by Tina Seskis
After lunch Jemma and Jamie returned to the beach, in the absence of anything better to do. As Jemma lay down, she felt weird rather than sad, as if she were floating on the top of a mountain, and it added to her feelings of dissociation. She pretended not to notice when the blingy couple walked past and Jamie’s eyes lingered on the girl for just a little too long. They looked so happy together, and it made Jemma furious at herself. What had she been thinking? She and Jamie should never have come on this trip; it was just compounding the cataclysm. Jemma picked up her magazine, tried to focus, but she really didn’t care what shape autumn coats were set to be, or how to make her lips fuller. She gave up, tried to shut her eyes for a bit, but the sun was too strong on her face. She turned over, lay on her front, but she needed sun cream on, and she couldn’t bear to ask Jamie to do it. Finally, after how long she had no idea, Jemma found that she couldn’t lie there for a single second longer, and so she leapt up from her sun lounger, careered down the sand and dived into the warm, lapping water, trying to drown out her ever-growing feelings of shame, and bewilderment, and anger.
55
Chrissy
A few hours later, Chrissy was lying in the bath, and she could hear the faint swoosh of the breeze through the trees and the popping of the bubbles in her ears, and above her the stars were winking at her, as if in approval of something. Kenny had wandered down to the beach to look for bioluminescent plankton, whatever that was, and she’d been happy to let him. As she looked about her, she knew she would never take another bath more perfect in her life. She sighed and closed her eyes, and felt herself sinking into a golden well of inner peace and happiness. She’d had three cocktails at lunchtime, plus two lots of co-codamol that she knew she didn’t really need, and the buzz was like a very low motor, oiling her heart, her mind, her very being. It was paradise lost, and then found again, and she tried to remember who had written that poem. She knew it was something to do with Adam and Eve, she remembered that much from school, and although everyone had written her off, she’d been brighter than anyone had given her credit for. And she’d certainly known how to make the most of herself – otherwise she wouldn’t be here, would she?
She heard the pad of Kenny’s footsteps coming back through the bungalow and her mind quickened. She opened her eyes and smiled at her new husband, her mouth glossy and seductive. Kenny leaned over and kissed her, and she put her hand behind his neck and pulled him towards her, and then fully into the bath, and he laughed as water went everywhere, and next he was pulling her up and out, and dragging her, giggling, into the plunge pool, where there was more room, and she felt swept away on a tide of pills and passion and Pina Coladas, and afterwards they lay down on the bed and did it again, and she liked the feeling of his bulk on her, pinning her down … and then they showered and got dressed and went for dinner.
56
Jemma
The sky was ever darkening as Jemma’s honeymoon edged further towards the abyss. As if things weren’t bad enough, she could hear the people next door having sex now. Here she was, on the second evening of her honeymoon, and her misery had metamorphosed into rage. She wanted to stick pins into her husband and make him disappear. She wanted to kill the neighbours. She wanted to tell Moosa, their obsequious butler, that they could walk the two minutes to the restaurant, thank you very much, that they didn’t need him to fetch them a golf buggy. It was as if the switch for her feelings for Jamie had been flicked off forever, and now, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t turn them on again, and it was infecting how she felt about everything. Their honeymoon had the dismal downbeat of a funeral dirge – and surely something would have to happen soon to break the tension.
Jemma flinched on the day-bed as she heard her neighbour squeal again, and it sounded a little affected to her, put on almost. She and Jamie still hadn’t consummated their marriage, although he hadn’t pressed the point, thank goodness. Last night Chelsea were playing anyway, and he’d got Moosa to come around specially to find the channel, and it was an important match apparently, so that had killed a couple of hours. Today they’d swum and sunbathed and snorkelled at the beach outside their bungalow, and it had been beautiful, but she’d been barely able to sit still. It was ironic that she’d wanted to come to a place like this because there was nothing much to do, except be together, enjoy their union. Yet now they were here, it seemed as if the world had been emptied of people and purpose, leaving nothing more than a faux happiness, a mere apparition of paradise. There was something about this island, and Jemma didn’t like it. It wasn’t just her own circumstances – it felt more sinister than that somehow, and she couldn’t work it out.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Jamie, who thankfully was lying on the other day-bed, although there was room for them both on hers. ‘Will she ever shut up?’
‘I know, it’s just too awful.’ This was perhaps the first completely natural exchange they’d had with each other since they’d been married, and to Jemma it felt like a relief. There was nothing like eavesdropping on someone else’s intercourse to lighten the atmosphere. There was a violent rhythmic slapping of water, and then a final squeal of satisfaction, and it was over. The world grew quiet, and large, the blackening sea expanding into the universe, becoming one with the sky. Jemma felt so bad for Jamie, that their honeymoon wasn’t the romantic idyll either of them had expected, but at least he seemed to assume it was just her hormones – being perennially histrionic did have some advantages. Jemma still had no idea how to play it. She couldn’t decide what she wanted. What was best for him. What was best for her. It was a train wreck.
‘Has she got fake boobs?’ Jamie said now.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The girl next door?’
‘Doh! What do you think?’
‘Does that mean yes?’
‘Well, have you seen anyone else’s breasts defy gravity when they’re lying on their back?’
‘It’s odd, isn’t it … She’s attractive, though.’
‘Gorgeous,’ Jemma said, and she didn’t know what had got into her. She used to get so jealous. But maybe it would do her a favour if he did fancy someone else. Make the honeymoon easier to bear, any annulment proceedings easier to arrange, if the regret were mutual.
Jamie huffed as he took a swig of his beer, and she felt guilty again. How could he possibly understand how she was feeling? And besides, this was his life at stake. She needed to try harder.
The silence pressed in on them. There was nothing to say. There was no-one around. Even next-door was post-coitally quiet now. Giant bats flew soundlessly above their heads as the last of the daylight receded.
‘I think I might go for a bike ride,’ she said finally. She nearly asked him if he wanted to come, and then she didn’t. It seemed she couldn’t try harder, after all.
‘Fine.’
Jemma got up and padded across the terrace to the large wooden bucket, which, as ever, was full of clean water. The housekeeping staff appeared to glide around and through the bungalows when the guests weren’t looking – topping up the foot-rinsing tubs, sweeping the sandy paths clear of every last leaf, polishing the already-shiny taps, folding away clothes, arranging petals in heart shapes on the beds, replacing the fluffy robes, restocking the minibar. Faking perfection. Jemma could feel Jamie’s eyes boring into her back as she bent over and poured. His mood felt unstable, as though he wasn’t quite sure which way it would go, how he would handle her. A shimmer of disquiet skimmed through her as he followed her into the bungalow and watched her put on her running shoes. She didn’t like to run here. No-one ran. This was a place for relaxing, not running. But she could cycle, thank goodness, and the tyres of her bike were fat and soft as they squished through the sandy trails between the coconut trees, and at least it was one thing she enjoyed doing here.
‘Where are you going?’ Jamie asked.
‘Just across the island,’ she said. ‘I need to get some air.’
‘It’s dark.’
&nbs
p; ‘It’s fine, the paths are lit.’
‘Are you going to the dive centre?’
‘Of course not. It’ll be shut anyway. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
Jemma didn’t answer.
‘What are we doing for dinner?’ he said.
‘Shall we go to the buffet?’
‘Yeah, great.’ His tone was hostile, not that she could blame him.
‘Well, I don’t know, Jamie. What do you want to do?’
Jamie gave Jemma a look of disgust, and she knew she deserved it. She needed to get her head straight. Maybe they should have it out, and then arrange to fly home tomorrow.
‘I’m sorry, Jamie,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’ She walked out through the front door and took her bike, which was leaned up against the bungalow, unlocked of course, because there was no crime here, there were no criminals. There was nothing but peace and beauty and sun-kissed perfection, and she loathed it. As she pedalled through the moon-fringed darkness, the swish of the sand was both silky and grating. Once she passed the apex of the island, all three feet of it, the path continued slightly downhill, and it became easier going. Jemma dared herself to leave the brakes alone now, and as the bike picked up speed, it was exhilarating and frightening – and suddenly too much to bear. She slammed on the brakes, far too hard, and her back wheel skidded sideways through the sand as she crashed off-course through the thickest part of the undergrowth. She only spotted the brown and gold of a resort staff shirt, the stricken face above it, too late. The face twisted with pain as she made contact.
‘Owww, sorry. Sorry sorry sorry,’ Jemma said, over and over, as if it were a verbal tic.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ the man said. His voice was muffled. Her knee was bleeding, and he was doubled over in obvious agony. Jemma was mortified.
‘I’m so sorry, I was just taking a shortcut,’ she said, and they both laughed, but she knew it wasn’t funny. She recognized him as one of the staff from the buffet, and although usually he was cheerful, his face wore more of a grimace right now. Yet he was as polite as everyone else who worked here, and he helped dust her down and then insisted on wheeling her bike to the dive centre, where a golf buggy miraculously was waiting to whisk Jemma back to her husband, who was stewing alone in their beautiful bungalow, on the other side of this idyllic tainted island.
57
Chrissy
The boat was large and wooden, traditional in style, with a wide, shallow belly and a covered roof. There were only eight people on the trip, although there was space to fit five times that. The sky was unabridged in its blueness, and when they first headed out across the calm cobalt sea towards a reef where the coral breathed and the turtles swam, Chrissy tried to remember a time in her life when things had felt as clear and pure, and she couldn’t. The sea breeze was cool and comforting, a welcome antidote to the fierceness of the sun, which was high in the sky and all-powerful already.
Chrissy was lying on top of the flat roof of the boat, with Kenny sitting beside her, taking hundreds of photos, which she was sure would be fantastic but would undoubtedly all look the same. As she’d climbed the steep steps, Chrissy had felt more pairs of eyes on her than just her husband’s, and it gave her a guilty thrill of pleasure, that she had this effect on people. The apparently joyless couple were on the trip with them, plus another obviously English pair who were assiduous in their coupledom, and although they’d all nodded at each other, no-one had attempted to strike up any kind of conversation. In the end she’d suggested to Kenny that they go up on the roof, and sod everyone if they were going to be snooty. One of the Chinese couples was also on the trip, dressed in matching Lycra suits which reminded Chrissy of flies, or those people that get flung at a Velcro wall for some unfathomable reason. But, she thought pragmatically, good for them – at least there was no risk of them getting sunburn – and she’d given them her biggest, most friendly smile, which seemed to have frightened the life out of them.
As the boat headed further out, the waves gradually increased in size, and the sea got bluer and darker, like a developing bruise, but still the swell was just about gentle enough not to break. The boat bumped rhythmically beneath them as Chrissy watched the island getting ever smaller, and it became even more stunning to her the further they travelled, unveiling itself as tantalizingly as a stripper. The wooden jetty, the shipwreck beach, the tasteful resort sign that blended in with the land: ultimate luxury in tune with nature rather than discordant with it. The fringes of palm trees. Glimpses of the little bungalows nestling in amongst them, hiding luxurious open-air bathrooms surrounded by bush. The other houses on stilts over the water. It was like a pretend life, a world away from her former one, growing up on one of the worst estates in Chelmsford.
‘You gonna be all right snorkelling, Chrissy?’ said Kenny, squeezing her leg. ‘You have done it before, haven’t you?’
‘Once,’ she said. She regretted now that she hadn’t practised more at the beach first, but she’d been feeling a bit merry when they’d booked the trip, and the resort’s marine biologist had been very persuasive. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said to her husband. ‘It’s much easier with an instructor.’ Especially one like him, Chrissy thought privately, admiring Pascal’s slim snake hips and naked brown chest – who knew that half-wearing a wetsuit could be so sexy? She would never have admitted to Kenny just what had changed her mind, but, she’d figured, you couldn’t come all the way to the Maldives and not at least give snorkelling a go.
Kenny lay down next to her and moved his hand further up her thigh. As the boat heaved beneath them, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine another twenty years of this, and she couldn’t for some reason. One day at a time, she told herself. She loved Kenny, she was sure of it, and yet there was something that held her back from him sometimes, and it wasn’t just his infuriatingly puppy-like nature. They might be married, but she didn’t know him yet. How long did it take to really, properly know someone? At what stage in your relationship did your husband still have the potential to surprise you? Or betray you?
Chrissy had already taken four co-codamol this morning, for courage, she’d told herself, but now the gentle buzz was fading, to be replaced with a deep-gutted anxiety. She was sure it was nothing to do with Kenny, though. It must be her fear of the water, of the fish, of what lay beneath. It also didn’t help that they were in the middle of absolutely nowhere, their tiny island as insignificant as a cork in a reservoir. She recalled the Boxing Day tsunami – hadn’t that reached here? Hadn’t it wiped out half the resorts? No wonder, she thought. From the boat even the island itself alarmed her now. It looked so small, insignificant, floating and fragile – just a tiny, flat, bright-green circle, ringed with white. If a rogue wave came, there would be no high ground to flee to. They’d all die.
‘You’ve gone a bit pale, love,’ said Kenny.
‘Hmm,’ said Chrissy, not trusting herself to say anything else. She leaned into him, and as he shifted to put his burly, tattooed arm around her, she tried to ignore the movement of the waves and her frantic imaginings of a giant swell sweeping across the ocean and snuffing them out, piled on top of her fear of the fish, the sharks, the snorkelling. Blimey. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d be frightened of everything here. Trepidation was rising in her mouth, and the taste was briny, as if she were drowning already.
At last the boat stopped, above a majestic coral garden according to Pascal, although the water looked exactly the same to Chrissy here as everywhere else. As she struggled down the near-vertical ladder from the roof, her mind was stalling and her knees were shaking, and she wished she could go back to the relative solidity of the island, have a drink.
‘All right,’ said Pascal, and the sexy lilt of his accent had absolutely no effect on her now. ‘Please put on your masks and flippers.’ He’d pulled up his wetsuit and zipped it up, and he looked smaller, lithe and slippery. As he went through the safety briefing, he kept his eyes firmly away f
rom Chrissy, who was oozing out of her life vest, and his lack of attention made her even more nervous. When he was finished, Pascal put on his mask, stepped onto the boat’s running board, gave a thumbs up, and plunged backwards into the water. The sulky English girl was the first to follow, sprawling spread-legged, her flippers awry, and then her husband jumped, and as Chrissy watched the two of them flailing in the deep, dark water, trying to adjust their masks, she realized that she could not, would not, do this.
‘Go on, babe,’ said Kenny. ‘After you.’
‘Kenny, I can’t.’
‘Of course you can. I’ll stay with you.’
‘Aren’t there sharks here?’
‘No, don’t be daft. It’s safe.’
‘What if I lose everyone? What if I drift away from the boat?’
‘You won’t. I’ll stay with you.’
‘He said some fish have teeth, they might bite us.’
‘No, they won’t.’
‘They will. He said.’
‘Chrissy,’ called Pascal, from the water. ‘Get in.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Chrissy,’ he repeated. ‘Come in, please.’
‘You go,’ Kenny said to the Chinese couple, who were standing patiently behind them. In her head Chrissy could see their faces under water already, panic-stricken, ingesting the sea. No. She wasn’t going to do it, she didn’t care what anyone said.
‘Sorry, Kenny,’ she said. ‘You go without me. I’m happy to wait here, honest.’
Kenny looked agitated, unsure what to do.
‘I’ll be fine, babe,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Pascal beckoned them again, and he sounded impatient now. The boat’s crew looked on anxiously, murmuring to each other in Maldivian.