I looked up at the man to ask him to leave me alone, but it was only then that I properly took note of him. He was clean-shaven and had a wide, friendly smile that showed off his perfect white teeth and dark, kind eyes that crinkled slightly as he smiled. His pale green T-shirt was immaculate, not a single crease. He looked as if he’d just stepped off a photo shoot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me start again.’ He held out a hand. ‘Hi, I’m Sam.’
‘Charlotte.’ We shook.
‘Apologies if this sounds a bit . . . stalkerish, but I also noticed that you were travelling with friends.’
My travelling companions on the ten-day cruise stopping at Aruba, St Lucia and Barbados were not exactly my cup of tea. Then again, I am sure I wasn’t theirs. There was Alistair, who hated it if people shortened his name to Al (fair enough), Felicity, Graham, then there was Jayne ‘with a y’. We were all travel consultants for various companies and that was pretty much where the similarities ended.
‘Kind of,’ I said.
Despite Sam’s clumsy introduction, I was intrigued by him. I had a whole day to fill on my own. The others had gone snorkelling but I had opted for solitude on the truly beautiful island. According to my guidebook, Bequia translated to ‘island of the clouds’.
‘Who are you on holiday with?’ I asked.
‘I’m not. I work in the casino. You should come along tonight. Win a fortune,’ he said with that smile again. ‘Bring your kind-of friends.’
Gambling wasn’t my thing, but I didn’t say that.
‘Perhaps. Thanks.’ I smiled back. ‘They’re travel industry colleagues. We all work for various holiday companies, and they’re nice enough but . . .’
‘I understand. I feel the same about a lot of my work colleagues.’ He broke off. ‘It makes sense to me now. You didn’t look as if you were having the time of your life. Listen. There’s a wonderful place nearby which serves a lobster salad and a rum punch to die for,’ Sam said. ‘If you’re interested?’
I wasn’t sure if he was offering an invitation for me to join him or if he was suggesting I should go alone. I looked around to buy time, as if mulling his suggestion over. Port Elizabeth was a small waterfront town, with views over the bay. In the distance our vast cruise ship dominated the scene. The sky was pretty much cloudless and the sea glistened. I was in paradise. With this man who, although forward and overly confident, came across as . . . lonely. Something I understood.
I hadn’t been looking to meet anyone on that cruise. Long-term, I would have liked a relationship, sure – but the demographic of the cruise’s passengers meant that romance had never crossed my mind. I lacked the patience to fall for a much older man. I ate too quickly, walked too fast. I’d stop and smell the roses when I’d finally made it – whatever ‘it’ was.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ I said. ‘I’m happy for you to show me all the best places to recommend to future passengers and holiday-makers.’
Damn. I sounded tense.
‘Excellent,’ he said. He pointed towards the seafront. ‘It’s a little along the way to the right. I know the owners . . .’
I fell naturally into step beside him. We passed a market selling brightly coloured fruit and vegetables – plantains, yams, okra, mangoes, grapefruit, guavas. Alone among the fresh produce stalls was one selling models of sailboats. It took time to get to the restaurant because Sam seemed to know so many people. We were greeted with hellos and long-time no sees and knowing looks were surreptitiously cast in my direction. The strange thing is, I didn’t mind.
I don’t remember much about the restaurant because I barely ate, despite Sam being right about the lobster salad. I was too mesmerised by the stories of his travels, his freedom.
‘What about you?’ he asked after a while. ‘You haven’t told me much.’
‘There’s nothing much to tell.’ True.
So far, I had dabbled at life: waitressing, bar work, cleaning, housekeeping, receptionist, customer service agent, retail assistant, au pair; now a travel agent. None of these jobs paid well enough, but they’d given me an insight into human nature, both good and bad.
‘I’m an old black-and-white movie fan.’
‘Which are your favourite ones?’ Sam asked.
Easy. ‘A Streetcar Named Desire, Casablanca, Sunset Boulevard, to name a few.’
‘Excellent choices. I like your style. Why do you prefer them to contemporary movies?’
I mulled it over.
‘Escapism, I think. The past feels like a safer place, full of glamour and places to hide.’
‘Places to hide?’
I blushed. ‘That came out wrong! I meant, anonymity. No work emails, no phones, no internet, no social media. The past feels like it was cloaked in anonymity, the ability to re-invent oneself. I love the desperately sad, yet passionate, love stories and secret affairs.’
I stopped, feeling self-conscious at my revelation. I’d never told anyone before how, when I was absorbed in a movie – especially when I was a teenager – I felt safe. It blocked out the sadness, gave me hope for a future where I too would lead a life full of burning passion and enchantment.
‘I love that! It’s so true. Tell me more,’ he said.
‘Like what?’
‘Like . . . where did you grow up?’
His eyes didn’t dart downwards to his phone, he didn’t look past me, he ignored the sounds of excited children coming from the beach and the small band playing guitars in the corner of the open-air café. Encouraged by his genuine interest, I continued.
‘My father died when I was nine.’ Out of nowhere, a lump formed in my throat. I took a large sip of my rum punch and quickly skimmed through the rest of the details. I edited them as I spoke, trying not to make it sound too sad. ‘A heart attack. Stress induced. Not the official diagnosis but the one my entire family believed to be true. My mum, and then later my older sister, worked multiple jobs to keep the money coming in. My mum passed away when I was nineteen.’
He reached over and took my hand. I could have gone on but no one tells the absolute truth about their history when they are trying to impress someone. Because that’s definitely what I wanted to do: impress him.
My openness seemed to touch him because he told me a bit more about his background.
‘My mother died when I was six. So, I do understand what it feels like. My dad did his best but I know he struggled. I would have loved a sibling.’
I felt a pang of guilt. My sister Louise and I were not the best of friends.
Sam and I gently squeezed hands over the table. I had never felt so seen, so understood, so full of desire and so sure that our meeting was meant to be. Maybe my myriad of jobs and situations was all part of some great, unseen plan to lead me to this point. There was a shift in energy, as if we both wanted to banish past sadness and root ourselves in the wonder of now.
‘I adore the sea,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place I feel at home.’
‘Same,’ I said, marvelling at how much we had in common. ‘I love inhaling the salty tang in the air, the vastness when looking out at the horizon, the sound of the waves. It’s soothing.’
We walked back to the ship together. We passed by an assortment of wooden signs nailed to a tree: New York 1788 miles. London 3323 miles. Toronto 2104 miles. Berlin 5579 miles. Happiness is right here. So true. By the time we arrived back on board The Wanderlust, I’d agreed to go to the casino after dinner that evening.
Sam was working at the blackjack table. He didn’t notice me enter, so for a while I was able to discreetly observe him at work. The first thing I noticed was that passengers were drawn to his table. The other tables weren’t nearly as busy. Sam’s smile was infectious. I saw people tilt their heads back and laugh, even when they had been on a losing streak. Eventually, he spotted me standing by the slot machines and beckoned me over.
Someone stood up to offer me their place at the table.
‘I’m done,’ t
he man said. ‘Let’s hope you have better luck.’
I could feel everyone’s eyes upon me as I placed my chips down. It was as if they sensed that Sam had picked me out as someone special, which then elevated me in their eyes too. It was exhilarating. I felt alive.
Sam dealt me my cards. A queen and a three. My next card was a nine, which tipped me over.
I won, I lost. I lost, I won. I won. Time really did appear to stand still as I focused on assessing how much to gamble, whether to accept another card or stand. I could barely breathe. The tantalising hope of winning was intoxicating. Not just the winning, which felt like free money, but the thrill of anticipation. The encouragement from the people crowded around me, congratulating me when I won and commiserating when I lost, was electrifying. Sam’s smile encouraged me further. I was centre stage even when I eventually had to make way for other players. Turned out gambling was my thing after all.
Under Sam’s guidance, I was introduced to poker, to roulette, to the dream of winning. My mind ran away with me, imagining placing higher bets, winning a fortune, buying a house, paying off my car loan, money for five-star holidays . . . and then I lost. And lost again. They weren’t large amounts – of course not, I couldn’t afford it – but it was still deflating. Caught up in the moment, I’d so believed I was in with a chance of winning big.
Sam was in demand. A woman with a large bag of chips was holding him captive at the roulette table. I slipped away, out onto the deck. The short time I had spent with him had opened my eyes to what was lacking in my life. I realised I wanted to stay out at sea, experience new adventures.
I joined my colleagues in the palm-tree bar and drank cocktails named Coconut Clouds and Dark and Stormy. We played drinking games and ordered late-night burgers and chips to soak up the alcohol. As we all said goodnight by the lifts, I felt empty. However, back in my cabin, along with the chocolate on my pillow there was also an envelope on my bed, propped up against a towel-art bear.
At first, I assumed it would be a receipt for my day’s overspending. But the package bulged slightly. I ripped it and inside was something wrapped in powder-blue tissue paper. I unwrapped it. Nestling in the cloud of paper was the silver mermaid pendant and a note:
Your winnings.
FOUR
Now
All around me is normality. Guests disembark from the boat, thank me and their host, then head in the direction of the train station. I feel dizzy, sea-sick, even. My mind is a maelstrom of thoughts and fears.
‘You are a natural at making people feel at ease,’ Flora says as we both walk up the slope leading away from the river.
She gives me an awkward drunken hug by way of a goodbye, along with a generous cash tip. I am pleased. (For the tip, not the hug.)
I give a modest smile. ‘Thank you. It’s my job.’ True. ‘I pride myself on repeat business and referrals, rather than puffed-up advertising.’
Untrue. I do whatever it takes and works best in the circumstances.
One more hug from The Host and I am released. I am free. For now. Because the event is local to me, a luxurious rarity, I can walk home. One of my closest old school friends, Lewis, lets me use his spare room until I can decide where I want to put down more permanent roots. Thing is, I shouldn’t walk home alone, not after what’s happened. And yet . . . sometimes, in a perverse, twisted kind of a way, I half-like placing myself in danger. I see it as giving the universe (or whoever/whatever) a chance to strike me down. If I was caught off-guard it could potentially be one bash over the head with my tormentor’s weapon of choice. One stab, maybe. Then the game would be over. Mini punishments such as these (like also not allowing myself to smoke at the moment) are to give karma a helping hand so it doesn’t need to concern itself with conjuring up some terrible fate from its own imagination. All of this seemed to work.
Until today.
I hesitate before I cross the road and walk up the hill, keeping Windsor Castle to my left, because there is an alternative route. It would take me along the river, then beneath a small underpass. But tonight, I have managed to stay safe, despite Sam getting close enough to plant a cryptic note and a memory stick on me. I shouldn’t tempt fate any more than I already have. It’s surreal to think that I didn’t sense him, or even smell his favourite aftershave. He was ghost-like while using his pick-pocketing skills in reverse.
I focus on the rhythmic echo of my heels on the paving stones. I like the sound, but it draws too much attention to my lone walking. I stop, lean against a wall, unzip my bag and change into flat boots. No one else walks by. I am alone.
I pass an antique shop, then the theatre, and keep making my way up the hill. All is quiet, which is usual for a weeknight. The windows in the outer castle brick walls are mostly unlit. The arrow slits always give me the creeps, even in daylight. As I walk past my favourite Thai restaurant, the entrance door opens and two couples emerge, laughing before they walk down the hill, away from me. Yet, I’m aware of a single set of footsteps close behind me that pierce my arrogance. I stiffen, shove my right hand deep into my bag and grip the handle of Sam’s gift.
The spearpoint blade is sharp enough to use as a weapon.
The footsteps stop. I watch as a gentle breeze nudges a chocolate wrapper, lifting it off the pavement then discarding it. Trying not to make it too obvious, I up my pace. My own steps echo in time to: Blood money, blood money, blood money.
The footsteps get closer. I swing round.
‘Sam?’
I call out just as the short, slight physique of someone wearing a woolly hat pulled down low speeds past, almost as if he or she had been debating how to overtake me without causing alarm, yet still messed up. Sam was considerate. If he saw anyone walking alone in a deserted spot at night, he would cross the road so as not to scare them. Or so he said.
The mound of a homeless person in the navy thermal sleeping bag I bought him gives me comfort. He is not in his usual doorway. I wonder why? I pause beside him. It is reassuring to see someone familiar.
‘Grant?’ I say. Loud enough to wake, but not so much as to frighten.
He doesn’t reply.
As I lean over to ensure that he is all right, the sound of his gentle snoring reassures me. On second thoughts, I leave him be. He has had a pretty shitty life; sleep hopefully brings him brief, yet blessed, respite.
I walk past the tourist shops, their windows filled with the faces of the monarchy, soldiers in their distinctive uniforms, the castle and other related images on tea towels, posters, magnets and masks. Turning right, I run through a familiar short alleyway that leads away from the main shopping area and onto Lewis’s road. It starts to rain.
His house is a two-bedroomed end-of-terrace. We didn’t plan to become housemates; didn’t want to risk our friendship. But a week before I arrived back in England, his lodger moved out. So we fell into it. Sam had all but emptied our joint bank account after our abrupt break-up, and although we own a joint property – what was supposed to be our dream home near a Devon beach – my hands have been tied by Sam’s absence. Practically speaking, I am in limbo, unable to sell the place and move on. Until recently, Sam got away with a lot.
Any potential new boyfriends are suspicious of what’s going on between Lewis and me. Women ask him the same questions. Have we ever . . . you know . . . nudge, nudge . . .? But the truthful answer is no. Lewis and I have been friends since the first week of secondary school when we couldn’t find our first-ever French class in time for the lesson. Neither of us wanted to make an entrance, or have to apologise in front of our classmates. We hid in an empty Art and Textiles room until it was over. We bonded, surrounded by pictures of landscapes, fruit and the faceless dummies used for fashion design. By the time we emerged, we were friends.
There is a Victorian-style lamp post on the pavement outside his house that reminds me of Narnia. I love it, even if cost-cutting measures mean it’s switched off during the loneliest hours of the night. Now, as the Narnia lamp comes into vi
ew, casting a pool of light across the pavement, my heart rate picks up at the sight of a lone figure standing beneath it, rain drizzling over them.
‘Sam?’
I run towards the figure but when he turns round, it’s Lewis. Wishful thinking. The build-up of anger I feel towards Sam is ready to burst.
‘I’ve been looking out for you,’ he says. ‘I was worried. Why aren’t you answering your phone?’
I take it out and see two missed calls from Lewis. They must’ve got lost among the many from Sam.
‘Sorry. Busy evening. I was distracted. What’s up? Why are you waiting out here for me?’
I can’t tell him about Sam and the mystery gift. Lewis believes that Sam led me astray. He doesn’t know even a quarter of what went on and I love his faith and loyalty in me.
‘I’ll tell you inside.’
This doesn’t sound good.
As soon as he shuts the front door behind him, I turn to him. ‘Just spit it out. You’re scaring me.’
I’ve had enough bad surprises for one day.
‘This came in the post.’ He hands me a newspaper cutting. I unfold the sheet of paper. It is a black-and-white photograph of me and Sam, on our wedding day. I am wearing a new, long, indigo dress and strappy heels. I had worn a bracelet dotted with dainty sapphire seashells he had given me as an engagement gift. Sam had a thing about discretion when it came to certain gifts, which I appreciated. The bracelet was my ‘something blue’, earrings my ‘something old’. They were given to me by my mother, one of the last few items she was never forced to sell. The earrings had been passed down to her by my grandmother, who had received them from my grandfather for their golden wedding anniversary. I’d kept the bracelet in my clutch bag and after the formalities I draped it around my wrist. I could no longer resist showing it off. I loved it.
I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.
Yet Sam went white when he noticed the bracelet as our wedding photographs were taken. He whispered angry words in my ear.
The Ex-Husband Page 3