The House on Sunset Lake

by Tasmina Perry

  Jim didn’t really know why he’d decided to drive out there to confront Connor. He guessed that he just wanted to do something to start resolving the mess. Remembering something Connor had said to him at the Memorial Day weekend – ‘sometimes I just like to play hookey and come paddleboarding’ – Jim had visions of him on top of his board, the carefree entrepreneur enjoying the fruits of his unscrupulous business, and wanted to knock him into the sea.

  A business lunch he could not put off, and collecting the hire car, meant that it was late afternoon by the time he reached Beach Lane. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, but it was still hot. Jim had no idea where Connor was meeting his business associate, but he figured that if he was returning to the city the next day, he would be staying the night at the beach house.

  He pulled up outside the enormous gates that fronted the house and pressed the intercom. There was no response, but he recognised Connor’s Ferrari sitting in the drive. He tried Connor’s mobile again, but still there was nothing.

  Cursing under his breath, he looked around for a place to park. His hire car didn’t have the requisite permits to stop near the beach, but he was going to have to take his chances with the police. He hadn’t driven all this way to turn back now.

  He parked the car in the shadow of a sand dune and walked the fifty yards to the entrance to the beach. He kicked off his shoes and socks and stalked across the hot sand, his vision fixed towards the sea, looking for a paddleboarder, but there was no one in the water except a couple of teenagers playing by the shore.

  He turned round and looked at the proud line of beach houses that lined the edge of the sand.

  ‘Sod it,’ he muttered, walking towards the picket fence that separated the grounds of the Wyatt-Gilbert house from the beach. Even from this distance he could see that the glass doors were open, which meant that someone was at home. If Connor wasn’t going to let him in through the front door, he was going to have to go to Plan B.

  As he stalked towards the house, the thought did occur to him that he was more likely to be arrested for trespassing than being able to resolve the RedReef mess. Part of him wondered if he should just call Simon and come clean about what was going on. Simon was one of the wealthiest men in the world. Money meant power, power meant influence; perhaps he could exert some pressure on the mayor to shut Marshall Roberts’ operation down. A promise to fund an international airport on Baruda would certainly do it.

  But deep down Jim knew that he had to sort this mess out on his own. Besides which, if Simon got to hear about the situation, Jim was more likely to get fired than bag a promotion, which was what had brought him to New York in the first place.

  Who are you kidding? he told himself. He’d come to New York to be closer to Jennifer. The one woman he had loved unceasingly for twenty years.

  What had he thought would happen once he got here? That Jennifer would fall madly back in love with him – though he doubted she’d had any genuine feelings for him in the first place – that she would divorce Connor and fall into Jim’s arms? No. Jim had been living in New York for six months now – had this woman shown the slightest interest in him? Had she given him any sign that she was ready to be swept off her feet by some ex-lover? No, she hadn’t. In fact she had set Jim up with one of her friends, and had dispatched him from their one intimate night out with the words, ‘My husband will be home soon’.

  It was time to grow up, he thought, putting his shoes and socks back on, not wanting to meet Connor looking like a surfer.

  He could hear music now coming from the house. Glancing around to check that he wasn’t being watched, he moved closer, stopping at the rear entrance – the wooden walkway where Connor had left his paddleboard that morning. Now he had an uninterrupted view across the pool to the back of the house. And there, backlit in all his glory, was Connor Gilbert, wrapped in a robe, a glass in one hand, apparently dancing to an old Dire Straits song.

  ‘Idiot,’ Jim muttered, imagining the look of shock and panic on Connor’s face when he knocked on the window.

  He had just reached the decking when he froze. Jennifer had walked into view, her back to the window. He gasped: she was wearing only black lingerie, with panties that barely covered her buttocks. She came up behind Connor and put her arms around him, undoing his robe and pulling it off his shoulders. He turned, grinning, kissing her bare shoulder as she tossed her dark hair.

  It was painful to watch, but Jim couldn’t take his eyes off them. Connor was unclipping her bra now and lifting her on to the table. She lay back, her legs parting instinctively, and Connor stepped closer, disappearing almost from view between her thighs. Jim watched the top of his head moving in a slow, intimate rhythm. The music drowned any other noise, but Jim could imagine Jennifer’s soft moans of pleasure as her husband’s tongue dipped inside her.

  He missed a breath as he realised how badly he’d misjudged everything. He had always found some consolation in the idea that Jennifer didn’t really love Connor. They were a couple thrown together by circumstance, bound by guilt and convention.

  But here they were now, fucking on a table like young lovers. Jim shifted his position to keep out of view, a voice in his head telling him that he should just leave. Jennifer was climaxing now, arching on the table, her head tipping back in urgent desire, hair cascading like a waterfall. And it was then that he noticed something, and a sick, heavy feeling welled in his stomach. As Connor withdrew himself, his wife coiled upwards to a sitting position, then slid off the table and turned round to face the beach, snaking her arms upwards to stretch out her naked post-coital body. And Jim knew for certain that the woman he was watching was not Jennifer.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Justin and Ashley were getting married, and Jim had been invited as Sarah’s plus one. The ceremony itself had been at three o’clock at City Hall, with the guests transported to the reception in Williamsburg in a fleet of beaten-up pickup trucks that reminded him of his old mode of transport in Savannah. Sitting on a hay bale with a dozen beautiful, bohemian-looking guests, Jim enjoyed the sun on his face as they crossed Brooklyn Bridge. He put his sunglasses on as he watched the bride and groom kissing on the opposite bale, grinning at how blissfully happy they looked. Justin had grown his beard for the occasion, and in waistcoat, tweed trousers and boots he reminded Jim of an Amish potato farmer. His bride, a picture of lovely simplicity in a long floaty cream gown and floral crown, was unable to take her eyes off her new husband. Jim found himself hoping that he too could be that happy one day.

  ‘Wow, look at this place,’ said Sarah when they arrived at the reception venue. It was an enormous loft stretching the entire length of the warehouse building. There were twinkling fairy lights everywhere, and long tables dressed with white linen, seasonal blooms and tea lights in Mason jars that spilled more soft light about the stark industrial space.

  ‘I didn’t think a hipster wedding would be so tasteful,’ whispered Jim, gazing around the cavernous room.

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe something a little less conventional. More craft beer, less champagne,’ he said, letting a waiter serve him a glass of ice-cold Moët.

  ‘Well, you did come by pickup truck.’

  ‘I was hoping for a skateboard.’

  ‘Well, the speeches have apparently been dispensed with. That’s left-field. Instead we’re being invited to view a photo montage on the mezzanine.’

  ‘A photo montage?’

  ‘A visual expression of their love for each other and everyone involved in the wedding.’

  They both giggled and looked for where they were sitting. Jim found his name written on a square of brown recycled cardboard, which also contained instructions to ‘post pictures of our wedding to #ashandjustietheknot’. He wondered who he would be sitting next to for the next two hours and glanced at the surrounding names. He didn’t recognise any of them, and felt weary at the prospect of having to be perky and sociable. At least
the drink was flowing freely, he thought, taking another glass of fizz.

  In the event, they had Patrick and Bryony and Alex and Joanna for company. They were all around Sarah’s age. Conversation was the Brooklyn equivalent of house prices and schools; Patrick and Bryony told them at great length about their own wedding, being held in a barn in upstate New York in three weeks’ time. Bryony gave Sarah a Pinterest link in case she was interested in their inspiration.

  As the day went on, and their farm-to-table main course turned to dairy-free dessert, Jim found himself wishing that he was somewhere else. It was a lovely wedding, and he was genuinely happy for Ashley and Justin, but surrounded by happy – dare he say it, smug – couples, he couldn’t help thinking of Connor and Jennifer’s relationship. It had been three days since he had seen Connor and the unknown woman in flagrante, and he still hadn’t worked out what to do about it. The only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that Jennifer did not deserve to be treated like that.

  But what was the alternative? If he told her that Connor was having an affair, it would look suspiciously peevish after their heart-to-heart at the townhouse. And could Jennifer cope with the idea of Connor and another woman? ‘Connor loves me. Connor looks after me.’ These were ideas she held on to like a talisman; was it better for her not to know?

  ‘So is this a trend or something?’ smiled Jim, reclining in his chair as coffee was served. He was glad of the caffeine, knew he needed it to sober up. He hadn’t had lunch, and his cashew milk smoothie breakfast, whipped up by Sarah that morning, had done little to soak up the alcohol.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bryony, fiddling with her fiancé’s ear lobe.

  ‘Getting married in your twenties.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ said Bryony with bemusement.

  ‘You guys, Ashley and Justin . . . When I was twenty-seven, I was still chasing girls around nightclubs.’

  ‘I thought you were doing that until you met me,’ laughed Sarah, settling her arm over the back of his chair.

  Bryony smiled thinly and touched Patrick on the forearm, her gratitude at having dodged men like Jim Johnson obvious to see.

  ‘You two aren’t married, I take it,’ said Alex, putting his chocolate dinner mint to one side.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘British. Cultural thing. We just like having lots of sex, don’t we, darling?’

  ‘Grand old age of forty and never taken the plunge,’ said Jim, holding his hands up earnestly, voicing what everyone was thinking.

  ‘You’ve never been married,’ said Bryony with genuine interest. ‘Is it an ideological thing?’ she added, sipping her champagne.

  ‘I believe in marriage when you love someone, when you’re absolutely convinced that you’ve found your soulmate. I’m just not sure you can say that with absolute conviction in your twenties. I couldn’t anyway,’ he added quickly.

  A thought nagged at him. Deep down he knew he was lying. Lying to himself. He thought of himself at twenty. Madly in love with Jennifer Wyatt, willing to do anything for her. Move to Savannah to be with her permanently, invite her to live in London to be with him. Marry her. Have a family.

  ‘Maybe you were just too busy having fun to find the idea of commitment attractive,’ said Bryony pointedly, clearly having taken his remarks as a personal attack.

  Jim was drunk and feeling cavalier. The group were making him feel every one of his forty years, and he didn’t like being lectured by a bunch of twenty-somethings.

  ‘I think it’s important to have fun,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Take it from an old man . . . you’ve got to make mistakes, find out who you are, what you like, and yes, get all the meaningless sex out of your system. Because you don’t want to be doing that when you’ve got a ring on your finger.’

  Other people were now listening to their conversation, but Jim was in full flow.

  ‘The other day I found out that the husband of a good friend of mine is having an affair,’ he continued expansively. ‘They got married young. Almost straight out of college. Fast-forward to her forties and she thinks she’s got the happy marriage, the perfect husband, when really he’s off shagging his secretary in the Hamptons. You have to ask yourself, Bryony, is that because he didn’t do enough catting around in his twenties? Does he think he missed out?’

  He reached for his drink to conclude his point, but he miscalculated and the flute tipped over. Champagne trickled under the gold-sprayed twigs that festooned the table.

  Sarah picked up the glass and got to her feet.

  ‘Right then, how about we break up this party and go outside? There is an amazing terrace out there and you can see the whole Manhattan skyline.’

  She ushered him out on to a huge decked area with the whole cityscape, backlit by the golden dusk, set out before them.

  ‘Did I overstep the mark?’ he said, feeling the fresh air sober him up like a slap.

  ‘They were smug and irritating, but it wasn’t exactly appropriate to suggest they shouldn’t be getting married at their age – my age,’ she said pointedly. ‘Especially when their wedding is in less than a month.’

  ‘I’m doing them a favour. I’m focusing their minds,’ he said, taking another champagne from a passing waiter.

  Sarah took it straight off him.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ she asked firmly.

  ‘A tough week.’

  He hadn’t seen her properly in days. The Hamptons beat meant she was out of the city a lot, and problems at work – RedReef, and a few niggles with the Casa D’Or project – had kept him busy in the office.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘I’ve been fucked over by Connor,’ he said, looking at her.

  ‘In what way?’ said Sarah slowly.

  He spent the next ten minutes telling her about RedReef and Marshall Roberts’ crime operation.

  ‘I assume you didn’t know anything about this.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’m flying to Baruda tomorrow to sort it out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have an appointment with Marshall Roberts and we’re going to talk about it,’ he said, not wanting to dwell on what he had in store.

  ‘Jim, this is ridiculous. You could end up being thrown to the sharks.’

  ‘Like 007,’ he smiled grimly.

  ‘You’re Jim Johnson, not James bloody Bond. This is serious. Are you at least going to take some security with you?’ Her news reporter instincts were kicking in.

  ‘Know any Caribbean sharpshooters?’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not very handy with nunchucks.’

  Sarah leaned on the balcony and looked out towards the skyline.

  ‘And your friend whose husband is having an affair . . . Three guesses who that is.’

  ‘One guess,’ said Jim, taking a spot next to her.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I went to their beach house to confront Connor. I saw him having sex with another woman.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I can think of a dozen stronger words for him than that . . . Do I tell her?’ he asked after another moment.

  ‘I’d want to know.’

  ‘Would you?’ queried Jim.

  Sarah didn’t respond.

  ‘The truth. Such a noble word, right?’ said Jim slowly. ‘I remember asking my dad to tell me what it meant once, and he said, “It’s what’s right.” But is it right for Jennifer to be told what Connor is up to? Isn’t a better truth for her just not to know?’

  ‘She deserves to be happy,’ Sarah said firmly.

  ‘I’m not sure she’ll let herself be.’

  Neither of them said anything for a few moments.

  ‘I know how she can be happy. How you can be happy too,’ Sarah said. Her voice was low and the mood between them shifted and saddened. Jim had a sudden sense of an ending, like the last whispers of summer in the September evening air.

  ‘You were right
back there, you know,’ she said, motioning back into the wedding reception. ‘You do need to play the field, kiss a lot of frogs, make mistakes, get your heart broken . . . You also need to know the difference between settling down and settling for someone.’

  Another momentary silence.

  ‘Me and you, Jim . . . I’m not daft, you know. I know how you feel about Jennifer. I thought in the beginning that I could win you round, but we’re seven, eight months into this relationship and I don’t see your eyes shine any less brightly when someone mentions her name.’

  ‘Sarah, come on. Jennifer is my friend. That’s all. My first love, yes, so we’ll always have a connection, but time moves on, people move on.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said more passionately.

  ‘I’m just not sure this is a good idea any more,’ she said finally.

  There was a long pause as Jim let the implication of her words sink in.

  ‘What are you saying here, Sarah?’

  ‘When I told my mate I was dating a forty-year-old, she warned me there’d be baggage, but I didn’t realise it would be a whole rucksack full of love for the one that got away.’

  ‘You’re being too emotional,’ said Jim, trying to sound firm. ‘We’ve had a drink, we’re at a wedding. Right now everyone is feeling a bit inadequate compared to the great love that is Justin and Ashley.’ He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

  ‘Sarah, you know I think you’re amazing . . .’ he said softly.

  ‘I do. I’m just not Jennifer Wyatt.’

  He couldn’t deny it any more. She deserved a lot more than platitudes. Another shift in the tension, and a soft, resigned solidarity shimmered between them. Sarah Huxley really was an amazing woman, he thought sadly.