The Ex-Husband

by Hamilton, Karen

  I slide my jewellery box out from a dressing-table drawer. At times, it feels odd keeping valuable items in such an obvious place, but I have learned that it’s the best way to hide things. All my valuable jewels were repurposed and disguised as costume jewellery. Sam wasn’t the only person to make useful contacts; I did too. Every job Sam and I did, I kept a memento. My inner magpie would seek out the latest, whispering in my ear, ‘It would look better on you.’

  Today, I choose a pendant, a ruby heart to complement the dress. A calmness descends as I do up the clasp behind my neck. It’s perfect. It was a brooch in its former life but it looks so much more attractive as a necklace. Feeling like me again, I slip on some heels. I study myself in the full-length mirror. My mermaid anklet doesn’t go with the overall outfit but I will continue to wear it to remind me of my independence. Sam is history.

  I smile at myself in the mirror, a habit Sam got me into.

  ‘It sets a positive scene in your brain,’ he used to say when I noticed him doing it before we left our cabins.

  Some of the habits he taught me I should make more of an effort to break free from, but this one is harmless enough. I don’t fancy public transport after yesterday, so I message Lewis.

  Can I borrow your car? Running late!

  Yes. Keys in my bedside drawer. Drive SAFELY.

  Lewis owns a red Porsche. His family situation is sad and complicated, albeit differently from mine because mine started out idyllic and fairy-tale-like before badness and sadness changed things. Lewis always said that as soon as he could, he would buy a car like this. He achieved his goal by the time he was twenty-five (a combination of hard work and loans) and I never take the piss because I appreciate how much the dream of owning one is what kept him going through some bleak times.

  He would never have let me borrow it when it was new, but he’s now got his eye on a Nissan GT-R. I have no clue what type of car that is. It could be a monster truck, for all I know. At least I can picture what someone is talking about when they mention a Porsche, Ferrari or Lamborghini. Lewis’s diminishing pride in his car highlights the fact that we all want what we think we want until we get it, but – sooner or later – it loses its shine. Nothing can fill the void for long enough. That’s how it all began for me, really. I developed a taste for the finer things in life and I liked, then craved, how it made me feel, and from then on there was no un-knowing or un-desiring.

  I tap in the destination postcode for the estate where I’m to meet Thomas, this personal assistant who contacted me about the event in November. It’s a forty-minute drive away.

  After I’ve set off, I check my mirror several times, especially when stopped at traffic lights. At first, I suspect a black van is following me, particularly once I’m on the motorway and it overtakes every time I do, but then it exits at the first slip road. Still, I speed up, it seems a shame not to given the luxury of the car I’m driving, and change lanes several times before feeling satisfied that I am not being followed.

  I drive down a small, narrow lane, snaking past a village green and a pretty pub with lots of hanging baskets overflowing with creeping Jennys and petunias. Once I arrive, the house itself has a long gravel drive but it’s not quite as grandiose as I had imagined.

  I do a final check of my appearance, smoothing down the stiffness of the dress as I get out. I shut the door quietly and walk over to the front door. After pressing the bell, I step back, standing between two potted olive trees. I feel watched by a camera I can’t locate. I stand, with just a hint of a smile, oozing an air of patience and professionalism.

  Nothing.

  A plane flies overhead. I hear footsteps and see a postman approaching. I put out my hand to take the letters he is holding. He hesitates but the front door opens so he hands them to me.

  The letter on top is addressed to a Mr H. Jacobs. But the name of the person interviewing me is Thomas George. The PA.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to the man framing the door. ‘I’m Charlotte.’ I hand him the post. ‘I just met your postman.’

  ‘Thomas,’ he replies, accepting the letters. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in.’

  He is younger than me by a good five years or so. Tall, wearing a maroon jumper, black jeans and designer trainers.

  I step inside. Thomas places the post down on a table in the hall. I look around. Opulence. A sweeping staircase, designer vases, the pictures on the wall expertly framed. The décor is not to my taste. I would modernise; some of the furniture appears to be family heirlooms. Despite this, briefly, it feels like coming home. Situations such as these always make me forget how much I have to force myself to like the ordinary, when, really, my tastes always veer towards luxury.

  ‘This way, please,’ says Thomas, leading me into a kitchen. He indicates a bar stool.

  I perch on it. ‘Nice place.’

  ‘May I offer you a tea, or a coffee? Or an iced water, perhaps?’

  ‘Iced water sounds good. Thank you.’

  Putting my phone on silent, I place it in my bag. Sam and I had rules about giving people our full attention. Any hint of disinterest or boredom can make the smallest difference when it comes to building trust. Thomas may be the assistant but I know that, despite his lack of warmth, he will undoubtedly be a hard worker and he is the trusted gatekeeper to whoever wants me to hold an event here. As such, Thomas deserves my respect. It is what I desired wherever I worked and was often in very limited supply. I always swore that if I ever ‘made it’ – no, when I made it – I would never look down on anyone in the way that I have been.

  I sip the water Thomas hands me, garnished with a slice of lime. I like that he has done that. I despise it when people make me an instant coffee, especially when I know they have a sparkling, shiny, expensive coffee-maker that they could use if I was someone more important.

  A rush of rage towards Sam comes from nowhere. This is not how things were supposed to turn out. I don’t want to be sitting in a stranger’s kitchen, wondering if Whoever It Is will pounce again or if they just wanted to rattle my cage. I want Sam to tell me useful things, not sneak up on me and plant cryptic items in my bag without my consent or knowledge.

  ‘Before we begin,’ says Thomas, ‘I would like to tell you a bit about the type of person we are looking for. Someone unflappable. Someone who can – and I know this is an overused phrase, so please forgive me – but someone who can think outside the box. The person we’ll choose will be prepared to put their all into it.’

  ‘Naturally. I never give anything less than one hundred per cent.’ True. ‘How did you hear of me?’

  ‘You came recommended. I checked out your website too and as well as having relevant experience for a unique role, it states that you travel for work.’

  ‘Yes, Europe, mainly. But the work is varied. I’ve even arranged a small wedding at a safari lodge in Kenya.’ Untrue, but Sam’s voice is in my head, reminding me that everyone flowers up their work history. ‘May I ask who recommended me?’

  ‘A friend of my employer’s.’ He mentions one of the first parties I ever arranged, a thirtieth in a Grade I listed building near Windsor. ‘We usually use an agency, but their fees no longer seem worth paying for. There is another PA who usually travels with us, but sadly, she’s been involved in a cycling accident and in all likelihood won’t be well enough in time to travel. I have visas to arrange, travel to book.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. I’d really like to know a bit more about what type of event you need assistance for and any other details. Where would I potentially be travelling to? Those are the type of things that are good for me to know.’

  ‘It’s more important that I get an overall feel for how you would work with me first. I’m looking for the personality. I could hire any freelance assistant, which I appreciate you are not. However, given the nature of the upcoming event, we would value your events planning skills. Our fee will naturally reflect the qualifications and experience of the person we hire.’

 
; He stops.

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ I say.

  If there is a large budget, it will extend to my fee. Selling my jewellery will always be a very last or desperate resort. Plus, it’s fair enough that he would like to know a bit more about me. I imagine it’s harder recruiting for an employer than it is for oneself. It’s not as if I don’t know how to say what people want to hear. I’m feeling energised because it taps into my dormant skills: looking for the right clues and signs.

  Thomas asks several questions before focusing more on me.

  ‘Tell me about your background,’ he says. ‘I’d like to hear it in your own words. You don’t have much of a social media presence.’

  ‘I’m camera-shy. Always have been since I was younger and wore glasses that didn’t suit me. I felt self-conscious.’

  I did hate my glasses and I’m not particularly fond of photos of myself but social media is the enemy. I hate all the reminders, all the ‘This time two/three/four/a hundred years ago you were with blah, doing blah’. No, thank you. I want to be forgotten, not remembered. I tell Thomas what he wants to hear. About my cruise ship background, then my well-rehearsed lie about missing life on land, wanting to set up my own business. So much easier than telling the truth. ‘Flower it up,’ Sam’s voice whispers in my ear.

  ‘Interesting. The events I’m arranging will take place on board a private superyacht sailing from the Bahamas, mid-November. My employer wants to host an engagement party for some close friends plus a seventieth-birthday celebration for her mother. Your cruise ship experience may come in useful, especially as you obviously don’t suffer from sea-sickness.’ He pauses to smile.

  I smile too. ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘However,’ he continues, ‘most importantly, I need someone who can assist me without question – within reason, of course. I need a person I can trust but who also doesn’t feel as if it’s beneath them to follow orders. It’s important to understand the amount of work involved in planning these events.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Did you come across many famous people on your travels?’

  Ah hah. That’s what all this is mainly about. Confidentiality and privacy.

  I put on my most prim voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t say even if I had. I value privacy.’

  ‘Excellent. Good to know.’

  ‘I read somewhere that the pleasure of sharing gossip only lasts a few seconds but the shame, guilt and fear of breaking a confidence lasts so much longer. It’s not worth it.’

  Shut up! I tell myself.

  ‘Fascinating.’ He smiles. ‘Any questions for me?’

  Thomas has an oddly formal manner about him, as though he is fifty years older than he actually is.

  ‘What is the itinerary, please?’

  ‘The plan is: Nassau, Turks and Caicos, San Juan, Antigua, St Lucia, Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago. This is not an exhaustive list, however, and is subject to change, even once we’ve set sail.’

  ‘What other staff would there be?’

  ‘The yacht crew are permanent. As well as you and me, there will be a beautician, security staff and specialised villa staff who will also be free to assist with the events or any other jobs that crop up. When we arrive in Barbados they will disembark to go ahead and make things comfortable for my employer and her guests at her property there.’

  ‘Are you able to tell me a bit about your employer and the other guests?’

  Mr H. Jacobs, for one.

  ‘Not at this stage, although I most certainly can be more transparent once I’ve made a decision. I have two more people to see today. I’ll think things through this evening.’

  I go right off Thomas, despite the lime garnish.

  ‘When can I expect to hear? My diary is already fairly full for November. Precise dates would be good.’

  Even as I say this, I know I’ve made a big mistake. Never show over-keenness.

  ‘You’ll hear from me by the end of the week. Thank you so much for coming.’

  I am dismissed. It irks.

  When I get back to Lewis’s place there’s a police car outside the house, parked beneath the Narnia lamp. The urge to run almost takes over but I hold my nerve, take out my house keys from my bag and unlock the front door. I hear a car door shut then footsteps behind me. I turn around. Two police officers.

  ‘Are you Charlotte Wilson?’

  My heart pounds.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re very sorry to tell you that your husband, Sam, has gone missing.’

  I can barely hear the rest of their words, it’s all a blur, but what is clear is that they don’t think he’s alive.

  Sam is missing, presumed dead.

  And with that news, I feel my whole life crumbling. New leaf or no new leaf.

  SEVEN

  Then

  UK and the Caribbean

  Sam was wrong. When I spoke to the recruitment agencies, they doubted I’d find a position on board a ship so quickly.

  But I didn’t have time to spare. I had to be with him. We spoke every day and exchanged hundreds of messages.

  ‘I promise I’ll do whatever it takes,’ I said during one of our chats.

  He had been unable to hide the disappointment in his voice when I told him that it was taking time.

  ‘I’m relying on you to make sure we’re together as soon as possible,’ he said.

  ‘There was one position for a couple . . .’ I said. ‘But it was in the Mediterranean and it was for a chef and a chief steward on board a smaller ship.’

  ‘I am a croupier,’ said Sam. ‘It’s what I excel at. Desperate as I am for us to be together, I’m afraid I can’t give that up.’

  I got it. His job was who he was.

  ‘How did you get into that line of work, anyway?’

  ‘I always wanted to be a croupier, as soon as I was old enough to know that such a job existed. My father would have friends around on a Sunday evening and they would play poker into the early hours. Initially, I would sneak downstairs and listen in, but when I was older I was allowed to stay up later. I watched and learned.’

  ‘Sounds almost idyllic.’

  ‘It was. It was like a scene out of a movie. Dad and his mates, surrounded by smoke, the smell of whisky and beer. The excitement, the fear when someone was losing, the fake bravado, the camaraderie. I learned to read people and I got really good at guessing who was bluffing and who wasn’t.’

  I loved hearing the passion in his voice. I almost envied him being so sure of what he wanted to do in life. I had wanted to be a vet. But we could barely afford a pet dog, let alone expect my mum to find enough money for me to study veterinary medicine.

  I encouraged Sam to continue, to tell me more.

  ‘It was a big event in our house,’ he said. ‘Every Friday, Dad would take the kitty money and spend it on supplies for the Sunday evening: the drink, the cigarettes, the snacks. If there was any money left over, I would be allowed to buy something for myself. I used to buy sweets, fizzy drinks, all the usual, until I realised that if I saved up a little, I could buy something better. But, all I really wanted was playing cards. The first ever pack of cards I bought myself stands out as one of the best days of my life. The newness, their shiny, pristine condition, the sheer possibility that lived among those cards. It’s hard to describe my joy.’

  ‘You’re doing a good job,’ I said. ‘I love hearing this.’

  ‘What did you want to be?’ he said.

  ‘I love animals,’ I said. I explained about my desire to be a vet. ‘But,’ I continued, ‘I had to start earning as soon as I could. Money was tight after my father passed away and my sister, Louise, who is five years older than me, started work when she was sixteen.’ I paused, wondering how to word the next part without sounding ungrateful, but then I thought, So what? Sam and I were baring our souls, there was no reason not to be truthful. ‘Louise and I have a complicated relationship. She partly brought me up when our mother first f
ell ill, but we’re not close. She rarely gets in touch unless it’s to ask to borrow money. Or if she wants to moan about Drew, her partner, and my first ever proper boyfriend whom she stole from me.’

  ‘Wow. Sounds pretty unforgiveable.’

  ‘I tried to forgive her because she’s my only family, and I would have been successful, had Drew not become a permanent fixture and father to her four children. I find it hard to listen to anything he says, so I try to visit only when he is out – which is frequently, from what I gather – or at work, which I suspect is infrequently.’

  One thing we both agreed on – neither of us wanted children. I loved all my nieces and nephews in different ways but that was as far as it went. Sam and I agreed we were too self-absorbed. I liked that about us, that we could so openly admit to our faults.

  In the meantime, the two of us being together was our number-one priority. And that meant a job. A couple of vacancies on board Sam’s latest ship came up, one being a florist and the other being a wardrobe supervisor. Neither of which I was qualified for.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Sam said when we spoke. ‘Just fill in the application form, so that we can be together. That’s the most important thing. How hard can it be to arrange a few flowers or keep some stage costumes tidy?’

  ‘I don’t want to lie,’ I said.

  ‘Then it will take longer.’ He sounded crushed. ‘It’s not lying, anyway. Everyone is creative when it comes to CVs.’

  ‘I guess.’

  After that, doubt haunted me. I applied for jobs in sales and excursions, on the front desk and even as a child-care assistant. I took a silver-service course and other online courses that promised they would be able to fast-track me to the job of my dreams.

  After four long months with no firm job offer in sight, Sam spoke to a friend – and I was offered a retail position in one of the boutiques on the same ship as him.