by Tina Seskis
Chrissy gets up from the beach lounger, wanders down to the water, sticks one shapely toe in, which is quite far enough for her. A baby shark is frolicking in the shallows, and there’s no way she’ll get any closer to that little sucker. Again, she tries to work out what had been going on between Jemma and Jamie. Chrissy had been wary of them even before that last evening. Sure, people had rows, but how could you be on honeymoon and be that unremittingly miserable? Chrissy prays that Jamie isn’t dead, that he has managed to abscond somehow, perhaps aided by the impossibly attractive Pascal. They knew each other, after all, through Pascal’s sister, who Jamie was having an affair with, apparently. If the rumours were true, Jamie had even rung her from his honeymoon bungalow, the tosser.
The baby shark has long disappeared and Chrissy gets brave, goes in up to her ankles as she continues trying to work it out. Would Jamie have been having an affair, though, even before he got married? Chrissy knows some men do, but she wouldn’t have thought it of Jamie somehow. She just hadn’t got that vibe from him, and she can normally spot the shaggers a mile off. Yet from the pictures Chrissy has seen online, Camille is stunning in that understated French way, and she certainly seems to be upset enough. But maybe it’s all some elaborate plot to get the insurance money or something, and the three of them are in on it. Plus Jamie must have been always down at the dive centre for some reason, and Pascal is the one person on this island who could have offered practical help – he had access to all the boats and the kayaks. Or else, Chrissy thinks, perhaps it wasn’t even that pre-planned. Maybe it was simply that Jamie had had enough after Jemma’s outburst at dinner and had buggered off. But if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just left on a seaplane in the morning? And why hasn’t he turned up anywhere since? Why has he never been seen again?
Chrissy’s thoughts keep going round and round the possible explanations, before finally returning to Jemma. She frowns as she watches the sun spread out into the sky, making one final stand, yet still bleeding to death. There’s something about her, and Chrissy can’t work it out. What is it? What Chrissy does know, though, is never to judge someone at face value. She has watched and seen all sorts over the years, and she knows what to look out for. So Chrissy might not trust Jemma, but she likes her, despite the unpredictable edge she has, the strange air of vulnerability – and as company on holiday, she and Jamie had seemed fine. But just how wrong Chrissy has been, and what impact it might yet have on her and Kenny – and, more pertinently, what role Kenny has in all this – is yet to be determined.
71
There is a different energy in the bright, airy interview room today, and at last the impasse is about to be broken. I can feel it. I dread what it means.
I’m sitting across from the police, and the greenness of the trees outside is as brilliant and life-affirming as ever, yet there is little pretence of optimism from anyone today. There are three of them for a change – the two British officers, who are still dressed like they’re on holiday, and one of the Maldivians, who looks immaculate and menacing in his uniform. My dad is with me, thank goodness, so I don’t feel quite so ganged up on.
‘Well, Jemma,’ says the round-faced one, Neil, after the usual formalities. He and I are on first-name terms these days. ‘As you know, the local search has unfortunately had to be called off …’ He tails off, presumably not wanting to spell out the fact that it seems they’ve given up on finding my husband alive.
‘So, what’s the next stage?’ Dad asks, perhaps to fill the silence.
‘We will be returning to the UK to continue some further lines of enquiry.’ Neil’s voice is reedy, as though he’s coming down with something, which is a shame. Who’d have thought you could catch a cold in the Maldives?
‘Do you have any definite leads?’ Dad asks, when I still haven’t said anything, and the air has grown hazy with the unsaid.
‘Well, there’s the mask and snorkel we found at the beginning, which leads to one possibility …’ He doesn’t bother articulating what it is. We all know what he means. He doesn’t proffer any other theories, but by the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s read the latest tabloid exposés. They have unearthed a picture of me on Facebook now, at a fancy dress party, and I look like a prostitute. They’ve even dug out an ex-boyfriend I once threw my phone at, who has given a somewhat exaggerated interview about the extent of my mood swings and supposedly violent tendencies. It feels like the net is closing in on me.
‘So, what happens now?’ asks Dad. It seems he’s doing all the talking on our side of the table, and I’m grateful to him.
The quiet one, Bob, the one with the penetrating gaze, looks at me as if we’ve been in the middle of playing a game, Scrabble perhaps, and he’s caught me cheating.
‘Well, that’s up to you and your daughter, Mr Brady,’ he says. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of point waiting on the island for any longer.’
‘Are you saying you’re assuming my husband’s … dead?’ I have found my voice at last, and suddenly I need to know.
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just saying that the lines of enquiry can be continued in the UK.’
‘Is it to do with Jamie’s separate bank account?’ I ask.
‘We don’t know, Mrs Armstrong. We can’t say anything more to you at this stage.’
‘What about Pascal? Is he still being investigated?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you.’
‘But I’m Jamie’s wife!’ I scream. ‘Either you think he’s dead, or you don’t!’ The days of soporific waiting have caught up with me, and it feels like every single muscle in my body is flexing and pulsing, and I just cannot stay still any longer. I leap up from my seat, and the chair scrapes back and topples over.
‘Where the hell is he?’ I yell. ‘Do you think he’s dead, or don’t you? Or do you think he’s absconded? You must have some idea. Why can’t you just tell me?’
No-one speaks, so I carry on ranting, whilst stomping back and forth across the floor as best I can in my Havaianas. My mind is exploding with potential scenarios. ‘Or what if he’s been murdered, by someone on the island?’ I’m aware that I’m hysterical, clutching at straws. ‘Are you looking into that as a possibility?’
‘Jemma, love, calm down,’ says Dad. He sounds worried, as though he thinks I might be having a breakdown, and frankly I can hardly blame him.
‘Mrs Armstrong,’ says Bob, who I’m quite clearly not on first-name terms with. ‘We can’t tell you anything more at this stage, I’m afraid. However, it’s extremely unlikely that remaining on the island will affect the outcome.’
‘So that’s it, is it?’ It seems I can’t stop shouting, and my hands curl into balls, and I am a monster. I am a monster, in white shorts and a pretty pink top, with cute pixie hair and dimples in my cheeks. I am sweet little Jemma, who is chock-full of rage, and about what, and who still has the occasional stroppy bent. There’s been the odd smashed plate, a few fingernails in a foot. Feisty, Jamie called me. Right now, even I’m unsure what I’m capable of.
Dad gets up and comes towards me, but I shoot him a look, and he backs off.
‘So that’s IT, is it?’ I repeat. ‘I’m just meant to go home from my honeymoon without my husband, and carry on as if nothing’s happened!’ I feel slightly disingenuous at this point, seeing as I hadn’t wanted to marry Jamie, or be on honeymoon with him, and until a few minutes ago had been desperate to go home, but I don’t care. It has gone past that point. I think I might be being thrown a lifeline, but I’m not sure.
No-one says anything. Dad picks up my overturned chair, as if he needs something to do, and sits down on it, looking at his sandals. He never did know how to handle me when I was having a tantrum.
‘What about Jamie’s mother and brother?’ Dad asks quietly now.
‘Yes, we’ll be telling them next that we’re leaving,’ says Neil. ‘They’re free to leave whenever they want to.’
‘Of course th
ey are!’ I pipe up. ‘They’re not under suspicion, are they?’ Why am I doing this? Why am I falling apart now? This will not be helping.
‘Please Jemma,’ says Bob, the quiet one, his tone perversely softening. He seems a bit more human, at last. Maybe he’s wanted me to have a meltdown all along, to show that I care. ‘Please calm down. It’s not a matter of suspicion. It’s just that they weren’t here when Jamie went missing.’
I come and sit back down at last and flop my arms onto the table. I bury my head into them and then I sob and sob. The noise is so loud the Maldivian officer, in his pressed uniform and shiny boots, goes over and closes the window, which is his only contribution to the proceedings so far. Dad pats my back gently, and I can tell he’s almost at the end of his tether too.
‘I’m sorry we can’t say anything more concrete at the moment,’ Bob says. He seems to be thawing by the minute.
‘That’s OK.’ I sit up, and if I’d been wearing sleeves, I would have wiped my nose on the left one. Instead I sniff a load of phlegm into my nostrils and then swallow. ‘I’m sorry for my outburst,’ I say.
‘That’s all right,’ says Bob. Is it Check, or Checkmate? Or Stalemate? Or Ceasefire? I haven’t a clue. ‘We’ll stay in touch,’ he says, and then Dad and I stand up, and we leave the room.
72
Dad comes over to my bungalow to help me pack. I rip my clothes off their hangers and throw them into my suitcase, taking perverse pleasure in mixing clean with dirty, causing laundering carnage, as if there’s no point having nice things any more. Dad deals with Jamie’s stuff for me, but it’s when I look into the empty wardrobes that it hits me. We are going home without him. The abandonment feels so brutal. We are taking Jamie’s suitcase, as if he is coming with us, but he’s not.
Moosa brings the buggy to collect us and we can barely look at each other, and he no longer bothers to disguise the fact that he thinks I’m responsible somehow. The journey is made in sullen silence. When we get to the pontoon, the manager is there waiting for us, and I vaguely wonder who checked out for me. He looks delighted to be seeing the back of me – it seems the old adage that there’s no such thing as bad publicity doesn’t apply to honeymoon hotels.
The police have already left, and Dan and Veronica haven’t come to see me off, thank goodness. There’s merely a smattering of holidaymakers, plus a few of the staff loitering, too. There’s Chrissy, of course, and the love-struck American couple, and Leena, and Bobbi, and Chati. Dear Chati, the only person here apart from Dad who has kept me sane. I go along the line, saying my goodbyes. I hug Chrissy, and it’s forced, and I can’t face asking where Kenny is. The staff hold out their hands politely, and I mumble my thanks and keep my eyes downcast, but when I come to Chati, I ignore his attempt at a handshake and impulsively put my arms around him in gratitude, and his body feels strange somehow, as if it’s recoiling, and it’s clear I’ve made an error. It seems you’re not meant to cuddle the staff here, and it’s yet another nail in the coffin of my reputation. It all feels so awkward, and I’m glad to get on the dhoni that takes me out to the seaplane. But even though the water is glassy today, by the time I’ve got off the boat and clambered into the fuselage I feel as though I’m going to throw up. Dad takes one look at my face and asks for a sick bag for me, and I long to tell him that I think I might be pregnant, but I don’t want to make things any worse for him. He looks green enough himself as it is, and the situation is almost farcical.
The plane is even more cramped and basic than I remember. I put in my squishy yellow earplugs and stare out of the window, try to absent myself, attempt to outwit the nausea. The engines roar, and we are off, skimming across the water, zooming through the blue air, and Dad is gripping my hand, his fear of aviation magnified a hundredfold in this contraption, and when I look down I see nothing but teal sea, dotted with green-and-white circles. I screw up my eyes, as if I might spot Jamie, but of course it’s impossible, and after a while I give up, close my eyes, let the fierce thrum of the plane take over, let it try to quiet the voice in my brain that is whispering over and over that this is my fault, and that I did it.
73
Getting on the long-haul flight home is devastating. I find I miss Jamie now that I’ve finally left the Maldives – miss him, the person, rather than praying for the safe return of the husband I wish I’d never married. Leaving the island without him makes the end of our abortive marriage unequivocal. It means I’ve left Dan too, of course, and I’ve no idea what will happen next on that front, and even thinking that thought makes me feel enraged and treacherous. I cannot stop weeping. People keep staring at me in my seat, but I don’t care. I’m probably expected to cry anyway. Dad puts his hand over mine sometimes, and it’s comforting. I am a circus animal, and he is my keeper.
When we land at Heathrow and come through Security, the journalistic presence is even more vast and feral than I expected. Flashbulbs go off in my face, and jolly coarse-toned men are calling at me, ‘Jemma, over ’ere’, ‘Jemma, my darlin”, but there are American accents too, and Spanish, and Japanese. It is scary and overwhelming, and I stare at the floor as Dad tries to protect me, but he’s just my dad and he’s appalled too. Getting through the scrum and into a taxi almost finishes us off, and I sit in the back, feeling nauseous and tense, and it’s clear that in the Maldives I have been in a bubble. What start will my baby, if there is one, have here? It almost makes me wish I was back on the island, but not quite.
Dad and I have already discussed that I’m going home with him for the moment. I can’t face going back to the flat, especially as it’s Jamie’s. Sasha has offered for me to stay with her and Martin, but she has enough on her plate. Dad and Kay are brilliant about it though – after all, this is a bona fide crisis, like after Mum died. I’m pretty sure they know that I hadn’t wanted to go through with the wedding. Dad was the one who had to propel me down the aisle, after all, and he tells Kay everything. They don’t ask, thank goodness. I can’t think about that now.
I mustn’t think about Dan either, not until I know what has happened to Jamie. He suspects me anyway. He lives with Lydia. His behaviour has been confusing at best, unforgivable at worst. I can’t decide how I feel about him. There is a very thin line between love and hate, it seems.
Work has given me an indefinite sabbatical, which is good of them. Kay keeps the front curtains closed, just until the photographers give up, whenever that might be, and I stay indoors, feeling as trapped as I was on the island. Eventually, Kay and Dad go back to work and I spend the days cuddling Alfie, the cat, and watching rubbish telly. I don’t feel up to doing anything else, especially as the press coverage has become ever more febrile. The latest is that my supposedly neglectful mother died of alcoholism, and it breaks my heart both how it makes her look, and how little the truth matters. I want to open the front door and yell that she died of asthma, and that she did her best, and even if she had been an alcoholic that wouldn’t have made me a murderer anyway, but of course I don’t. One of the couples at the resort has given an interview, and it’s all about how Jamie and I appeared to hate each other: how I stormed off from breakfast, was drunk and staggering at dinner the night he disappeared, how I seemed so cold and remote, considering my husband had vanished. The picture of Dan and me hugging is reprinted in every story, the fact that we were once lovers gone over and over like it’s a crime, and it seems the circumstantial evidence against me is mounting. But surely they wouldn’t arrest me without a body – or would they? I start praying in earnest, as that’s all I can do now.
It’s the first weekend since I got home and Sasha has come round to see me, and she is the best friend ever. Yet even she’d stared me in the eyes after she’d hugged me, and I can tell she knows I’m lying about something, but she can’t work out what. I’m sure she’s guessed that it’s something to do with Dan, but I’m glad she hasn’t asked. I don’t want to tell her what happened the night before my wedding. I don’t want to compromise her.
D
ad and Kay are discreetly busying themselves in the garden, and Sasha and I are in the lounge watching Come Dine With Me. It makes me laugh, and laughter is important. It feels like laughter is what’s keeping me going.
‘All right, Jemma,’ Sasha says at last, as the ad break comes on. She swipes at her fringe, reveals her eyes, which are unmade-up for a change. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Jemma.’
I stare at my best friend, and so desperately want to confide in her, but I mustn’t. I have to swallow the truth, until it eats me alive, from the inside.
‘Sasha, I swear. Jamie just disappeared. I think the only answer is that he must have … He must have drowned.’
‘You didn’t want to marry him, did you?’
I pause. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, Jem. I could tell in the toilets straight after the service. You were in pieces. But what was I meant to say? I was your sodding bridesmaid.’
My mouth feels dry, and the temptation to divert Sasha from her line of questioning feels so overwhelming that I can’t stop myself.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I say.
‘You’re what?’ Sasha goes white. ‘Oh my God.’
‘I know.’
I can see it in Sasha’s eyes, how much trouble she thinks I’m in. Perhaps she’s imagining the baby I’m carrying might be born in prison if I’m not careful. I know I have. Nightmare piles upon nightmare. I turn up the television.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’ve taken a test.’
‘How do you feel?’
I laugh. ‘Oh, great. Really great.’ And then I swing my legs off the sofa, rush to the toilet and throw up.
It’s the following Monday and I’m watching TV, as usual. Kay has made an appointment for me at her doctor’s surgery for later this afternoon and I dread leaving the house, but she says I have to get myself checked out, especially as I’ve been vomiting so much. I know I need to make some sort of start towards a new way of living, but I feel so drained and despairing that I assume that this is what my baby needs for now. Peace and quiet. Marmite toast. Ginger biscuits. Cups of tea. A father. I wonder at Dan, at what he said to me the night before my wedding. Could he do the job? I can feel my bones chill inside of me, at even the thought. I turn up the TV.
