I beam at Noah bobbing alongside me.
“Isn’t this fun?”
“Where’s Aunt Lottie?” he demands in return. “You said we’d see Aunt Lottie.”
“She’s busy,” I say soothingly. “But I’m sure we’ll see her.”
Every time I glance up at the yacht looming huge in the bay, I vaguely wonder what’s happening on board. The bizarre thing is that, when I was still in England, Lottie’s affairs all felt so close and important and immediate. But now that I’m here, they feel distant.
Not my life. Not my life.
Suddenly I hear something that sounds like my name. I turn instinctively and see Lorcan standing at the water’s edge, incongruous in his business suit.
“I have something to say to you!” he shouts indistinctly.
“Can’t hear!” I yell back without moving.
I’m not rushing around anymore. Even if he wants to tell me that Lottie has had twins by Ben, who has turned out to be a Nazi warlord, I can hear it later.
“Fliss!” he calls again.
I make a hand gesture which is supposed to mean, I’m busy with Noah; let’s catch up later, but I’m not sure he gets it.
“Fliss!”
“I’m swimming!”
Some emotion seems to be gathering in Lorcan’s face. With an abrupt movement, he dumps his briefcase on the sand and marches into the shallows, still in his shoes and suit. He strides briskly through the waves until he reaches Noah and me, then stops. He’s up to his thighs in water. I’m so gobsmacked I don’t know what to say. Noah, who started gasping as Lorcan approached, now collapses in paroxysms of laughter.
“You really haven’t heard of swimming trunks, have you?” I say, trying to stay deadpan.
“I have something to say to you.” He glowers at me as though this is all my fault.
“Go on, then.”
There’s a long, long silence, apart from the noise of waves and beach chatter and the cry of a gull. Lorcan’s eyes have an extra charge of intensity, and his hand is constantly raking through his hair as though trying to order his thoughts. He takes a deep breath, and then another, but doesn’t speak.
A rubber dinghy full of children pulls near us, then bobs away again. And still Lorcan doesn’t speak. I think I’m going to have to do this for him.
“Let me guess,” I say gently. “In no particular order: You realize I was right. You find this difficult. You’d like to talk about it sometime. You’re wondering what you’re doing here, chasing after Ben, when he’s betraying everything you hold dear. You’re suddenly looking at your life in a different way and thinking that things need to change.” I pause. “And you wish you’d brought your swimming trunks.”
There’s another long silence. A tiny muscle is working in Lorcan’s cheek, and I feel apprehensive. Did I go too far?
“Close,” he says at last. “But you missed out a couple.” He takes a step through the sea, the water washing around his legs. “No one’s ever understood things like you. No one’s ever challenged me like you. You were right about Ben. You were right about my website photo. I went to have another look, and you know what I saw?” He pauses. “Who the hell are you? What are you looking at? I haven’t got time for this.”
I can’t help smiling.
“And you’re right: Dupree Sanders is not my company,” he continues, his jaw tightening. “Maybe I wish it was, but it’s not. If Ben really wants to sell, he should sell. Zhernakov will close the whole operation down within six months, but so be it. Nothing lasts forever.”
“Won’t you feel bitter if that happens?” I can’t help pushing him. “You put so much into it.”
“Maybe.” He nods seriously. “For a while. But even bitterness fades away eventually. We both have to believe that. Don’t we?” He meets my eyes, and I feel a wave of empathy for him. Emotional investment—it’s the hardest game of the lot.
“You were wrong on one thing, though,” Lorcan adds with sudden energy. “Completely wrong. I’m glad I didn’t bring my swimming trunks.”
With that, he peels off his jacket and tosses it toward the shore. It lands on the waves, and Noah dives for it joyously.
“Here!” He holds it aloft. “I got it!” He goggles in delight as Lorcan takes off one shoe, then the other, tossing them toward the shore too. “They’ve sunk! Your shoes have sunk!”
“Noah, can you dive down for Lorcan’s shoes,” I say, giggling, “and put them on the beach? I think he’s going to swim in his underpants.”
“Underpants!” yells Noah. “Underpants!”
“Underpants.” Lorcan grins at him. “It’s the only way.”
28
LOTTIE
I can see the tiny figures of swimmers bobbing around in the sea as I gaze back to shore. The late-afternoon sun is casting long shadows on the beach. Children are screaming and couples are embracing and families are playing together. And I suddenly wish with all my heart I was one of them. People on simple holidays, without complicated lives, without flaky, self-centered husbands, without disastrous decisions they have to unpick.
I hated the yacht the minute we got on board. Yachts are awful. Everything is clad in white leather and I’m terrified of making a mark, and Yuri Zhernakov just ran a glance over me as though to say, No, you won’t make the cut as my fifth wife. I was instantly banished to the company of two Russian women with plumped-up lips and boobs. They’re so puffed up with silicone they make me think of balloon animals, and they have made no conversation except “Which limited-edition designer compact are you examining your reflection in?”
Mine’s Body Shop, so that didn’t go very far.
I sip my mojito and wait for my worries to drown in it. But instead of sputtering and fading, they’re circling my brain, bigger and bigger. Everything’s a catastrophe. Everything’s terrible. I want to cry, I realize. But I can’t cry. I’m on a super-yacht. I’ve got to be sparkling and bright and somehow increase my cleavage.
I lean over the rail of the deck I’m standing on and wonder how far it is down to the sea. Could I jump?
No. I might hurt myself.
God knows where Ben is. He’s been unbearable ever since we arrived here, showing off and preening and telling Yuri Zhernakov about fifteen times how he’s planning to buy a yacht himself.
My hand steals into my pocket. There’s a thought that’s been sitting in my brain like a very patient person who isn’t going to give up. The same, simple thought. It’s been there for hours now. I could call Richard. I could call Richard. I’ve been ignoring it and ignoring it, but now I can’t remember all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. It seems like an exciting idea. A joyful idea. I could just call him. Now.
I know Fliss would tell me not to, but it’s not her life, is it?
I don’t exactly know what I want to say to him. In fact, I think I don’t want to say anything. I only want to make a connection. Like when you reach for someone’s hand and squeeze it. That’s it: I want to squeeze his hand over the ether. And if he pulls his hand away, well, then I’ll know.
I can see the two Russian women coming on deck, and I hurry round the corner so they won’t see me. I pull out my phone, stare at it for an instant, then plunge my finger down onto the keypad. As his number rings, my heart starts to thud, and I feel sick.
“Hello, it’s Richard Finch here.”
It’s gone to voicemail. My stomach corkscrews in panic and I press stop. I can’t leave a voicemail. A voicemail isn’t a squeezed hand. It’s an envelope pressed into the palm. And I don’t know what I want to put in the envelope. Not exactly.