The Ex-Husband

by Hamilton, Karen

  ‘It’s not that exciting,’ he warns, ‘but OK.’

  We walk through another door: Keep Closed at Sea.

  We pass the laundry room, which is narrow with a wall of spinning washers and driers. A random memory: they were always one of the more populated places on cruise ships, especially towards the end of the trip. There were never enough machines. There were always queues, and passengers would get irate if others didn’t unload their washing or drying the moment the cycle stopped. Two erect ironing boards lean against the opposite wall and neat piles of folded white and navy towels and sheets line the shelves.

  Two small offices contain wooden desks, large computer screens, maps and files. A food storage room is hidden beneath a trap door in the larder.

  ‘So we won’t starve if the engines and locator beacons fail and we drift hundreds of miles into the middle of nowhere. We can live off tinned stuff for weeks, if not months.’

  Jon opens the door to a mini-gym containing a treadmill and a few free weights, and another room containing a sofa, an armchair and a table that is littered with yachting magazines, local newspapers and empty mugs and glasses.

  ‘It’s not usually this much of a mess,’ says Jon, apologetically. ‘I’ll show you my cabin,’ he says, as we walk down a narrow, short corridor, ‘but I can’t invade anyone else’s privacy. Some of the night-shift workers have only just got up.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, as I stare into a tiny space with bunk beds.

  One bed is neatly made up, the other is a crumpled mess.

  It reminds me how fortunate I am. Jon shares with another guy (whose name is actually Guy, as it turns out). On a tiny shelf, crammed with deodorant, a phone charger and a book, is a photograph of a woman standing in front of the Sydney Opera House.

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I like that he doesn’t say ‘Yes, but . . .’ then come out with the usual ‘but not when I’m away working’ line. It makes me warm to him even more, but it also means that he’s off-limits, which is a shame. It had half crossed my mind that a dalliance (to use Sam’s word) would be a welcome distraction.

  I take note of the way back as we head for the bridge, through a ‘No Access’ door.

  Although I met the captain – ‘please call me Tim’ – and the crew briefly on the day we boarded, they were just a sea of names and faces. I go through the motions of asking if they know Sam but there are more blank faces. Only the captain seems vaguely familiar but not enough for me to pinpoint why.

  I return to my cabin. The beds have already been made, the bathroom is smudge- and drip-free. I pack a small bag to take up to my ‘office’. It’s only as I’m ready to leave that I notice that beside the towel swan on my bed is an orchid stem. As I pick it up and drop it in the waste bin by the desk, I notice that Lucy’s bed is white and pristine, not an orchid in sight.

  I look down at the purples and pinks. I don’t see beauty, I see something sinister or a message from Sam. It gives me the chills.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Then

  The Caribbean

  I never found out what happened at lunch between Alexandra and Sam, but he no longer mentioned her as a possibility. All Sam would say was that she was interesting but that I had been right: she wasn’t suitable. Which most likely meant that she had not fallen for his patter. It made her one of a few, I reckoned. I was pleased. Sam wasn’t just losing his magic in my eyes, his ugly behaviour and increasingly violent tendencies were affecting everything. And all Alexandra would say of Sam was that he was charming. Charming is an adjective that now makes me wary.

  The card games with Alexandra picked up where they had left off, and we added chess and canasta into our nightly routine once she had returned from dinner. I guessed she’d seen through Sam and wanted to put it behind her. I was glad that she hadn’t fallen for his charms. She valued our friendship more than his smarm.

  Sam managed to wangle it that we got some time off together in port: Pigeon Island, St Vincent, Grenada, the perfect amount of paradise. Alexandra didn’t want me to book the cruise excursions; she wanted to be free to explore alone. I would see her disappear off into a taxi or waiting for a car at the exit to most ports.

  Things started to pick up. This always happened – the ebb and flow between Sam and myself. Every time, it would bring a wave of fresh doubt. The night before we docked in St Vincent, we met the perfect couple – Marcus and Tanya. So perfect, that I’m sure that Sam and I would have made friends with them naturally if we hadn’t been so out for ourselves.

  Even now, I reflect on the price I continue to pay; fewer genuine friendships, fewer proper connections.

  Marcus was a charmer. He was totally transparent about it and Tanya played along with his flirting by smiling in an indulgent fashion. They were wealthy, fun, dead against having children and out for maximum enjoyment. Our conversations revolved around holidays and about grabbing life with both hands.

  I didn’t plan to seduce Marcus. Not consciously, anyway. Perhaps though, deep down, I knew it would force me to wake up to what it was I needed to do: get away from Sam. I feared he would never let me leave, not with all the secrets we shared.

  Tanya had gone on an island tour of St Vincent and Sam had disappeared. I genuinely thought that he was with her – why wouldn’t I – given his past record? I was pissed off, hurt and humiliated. Before that, I had been focusing on Devon, our joint dream. I wanted to believe Sam’s reassurances that the other women ‘didn’t mean anything’, but nonetheless, I had let him get away with it. And worse, I had done it because I valued our lifestyle more than my own self-respect. I fed my green-eyed monster great big chunks of steak until it had completely taken over my rationale.

  Marcus and I had lunch at a hotel, and when he suggested that he book a room to finish off our second bottle of expensive wine in private, I said yes. Because the thing is, I did want to. I was attracted to Marcus, I enjoyed his attention. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, I think I knew this would be the end of me and Sam.

  While Marcus was in the shower afterwards, I couldn’t resist picking up his watch and studying it. Cartier. I put it back down on the bedside table when I heard the shower turn off.

  I was wrong. About many things. Firstly, it transpired that Tanya really had gone on an island tour – alone. Not with Sam. She raved about it afterwards, torturing me with pictures of turtles and unspoiled, white, powdery beaches. I felt wretched. It also turned out that Sam had been looking for me. My phone had died after I had given up tracking him down earlier. When I charged it and switched it back on, there were seventeen missed calls.

  Sam seemed to sense what had happened. I denied it. But deny, deny, deny was something that Sam had always impressed upon me.

  ‘If you’re ever questioned, stay silent. Deny everything, even if they say they have proof. If there’s doubt, there’s a chance. If you confess, there is no chance.’

  So, deny I did. But, of course, he had taught me never to admit to anything, anyway, so naturally he didn’t believe me. He lost it.

  ‘You’ve ruined everything!’ he yelled. ‘Everything we ever worked for; everything we ever had between us.’

  ‘No! You did that.’

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ he said. ‘I thought you trusted me.’

  ‘I did! But you’ve let me down and lied and cheated time and time again. I’m sick of covering for you, sick of living like this.’

  ‘That’s rich,’ he said, his face contorted in rage. ‘Considering you were the one who wanted more and more! You were the one with the taste for jewels and luxury fucking goods!’

  He smashed up our cabin and my right calf was sliced by a flying glass before it shattered against the desk. I hit my head against the door in my haste to get away. His violence had escalated on the night of Colin’s death – at some point, he had lost it enough to shove Colin down the stairs. These were the thoughts that ran through my head as he pulled me back – that a
nd the terrifying knowledge that he was capable of killing me.

  Unless I killed him first.

  Security were called by one of our neighbouring cabins, no doubt because of all the violent noise and shouting. But, of course, Sam smoothed things over with them while I hid in the bathroom. I was shaking with rage and fear and I didn’t trust myself not to tell the truth about what Sam had just done. Yet I also knew that if I opened my mouth to one of our colleagues, Sam would find a way to make them believe him and not me. I had to be one step ahead of him, plan things carefully and calmly.

  I reasoned with myself that this was the lowest and the ugliest we would sink. It wasn’t.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Now

  Day Two

  Itinerary: Day excursions.

  Ten days to Barbados . . .

  As we approach the shoreline of Turks and Caicos, I experience brief relief to see land, even if it is just the cruise-ship terminal flanked by rocky beaches and rows of crammed beach umbrellas blocking the view of the silky sand. I told myself in bed last night that any time I feel truly uncomfortable or threatened, I can jump ship and board a flight. Deep down, I know that this is not true. Sam’s and my chickens are coming home to roost and I will have to face whoever or whatever it is alone. It is darkly reassuring, in a twisted way. Living with the subconscious fear of a tap on the shoulder has taken its toll. Even before Sam’s betrayal, I had a nagging, intuitive feeling I would only ever truly get away with things if I worked alone. I must narrow it down, find any links to Sam or Alexandra. Keep an open mind but trust no one. To not just survive, but to thrive, I must rewrite history. I am innocent; Sam is not. I must believe that.

  Josephine is clearly the person I need to impress, so the first excursion planned, without much assistance from Thomas, is a horseback tour, followed by snorkelling and swimming with stingrays. The bad news is that she wants Thomas and me to accompany them on the ride, to bring water and snacks, spare suncream, ‘that kind of thing’.

  It is blisteringly hot as I guide everyone into three separate Jeeps. Ten guests, plus Thomas and me. I envy Lucy today, she is staying on board. I do not feel like clambering up onto a horse, as much as I love them.

  We’re all given riding hats. The guests have new ones, while Thomas’s and mine look they’ve been used plenty of times before.

  Next comes the horse allocation. I make it very clear that I am a beginner, although the large black horse I am given to ride – Jaguar – does not look as if he has ever had a novice ride him.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s an angel,’ I’m told.

  People mount horses and then get back off them again. I have to dismount to go back to the Jeep to pick up Alicia’s sunglasses, which she’s forgotten. The guests swap, compare and discuss. It feels never-ending until finally, all twelve of us are on horseback. Alicia, Charles, Sebastian, Arabella and Norma lead the way, along with one of the guides. Directly behind them are Josephine and Harrison, followed by Gina, Garth and Mariella. Thomas and I are at the back with another instructor.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ asks Thomas.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he laughs. ‘Come on, Charlotte. You look miserable. Haven’t you ever heard of faking it until you make it?’

  My horse picks up speed. I do not feel in control. I sink into the saddle. My spine jars with each step.

  ‘Sit straighter, like this,’ demonstrates our guide.

  It makes bugger all difference. I curse the enthusiastic, wanting-to-impress-Josephine me of yesterday.

  ‘Can you make my horse slow down, please!’

  ‘Just relax,’ Thomas calls out.

  I try to. If I were on foot, I would be impressed. The ocean is the clearest I have ever seen on any of my island travels. We bypass mangroves. Coconut palm fronds sway in the gentle breeze. I do not want a gentle breeze. I want clouds, rain and a decent wind. I fall into some kind of rhythm, thank God. We pass cheerful-looking houses, a church and sailboats with imaginative names.

  We meander pleasantly along a coastal path, with Jaguar stopping every now and then to paw at the ground slightly. The area widens out as we approach the open, white sandy beach. Clear blue waves brush the shoreline. Our guides lead us to the water’s edge as our horses obediently – even mine – step through the sea.

  We all stop. Jaguar appears good at copying his stable mates as he does the same. The lead guide dismounts to snap some pictures of us all before we continue.

  Harrison falls back until he is riding alongside me.

  ‘I’m sorry again about the other day, it really was clumsy. It was the shock of seeing you again. I didn’t mean to be abrupt.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  It is. He’s apologised, it’s over. I’m not holding any grudges.

  I concentrate on holding the reins as tightly as Jaguar will allow as we slow trot. Up down, up down.

  ‘I had convinced myself that something bad had happened to you, you see.’

  I don’t see.

  ‘When you were gone from the chalet,’ he continues, ‘I felt terrible. I hated myself. I know I should have treated you better.’

  I don’t fill the silence. I want to hear what he has to say.

  ‘There was the body of a skier found near the village, not long after you had gone. A woman had frozen to death. I was terrified that it was you. It wasn’t, of course, because here you are trotting merrily alongside me,’ he grins, ‘but I have never forgotten the fear I felt, and the guilt.’

  A few metres in front of us, Thomas slows down. Is he trying to listen in?

  ‘Where was Josephine at the time?’ I ask.

  ‘Skiing in Colorado,’ he says. ‘We weren’t in contact, but we reunited at Easter.’

  I realise that I don’t actually care, not really.

  ‘Apology accepted. I’m fine, as you can see.’

  ‘Excellent stuff.’

  Jaguar speeds up and we overtake Thomas, Arabella and Gina.

  Just as I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s not too bad after all, I hear the sound of the crack of a whip behind me. Jaguar seems to sense that he has one chance to bolt for freedom, one great opportunity to get shot of me, and he takes it.

  His trot becomes a canter, then I’m pretty certain a gallop, although I can’t tell the bloody difference, as we overtake the entire group and head for the horizon. Sand stings my face as my saddle loosens and starts to slide over to the right. I grip the reins tightly as I try to straighten myself and pull the saddle upright, but I can feel myself slipping further. I focus on Jaguar’s hooves churning up the sand. I can feel the vibrations of his steps through my entire body.

  Unable to hold on any longer, I let go, but as I fall to the ground, my right foot gets stuck in the stirrups and I am dragged for a good few metres, pain shooting through my knees and elbows as I’m scraped along stones until I fall loose. Jaguar careers off before stopping and looking behind as if he has no idea what he has just done.

  I can feel the thundering of more hooves and I put my hands over my head to brace myself, but an assortment of brown, black and grey horse legs come to a halt before I hear a cacophony of voices asking me if I am all right.

  My head hurts, my back aches and my ankle feels slightly off.

  ‘Let’s see if you can stand up,’ says Garth, who for some reason has taken charge. ‘I had to do a First Aid course last year for work.’

  Between him and the lead guide, I am up on my feet. Thank God, no broken bones. Another instructor, who is clearly some kind of horse-whisperer, has taken hold of Jaguar, who looks as if he is the most gentle, innocent horse.

  I see the two guides examining the saddle and the girth.

  I am helped up onto an instructor’s horse and led back, with Jaguar walking alongside us. Back at the stables, there is much confusion and denial. The girth was frayed but it looked like a straight cut which could have caused the saddle to slide.

  ‘This is unheard of,’ says the ow
ner. ‘We are a top-class stable.’

  I leave Thomas to deal with the paperwork and insurance formalities while I insist everyone gets back in the awaiting Jeeps.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist.

  But I am not. My legs feel weak and all I want to do is get back on the yacht and take a cool shower. I think back. There was so much confusion at the stables about who was riding which horse, so much bloody indecision that I cannot recall anyone being close to Jaguar. Someone was, though. Someone got close enough at the stables to cut my girth – just enough that I didn’t fall straight away – and that someone knows about horses, which doesn’t narrow it down at all because every single one of them is an experienced rider, apart from me.

  We drive from the stables to a hotel. I shower in the hotel dayrooms and change before lunch. It feels good to take off my trousers and socks, replacing them with a dress and sandals. I examine my ankle. My right arm feels bruised, yet there is no evidence of anything blossoming across my skin.

  At lunch, I am seated next to Arabella, Harrison’s stepmother.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asks. ‘You don’t have to put on a brave face. I would be terrified, absolutely terrified. My neighbour was trampled by his horse after it was spooked. He is still in a wheelchair, poor thing. No one would mind if you went back to the boat. We’re all adults, I’m sure we can find our own way to the beach this afternoon.’

  ‘It was a bit of a shock, but honestly, I’m OK now,’ I say. True. ‘My horse had attitude.’

  Everyone at the table laughs, which lightens the intensity of what just happened.

  ‘Which islands have you visited before?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.

  ‘We have spent the odd Christmas in Barbados,’ she says. ‘But Sebastian has had a rough time of it of late. Several niggling health issues, then he was mugged. Harrison suggested that some sunshine would do him the world of good.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’