up at her at last. The note in her voice cut through his concentration on the football, which Chelsea were cruising anyway. The blinds were closed. The side lamps were lit. They each had a glass of red wine, viscous and blood-temperature. The room exuded a warm familial glow, although it was just the two of them. She could tell he was irritated at the interruption.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jemma picked up her wine glass and took a sip. ‘I can’t carry on, not knowing where it’s going.’

  There. She’d said it. It felt like playing Russian Roulette, with just two chambers.

  ‘Jemma, sweetheart,’ Jamie said. ‘What on earth are you going on about now?’

  Jemma spoke calmly, and she was glad that Sasha had made her rehearse it so many times. She refused to let him make her feel that she was the one with the problem. She stood up, and positioned herself between him and t
he TV.

  ‘Jamie, we live together. We have been together for four-and-a-half years. I love you. And if you don’t want to marry me that’s fine, but I can’t wait around any longer for you to make up your mind.’

  Jamie said nothing, just stared at the floor. All his bravado was gone, and she’d never seen him like this. Maybe he wasn’t used to her being so controlled.

  At last he spoke. ‘Jemma, I’m just … I’m just not ready.’

  Jemma put down her wine glass very, very carefully. She thought of the hours he spent at the gym, the hours he spent at work. ‘Is there someone else?’ she said.

  Did he look away for a fraction too long? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘No,’ he said. He didn’t seem indignant to be asked, though, and weren’t people usually ultra-defensive when they were guilty? Her dad certainly had been. ‘Jemma, it’s not that, I promise,’ he continued. ‘It’s just that you’re too …’

  ‘I’m too what?’ She tried to keep the menace out of her voice.

  Jamie changed tack. ‘Look, Jem, I … I just need to think about things. Will you give me some time?’

  ‘How long?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of days?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Jemma?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He stood up, moved towards her. She took a step back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘About what?’

  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘That it’s come to this.’

  ‘Jamie, I don’t care. I don’t need to hear it. I just need to know what you want.’ Jemma didn’t know where she’d got this strength of purpose from, but she was determined not to buckle now.

  Jamie looked a little bewildered, as though he was expecting more drama. Maybe he’d have preferred her to have just stormed out, rather than leaving the ball in his court.