The Ex-Husband

by Hamilton, Karen

  We developed a system. First, we’d ascertain who had cash to splash. This was done in various ways: by how much they spent in the casino (not foolproof, Sam had to keep an eye out for those with uncontrollable gambling habits), through striking up casual conversations, by befriending them or by noticing the little clues: jewellery, clothes, length of cruise, previous holiday choices. Some passengers were suspicious of everyone. They didn’t want to make new friends, kept their handbags, wallets and sea-passes close, their private lives vague, their room keys hidden from view. They were the smart ones.

  Our wedding, however, was one of our best fundraising ideas of all. Sam and I had befriended a couple who had been married for thirty years with never a cross word between them. Basil pulled out Madelaine’s chair at every meal, they told positive stories about one another, they held hands, never left the penthouse suite without each other. But those weren’t the details we focused on. They were rich and generous, so much so that we couldn’t find fault with them, couldn’t find a reason to spin one of our usual tales, despite the temptation. Neither of them had anything they needed to forgive themselves for.

  ‘I hope we’re still in love in thirty years,’ I said to Sam, as we were mulling things over.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Sam, kissing me. ‘You genius. I’ll tell them about our wedding. Ask them for advice on how to choose the right life partner.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You will, trust me. You will just love my idea.’

  ‘I want to know now.’

  ‘It will ruin the surprise,’ he said, kissing me again, knowing that was enough to make me stop asking questions.

  Two mornings later, emerging from the shower, I couldn’t find my engagement ring on the basin. I got down on my hands and knees and searched the bathroom floor, stripped the bunks. Nothing. I could remember taking it off and placing it on the side next to my body lotion. So, where was it now? Sam was already in the casino. I messaged him.

  My ring’s gone. I’m freaking out! Have you seen it?

  I could see that he had read my message, yet he didn’t reply.

  Later that afternoon, after my shift, there was a handwritten note that had been slid under our cabin door.

  An invitation . . .

  Dear Samuel (Sam was a Sam, not a Samuel, but no matter) and Charlotte,

  Basil and Madelaine request the pleasure of your company in their suite at sunset.

  Dress code: Something special.

  P.S. We’ve OK-ed it with your manager.

  Wow. That was unexpected.

  There was a separate note on my pillow from Sam saying to meet him there.

  I had an inkling – of course I did – but even so, I was blown away. The penthouse had been decorated in roses and curls of ribbon. Balloons bobbed against the ceiling. There were ornate seashells, gold baubles, diamond-crusted tea-light holders. Christmas wasn’t far off and I felt the sort of excitement I hadn’t felt since I was about five years old.

  Sam, dressed in his most expensive suit, got down on bended knee at sunset on Basil and Madelaine’s vast balcony and presented me with my lost engagement ring as if it were the first time.

  I looked into his eyes, mutual delight passing between the two of us, and this time . . . I said ‘Yes!’

  Madelaine and Basil clapped and said ‘Congratulations!’

  If I’m being fair to myself, it was so easy to feel special, to think that we had been ‘chosen’ and that we were immune from the mundanity of life. It felt like we had the golden touch.

  The champagne the four of us toasted with was Dom Perignon vintage. Afterwards, Madelaine took me to one side and told me that she hoped I would be as lucky as she had been.

  ‘He’s besotted,’ she said about Sam. ‘That man would move heaven and earth for you.’

  ‘I didn’t have much luck with men before Sam,’ I confided. ‘He’s my first proper relationship.’

  I told her about Deceitful Drew, Harry in Val d’Isere and a man I had met while au-pairing in Italy. He was the son of a neighbour. My employers were furious when they discovered my – not his – indiscretion. I was asked to pack my bags with only one day’s notice and a week’s pay. It wasn’t all bad, though, because my time in Italy really ignited my love of travel.

  Of course, Basil and Madelaine offered, no, insisted on paying for our hotel beach wedding in Barbados the following month when Sam and I both had a week off between contracts. Basil and Madelaine were guests of honour.

  A good friend of Sam’s, JJ, who once worked as a chef on the same ship as Sam, was the best man. His full name was Jason, but Sam had a few friends with the same name, and two called Jay, so Jason became JJ and it stuck. Sam introduced us the night before the wedding. JJ’s girlfriend, Jilly, offered to be my bridesmaid.

  ‘I won’t be offended if you say no,’ she said. ‘I realise that all your good friends are in England, so the offer is there if you’d like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, touched.

  Sam warned me not to get too friendly with her because she wouldn’t necessarily be around next time we visited Barbados. JJ didn’t have long-lasting relationships apparently.

  Jilly was clearly very much in love with JJ. I could see why. He was nice, had good manners, was interested in others and had matinee-idol looks. She lent me a silver clip for my hair, which I wore up.

  After the formalities, during the photos, I saw Ingrid, my first ever cabin mate, among the guests, staring at me. Sam turned on me. He whispered angry words in my ear for wearing my bracelet, then dragged me by the wrist outside and asked what the hell I was playing at.

  JJ appeared and took Sam to one side to calm him down. Jilly led me to the ladies’ to help fix my eye make-up, which had smudged when I couldn’t hold back the tears. Afterwards, I saw Sam taking Ingrid to one side, speaking close to her ear, angrily.

  Basil spoke to the hotel security and Ingrid was escorted from the premises. Rumour went around that she had threatened Sam in the past, was an ex who hadn’t taken their break-up well. Long story short, it meant that I got married wearing something old, something new, something borrowed and something stolen. And not just stolen – it wasn’t that that bothered me the most. It was the fact that Sam had kept his previous relationship with Ingrid a secret, that there had been an ‘overlap’, that I had worn a bracelet that Sam had first given to another woman who hated me. Superstitious or not, it felt like a bad omen. It was the first time I properly questioned myself and what I was getting into. What if, I thought, behind the glitz wasn’t more glamour, but something darker? For the rest of the evening, throughout the dancing, I couldn’t help feeling that I had made a big mistake.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you and Ingrid had had a fling?’ I asked as we walked along the hotel corridor to the honeymoon suite (all legitimately paid for by Basil and Madelaine). ‘I hate that I was in the dark. I thought she just didn’t like me.’

  ‘It was a brief, meaningless fling. Please don’t let her ruin our special day.’

  I should have said more but it was our wedding night and I wanted to salvage what was left of it.

  But it was already too late. Our wedding night was the first time in a fancy hotel room that we didn’t have sex. Not only that, I couldn’t enjoy, or appreciate, the luxury. I hadn’t earned it. It seemed that without the danger and the threat of being caught, there was no joy to be found in life’s pleasures. And, even though I didn’t admit it to myself then, not that night anyway, I already knew that I craved a bigger high, and that I would probably risk more to experience it. Feeling flat, feeling betrayed, lied to and conned, were all feelings I was going to numb and bury – for now.

  TWELVE

  Now

  I am in Miami airport, about to board a private jet to Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas. I had dreams of this type of thing happening to me one day, of course. I’d pictured myself in dark glasses, like some sort of movie star, jetting off to one of my many privat
e mansions. I’d had many grand ambitions but I hadn’t ever visualised my own plane. I hadn’t aimed high enough. Perhaps that’s where I’d gone wrong.

  I am personally escorted to the aircraft. There is no hassle, no fear that any airport staff will sniff out my guilt and search me. It is disappointing that the flight to Nassau will only take a mere hour, unlike my never-ending flight in economy from London yesterday. I spent the night alone, in a hotel with views of the cruise port. Nostalgia hit hard. I had forgotten just how majestic, how colossal, how enticing cruise ships were. I could feel the pull of life at sea enticing me back.

  Although I swore that I would never again get caught up in any of Sam’s schemes, this is different. This is self-preservation. The only way to be free of Sam is to confront the past, which I cannot do while living half a life at Lewis’s house, looking over my shoulder. People say: ‘Don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time,’ but what I did didn’t feel like a crime, that’s the thing that’s hard to explain. This trip is my opportunity to escape.

  As I’d waited to check out of the hotel, I couldn’t help but overhear a couple directly in front of me; their snippets were conversational gold. ‘Fifth cruise’ would have translated to Sam and me that they had money to spend. ‘Need to buy myself some new dresses.’ Money to splash on board. Her diamond earrings glittered with authenticity, a good few thousand pounds. Her shoes – designer and barely worn.

  Old, dormant me is back, but without Sam dangling his many carrots I can hold back and keep myself in check. One thing is for sure, I don’t wish to go back to rebuilding a life at home.

  ‘Hello, Ms Wilson.’

  The crew welcome me on board as if they genuinely mean it. Then again, I would too if this was my working environment. There is no stress, no queuing, no getting whacked by someone else’s bags, no mess. In the lounge area, fresh roses burst from fixed silver vases. Small ceramic bowls are filled with nuts and chocolates. Cocktail sticks rest neatly beside green and black olives. Slices of pineapple and watermelon fan out across a silver platter.

  It appears that I am the first person to board. The dozen or so luxurious leather seats are empty. A magazine rack holds a wide selection, covers displaying the type of lifestyles I dream of. I sit down and shut my eyes, allowing myself to feel a strong sense of sheer, blissful relief at leaving fear and blandness behind. The only message I have received today so far is an ‘I’m so jealous’ one from Lewis. If Whoever It Is is watching his place, they’re going to be disappointed.

  There’s a sound of voices and I open my eyes. Five people board: a woman and two couples in their sixties or early seventies. I look again at the final passenger list that Thomas mailed to me this morning. Mr H. Jacobs is Josephine’s partner.

  Josephine Fox-Smith and Harrison Jacobs

  Their parents (Alicia and Charles, Sebastian and Arabella)

  Gina Williams

  Gina’s mother, Norma

  Mariella Green

  Garth Ford

  Thomas – along with the other guests, staff and crew – is already on board the superyacht, The Cleobella. The little I know about Josephine Fox-Smith from my online digging is that she runs a successful chain of fashion boutiques. She has won awards, raised thousands for various charities, is a captain of industry. There is little on her personal life, other than a very old picture in Tatler many years ago. I do know that she inherited when she was eighteen from a wealthy grandfather. Whichever way I look at it, chartering a private yacht means serious money.

  Just before the doors are closed, another two women and a man board. They look a similar age to me. They’re followed swiftly by another two men. The first three appear to all know one another, the latter two sit directly behind me. I go through my mental list again to marry up names with real-life faces.

  The aircraft doors close. There are a few brief smiles of acknowledgement but after that no one pays any attention to me. There is much opening and closing of cabinet doors, removing and hanging of outer wear, last-minute phone conversations, a discussion about nibbles and one or two requests for drinks.

  We begin to taxi. I love that there is no safety demo. No one orders me to put on my seatbelt (although of course I do), we just . . . take off. The movements on a small plane are accentuated, my stomach drops as we lift up, rock sideways and judder slightly before we break through the clouds and into the clearest of blue skies. I have never appreciated the view more.

  Whoever It Is is now a good thirty thousand feet or so below me and four and a half thousand miles away. My mind clears for the first time in days and my body relaxes into the leather seat. Everything is going to be all right. Despite Sam, despite the threats, despite all the mistakes I have made. I feel as if I belong here. As I gaze out at the horizon, it strikes me that it is the reverse of looking at it from a cruise ship. The white clouds are below, the blue sky is above. I’m used to looking out at the ocean, as far as I can see, the skyline above.

  I stand up to go and explore the plane at the same time as the man behind gets up. We smile at each other, but he doesn’t look as though he relishes the thought of chit-chat. We end up walking along a small corridor together, where there are two bathrooms, complete with showers and basins with gold taps. The scent of luxury soap wafts as I dry my hands on soft, white towels.

  When the man emerges, he sits at the bar and is offered a drink. I do the same, only I order a Bloody Mary instead of an espresso.

  I introduce myself.

  ‘Charlotte.’

  ‘Daniel,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

  Daniel is not on my list.

  ‘How do you know Josephine?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘New to this?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘I’m a freelance security guard. You?’

  ‘Assistant PA.’ I lower my voice. ‘What about everyone else on board?’

  ‘The guy next to me, Steve, is one of the chefs,’ he says. ‘The others are all family and friends. They won’t be interested in chatting to us.’

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Too long. Every job I promise my wife I’ll quit, but the money is good. Your turn.’

  ‘Long story,’ I say, taking a sip of my drink. The vodka tastes strong. ‘Do you know any of the friends and family? Have you worked for them before?’

  He gives me a look as if I’ve said something wrong.

  ‘They pay us to be discreet,’ he points out. ‘We aren’t paid this type of money out of the kindness of their hearts. It is out of “Shut the fuck up”. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Don’t forget that. It will make the difference between being told to pack your bags in the middle of the night and being shipped off into the darkness and dumped on shore to make your own way home, your tail between your legs, or not.’

  ‘You sound very sure of this.’

  ‘I’ve seen it happen many times,’ he says, but doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘I know how to be discreet.’

  ‘The best advice I can give you is to remember that no one is your friend, however chummy they seem. Do your work, sleep when you can. Work hard and save the playing hard until you have been paid and are far away.’

  We begin our descent into Nassau. We finish our drinks and return to our seats. I press my face against the window and peer down. The turquoise water that I’ve missed so desperately makes me smile. The islands come into closer view: strips of lush green and windswept white beaches. As we continue to descend and the land comes into sharper focus, some of my earlier shine, bravado and optimism wears off. I wonder just how involved the job is actually going to be. It’s hard not to wonder, what exactly am I letting myself in for?

  THIRTEEN

  Then

  Alaska

  The library became my hunting ground; the casino, naturally, was Sam’s. Despite this, our next targets were not chosen while reading or gambling, but found as they accepted cel
ebratory martinis from a head butler. It was during sail-away cocktails in the VIP section on board The Wanderer. Sam and I were focusing on the wealthier end of the market. This was our fifth working cruise together, and our first time on an Alaska-bound, cold-weather one.

  Our latest ‘guests of interest’ were another couple. The man’s dark hair was neatly combed, his cologne slightly too strong. I detected hints of Oud. His shoes were bespoke, his patterned shirt was flattering and clearly made to measure. The woman was slender, slightly taller than him. Long, strawberry-blonde hair frizzed slightly at the ends. Gold earrings matched the lettering on her Cartier handbag and matching high-heeled sandals.

  Her martini was quick to disappear, and I witnessed the man impatiently beckoning for service by waving his right hand. I overheard her asking for ‘Champagne this time, as long as it’s deliciously cold.’ She smiled, as if to dilute the sting of her insinuation that they’d ever dare serve her anything less than perfect. Her jacket sleeve rode up slightly as she reached for the champagne flute offered to her from a silver tray and I spied more gold in the form of a chunky bracelet coiled around her left wrist. Left-handed, I noted. No sign of a watch.

  I was so intent on my people-watching that I almost cried out when Sam appeared at my side and snaked his arm around my waist. He pulled me out of sight, behind the sauna and steam room and kissed me. The feeling of his black-tie jacket against my too-thin sleeves was alien. Our normal contact was skin to skin.

  ‘We shouldn’t . . .’ I said. ‘We’re at work. Someone will see.’

  He pulled me closer, squeezed tighter, bending to kiss my throat. Lust still kept our relationship afloat. That, and gifts. Sam had exquisite taste. Since our wedding day, however, and my stolen bracelet, I had begun to feel the struggle between the wanting and the not wanting. It was a deep, dark truth that I could barely admit to myself: the pleasure of what we were doing was no longer solely driven by Sam. I was torn between wanting to experiment myself, and yet wanting to impress him with how far I had come. Shame and guilt simmered around the edges of avarice and ambition. We made new rules. We would only pick unworthy people or ones who needed humbling. It was easier to justify. We had one rule that we agreed we’d never break – we never took from anyone who couldn’t afford it.