The Ex-Husband

by Hamilton, Karen

  As we drew into the airport, fear took hold again. What if I was making a mistake? In a daze, I checked in. The airline staff wouldn’t tell me if Sam had checked in too. I called him again even though I knew, deep down, that there wouldn’t be an answer. As I placed my bag down to go through the X-ray machine, I heard my phone beep. I had to wait more painful minutes while my bag passed through the checks before I could snatch up my phone and read it. Sam!

  One word:

  Sorry.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Sam’s empty plane seat taunted me all the way to London as I planned the things I was going to say and do when I next saw him. Because I would see him again. He wasn’t the only piece of unfinished business, because there was someone else I needed to track down too. The real owner of the necklace and the catalyst behind our downfall and the death of our marriage.

  TWO

  Now

  Eighteen Months Later

  I know what you both did.

  I drop my phone and it clatters onto the pavement, narrowly escaping a puddle. I pick it up and wipe off the rain with my coat sleeve to clear the screen. Smudges distort the original message, so it reads:

  . . . what you . . . did.

  I cry out loud as someone grabs my hair, before I realise that I’m part of an accident. Just a totally unnecessarily large blue-and-white-striped golfing umbrella. For God’s sake! Why do people carry those? The person responsible doesn’t even offer the briefest of apologies and continues on their oblivious-to-other-pedestrians way.

  I am on my way to work, while most people are on their way home. I envy them. I take a deep, calming breath and compose myself. Business is slow. My events and travel-planning business is still in its infancy – six months. I specialise in genuinely tailoring requirements to my clients’ needs. Tailoring is not a meaningless ‘sell’ word to me, but a vital necessity so that clients can trust me. My speciality of late – not through choice – has been European destinations or seaside-town hen dos. I hate them. Too much naïve hope in the myth of wedded bliss. I recently updated my website to make it more alluring. I placed more focus on the type of work I wish to attract: bespoke holidays, in the UK or abroad, murder mystery events in atmospheric castles, or racing-car driving. Reinvention is an essential skill.

  Enough day-dreaming for now, I need to be switched-on, pleasant. Still. My first instinct, however perversely, is an overwhelming desire to speak to Sam. The drizzle eases. Evening sun breaks through the clouds. I remove my jacket hood but I can’t stop shivering. I cross the road and walk, leaving Windsor Castle and the town centre behind me, putting one foot in front of the other. I stop in the middle of the sloping bridge that leads to Eton. I lean against the rail and stare into the water. I realise I am scared. I need to think things through. Recent downpours have filled the Thames, the tide rushing below. I find it as mesmerising as flames.

  Something is missing from my straight and narrow life, however much I fill it with different men, the gym, friends, or whatever else I can to distract my mind from the mundanity of my new world. I used to live to work. Now, it is the total opposite.

  The problem is, I tasted the forbidden. I took great, big, greedy bites and it was delicious. Knowledge doesn’t fade, sadly. Sam and I will be forever intertwined.

  For worse. Obviously, not better.

  I just know that whoever is behind the threat is in the revenge is a dish best served cold camp. In this case, eighteen months of chilled silence, an intangible Sword of Damocles hanging above my new life. I like to think it is because I have been super-discreet online and tried not to use obvious identifying features. Yet, I suspect the truth is that my tormentor wants me to suffer to the maximum. I already have a suspect. I knew her well. I have tried time after time to contact Alexandra Armstrong but she lives behind a shield of staff and I am persona non grata.

  The first time I saw her, she stood out. The cruise waiting lounge was crowded but she strode through the room like she owned it.

  She wanted to be noticed, dressed in an elegant, cobalt-blue trouser suit and clutching a vanity case that gently swung as she walked. Behind her, a porter pushed a large trolley bursting with a steamer trunk, hatboxes and matching suitcases.

  Staff hovered around her. I wanted to age like her. To be wealthy enough not to care, to travel the world alone, do as I saw fit.

  A call comes in. Flora Miles; my client. Crap. I’m late.

  ‘Where are you?’ she says. ‘I’m at the party boat but there’s no sign of you.’

  ‘Almost there,’ I say. True enough.

  Weird as this sounds, I sometimes imagine the words ‘truthfully’ or ‘untruthfully’ being automatically placed at the end of my sentences, like a comic strip. True or Untrue. No middle ground.

  I mute my phone notifications, determined to focus on work for the next few hours. I retrace my steps, then stop. I hesitate. I don’t need to look out for security cameras or CCTV. I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s a hard habit to break, but I hate the thought of being watched, regardless. I take a deep breath. Damn Sam. Damn Alexandra. At times, I have been able to kid myself that I am protected in my new, safe, quiet life. My dreams are of financial security, maybe even another great love affair, an all-encompassing one that will make what I had with Sam fade into nothingness. I walk to the river’s edge.

  ‘The Host’, as I think of Flora, is standing near the boat, talking to one of the staff. I feel a pang of guilt at my lack of professionalism. She looks anxious and uncomfortable in her smart two-piece skirt suit with high stilettos. This evening is a big deal for her. A local business owner, she wants to impress and thank her most loyal customers.

  ‘Charlotte, I am so pleased to see you,’ she says, turning as I approach. ‘There’s a problem with one of the fridges. The champagne isn’t chilled.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it. Sorry I’m a little late, I got held up by another client.’ Untrue, obviously. ‘Go and take a seat on board,’ I say. ‘Relax. There’s loads of time.’

  She doesn’t take my advice, but hovers, alternating between tapping on her phone and looking past me to see if there are any early party arrivals.

  I introduce myself to one of the waiting staff. I know most of the other crew and get confirmation of the warm champagne. I call a nearby pub – I’m friends with the manager – and arrange for emergency buckets of ice to be delivered. The Host looks impressed. I’m pleased. Wish fulfilment is my talent.

  Once all the guests have arrived we pull away from the small dock, heading for Royal Windsor Racecourse. I feel instantly at home on the water. Sam felt the same. It was to our advantage. The cruise guests we befriended weren’t on their home turf so it added a layer of vulnerability, which Sam was all too happy to exploit. Everyone is happily sipping chilled champagne and nibbling on quail’s egg and smoked salmon canapes. Ed Sheeran is playing in the background. Swans glide nearby as if they own the river. I detest them. Their outward grace is pure illusion. I hate the way that they watch me with their predatory eyes whenever I pass by the river’s edge.

  I focus on the guests again so that I am not tempted to look at my phone. I am surrounded by the various interpretations of ‘smart casual’: ripped jeans, jumpsuits, shirts and ties, long and short dresses. I am wearing my typical work uniform, which is a black skirt and top that I dress up or down, depending on requirements. Bland, yet real, pearls adorn my right wrist. If anyone were to study me closely, they may see the slight, circular ridge of an anklet, with a slim, silver mermaid dangling, barely visible through the stocking on my left leg. I wear it as a physical reminder of a trap – just in case I’m tempted to respond to Sam’s pleas for my help. He ghosted me on and off for over a year while lying low in Mexico (allegedly) and now he’s bombarding me with calls. He can wait until I’m ready. A gust of wind brushes my arm and I shiver.

  Thinking about it, in Sam’s last message, he sounded agitated. ‘I’m being threatened, Lola. It’s serious.’ I
t was infuriating that he still used his nickname for me. He had no right. Just as he had no right to contact me because he was supposedly in trouble. However, now that I’ve received a threatening message too, it has muddied the waters. ‘Two heads are better than one,’ his message said. ‘I’ve got a plan. It could save us both.’ Perhaps I should stop reacting out of pique. Yet, it’s hard because as much as I don’t trust Sam – for all I know the message could be one of his scams to stop me from demanding my share of our money back – I need other things from him too. A divorce, for one. Sam still holds all the cards.

  ‘Enjoying the trip so far?’ I say, approaching a huddle of guests standing near me.

  ‘Yes, wonderful.’

  ‘Super.’

  Satisfied that all seems well – for now – I focus on the Thames. Every now and then, I take a small sip of white wine. I would rather have a Coke – I need to stay fully alert – but it is all about blending in. Soft drinks sometimes make other people feel uncomfortable, suspicious that I am listening in to their alcohol-fuelled conversations. Once upon a time, they would have been right.

  Tonight, though, I’m not interested in mining their chit-chat for gold. My mind is in overdrive. My problems – past miscalculations – just won’t die. That message on my phone.

  I know what you both did.

  I used to have the Midas touch, so it’s disconcerting, this sense of not being in control. Goosebumps prick my arms; I wish I had worn long sleeves. My sixth sense has me on high alert, feeling shivery with anxious anticipation because the threat has heightened my ever-present fear of exposure, my past actions held up for public dissection. Greed was my vice. Still is. I work hard to suppress it. Avarice. Now, there is a nicer word. I take a large sip of wine, grateful for it, after all.

  We dock at the island, a short amble from the racecourse. I hear the sound of the crowds in the near distance. As we disembark onto the private jetty, I hand out betting guides to those who want them and the enclosure passes.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I reply to all the polite thank yous.

  Everyone follows me towards the hospitality entrance. Once inside, it has a great view of the track and the winning post on the figure-of-eight course. Regardless of my viewpoint I can never watch, anyway. I worry too much about the horses’ welfare. Sam took me to the races a few times but I hated seeing the horses whipped and pushed beyond their limits.

  The guests huddle near the bar and I order several bottles of champagne, as instructed by Flora.

  Those who don’t want to bet online hand me cash to place bets on their behalf so they don’t have to queue. As I stand with hundreds of pounds in my hand, temptation pulls as I think of my increasing credit-card and new business debts. I have borrowed too much on the never-never after some creative accounting and using my sister as a reluctant guarantor. I am a changed woman, I remind myself. Don’t give in. It’s hard though because what is small change to some, is riches to others. Me.

  Excitement builds as the ground thunders like an earth tremor. Guests, buoyed up with champagne and the thrill of a win, lean forward and yell.

  ‘Come on, Star!’

  ‘Move, Luna! I think she’s going to make it!’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Come on, Magic/Duke/Misty/Stormy . . .’

  A man behind me in the queue passes on some tips. The temptation is building. I could place my own bets with all the cash. As long as I don’t lose it all, no one will check. The guests are not proper gamblers, they’re out on a free jolly. If I bet on the favourite to win I’m probably doing everyone a favour. At least four of them picked horses simply because they liked their names; Sam would say they don’t deserve to win. My heart rate picks up and the dormant, yet bittersweet and addictive taste of danger returns. I get to the front of the line.

  I mustn’t do it. It’s a slippery slope. I swore to myself that I was going to change, that I wasn’t going to be weak. The man behind the counter at the bookmakers is staring at me. Heat rises in my cheeks.

  I distract myself, looking down at the list of requests on my phone and working my way through them with a curious mix of relief, pride and frustration.

  ‘Each way on Gold Charm, please.’

  ‘Midnight to win.’

  Job done. I need a drink.

  As I stand at the champagne bar, I get another strong sense of being watched. Yesterday, I thought I saw Sam in the cereal aisle of a supermarket. Doppelgangers, in my opinion, are reminders of unfinished business. I look around and although nearly everyone is facing the track, I don’t like the sense of the many hidden eyes behind their binoculars. It feels eerie. Paranoia is just the worst feeling. My mind, light-house like, seeks to unmask Whoever It Is so that I can turn them into an unthreatening person. Alexandra would hire someone to do her dirty work, wouldn’t she? Sam, on the other hand, would not.

  I take out my phone again and re-read the message.

  I know what you both did. You must return what you stole, plus blood money. I won’t stay silent.

  The demand makes it sound as though Sam and I were gangsters, for God’s sake. Blood money! I’m not a murderer. Whoever It Is doesn’t have a clue what they’re talking about or they would be more specific. I put my phone back in my bag. Directly in front of me is a couple with their arms wrapped around each other, indifferent to the racing. The woman is wearing a distinctive, pale pink Versace dress and heels. She looks happy and carefree and I am briefly envious. As if she senses me staring at her, she looks around. We exchange brief smiles. To my right is a man with a copy of the Racing Post, oblivious. To my left, a cluster of female friends. They show zero interest in me.

  I feel sick at the thought of everything I have worked so hard to rebuild from the ashes of my wrongs being snatched away. I can’t let that happen – not on the back of a text message. I have played over and over in my mind the memories of the day it all unravelled. Now, I often obsess about what it would feel like to be arrested in a crowded place. I have practised my expressions in the mirror. I would appear astonished, yet dignified. I would be politely cooperative and plant the necessary seeds of doubt. I’ll never give in to fear again. I message Sam.

  I’ll call you later tonight.

  I can’t resist typing Charlotte at the end to make the point that I am no longer Lola.

  If he’s lying, if he’s making these threats up to scare me into forgetting what he did, or if he’s spinning some elaborate yarn as to why I may never see my money again, he’s in for a fight. It’s time for us to meet face to face. I can’t ignore him any more. Sam’s messages said that he’s no longer in Mexico, he’s now in Wales. Let’s see if he’s telling the truth.

  I keep checking but he doesn’t respond.

  The penultimate race of seven is announced. People move forward. Someone bumps into me, knocking my glass of champagne to the ground. Flora kindly offers to find me another, but I decline. It’s not her job to look after me.

  Despite the group’s haphazard approach to betting, there are surprisingly more gains than losses. I collect their winnings, commiserate with those who lost, all the while feeling huge relief that I didn’t give in to my old ways.

  On the return boat trip, lights reflect and shimmer on the water. Planes, prevalent throughout the day, are noticeably absent when Heathrow quietens for the night. Most of the guests are merry or high on the excitement of their evening’s winnings.

  ‘Beginner’s luck,’ says someone in response to another’s success.

  I take out my phone. Seven missed calls since I last checked, back at the racetrack. What the hell? I scroll. Sam. No voicemails. I find a quiet corner to the rear of the boat and call him back. No reply. I don’t leave a message. I then check through his old messages to see if I missed anything.

  Keep safe. Bon voyage.

  I obviously didn’t read the last one properly. I want to throw up over the side of the boat. Bon voyage was our code word: the shit’s hit the fan. Sam is truly in danger. I start
to type back.

  Where are you? Answer me! Now!

  Nothing. I wait, shivering in the early-autumn evening chill. After several minutes, my phone is still silent. As I slide it back into my bag, I feel something hard, sharp and metallic wrapped in fine paper. I almost slide it out but I realise from the shape that, oh my God, it’s a knife! Bloody hell. I look around as though someone on board can tell. They are all drinking and singing, dissecting their evening. I push the blade to one side and feel around the bottom of my bag gingerly. There is nothing else. As I discreetly remove the paper from around the blade I see it has a typed note on the other side: Watch Your Back! Then I realise that it is not a knife but a multi-tool, the type Sam favoured. Concealed inside its handle is a memory stick.

  I look over the edge of the boat and back at the receding lights of the racecourse grounds. But I know that it’s fruitless. There is no one there. More disturbingly, Sam would never have relinquished control of his secrets to me unless he absolutely had to.

  THREE

  Then

  Four Years Ago

  The Caribbean

  The stranger beside me pointed at the necklace.

  ‘It would suit you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  I’d wanted to window-shop in peace. I was half-embarrassed at being caught out in a daydream of obvious longing, half-annoyed at being interrupted by a salesperson. My glance had been caught by a pendant, a silver mermaid, elegantly displayed on black velvet surrounded by shells and petals.

  I turned to walk away. The stranger followed and fell into step alongside me. So, not a salesperson after all. I hesitated near the edge of the waterfront in the welcome shade of an almond tree, unsure in which direction to turn in order to shake him off. It was my first visit to Bequia, a small, absolute hidden gem of an island.

  ‘I’m sorry, that came out totally wrong. Feel free to give me a slap.’ He grinned. ‘The truth is that I noticed you on board The Wanderlust last night and in my mind, I felt as if I already knew you.’