by Tina Seskis
Tina Seskis
* * *
THE HONEYMOON
Contents
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Two
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part Three
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part Four
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tina Seskis grew up in Hampshire, and after graduating from the University of Bath spent over twenty years working in marketing and advertising. She is the author of two other novels, One Step Too Far and When We Were Friends. Tina lives in North London with her husband and son.
Part One
* * *
MISSING
1
Now
I gaze at the sea, and it is a wondrous, ever-shifting patchwork of paint-box blues, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, and I wonder if he’s out there. I strain my eyes to look for a snorkel, a flash of yellow, but the glow of the indigo further out is so deep and dominant I’m not sure I would even notice. I wait forever, but still there is nothing. A bat flaps lazily above my head, and then it turns and heads back into the trees.
My feet can feel the silken scratch of the sand, and it grates against my fractured nerves. My head throbs, almost to the point of nausea. Nothing feels right. He will come back, I am sure of it. Everyone has rows, even in paradise. I just have to wait for him.
I sink down on to the beach and sit cross-legged. I let the sand sift through my fingers, soft like dust. It makes me think of ashes, the urn on the mantelpiece at home, and I wonder if he is dead. The thought drifts into my mind so calmly it borders on trauma.
Time passes. The sun continues its inexorable rise into the whisper-thin sky as the heat settles on my skull, and my arms and legs begin to burn, even at this hour. My bones feel spongy and useless. But I cannot leave. I have to wait for him. The moment I turn away will be when he comes back. After all, it’s happened before.
Watching for him becomes all-encompassing, like a mantra. My eyes strain with the effort, and my brain aches, and then, minutes or hours later, finally it is too much. I bow my head, and I can’t look any more. I can’t look out at nothing forever – it will be the undoing of me.
I stand up. The beach is empty. I walk across the soft white sand towards our bungalow, which is set back in the palm trees, nearly invisible from the beach. The sunlight freckles through the lush green canopy, and the heat is sultry. The brightness can’t burn off the foreboding, though. It seems to permeate the island now, insidious and subtle. I stall, at the slightest noise from the bush, and I wonder who is there. I call his name, and I can hear the fear in my voice.
Nothing.
Perhaps it was just a lizard, or a bird. My mind is piled high with crazy theories and demonic premonitions, and the longer I wait the more the absence of my husband grows, like a monster puppet shadow over this most utopian of places.
I return to the bungalow and search, just in case, but he’s not in the bedroom, nor in the lounge. I check in the bathroom, and even in these circumstances I acknowledge that there will never be another bathroom like this. It is outdoors, enclosed by large-leaved exotic plants shielding tall white walls, and it has its own infinity plunge pool, a free-standing bath, an outside jungle shower, matching his-and-hers sinks. At night, the lamps light up the fronds of the palms and make the geckos glow, and it’s almost as beautiful as the beach itself.
But he’s not to be found here either, which of course I knew, and it’s at this point I decide that I can’t wait any longer. I have to report that he’s gone.
2
Seven-and-a-half years earlier
The evening Jemma met Dan was bitter and stormy, and the weather had only added to her reluctance to go. She’d even tried to compose a text politely cancelling, but she’d prevaricated over its precise wording for so long that in the end she’d decided it was too late, and far too rude, to send it. Yet sometimes being a woman of her word did Jemma no favours, and her subsequent journey to meet Dan took her through London at its worst. The rush-hour Tube had been halted in a tunnel, without explanation, for just a minute or two too long for the passengers’ potential-terrorism-frazzled nerves, and unease had crept through the carriage from human to human, spreading and growing like a malevolent virus, infecting everyone. And then, when the lights had finally come back on and the train had lurched into the station, a tall well-dressed man had physically barged past her on the platform, as casually as if she’d been a swing door, without even looking back. She was still fuming when she reached the top of the escalator, where the warm atmosphere of below ground was replaced by a fierce, freezing rush of air that came at her so viciously it nearly knocked her backwards. The final insult was that it was raining, hard and horizontal, and completely appearance-ruining.
The only saving grace was that the pub her date had suggested was right opposite the Tube station, as he had promised. Its fascia was newly painted, and even through the deluge Jemma could see a dim, upmarket glow coming from the hanging industrial-style lamps inside. It looked inviting, and safe; a welcome respite from the foulness of the evening. She checked her watch. Despite her journey, she was seven minutes early, and the thought of having to hang around only made her feel more stressed somehow. But at least it gave her plenty of time to dry off, compose herself, make herself look presentable. And, who knew, the evening might even be fun – and even if it wasn’t, she had nothing to lose. She never had to see him again.
Jemma put her leather handbag over her head as ineffectual protection from the rain and sprinted diagonall
y across the road, dodging cars and buses and puddles with the expertise of a true Londoner. As she burst into the pub, someone familiar turned from the bar and looked over quizzically. Oh shit. Was he early too? It was a strange feeling – as if they already knew each other, which she supposed they sort of did, seeing as they’d read each other’s online dating profiles and had emailed each other a couple of times. He was a little taller than she’d imagined, but still instantly recognizable; and, if anything, better-looking than his photo. Jemma realized she had no choice but to brazen it out. She marched across the dull wooden boards, her head held high, despite being completely drenched.
‘Hi – Dan?’ she said, trying to keep the question in her voice as discreet as she could manage, but still making the cute barman immediately look over.
‘Hi, yes. Jemma?’
‘Hello,’ she said, and she wondered just how bad she looked, although she supposed it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to marry the guy.
‘Good to meet you.’ He said it quietly, and shuffled awkwardly, making no attempt to kiss her or even shake her hand. He looked dubiously at the rain dripping off her. ‘Er, would you like a drink?’
‘In a minute,’ she said. ‘I think I’d better go and stick my head under the hairdryer first.’ She flashed him a smile that she hoped was full of bravado. ‘And then I’ll have a glass of red, thanks.’
‘Of course.’
‘I won’t be long.’ As Jemma walked across the half-empty room, she could hear the tap-tapping of her ankle boots, and she could feel eyes watching her. When she reached the toilets she went straight to the mirror and was relieved to see that she didn’t look quite as bad as she’d imagined. Just soaked through, and a bit flushed, perhaps. She could feel the rhythm of her heart, though: quick and insistent, definitely edgy somehow. Or maybe it was simply that she was still out of breath. She took a couple of deep gulps of air as she grabbed some paper towels and rubbed her hair with them, wiped the water off her coat sleeves. She rummaged in her handbag, found her one item of make-up and smudged it on to her lips, rendering them pink and pale. In the absence of a comb she ruffled her pixie hair with her fingers, and decided she quite liked the wet look. Her eyes glowed, feisty yet startled, like a rambunctious tiger cub’s. She’d looked worse.
When Jemma got back to the bar she could tell that the barman had sussed that she and Dan were on some kind of blind date, and she blushed. Dan picked up their drinks and led her towards the back of the pub, but even as Jemma slid into an old-fashioned booth in the corner, she still felt on show. ‘Would you like to get anything to eat?’ Dan asked, as his opening gambit. ‘They do good tapas-type stuff.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ There was an awkward, self-conscious silence. She took in his khaki jacket, which looked new, and the blue shirt beneath it. She’d noticed earlier that he was wearing dark narrow-leg jeans, although she couldn’t see them now, and some kind of suede boots, which she’d liked. His eyes were bark-coloured.
‘Have you had to come far?’ he asked.
‘Oh, just from work. It was only four stops on the Tube. It would have been easy – apart from the crowds, the rain, a nerve-jangling blackout in the tunnel …’ She smiled, to show she was joking, and picked up her drink. Her hand was shaking a little, and she wondered what was wrong with her. She felt weird in a way she hadn’t expected, and that she couldn’t quite put a name to. He was attractive, she had to give him that, but not at all her type – which was probably because her best friend had picked him out in the first place, saying he looked perfect for her. Bloody Sasha, Jemma thought now, always thinking she should play Cupid. Why did she listen to her?
Jemma watched as Dan picked up his pint. She assumed it was real ale rather than lager, as it was rich and dark-golden, with a pale foam on the top, like spittle. His hands were rough, and although his nails were neatly clipped, they had thin lines of dirt deep under them.
‘So, you’re an interior designer, Jemma?’ Dan was looking straight at her, unblinking. There was an intensity to his gaze which felt almost intrusive.
‘Yes.’
‘And what does that involve?’
‘Oh, you know. Nothing remotely glamorous, like people think. Just normal office life, really …’ She paused, and Dan didn’t step in to rescue her. Instead he was still staring, waiting for her to speak. ‘Er, so you’re a garden designer?’ she managed at last. ‘That sounds exciting.’ She almost sounded rude – her jokes had a tendency to come out wrong when she was nervous.
‘Hardly,’ Dan said. ‘Mostly I dig holes and shift dirt about.’
‘Oh.’ What was she meant to say to that? Was he joking? Or just deliberately making it hard for her? But it didn’t matter anyway, she reminded herself. The way things were going, there was no way they’d have a second date. She just needed to get through tonight. She decided she preferred her normal method of meeting guys, which was almost always whilst drunk.
A group of men in suits entered the bar, and their blokeish banter breathed welcome life into the atmosphere, enabled Jemma and Dan’s conversation to be more private at last.
‘Have you done this many times before?’ Dan asked now.
‘No. You?’
‘A few. Nothing has really taken off.’
‘Oh,’ she said. And then the conversation fizzled out again. When she dared another look at him, his eyes were brooding, perhaps slightly tormented, and so she turned her gaze down, studied the table, the deep grooves in the dark wood, noticed how Dan’s hands seemed to meld in with it. When she imagined them touching her face she experienced an odd jolt, and almost felt like asking him if he wanted to cut the crap and just go home and have sex with her, but of course she didn’t. Besides, she knew nothing about him. He could be anyone. He could be a stalker – or even a murderer. The thought appalled her. She’d had enough. Why were they wasting each other’s time?
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to have to go in a minute … I, er, I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.’
‘Oh,’ said Dan. Was he disappointed? It was hard to tell. He unnerved her somehow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She couldn’t look at him. ‘I’m not usually like this. Honest.’ She muttered goodbye and virtually ran across the bar, ignoring the doe-eyed barman, who was still looking far too interested in proceedings, and out into the rain. And then when Sasha called later to ask her how it had gone, Jemma was far too pissed off with her best friend to pick up.
3
Now
It should be the fifth morning of our honeymoon, and even though I swore just a minute ago that I would report my husband missing, I still pray that maybe, miraculously, he’ll turn up. Surely he must be on the island somewhere, I tell myself – sunbathing on one of the secluded beaches, perhaps. Despite the ominous feeling that hovers like an unseen hand at my throat, it seems I’m still not ready to face the idea of the outcome being anything else. The island is too big to navigate quickly on foot, and so I take one of the sand bikes they’ve given us to whizz around on, for when we don’t want to walk (heaven forbid) or be chauffeured by our butler in a golf buggy. I find myself doing a lap of the island, calling for him, which wastes another twenty minutes or so that other people could have been looking for him too.
And yet still I delay. I don’t want to raise a false alarm, or, perhaps more pertinently, attract any unnecessary attention. Instead I head to the main restaurant. Maybe he slept on the beach somewhere, and now has come here for breakfast? It’s possible. A swift glance around the mostly empty tables assures me he hasn’t, but I go inside to scout out the buffet anyway. Perhaps he’s skulking in one of the corners, waiting for a cheese-and-mushroom omelette, his favourite.
As I search amongst the various serving stations, with their gleaming silver domes, I feel a growing sense of despair. At home I usually just eat toast for breakfast, and the mountains of food here overwhelm me – even more so today, now that I feel
sick to my stomach with champagne and fear. I find I don’t want pork dumplings, or bacon and eggs, or pancakes, or beef enchiladas, or chicken curry. I don’t want fried fish, or sushi, or cold meat and cheeses, or yoghurt, or muesli. I really don’t want doughnuts. The sight of crispy duck turns my stomach. I just want to know where my husband is.
‘Yes, ma’am?’ a voice says now. I realize I’ve been standing still, as if rooted to the spot by the profligacy of the offerings. It is Chati, my favourite chef, in a tall white hat, and he has a wide, wicked smile and teeth as sparkling as a toddler’s. As I stare forlornly at him, my sense of despair grows at his inability to help me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’m not hungry, and in a hurry, so I let him serve me an unidentifiable curry that under normal circumstances might be lovely for dinner, but that I know I won’t eat, and certainly not for breakfast. He hands me the plate like it’s treasure.
I hurry outside, to our usual table, intending to put down my food and scarper. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ says our breakfast waiter, Bobbi, who appears from nowhere and helps me into my chair. I feel I have no choice but to sit down. ‘Would you like tea or coffee this morning?’
The question stumps me. Of course I don’t want either. I don’t want to be here in the restaurant, with a plateful of food. I need to go and report my husband missing, like I said I would. I’m just wasting time here, time that could make all the difference. What the hell am I doing? I jump up, my chair scraping discordantly in this most serene of settings.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘Have you seen my husband?’
‘No, ma’am, not this morning, ma’am.’
‘I have to go and find him.’
Bobbi doesn’t miss a beat. ‘OK, ma’am,’ he says. He is smiley, like all the staff, so lovely and accommodating, even to apparent capriciousness. ‘You have a good day, ma’am.’
The path to Reception, on the other side of the island, is idyllic, palm-fringed. I take my bike, and the fat, soft wheels swish through the sand, setting my teeth on edge. On the way, I decide to make yet another detour to look for him, just in case – I really don’t want to make a fuss unless I absolutely have to. I cycle past the tennis courts, and when I see they are empty, a single errant ball abandoned by the nearest net, I feel my panic rising. I am shouting his name now, as though I don’t care who hears me. Maybe I want them to hear.
