But then, things changed again. One evening, I came back to our cabin to discover a bouquet of orchids on my pillow along with a small, neatly wrapped gift. I untied the ribbon. Inside was a pair of dainty, diamond earrings. I recognised them; they had been bought in the gift shop only a few days ago by a woman with long, red hair. I remember because she appeared to value my opinion on which pair she’d selected.
‘Joanne is a friend of mine,’ Sam said when I asked him about them. It turned out that she’d been the mystery shopper – the woman with the long, red hair. ‘I asked her to help me choose something you’d love. I want this unpleasantness between us to end.’
‘And Betty?’
‘Long gone. They disembarked in the Dominican Republic. I wish you would believe me and trust me a bit more. That was a mistake. I’ll never go to anyone’s cabin alone again.’
He helped place the earrings in my ears. I felt a sharp stab as they dug into my lobes because I hadn’t worn earrings in a long while. I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I loved how they made me feel. There was something transformative about jewellery, something so delightfully decadent about wearing things that cost so much.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Sam said, kissing my throat. ‘Wear them tonight. I’m taking you for dinner.’
We docked in Haiti that day. He’d booked us a table at a hotel restaurant. It was all white tablecloths, flickering candles and roses. We ate from a charcuterie board: cheese, meat, pomegranates, melons, grapes. Our wine was an expensive Pinot Noir.
‘Let’s make plans,’ he said. ‘Ones you are happy with. How would you feel about teaching yoga one-on-one, say, on the beaches when we dock? Or reading tarot cards? You could befriend passengers too, offer to take guests to the various markets to ensure they don’t get ripped off. I could teach people the tricks of the gambling trade.’ He took my hands. ‘There’s loads we can do if we’re discreet, bold and imaginative enough.’
‘My yoga knowledge is fairly basic,’ I said. ‘And I’ve never even had a tarot reading, let alone given one.’
That was the thing with Sam, his enthusiasm was infectious no matter how outlandish his ideas were. I got caught up in them without stopping to think.
‘You can learn.’ He squeezed my hands. ‘I have every faith in you.’
I laughed. The wine had gone to my head, and I began to recite an imaginary tarot-card reading. ‘You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger,’ I intoned, dreamy-eyed. ‘. . . you will win the lottery.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Sam laughed too. ‘But I would go more along the lines of: you will donate more of your time and money to charitable works, you will benefit greatly from helping those less fortunate.’
‘Seriously, though.’ I had to admit, I was curious. ‘How would it all work?’
I had visions of some of the crew having a thing or two to say if they caught wind of our scams.
Scams. The subtle shift in my terminology was maybe the beginning of my acceptance, the understanding of what I was agreeing to, of what I was becoming. This probably would have been a good point to challenge Sam’s ideas more. Hindsight isn’t very helpful, in my opinion, because there’s no going back. That’s what frustrates me now, that I can’t change who I was, what I did. What I wouldn’t give sometimes never to have met Sam.
‘We befriend the right people – people like Betty and Jim – and take it from there. We find out what they want and offer it to them in a way they can’t turn down. We make them feel special, that they are not simply guests for us to serve and keep happy for our pay cheques. We make them believe that we genuinely like them. To be fair, I do like some of them.’
I pushed thoughts of Betty from my mind. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. I shouldn’t have. I should have stayed rightfully angry. Things would have been very different.
That was when we came up with the idea. And so, The Stories began. We made some of them up over dessert and coffee, feeling creative and fun. It was a bit like Sam did with his customs declarations. Our jobs meant that we met so many people with different backgrounds and situations. We decided that we would mix and match the tales we’d heard from various crew and passengers (careful to protect identities, of course) because truth really was stranger than fiction.
After dinner, we walked hand in hand around the lit hotel gardens, beneath the palms and past pink, red and orange hibiscus as we made up our stories. When we caught a cab back to the ship, I had to admit to being just a little disappointed that Sam hadn’t arranged any surprise suites, or unexpected detours. Something was missing from our evening; I had got used to his unpredictability. I wasn’t yet brave enough or creative enough to think of anything I could do myself to match Sam’s flights of fancy. Instead, to comfort myself, I focused on our stories:
Story Number One:
Sam and I grew up in a religious commune. When we were older, we fell in love. Our birth families disapproved and separated us, putting us to work in different sections of the community. The other members, our friends, our extended family, all the people we had grown up among, were tasked with spying on us, in order to ensure that we stayed apart. We tried, but we couldn’t. We truly believed that we were meant to be. However, it all went wrong when we were caught together, forcing us to flee in the early hours, on a dark, winter’s morning with practically no belongings or money to call our own.
Passengers would always ask where this commune was. We changed its location depending on our mood.
An American desert somewhere. On the outskirts of a jungle. A rural area in Australia.
‘It sounds like a cult, not a commune,’ they would say, just as they were meant to.
‘Do you know what? You’re right,’ we would reply. ‘It’s funny you should say that . . .’ And then we’d move seamlessly on to the second part of our story.
When we realised that we’d grown up in a cult, that we had been brainwashed (a gradual, but shocking revelation), we began learning how to live our lives anew. This was with the help of a kind couple who befriended us at a church/religious place/community support scheme. We owe them everything. We’re trying to earn as much money as we can to send back to help others who have been in a similar situation as us. We also want to help our families escape, but sadly they would have to want to. We have had to live a life on the run to stop them forcing us back. Hence, our choice of jobs and nomadic lives. It’s hard to capture people who are always on the move.
I discovered that I was good at telling stories when Sam and I were reeling people in. I would study our audience’s reactions, tailoring the beginning, middle and end to what they wanted or needed to hear. I thrived on entertaining them, giving them their money’s worth. It seemed a fair exchange. They got something in return for any inconvenience.
This is the short version, naturally. What Sam taught me is that you can’t make people believe what they don’t actually want to believe. If you tell the story right, they want to give you money. They want to help. Genuinely. And help us, they did. Sam was creative with the funds – part cash, part paid directly into an account ‘for the benefit of others’. We didn’t tell total lies – we did donate some of the money. In fact, it was pretty easy to convince myself that not only were we not doing any wrong, we were doing good. We never coerced anyone. We had rules and codes of conduct. One of them was perfectly simple to follow – that people only ever gave of their own accord.
‘I have learned that people generally trust a man in a tailored suit,’ Sam grinned. ‘I can say or do almost anything I like.’
Arrogant, but true nonetheless.
I can’t think of a better way to describe Sam than ‘handsome’. And when he was dressed for work, when he turned on the charm, men and women alike would be drawn to whichever table he was at. In the casino, he always received generous tips. Passengers would ask if they could have their photo taken with him. There must be hundreds of happy photos of Sam out there in the world, showing him sandwiched between happy g
uests.
Our mutual endeavours soon injected a new lease of life into our relationship. At the end of our contracts, we arranged a flight to London. Sam wanted me to meet his father and I wanted him to meet Lewis.
Sam insisted on forking out for business class because he claimed he was too tall to travel in economy. We were immediately upgraded to first class. At first, I didn’t understand how he’d managed it. Upgrades simply didn’t happen to people like me. All I know is that I spotted Sam having a discreet word with one of the cabin crew. But once we were up in the air, it all became clear.
After a lunch of crab meat, roast chicken and half a bottle of a white Bordeaux, I was about to settle down to a movie, when Sam removed my headphones.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ he said. Before I knew what was happening, he got down on one knee and presented me with a distinctive red and gold box. He opened it to reveal a stunning diamond engagement ring.
‘Lola, Charlotte . . . will you marry me?’
‘What a . . . surprise!’
It genuinely was. Sam and I had discussed marriage, but I’d imagined that it was a long way off, at least until we’d made our fortune. I loved him, of that there was no doubt. We were planning a great future together and I loved the idea that getting married would play a role in our amazing journey together.
Behind him, the crew clapped and took photos, poured champagne. The other passengers stopped whatever they were doing to offer their congratulations. A steward handed me a bouquet of red roses. The captain appeared with a map, highlighting in red marker pen the exact spot where we had just passed. He signed it with his name – Captain Roy Downes – and sketched a heart around a plane.
Among all the attention and congratulations, I realised that I’d never actually said yes. But then again, it never crossed my mind to say no, either.
TEN
Now
These days, orchids give me the creeps. Maybe the person threatening me is not Alexandra or anyone similar. Maybe it was Sam all along. The orchids my sister received could be some kind of hint as to his whereabouts. Or then again, not. My mind goes back and forth, trying to figure it all out. Maybe Sam is dead. Maybe someone wants me to think that he is alive. But the orchids? No one else would know the significance. Sam and I were careful what we posted online. We were bland and safe, deliberately dull.
I phone Sam’s father, George. There is no reply. I leave a guarded message on his answering machine – I only have his landline number. It’s difficult to phrase the message; I don’t want to give false hope or have him think that I know for a fact that Sam is alive, or where he is. Then again, for all I know, he could be lying low because he knows exactly where Sam is. Maybe Sam is hiding in a garden shed or a loft? Any number of possibilities scroll through my mind. Perhaps George has absolutely no intention of speaking to me.
It makes me wonder. Where would I hide if I had to? Our house in Devon, tenants aside, feels violated and no longer seems like an option. I feel fresh anger that Sam led the police and Lord knows who else to X marks the bloody spot. There is nothing incriminating because Sam and I barely lived there, we merely furnished it. But, still, it feels violating. Hidden away in boxes in the roof of the double garage are mementos – the ones I bought to remind myself of good times. His and Hers aprons decorated with dainty, orange crabs, their pincers curled benignly inwards (Seattle, Megs and Jake). A sailboat inside a small bottle (Guadeloupe, Maggie and Colin). A glass vase, with pressed red, yellow and orange flowers in its base (Grenada, Natalia and Stan). A type of snow globe, with gold glitter for sand and sunlight on a brilliant blue beach (Martinique, Nico and Jenny).
An eye for an eye.
In an attempt to drive the words from my mind, to give myself space to think, I make the half-hour walk to Louise’s house. I ring the bell. Ryan, her eldest son and my favourite nephew, clomps down the stairs behind his mother. He is tall and broad, with a huge smile. Louise had him in her early twenties. In fact, she was already pregnant with Ryan when I caught her and Drew entwined in his car in our street late one night. He’d told me that he was bowling with friends. (He hated bowling. It should have clicked there and then that something untoward was up.)
‘Hey, Ryan,’ I say. ‘Too old for a hug from your favourite aunt?’
He makes a mock pretence of looking around and checking that none of his mates are in the street before he allows me to scoop him up in my arms. It’s a ritual Ryan and I have repeated since he was about ten. Ryan is one of the people I care most about in the world; he is the child I will never have. I opened a bank account in his name (he doesn’t know) into which I paid large sums whenever I could. It will hopefully ensure that he has freedom of choice when it comes to university, future travel, anything at all that gets him away from here. There will, of course, hopefully be money for all my nieces and nephews in the not-too-distant future. I want to save them from what could have been my fate.
‘Help yourself to coffee and make me a large one while you’re at it,’ says Louise, leading the way into the kitchen.
I follow.
‘Only one sugar, mind,’ she continues. ‘I’m cutting down.’
It’s wrong to judge, especially as I am not exactly a housekeeper extraordinaire myself, but I just can’t help it. The place is a total state. The bin needs taking out, the fridge needs a good scrub. I used to send Louise money regularly and I suggested getting someone in to help clean, but she just laughed and said that was the difference between her and me and why we will never truly understand one another.
I hand Ryan a fifty-pound note. ‘Go to the shop. Buy bin bags, milk and lots of fruit. Then you can keep the rest for yourself, if you swear not to spend it on booze or drugs.’ I pull a funny face to show I’m joking.
‘Booze and drugs,’ he laughs too, tucking the money into his back pocket. ‘Get you being up with the latest words. But, thanks. And don’t worry, I’ll spend it on sweets.’ He winks.
The whole exchange reminds me that I currently feel much older than my thirty-odd years. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I clean up in the kitchen while Louise takes my youngest niece through to the living area.
After a few moments, I walk into her living room carrying two cups of coffee. And, although I’m expecting it, although it isn’t a surprise, seeing the orchid sitting innocently on Louise’s dinner table unsettles me. The card is propped up against the plant pot. No place to hide. My legs feel weak.
I sit down.
I stare at the orchid as though it will yield clues if I look at it for long enough. But it’s just an orchid. It will be dead within days. Louise kills plants. It’s a family trait.
I’m still not feeling myself by the time I leave, after warning Louise to be careful. ‘Just in case.’
‘Just in case of what?’
‘Just in case Sam’s disappearance wasn’t an accident.’
Louise frowns and I notice her clutch my niece’s hand just a little tighter.
‘Well, what’s that got to do with you? Or us?’
‘Probably nothing. Humour me.’
I would never forgive myself if anything happened to any of them as the result of my past mistakes.
I still can’t get the words out of my head and I hate myself for feeling unsafe. I go back home and reply to work emails – nothing from Thomas – then google houses to rent in various parts of the country and jobs abroad. My tenants have left a disgruntled message. Sorry as they are to hear about Sam, they are not happy about the fact that he entered their home unlawfully while they were on holiday. I don’t blame them for being annoyed. I send them an apology with assurances that it won’t happen again.
Someone has written a horrible, anonymous comment online about my ‘lack of communication’ and ‘enthusiasm’, saying that they wouldn’t recommend my services. My fingers type: Fuck off, you liar, but I resist the urge to post and instead, delete and ignore.
Then there’s a new sound as an email pings through
from an anonymous sender.
My stomach drops. Sam used to send emails from anonymous accounts. As soon as I see the subject, however, it plummets further.
Subject: Blood money
The phrase alone makes me feel sick; I don’t want to read it but I have to.
Arrange payment of one million pounds. Click on the link to transfer the funds anonymously. Failure to pay asap will result in it being taken from you by force. Your choice.
It is impossible for many reasons. One, it’s double what Sam and I earned in our last six months and, besides, I still don’t have access to our money. Sam, the true thief, does. He withdrew our funds. He has left me to deal with all the shit alone. After pointlessly trying his phone again, I go online to his dormant social media pages. The chatter and speculation as to his whereabouts is dying down.
Cold reality well and truly hits. My past isn’t going to quietly fade away while I work hard at building up a legitimate business. It isn’t going to wait until I can make amends. Someone is determined to force the issue, to try to steal from me, unless I stop them. I am freshly angry with myself for being drawn in by Sam – for believing him, trusting him. While he is God knows where, I have to carry on with my working days as normal, outwardly acting as if all is fine, while inside I am a mess. It bugs me, immensely so, that Whoever It Is – and others – believe in retribution or teaching others a lesson, as if, somehow, it will fix everything. It is my belief that people are capable of teaching themselves their own lessons. They will learn what they will learn, regardless, but in their own time and even then, only if and when they are ready.
I’m relieved when Lewis gets home earlier than expected from work.
‘You’re early,’ I say.
He goes to the fridge and takes out a beer. ‘Want one?’
I nod. He takes out another and hands it to me.
‘I arranged a second date with someone, but she’s ghosted me. I couldn’t concentrate on work properly.’
I feel fleeting pleasure at this news; I don’t want to spend the evening alone.
The Ex-Husband Page 8