I stood up in the aisle.
‘Hello, Jeff,’ Gay said with a broad smile. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’
She gave me a peck on the cheek while Derrick shook my hand. ‘We are just cadging a lift back home,’ he said. ‘Sorry we’re late.’
It was clear that the Smiths were the last of the passengers to arrive, as there was now some activity up front, with the main door being closed and the engines started.
‘Do you always travel like this?’ I asked Henri.
‘I wish. The trust is so tight with my money that I’m usually in economy, although I have been on this baby a few times. But not so often that I’m not really excited every time.’
I was excited too. Extremely. And it wasn’t all to do with flying on a private jet. I’d be excited to be anywhere with Henrietta Shawcross.
We actually refuelled at St John’s in Newfoundland, where the outside temperature was a balmy minus seven degrees. Needless to say, all eight of the passengers remained warm and cosy in the cabin, rather than choosing to venture the hundred yards or so across the icy wind-blown tarmac to the airport buildings.
After about forty minutes, we were on our way again.
I could get quite used to this, I thought, as I was presented with yet another plate of delicious food prepared by the on-board steward.
‘More champagne, sir?’ he said.
I felt it would be churlish for me to say no after he’d gone to all the trouble of opening the bottle.
‘Lovely,’ I said and he poured more of the bubbles into my glass.
Henri giggled and I held her hand.
I’d left my troubles behind in winter-gripped England, and there were eleven days ahead of warmth and sunshine in the company of a gorgeous girl.
What could have been better?
With every sip of Veuve Clicquot, I could feel the strength and vigour returning to my body.
Little did I realize how much I would need it.
We landed on Grand Cayman nearly twelve hours after leaving Luton. It was almost four in the afternoon, the local time being five hours behind that at home.
Suddenly my senses were full of first impressions — the bright colours of the buildings, the intensity of the tropical sunlight, the flatness of the country, the freshness of the ozone-filled sea air and, of course, the warmth.
‘Where are we staying?’ I asked Henri as we waited to have our passports checked by the Cayman Islands immigration officials.
‘Uncle Richard and Aunt Mary are staying at Martin and Theresa’s place but I imagined that you would rather be somewhere on our own.’
She imagined right.
‘I’ve rented an apartment in a condominium just down Seven Mile Beach from them.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I said. ‘How about Bentley? I hope he’s not sharing it with us.’
Henri pulled a face. ‘If he is, I’m going back to England.’
In the end, Henri had to put her foot down when her uncle suggested that it might, indeed, be a good idea for Bentley to stay with us in our apartment, as it had two spare bedrooms, adding that ‘he could keep Henrietta in order’.
I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. Henri thought he was.
‘No,’ Henri said firmly. ‘Absolutely not. If he can’t stay with Martin, he’ll have to find a hotel.’
‘But it’s Christmas,’ said Sir Richard. ‘There won’t be any hotel rooms free.’
‘Then he’ll have to sleep on the beach,’ Henri said without the slightest note of compromise. ‘What’s he doing here anyway?’
‘We have a board meeting tomorrow, remember?’ Sir Richard said. ‘I assume you did get the papers?’
She nodded.
Much to Henri’s relief, Theresa announced that Bentley would be staying in their guest cottage, with Sir Richard and Lady Mary taking the guest suite in the main house.
Maybe I was completely wrong, but why did I suspect that Theresa had arranged for Bentley to be in her guest cottage because it was a convenient location for a clandestine assignation between them?
There were three luxury cars waiting for us outside the private air terminal. One for Derrick and Gay to take them to their home, another for Sir Richard and Lady Mary — both with chauffeurs — and the third with Martin at the wheel, waiting for Theresa and, it seemed, for Bentley.
Martin got out of his car and greeted his parents and his wife, giving Theresa the smallest little peck on the cheek. Hardly a greeting for a loving couple, I thought. Not one that had been apart for more than a week.
He steadfastly ignored me, pointedly not shaking my offered hand.
‘You can ride with us,’ Sir Richard said to Henri, but it was quite clear that, with two large suitcases each, there was hardly enough room in the car for them both, plus their luggage.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘We’ll get a taxi.’
‘It’s only about ten minutes away,’ he said.
Henri and I hailed one of the island’s many taxi minivans for the short journey to the Coral Stone Club, a three-storey condominium complex nestling between two much taller buildings off the West Bay Road.
Henri collected the key to the apartment from the manager’s office while I supervised the unloading of the bags by the taxi driver and paid him using some of the dollars I had obtained from my bank.
‘If I was allowed to lift anything, I’d carry you over the threshold,’ I said to Henri as we went in.
‘But it’s not our own home.’
‘It is for the next eleven days,’ I said. ‘And that’s good enough for me.’
The apartment was on the ground floor and stretched right through the building on the southern edge of the complex. Painted lemon yellow, with white-and-blue furnishings, the open-plan kitchen and living area was bright and cool, but it was the view through the large picture windows at the far end that was totally breathtaking.
The spectacular Seven Mile Beach was just a few steps away, complete with archetypal desert-island coconut palms growing at lazy angles out of the brilliant white sand. And, beyond that, the dazzling turquoise-blue Caribbean Sea shimmered and danced as it reflected the rays of the late-afternoon sun as it began to dip towards the western horizon.
‘Wow!’ I said.
Henri opened the sliding door and we went outside together onto the beach.
‘Wow!’ I said again as I looked either way at the mile upon mile of soft white powder.
‘It’s not really seven miles long,’ Henri said. ‘Only about six.’
Long enough, I thought.
We went back inside.
‘I’ve told Uncle Richard we would go up to Martin’s house for a drink with them all at sunset.’
‘What time is that?’ I asked.
‘Just before six.’
I glanced at my watch. That gave us almost a full hour.
I looked at her, and she looked back at me.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said, grinning.
28
Even though Henri and I had known each other for almost three whole weeks, this was our first time, and it was a journey of discovery and delight, of tenderness and love, with moments of primeval rawness and desire.
For me, it was like a reawakening of my emotions after almost a year of abstinence, a release of sexual tension that sent multiple shudders through my body.
‘Wow!’ It was now Henri’s turn to say it. ‘You sure needed that.’
I certainly did.
Afterwards, we lay entwined on the bed, our naked skin glistening wet from the exertion. So much for my promise to Faye to take things easy.
I snuggled up to Henri, happy and content, and also rather relieved that my aerobics appeared not to have reopened any of my various incisions.