by Tina Seskis
Jemma looked at him then, and in that moment she knew. She knew, at last, that it didn’t matter what he did for a job, or how much money he had, or what the neighbours thought. She knew that here was someone who was good for her, who was looking out for her, who saw the truth behind her painted eyes, and yet still might love her. He calmed her down, made her feel more herself somehow. She smiled, and he smiled, and their faces got closer, until they each became the other’s whole vista, and then they fell into each other, as though the world had stopped and they were the only living beings left, and that the cadence of the earth’s whispers was theirs, was coming from them.
‘I love you,’ she said, and she didn’t even mean it in that declarative way, and he didn’t need to say it back – he had shown her with his heart, and his body, and at last she knew. She knew how it felt to be loved.
15
Now
As the seaplane approaches, I hear the buzz of its engine before I see it, and when it comes into view, it is blue and yellow and minuscule. I watch it bellyflop onto the water, and up close it looks as if it has been cobbled together using spare parts from speedboats, as if it shouldn’t even be flying. When the pilot jumps out he has bare feet. It is actually more frightening to watch than it was to be a part of. It seems my seaplane anxiety is far worse now than it was coming here, when the trip itself had been little more than a thrilling ride – but my fears have mushroomed in the last few days, and they are growing still, and exponentially. It doesn’t help that there’s an army speedboat skimming back and forth along the horizon, and that the wind is up, and it feels as if a dark black storm is on its way.
I am standing on the arrivals and departures pontoon, and it is like waiting for royalty, or death. I’m with Chrissy, who is looking outrageously voluptuous in a tiny turquoise dress, and the manager, and a good few of the staff, the lustrous Leena included, and the mood is sombre yet fizzing with excitement. It’s an obscene combination. For anybody unconnected with us personally, I suppose at this stage it could be seen as a gripping adventure, an extra frisson to add to one’s holiday. A real-life missing person docu-soap, perhaps. Most people have been appropriately sympathetic to my face, but really, what can anyone say? I still don’t know how to arrange my features, and the fact that they seem to have involuntarily defaulted to impassivity makes the scrutiny I am under far worse. No-one has come out and said it yet, but it feels like I’m under suspicion. I’m not sad enough. I stand as tall as I can, and my daisy sundress flutters in the choppy breeze. My hair is haywire. My eyes are hollowed-out beneath my dark glasses.
The dhoni is chugging out to the landing platform, which is a little way away from the island, but the sea is rougher than usual and it looks as if the boat is struggling. The suitcases are already being thrown from the plane across the turbulent water onto the platform, and they are expertly caught by one of the butlers, ready to be passed onto the dhoni, to be ferried with the passengers across to the island itself. I know who is on the plane, and yet I still can’t quite believe it, until finally my eyes cannot deceive me, and it is undeniably true. At last, there she is, my malevolent mother-in-law, who certainly won’t be calling anything amazing at this precise moment. She is wearing a long stripy T-shirt over three-quarter-length white jeans and brand new espadrilles, and she looks immaculately age-appropriate, as if she’s shooting a Saga commercial. Even her hair remains rock-solid despite the ever-increasing wind. The man that follows her onto the boat makes my heart lurch, and I want to run to him, but I can’t – there is water in the way for a start – and, of course, it would be far from appropriate. I take a single raspy breath and try to steady myself.
The person that follows is Dan.
Part Two
* * *
BROTHERS
16
Six-and-a-quarter years earlier
Jamie pulled up in his black BMW and surveyed the cars that were rammed into the driveway and spread down the street, parked at awkward angles, as if dropped there like litter. He wondered who would be here for his father’s seventieth birthday party. He’d decided to come on his own today, as girlfriends often got the wrong idea if they were invited to these kinds of events. There was always a very fine line to tread, and besides, he was pretty sure he and Sarah wouldn’t be seeing each other for much longer – their relationship had just about run its course. He took note of the brand-new Peugeot van with the neatly printed ‘Armstrong’s Landscape Gardening’ on its side, and smiled to himself. His brother really was going for it in his new career, and good for him. Perhaps Dan hadn’t been able to handle the pressure of being the oldest son, the not-quite-as-high-flying-as-his-younger-brother banker, and so that’s why he’d packed it all in and chosen to become a gardener. Jamie secretly found it a relief though, that he and his brother didn’t have to compete with each other these days. He knew it was pathetic, but old habits died hard. He blamed their mother.
When Veronica opened the door, she looked even thinner and more pinched than usual. Her hair was blow-dried from its natural bird’s nest into a smooth immoveable bob, and she wore a black dress with an Audrey Hepburn collar that aged her.
‘Darling!’ she said. ‘Come in.’ She gave him a fierce hug which belied her withering frame. ‘It’s so lovely to see you! How was the traffic?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Jamie. ‘Crap, as usual.’ As he followed his mother up the half-stairs to the living room, he looked beyond her towards his older brother, on the far side of the room, and immediately noticed the girl he was with. So this must be Jemma. Even the protective way Dan was standing with her peeved Jamie a little, although he knew that it shouldn’t.
‘Come and meet Jemma at last,’ said his mother. She leaned in to him and lowered her voice. ‘She’s nice enough, I suppose, but a little, what shall we say, odd …’
‘Mum, you think anyone who goes out with one of your precious sons is odd,’ said Jamie, rolling his eyes.
‘Shush, darling. I don’t want her to hear us. But anyway, I have to say I preferred Lydia.’
‘Well, I hope you haven’t told Jemma that,’ said Jamie.
‘Of course not,’ said his mother. ‘What do you think I’m like?’
Jamie looked at his mother and chose not to respond. Instead he followed her across the room and, after expertly negotiating a couple of dull neighbours, approached his brother and shook his hand vigorously. ‘Hello, Dan. How you doing, old man?’
‘I’m all right, thanks. You?’
‘Yeah, I’m good. So, are you going to introduce me?’
Dan frowned, and then seemed to remember his manners. ‘Oh. Sorry. This is Jemma. Jamie, Jemma. Jemma, Jamie.’
‘Hi,’ Jamie said, extending his hand. Jemma smiled, and she had one of those faces that looked like its proportions shouldn’t work, and yet that was what made it extraordinary. She had the most startling green eyes, and flaming elfin-cut hair. Her chin pointed outwards with a touch of defiance, and she had a fierce, spiky energy about her. Jamie wondered what her issue was.
‘So, where’s your girlfriend?’ asked Dan.
‘Oh, she couldn’t make it,’ Jamie said airily. ‘By the way, like your new wheels, mate, very smart.’
‘Thanks,’ said Dan. ‘Thought it was time for an upgrade. D’you want a drink?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get them. What are you having?’
‘No, I’m all right,’ said Dan. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Jemma?’ Jamie persisted.
‘I’ll have a top-up of red, please,’ she said. Her eyes were clear and unblinking, impossible to read.
‘Course,’ said Jamie. He dashed off to fetch the drinks, ignoring everyone, even his father, beyond saying a cheerily dismissive hello. He was keen to get back to talk to Jemma, and not solely to annoy Dan. There was something about her that interested him.
When Jamie returned, Jemma held out her glass to him, and as he topped it up he noticed that her hands trembled slightly.
&
nbsp; ‘I hear you’ve recently come back from living in Hong Kong?’ she said now.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jamie said. ‘The ex-pat life is great, but I have to say it gets a bit dull after a while.’
‘Dan says you’re in banking.’
‘Well, you know, an apple never falls far from the tree. Except in Dan’s case, where he grows them instead.’ As Jamie laughed at his own joke, he still wasn’t sure what was going on inside Jemma’s head, but he could tell that she wasn’t impressed. The thought appalled him. He tried again.
‘So, what do you do, Jemma?’
‘I’m an interior designer.’
‘Really? Cool.’ He didn’t have a clue what that meant, beyond picking carpets and curtains, but he didn’t like to show his ignorance.
‘Jamie, darling,’ said his mother. She swanned across and ignored Jemma completely. ‘There you are! Is Dan still hogging you? Come and say happy birthday to your father, he’s in the conservatory. And then I must get you to talk to Arthur, he’s so interested in your job.’ Veronica took Jamie’s arm, and the way she manoeuvred herself meant that somehow she turned her back on Jemma, excluding her from the group. As Jamie was ushered away by his mother he couldn’t help but clock the furious look on Dan’s face, and he assumed, quite rightly, that Dan was serious about this one.
17
Now
Peter’s health hasn’t been good for years, not since his first mini-stroke a few months after Dan and I split up. I assume Veronica must have decided that her husband couldn’t cope with the stress of coming to the Maldives, so she’s brought her eldest son in his place. The situation is beyond farcical. I am meant to be on honeymoon with my husband, who’s missing. And now my ex-boyfriend, who happens to be his brother, is here, to help try to find him. The shock I experience is so intense that at first I don’t know how to react. I have no idea what Dan must be thinking either, especially given our very last conversation, the day after Jamie’s and my wedding. The only thing that seems to be instantly clear is that my mother-in-law hates me, now more than ever. I hadn’t thought things could get any worse.
Why couldn’t Veronica have brought someone else in Peter’s place, I think furiously. But then again, who else was there to accompany the matriarch? Dan won’t even look at me, but even from this distance the hostility radiates off him almost as much as it does off his mother. I’m glad I have my sunglasses on, so they can’t see me crying.
Also disembarking from the tiny seaplane are two police officers, from Malé, and that’s when the seriousness of my situation hits me. I don’t know the laws here. We just chose this place as a honeymoon resort, so I never even thought about it before, but the Maldives is a Muslim country, and I have no idea what might happen to me. What if the police suspect I’m involved somehow? What if Chrissy says something? Briefly, I visualize crowded, febrile prisons, stoning, that kind of thing, and I press pause in my brain, tell myself I’m being hysterical. The policemen are dressed in smart pale-blue shirts with blue ties, and there are pale-blue bands around their navy peaked caps. They look as well-manicured and perfect as the island itself, but perhaps there is a dark heart at the centre of them, too.
As I continue to stand there, I find it impossible to look out to sea any longer, in case I really do see a body pop up, the dark drip of his hair, the salmon flash of his shorts, the gross pallor of his putrefying skin. Please, no. Not in front of his mother. I need to get a grip. I long to sit down, but I dutifully stand to attention, and when the dhoni finally docks, I am there, and I am waiting.
‘Hello, Veronica,’ I say, as calmly as I can manage. What do I say next? How are you? How was your journey? You look well. Nothing will do.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, and she looks at me as if she has shards of glass in her eyes and daggers up her nostrils. She is a witch, and she terrifies me, now more than ever.
‘Hello, Jemma,’ says Dan softly. I offer my hand and he shakes it politely. It’s as if we’ve never met.
There is nothing more to say. There are no hugs between us, no obvious shared concern or grief. It looks odd, and I know the policemen have clocked it too. My card is marked. If my husband doesn’t come back, and they start to dig deeper, start to think Jamie’s disappearance might be something other than an accidental drowning, then maybe I really will be a suspect.
I find myself thinking back to our wedding last week: the church, the flowers, the pretty dresses. I picture it all. Jamie’s waistcoat. Him looking at me, so happy. Or had he simply been pretending? And will I ever know? I so desperately want to have that time all over again, so I can stop it right there. I want the world to turn backwards, to how it was before. I want the tides to reverse and wash my husband back in, from wherever he is, so we can say that we’re sorry, and we can both be set free.
18
Six-and-a-quarter years earlier
‘Hope that wasn’t too painful,’ Dan said to Jemma, as they were driving home from his father’s party through the early evening gloom. The high street was rain-soaked and shiny, following a spectacular thunderstorm, and light was reflecting from the orange street lamps in thick golden pillars. An elderly man was lurching along the pavement, wearing old-man clothes and disconcertingly white trainers, almost certainly drunk.
‘No, it was great,’ Jemma said, slightly disingenuously. ‘I love your dad, and your brother seems nice, too.’
‘Are you making your point via the power of omission?’
‘What d’you mean?’ Jemma looked confused for a second, and then she got it. ‘Oh, no! Of course not.’
‘But you don’t like her much, do you?’
‘Well … I still think it might be easier if my name was Lydia.’ She felt Dan react, almost imperceptibly, and then he recovered himself.
‘Sorry, but I’m afraid that that’s what my mum’s like at times. Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t mean any harm.’
Jemma didn’t believe him. She was perceptive, and she was convinced her boyfriend’s mother meant a whole load of harm. Her harm came in the form of verbal arrows and euphemistic slings, in pounding parenthesized catapults, in catty remarks disguised as compliments. Her words and actions swooped and darted, and caught Jemma right in the very centre of herself.
‘Anyway,’ Dan continued, changing the subject. ‘Jamie has invited us over for dinner with him and his girlfriend. You up for it?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Jemma again.
‘What’s up, Jem?’
‘Oh, nothing, Dan. I … I’m just not used to big families, that’s all.’ She fiddled with her left earring, pulled it a little too hard, so she could feel the flesh stretch.
‘When was it that your parents actually split up, Jemma?’ Dan asked now. She flinched. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, but it was an innocent enough question. She owed it to him to talk about it sooner or later.
‘When I was fourteen,’ she said. She gave a brittle little laugh. ‘That difficult age.’
‘And why did they? What happened?’
Jemma paused. What could she say?
‘They just didn’t get on,’ she said at last. ‘And then one day my dad finally had enough and moved out.’ Would that do?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dan. He took one hand off the steering wheel and put it on her knee, squeezed it gently.
‘It’s fine,’ Jemma said. ‘I still saw him.’ She turned her face to the window. As she stared out at the night-time rushing by, thinking dark, poisonous thoughts, she wanted to scream suddenly.
‘And how did your mum die?’ Even though he spoke softly, the words lashed at her, like a cat-o’-nine-tails. It was the first time he’d asked her.
‘What is this? A police interrogation?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. There was an awkward pause.
‘That’s OK,’ she managed, after a moment. ‘Sorry I was rude.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said, although she thought he sounded a little peeved. He was quiet as he drove car
efully along the country roads whilst Jemma sat on her fists, the anger ripe in them. Even by the time they entered the motorway and picked up speed, her mood still hadn’t quite settled, and the atmosphere between them was uneasy. In the end, Dan wordlessly put on Jeff Buckley, loud and heartfelt, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the journey back to London.
19
Now
The weather is echoing my rage and despair, and it is perversely making me feel a bit better. In the three hours since the seaplane’s arrival, I’ve endured an excruciatingly tactical lunch with Dan and Veronica, followed by a nice friendly chat with the two Maldivian police officers. All the while, the clouds have been descending and the ever-rising wind has been adding to the roar in my ears.
When I finally exit the sanatorium, which has been set up as a makeshift interview room, it’s as though the sky is ready to let rip. Big fat hot spots of angry rain start leaking, then pouring, out of the grey – and now the deluge is so great it is as if a gigantic vat of water is being dumped on the island. I get soaked from just a ten-yard dash to the buggy, which has its plastic sides pulled down for once, and is driven by a different butler, which I’m glad about. Moosa doesn’t even try to hide his disdain towards me now.
When I get back to the bungalow, I’m shivering. I lock the doors and peel off my sopping clothes, which I know will never get dry in this humidity, and then pull on my pyjamas and get into bed, where I stay for the afternoon, listening to the insistent beating of the rain on the roof. Where is my husband in this downpour? I wonder if the army boats are still out looking for him, or whether they’ve had to come in. The phone rings once but I ignore it, in case it’s Veronica or Dan, or the police, or Chrissy. It seems I can no longer face talking to anyone. If it’s important, they’ll come knocking. Finally, just as I am losing all faith in the universe, the dun sky cracks apart and the sun comes back with a vengeance, and when I open my curtains to see hot steam rise above the sheeny green jungle, my little chef friend Chati arrives on the terrace, like a magical mirage, with my dinner.
