by Joanna Rees
She smoothed her hands over the silk of her wedding dress, the enormous diamond ring on her finger glittering. She took a deep breath, but still she felt nerves slicing through her, making her knees weak.
Imagine how she’d feel if there were hundreds of guests, she told herself. Or even thousands, like Suresh’s wedding. A brief flash of an image flitted across her mind: his face across that dining room the first time she’d seen him. How he’d filled her up with sunshine.
She thought about how their friendship would be affected now that she was about to be married. She’d kept Suresh a secret from Blaise, deleting his texts and hiding the letter he’d sent her last week, not that she really had anything to hide. Suresh was her friend and confidant and nothing more. He’d only ever been entirely respectful about Blaise, but something about their secret relationship brought Jess more comfort than she could express. Sometimes it felt like Suresh was the only person on her side, even though he was thousands of miles away.
She turned and picked up the bouquet of cream roses she’d carry into the ceremony room in a moment. If Suresh were here now, he’d be telling her to be brave. That nerves were normal. She could almost hear him saying the words.
She took another deep breath, preparing herself. Any moment now, she would go through that door and she would commit to Blaise and their life together. And she would be happy. She would want for nothing. He’d told her that. And in return, she would make a perfect home for him. It was every dream she’d ever had come true.
So why didn’t she feel more elated?
Was it just the job thing? The certainty that Blaise would want her to give up her career to fit in with his life? Is that what was bothering her the most? Or were these normal pre-wedding nerves?
She was about to say something to Tilly when Tilly let out a shriek of laughter. ‘You didn’t,’ she gasped. ‘Back in a moment,’ she said to Jess, still chatting on the phone. She went out into the corridor and Jess was left alone in the room.
Jess took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, but she still couldn’t stop the nerves from making her feel breathless. She walked across the cream carpet and opened the door a crack, breathing in some fresh air.
But as she leant her head out of the door, all she got was a waft of cigarette smoke.
She ducked her head round the door. Blaise had his back to her and was with Lance, standing further along the terrace, outside the main room. Was Blaise smoking? She shrank back, astonished that she’d seen him. Maybe he was as nervous as her. Was this just a one-off before the wedding?
She told herself to close the door. It was bad luck for him to see her. Besides, as much as she needed a reassuring hug from him right now, she couldn’t exactly go out there – especially if she was going to catch him smoking. Maybe he was having a last-minute wobble too.
Well, soon enough it would be over. They would be married and they could get on with enjoying their day and then their honeymoon. She couldn’t wait to fly to Venice and stay in the hotel Blaise had chosen. She was about to shut the door, as quietly as she could, when she heard them talking.
‘It’s a fairy tale as far as she’s concerned,’ Blaise was saying. ‘She thinks she’s nothing. A nobody.’
‘That’s good, right?’
‘Yeah, thank God. She has no idea.’
Jess froze. No idea about what?
‘Don’t look so stressed, man,’ Lance said. ‘You’ve done the hard work. She’s signed the paperwork.’
‘I know. I just have to get through the ceremony.’
Get through it? Get through it?
‘You can do it. It’s just words. After all the bull you’ve spouted, just a few more can’t hurt.’
Jess gripped the door, listening intently now, her heart hammering.
‘But she believes me.’
‘So? This is what you were paid all that money for. To find her and marry her. It’s what you agreed to. Remember the deal.’ Jess felt her heart constricting. She couldn’t breathe. ‘It’s not exactly been a tough gig. You hooked her in so fast. I mean, what did you do? Let me know your secret, man.’
‘Nothing really. It was easy,’ Blaise said, with a callous-sounding laugh. ‘I bombarded her with flowers, gifts, clothes. Stuff she could brag about with the cabin crew. Threw budget at it. The hired apartment in New York got her into bed. Porscha wasn’t happy about that.’
Porscha?
‘She looks like a gold-digger. I could see it straight away.’
‘I don’t think she is. Not really. As soon as I gave her all the “I love you” spiel, she was putty in my hands, but I don’t know . . .’
‘Stay strong, man. Don’t get sloppy now. Think of Porscha. She’s stood by you through all of this. It’s tougher for her, knowing what’s going on today.’
‘You’re right.’
‘This is no time for a crisis of confidence. Think of Lace Island. It’s so close.’
‘I know.’
Jess heard the sound of cigarettes being ground out and Blaise and Lance walking away.
‘And what will happen to Jess? After, I mean?’ Lance said.
‘I expect the others will take care of that. She’ll be . . . well . . . disposed of, I guess. To be honest, I’d rather not know.’
Outside, Jess heard the function-room door open and close, and then the roses in her hand dropped to the floor with a thud, right before her knees buckled.
PART FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Lace Island, present day
Leila woke suddenly in the darkness with a terrified gasp. She stared up from her narrow bed through the thick metal bars on her window at the impossible number of stars streaking across the black expanse of sky. The moon was full tonight and the dirty, bare walls of her small room were bathed in silvery light. She swatted at a mosquito that buzzed against her face and dabbed her sweating brow with the sleeve of her filthy jacket.
Lying back exhausted, Leila tried to breathe normally to get her heart rate down as the dream faded. But even when she was awake, it was still there, the truth of it tethering her and trapping her with no respite.
It amazed her that she could still dream the full dream. That every tiny detail was intact, everything as sharp as if it were happening all over again. When every day it felt like her brain had turned to mush, it was a small comfort to know that the old Leila must still be inside her, if only in her subconscious dreamworld. But now, over a quarter of a century after the events of her dream, she wondered where that brave girl she’d once been had gone.
She groaned, rubbing her face, knowing that with the dawn, her living nightmare would start all over again for another day. She’d do her duties, like the zombie she was, and if she was lucky, she wouldn’t dream the terror that still haunted her. She didn’t know which was worse, being awake or asleep.
Perhaps the dream had started with the stars, before she’d gone to sleep. Or maybe it was because she was so dog-tired when she’d fallen down on the bed it had been like she’d still been rocking on that boat. She remembered thinking earlier of that first night – not far off thirty years ago now – as she’d stared at Lace Island becoming just a red dot on the horizon, until her eyes had felt as if they’d been bleeding. The image of the fire permanently burnt onto her retinas. And how she’d settled down into the bottom of the boat and wished that the stars would take her and swallow her up. How she’d drifted off on the waves, not caring about her future, only floating in the vastness of her grief and misery.
She hadn’t cared at all if she ever saw the morning, and it wasn’t until the booming horn from a cargo ship had woken her – and she’d squinted into the bright morning light and seen the huge bulk of red-and-grey steel bearing down on her – that she’d considered it even possible for life to go on.
She’d been certain that the ship would mow her down and she’d cowered in the boat, waiting for certain death, but then she’d heard a voice and had seen that a small inflatable craft ha
d been launched from the huge vessel. A man in a yellow life jacket had been rowing towards her.
He’d been Dutch and had shouted instructions to her as the ship towered over them. Leila hadn’t understood a word he’d said, but eventually, he’d gently coaxed her into the life craft with him. Her exhausted legs had hardly been able to carry her up the metal steps onto the ship. Her rucksack had felt like it weighed a ton.
She’d been pulled on board by the ship’s workers, one of whom had taken her down to the galley kitchen, where the cook – a Dutchman with a huge ginger beard and kind green eyes – had given her a bowl of lentil soup. She’d eaten it greedily, shivering violently in the corner, as the men had talked around her, clearly flummoxed by this soot-covered lone girl adrift in the ocean. She hadn’t been able to explain to them what had happened to her. She hadn’t known where to start.
When they’d eventually arrived in Cochin, the cook, Matteau, had escorted her onto the dock. He’d given her sympathetic looks as they’d driven into town, the rickshaw splashing through the muddy streets in the rain, and he’d asked the driver to wait outside the Portuguese church.
Leila had stared up at the pale building, rain lashing the facade, the statue of the Virgin Mary on the roof looking as forlorn as she’d felt. With a little coaxing, she’d followed Matteau up the steps, her teeth chattering with cold and fear.
Inside, the air had smelt of incense and dust, and a priest had been whistling, his voice echoing around the cavernous church. He’d been friendly as the cook had explained in broken English that they’d found Leila floating alone on a boat. Leila had listened to them debating what to do with her as she’d sat on the pew, terrified that God must know her tremendous sin.
The priest had taken her to the back of the church and wrapped her in a musty-smelling robe. Then he’d called a boy and had given him a note.
Leila had been asleep on a pile of prayer cushions when the nun had arrived, drifting towards Leila in her long blue habit with such a kind smile on her face that for a second, Leila wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven by accident.
‘I am Sister Mary,’ the nun had told her, her English heavy with a Portuguese accent. ‘Come with me, child.’
For the next few days, Leila had hardly been able to speak, her grief had been so huge. But slowly, over the next few months in the peaceful mission, Sister Mary had skilfully extracted nearly the whole story out of Leila. She’d been cautious to edit the truth, of course. She hadn’t told Sister Mary about the drugs she’d found in the lighthouse or about Adam and what he’d done to her.
But she’d sobbed uncontrollably when she’d admitted to Sister Mary that Bibi was dead and that she herself alone was responsible for the fire, although the nun had repeatedly told her that this couldn’t be the case. But Leila wouldn’t be comforted. The facts were true and insurmountable. It was because of her that everyone and everything on Lace Island had been destroyed. It had all been her fault. She alone had been responsible for burning paradise.
For hours each day, she had vigorously scrubbed the missionary chapel’s floor in silent penance, waiting for God to find some appropriate way to punish her, the vision of Bibi’s room in an inferno of flames etched on her mind.
But the monotonous routine had stayed the same, and over time, Leila had come to find solace in being left in silence. She’d liked the quiet, high chanting in the early mornings, the calm of the nuns’ services, the gentle balm of prayer, the cool cloistered garden with the view of the hills and the beehives Sister Vimla was so proud of. Surrounded by such tranquil beauty, Leila had put her wholehearted effort into asking for God’s forgiveness.
Deciding not to torture herself with what had been lost, she’d taken the visitors book, which had survived in her backpack throughout the ordeal, and wrapped it in a plastic bag before lifting one of the loose grilles in the flagstone floor of the chapel and placing it carefully beneath. Each time she’d thought of a sad memory, or of what she’d lost, she’d tried to bury it too, deep within herself. She’d tried to ignore all the pain and had concentrated on prayer and living in the moment.
For a long time, she’d even managed to ignore what had been happening to her body, but soon she hadn’t been able to hide it any longer from the nuns. When the kicks inside her had made her gasp out loud, Sister Mary had banned Leila from scrubbing the floor and had summoned her to the office to explain herself.
Leila had shamefully relived that horrendous day with Adam and how he’d brutally taken her virginity, and as she’d tearfully spoken, she’d finally admitted to herself what she’d known for several months: she was carrying Adam’s baby. She hadn’t told the sister her plan – that as soon as the child was born, she was going to take it outside the mission walls and leave it on the steps of the British Consulate. There were bound to be people out there like the Everdenes – kind people, good people, who would cherish a baby and bring it up as their own.
But as far as Leila had been concerned, she’d just wanted it out of her and gone forever. She didn’t even want to so much as look at it.
Sister Mary could sense Leila’s reticence towards her unborn child without having to hear any of her inner thoughts and had pleaded with her. She must have someone – some relative, somewhere – who could assist Leila now, in her hour of need? This wasn’t a maternity hospital, she’d explained. The sisters might not be able to help her when her time came, but Leila had begged her to let her stay and to keep her whereabouts a secret. She’d seen that the old nun was torn, but in the end, Sister Mary had agreed to give Leila more time to work out what she was going to do.
And so Leila had carried on, pretending nothing was happening. That was until the searing, stabbing pain of her first contraction had brought her straight back to reality. In the dead of night in the small cell that was her bedroom, she’d grabbed on to the iron bed for support, gasping with terror, before the scream with her next contraction had brought the nuns running.
The next few hours had been terrifying. But eventually, Mother Nature had taken over, and with Sister Mary’s help, Leila had pushed out a baby into the world. She saw the nuns gasp, and one of them, Sister Agnes, had crossed herself before kissing Sister Vimla, tears streaming down her face.
‘God bless you and your baby,’ Sister Mary had said, her eyes shining as she’d carefully lifted a bloodied bundle of flesh towards Leila.
Leila had recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut. She hadn’t wanted even to look at the baby, but Sister Mary had simply placed the baby on Leila’s chest. And curiosity had made Leila open her eyes.
And that had been that.
Leila sighed now, trying to remember that first, heady scent of her baby’s head. How she’d looked at that small face, those huge eyes staring up at her, her little limbs flailing.
‘She’s yours,’ Sister Mary had said, wrapping a towel round the baby, over Leila. ‘And she needs you.’
And right there and then, as Leila had felt the smallest of fingers reaching out to grip her own little finger with surprising force, she’d fallen in love.
A love so powerful it had been like falling off a cliff. And Bibi had been there too, right there in that little girl’s angelic face, and despite everything she’d planned, Leila had known with absolute conviction that she would do everything in her power to look after this precious gift from God. That she was her girl. And that she would love her no matter what.
Leila smiled now, a rare smile, picked up her worn Bible from the scuffed cabinet beside her bed and held it to her chest, knowing she would open it and go through the precious cargo hidden between its pages, torturing herself with longing in the yawning hours till dawn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Miami, present day
‘You don’t understand,’ Jess said to the nonchalant woman at the airline desk at Miami Airport. ‘I have to leave right now.’
‘Let me see,’ the woman said, rattling the keys of the computer. She was wearing heavy make-up, with pai
nted-on fawn eyebrows and the unflattering red uniform of Jess’s rival airline, but Jess wasn’t going to let on that she was industry herself. Not unless she had to.
Above her, a colourful hoarding advertised the joys of Miami Beach, and pop music blasted out. The tannoy announced a flight, adding to the din, and everywhere there were people – all sorts of people, travelling on escalators, meeting family, pulling luggage, talking, eating, living normally. None of them as desperate as Jess.
‘I can get you on a flight to Paris?’ the woman said, checking her watch.
‘Fine. I’ll take it.’
‘You’ll have to go to the gate almost straight away,’ she said, printing a boarding pass as Jess pulled out her credit card from her purse with shaking fingers. ‘Do you have any luggage?’
‘No. I’m just . . . This is everything I have.’
Jess saw the woman give her colleague on the next desk a wide-eyed look. She must look a total sight, Jess realized: a desperate-looking woman in a white wedding dress and trainers, with a leather handbag, a hoody falling out of it.
Grabbing her boarding pass, Jess hurried to the ladies’ toilets, her dress making a rustling sound as she moved. As she walked through the doorway, her phone rang again, and when she took it out of her bag and saw Blaise’s number, she let out a small yelp. She threw the phone in the sink as if it were burning her. When it stopped ringing, she ripped it open and took out the battery, broke the SIM card and put the whole lot in a sanitary disposal unit.
At the sink, she cupped cold water and washed the sweat from her face; then she stared at herself in the mirror. Her make-up, which had been so beautiful just an hour ago, was smudged now, and mascara ran underneath her eyes. She pulled at a tissue in the dispenser and wiped her face, forcing the hysterical tears inside her down. She panted out a pent-up breath.
‘Don’t panic,’ she said aloud to herself, but it was hard not to, as she gripped the sink for support.
