by Sandy Barker
I took another micro sip and, just as I started to feel the warmth flow through my body, a voice like honey spoke in a way that had my instincts on edge well before my brain caught up. “James?”
My head pivoted so fast I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplash. Standing next to our sunset nest was a stunningly beautiful woman with long chestnut hair, large brown eyes, and cheekbones so high, they could have cut diamonds. She could have been cast as Wonder Woman or a Charlie’s Angel. I hated her as soon as I saw her. Mostly because I am, at heart, massively insecure.
James, ever cool, ever composed James, coughed on his drink and stood up so quickly, he nearly toppled the table. “Portia.” Portia??? You’ve got to be kidding me. The goddess’s name is frigging Portia?! “Wow.” A laugh I’d never heard from him bubbled out awkwardly. “What a surprise.” I’ll say.
He stepped over my legs—again, he stepped over me—and gave the goddess a hug. I hated her even more. And was I supposed to stand or say “hello” or just sit there like a plain little idiot?
The goddess beamed at him, holding his forearms as she regarded him. “You look well, James,” she said in a clipped English accent. That’s something an ex-lover says. My inner voice could be impressively astute at times.
“You too.” James was smiling back at her and the moment seemed to be frozen in time. I still didn’t know what to do. Then James seemed to remember himself, “Portia, this is Sarah.” He turned around to indicate that I was the Sarah in question.
She smiled at me and I couldn’t decipher if I saw pity, condescension, or bafflement at what the hell James was doing with me—maybe it was all three. I stood then—literally standing my ground—and when I did, I was glad I’d changed into my boots. I towered over Portia by a couple of inches.
I stretched out my hand and positioned a pleasant smile on my face. She had to let go of my boyfriend in order to shake it, so it was a good move on my part. “Hello, nice to meet you,” I said in my most grown-up voice.
“And you,” she said, her smile blatantly disingenuous. “And this is my husband, Stephen,” she said turning towards a pleasant-looking tall man with a mop of curly brown hair. He leant across her to shake James’s hand, and I watched James closely. Then Stephen offered to shake mine, which I did as though the whole exchange between the four of us was perfectly normal.
“So, are you on holiday?” asked James, his voice sounding tight.
“Yes, actually. Well, sort of. Stephen had some business in Auckland, and I tagged along. This is our last stop. Isn’t it just divine?”
I found myself nodding in agreement. Stephen smiled and nodded along with me. Portia seemed to be driving the conversation and I was relieved when she said, “Well, we’ll leave you to it. Nice to have seen you, James, and nice to have met you, Sarah.”
We said our goodbyes and Stephen threw in, “Enjoy your evening,” before they left. The whole thing was ridiculously civilised for what was obviously the reunion of former lovers. Grown-ups do weird things sometimes. James and I sat down and picked up our drinks. He looked out at the sinking sun, a small frown on his face. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, so I said nothing.
After a while, he turned to me and met my eyes. “Portia and I used to—” He seemed to get stuck on how to describe what they were to each other and I swallowed a lump in my throat. It was unbelievably awkward, and I wasn’t sure how we’d resurrect the evening, let alone the rest of the trip.
“We were involved,” he said finally. Involved—a word loaded with complication and bad feelings and an unhappy ending. If he’d said “in love” or “in a relationship” that would have been completely different. But he hadn’t. He’d said, “involved”. It sounded like something out of a night-time soap opera.
We drank our cocktails in silence, and watched the sun descend below the rim of the mountain peaks. With the sun in hiding, the sky looked like someone had torn a jagged piece right off the bottom—a bit like my heart, really. It was beautiful, though—a distraction at least.
“I’m sorry about that,” James said, picking up my hand.
I wasn’t sure why he was sorry—it’s not like he’d planned it. Besides, it had only been mildly excruciating. “You loved her,” I said, surprising myself. It was a bold thing to say to your current lover.
“Yes, I did. But quite a while ago. It was just a surprise to see her here, in this context. I wasn’t expecting it.” And I was sure he hadn’t expected to meet her husband either.
“It’s fine,” I said, lying. It is so not fine. I told myself to breathe.
“Shall we order something to eat?” he asked.
“Sure.” Yes, let’s order food I’ll have to choke down. I hoped I sounded more enthused than I felt.
It was eventually okay between us—ish. We ordered food and some wine to go with dinner, then finished our drinks—well, I sipped about half of my Negroni before abandoning it for the wine. We also found something to talk about other than Portia, leaning on the one thing I knew we had in common: travel.
I knew we’d have to talk more about Portia at some point, but I was happy to put it off until I’d had time to sift through my feelings. I’d hated how I’d felt during the whole exchange, and I certainly didn’t like the look on James’s face when he saw the woman he used to love.
I had a lot of sifting to do.
Chapter 21
We didn’t have sex that night, which felt strange, but it would have felt stranger to have sex.
Our conversation over dinner had an unpleasant subtext of “let’s both agree to ignore the giant purple elephant in the room”. And that elephant looked like a forty-something supermodel.
After we got ready for bed and said our overly polite goodnights, including a kiss I can only describe as “chaste”, I lay awake fretting. James, of course, slept.
It will never cease to amaze me how a man can sleep so soundly when everything is utterly crap between you. I’d lost track of the number of times I’d woken from a broken sleep, exhausted and feeling wretched, to have the man next to me say, “I’m sorry about last night,” or, “Let me explain …” or “We should talk about …” while looking remarkably refreshed. It made me hate him—them—a little. And hate is not a good thing in a relationship, apparently.
Neil had pulled that crap dozens of times. I was practically an insomniac for the better part of a year. After Neil, I promised myself never again, yet there I was lying on my back staring at the beautifully ornate crown moulding, wanting to poke James in the shoulder and say, “What the hell, James?”
Instead, I ended up replaying the whole evening in my head, over and over. How lovely it was before Portia arrived—would her name ever not sound made-up and pretentious? Then “the encounter” as I would think of it forever more. Then the aftermath, which included that worrying goodnight kiss.
James had clearly been blindsided by her appearance, which did sort of make sense. I mean, if I ran into Neil and his wife while I was somewhere across the world, I’d be a little freaked out too. But then again, there was a fragment of me that wanted to run into plain, boring, dickhead Neil when I was with James, just so I could see the look on his face when he realised how much of an upgrade I’d made.
By 2:00am, I had turned into a hideous version of myself.
I finally fell asleep somewhere around three, as fitful and unfulfilling as it was. James, as I’d predicted, was refreshed, sweet-smelling, and handsome when he kissed my forehead, waking me. My eyelids fluttered open and I frowned. There was no way in hell it could be time to get up. I felt like I had jet lag. Maybe we need a name for that feeling. Manlag.
“Good morning, beautiful. I hate to be the bearer of bad news”—you mean worse than running into the love of your life?—“but we need to get going soon, if we’re going to make the boat.” Oh, that.
“Yep, I’m up,” I said, even though it was plainly obvious I was still prone.
“I’ll make you some coffee.”
>
“Uh, tea. Please.”
“Oh yes, sorry. Tea.”
How could he forget that I drank tea? We had enjoyed whole pots of the stuff together! I wondered if Portia drank coffee, a snarky thought I held on to all through my shower. When I dried off, I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Can you have suitcases under your eyes? Steamer trunks? I was certain the word “bags” was inadequate, but then, isn’t that what concealer is for? I repaired the damage of a sleepless night, thankful (at least) for my prowess with a makeup brush. Then I dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple top and left the bathroom.
James was zipping up his suitcase. He flashed a smile at me and I returned it with my own facsimile.
“I left your tea on your bedside table.”
“Thanks.” I walked over and took a sip. Sugar. I didn’t take sugar in my tea, but quite frankly, too-sweet tea was the least of our problems. Is it completely bizarre that we’re pretending everything’s fine? Was James also in turmoil and just a phenomenally good actor, or was I cornering the turmoil market with this peculiar mix of panic and fury?
I took another sip of tea—I was going to need as much of it as I could stomach—and then set about the task of packing quickly, which I hate to do. I like ordered, meticulous packing, so I know where everything is on the other end. In a minor miracle, I managed the task in about three minutes.
“Ready?” said the smiling man.
“Sure,” said the smiling woman. Oh boy, it’s gunna be a long drive.
*
That day, we were driving south-west to catch the overnight boat trip on Milford Sound. The route would take us through the town of Te Anau, the last vestige of civilisation on our journey, where we planned to have a quick lunch.
After lunch, we would make the beautiful, but sometimes treacherous, drive to Milford—winding roads, rock falls, sudden changes in temperature. Weren’t travel guides supposed to sell you on a place, rather than terrify the pants off you? Although, I was sure the risky drive would be worth it. I’d seen those horribly long Lord of the Rings movies and the best thing about them was the epic scenery.
Around an hour after we left Queenstown and about halfway to Te Anau, we still hadn’t said much. That giant purple elephant was taking up not only the entire backseat, but most of the oxygen in the car. I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“James?”
“Mmm?” He kept his eyes on the road.
“Is everything okay between us?” Why mince words, right? I mean, I was in the middle of nowhere, thousands of kilometres from home with a man who may or may not love me. What did I have to lose?
He sighed heavily, and my stomach lurched. “I hope so.” I hope so? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Had he suddenly turned into an enigmatic teenager? “No, that’s not right.” He grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing it. “We are absolutely okay. That is, if you say we are.” Uh, yeah, that’s not gunna fly, mate.
I channelled every ounce of my teacher patience into what I said next. “I guess what I’m asking is, does running into Portia”—I struggled not to choke on her name—“affect us in any way? You seemed a little shaken up by the whole thing. And you’ve been … well, you’ve been kind of strange ever since.” I threw a look his way to see his reaction. He had one of those smiles on his face that isn’t really a smile, the one where your mouth is stretched back into a straight line and your lips disappear.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want to upset you or concern you. Seeing her didn’t change how I feel about you. It just threw me. I mean, I’ve never run into her in London, amongst millions of people, and here we are in probably the furthest place on the planet and it … it just threw me.” I’ll say.
He squeezed my hand. “I handled it badly, and I’ve been sitting here wondering how to raise it without making things worse. And, only one of us was the adult, here—you.” He glanced at me, clearly not wanting to tear his eyes away from the winding road for too long, and offered me an actual smile.
“Forgive me?”
I felt a surge of relief and I imagined the purple elephant popping like a balloon. “Of course,” I said. “We’re good.” I even let myself believe that.
*
Nothing could have prepared me for the scenery as we approached Milford Sound, not travel guides or even eleven hours of Peter Jackson’s epic tourism commercial.
The road cut through a narrow valley, its floor a carpet of low shrubs, mostly green, but some in a dull yellow. The slopes rose steeply either side of the valley, some tenacious plants clinging to the rockfaces. Mountains in a steely grey climbed into the sky, roughly hewn and inhospitable. I kept my eyes peeled for falling rocks, as if the mountains would spit them at us for trespassing. It was both awe-inspiring and a little terrifying, so I was relieved when we pulled up to where the boat was docked, unscathed.
If I’m honest, it looked like a fishing boat—a super-fancy fishing boat, granted, but I wondered if it had been bought from a fishing company and made over. Maybe it would smell like fish. It had two-and-a-half storeys—decks?—and what looked like a third row of smaller portholes close to the waterline, perhaps where the crew slept. Three tall masts promised some actual sailing, which I hoped we’d get to do.
The crew was lovely when they welcomed us aboard, and a steward took our carry-on bags and led the way to our cabin. I only hoped in my hasty packing that I hadn’t left anything I needed in my suitcase. If I had, I wouldn’t see it until the next day; it was in the boot of the car.
The interior of the boat was far nicer than I’d thought it would be, and it didn’t smell like fish—always a good thing when it comes to accommodation. Our cabin was cosy, but we had a queen-sized bed and our own bathroom. The décor was what I would call “Hugh Hefneresque”—lots of heavy fabrics in dark colours. The steward placed our bags on the bed—pretty much the only flat surface available—and welcomed us again. I was prepared with a cash tip and beat James to it. A funny look crossed his face, but he didn’t say anything.
Oops—perhaps that was a faux pas.
I still hadn’t been able to pay for anything. He’d insisted on picking up the check at dinner the night before, which wasn’t overly surprising considering how the evening had played out, and he’d paid for lunch in Te Anau when I went to the bathroom, but I wanted to contribute to the trip somehow. Based on his reaction, however, tipping the steward was not the way to do it.
“Shall we go out on deck and watch our departure?” I asked, brightly. His smile returned.
“Absolutely.” I turned to leave the cabin, and he caught my arm. “Wait, come here a moment.” I looked up at him, his serious eyes sending a jolt of panic through me. You’ve changed your mind. A gentle smile turned his lips up at the corner and reached his eyes. Or, maybe not. “I just haven’t kissed you today. Not properly, anyway.”
“Oh.” There was nothing else to say.
He leant down and tenderly pressed his lips to mine. It almost felt like a first kiss, tentative and sweet. As the sweetness gave way to something more intense, rawer, I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck. His hands moved from my arms to my waist, pulling me closer. I could feel him hard against me, wanting me. “We’re skipping the launch,” he said, his forehead pressed against mine. I nodded, speechless, blinking away the tears in my eyes.
He wants me. He loves me.
Then we made an utter mess of that perfectly made, Hugh Hefner bed.
*
The afternoon was just incredible. Yes, we missed the launch, but the scenery as we sailed the sound—they did put the sails up!—was breathtaking, or rather, breath-giving. The air was so fresh, so clean, I could taste it, and I inhaled great gulps of it, clearing my head of all the niggling and nasty thoughts from the night before.
The surface of the water undulated, never breaking, but seeming to move politely aside as the boat made its way into the folds of the sound. The water changed colour seamlessly, nature’s depth g
auge revealed in the colours of precious stones—sapphire, malachite, and aquamarine. Siobhan would love this, I thought.
The mountains rising from the depths of the water were conical and a rich, velvety green, like the kind of mountains small children draw. Where the green gave way to roughly hewn, inky rock, waterfalls fell from great heights, some bridal veils, some brilliant white ponytails, all meeting the water of the sound in halos of mist. There was no need for talking—a shared look said it all—but I did take dozens of photographs.
Dinner was a communal buffet, which was far more fun than it sounds. We sat opposite each other at a long table, eating roast beef and crispy potatoes, with steamed pudding for dessert. The menu was straight out of my grandmother’s playbook circa 1980-something and I loved every bite. We chatted about the day, the incredible things we’d seen, and were engaged in conversation a few times by other couples and a father and son who were travelling together for his seventieth birthday.
One woman referred to James as my husband—isn’t it odd when people just assume things like that?—and I glanced at him to see if he’d heard. He didn’t seem to have; he was talking to her husband about yachts. I’d almost forgotten that James had owned a yacht. Then that made me think of Duncan, and I indulged in a little nostalgic moment where I missed him and wondered if I’d ever get to see him and Gerry again.
And as James hadn’t heard, I didn’t correct the woman about being married to him. A sliver of me enjoyed it; it was like trying on a pair of heels that were way higher than I’d normally wear, but made me feel super sexy.
After dinner, the cruise director—that may not have been her actual job title, but in my mind, she was Julie like on The Love Boat—announced it was time for games, and she meant board games.
“Do you know why they’re called board games?” I asked James, a cheeky smile on my face. He shook his head. “Because they’re boring. Get it? Bored games.” I waggled my eyebrows and grinned at him, and he smiled one of those half-smiles which isn’t really a smile.