I try to visualize what he might be doing right now. I have no concept of his life in San Francisco. Getting up, maybe? Having a shower? I don’t even know what his apartment looks like. He’s drifted right away from me. Tears sting my eyes and I look miserably at my phone. Could I try again? Would that count as stalking?
“Lottie! There you are!” It’s Ben, along with Yuri. I shove my phone back in my pocket and turn to face them. Ben is pink-faced from booze, and my heart sinks. He looks manic, like a small child who’s stayed up too late. “We’re going to seal the deal over some champagne,” he says excitedly. “Yuri’s got some vintage Krug. Care to join us?”
29
ARTHUR
Young people! With their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. They wear me out, the poor, harried things.
Don’t come back, I always tell them. Don’t come back.
Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.
Twenty years I’ve been saying this, but do they listen? Do they, hell. Here comes another of them now. Panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. Late thirties, I’d guess. Attractive enough, against the blue sky. Looks a bit like a politician. Do I mean that? Maybe a movie star.
I don’t remember his face from the old days. Not that that means anything. These days I barely even recall my own face when I glimpse it in the mirror. I can see this chap’s gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.
“Are you Arthur?” he says abruptly.
“Guilty.”
I scan him adroitly. Looks well off. Wearing one of those expensive-logo polo shirts. Probably good for a few double Scotches.
“You must want a drink,” I say pleasantly. Always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.
“I don’t want a drink,” he says. “I want to know what happened.”
I can’t help stifling a yawn. So predictable. He wants to know what happened. Another merchant banker having a midlife crisis, returning to the scene of his youth. The scene of the crime. Leave it where it was, I want to answer. Turn round. Return to your adult, problematic life, because you won’t solve it here.
But he wouldn’t believe me. They never do.
“Dear boy,” I say gently. “You grew up. That’s what happened.”
“No,” he says impatiently, and rubs his sweaty brow. “You don’t understand. I’m here for a reason. Listen to me.” He comes forward a few paces, an impressive height and figure against the sun, intentness of purpose on his handsome face. “I’m here for a reason,” he repeats. “I wasn’t going to get involved—but I can’t help it. I have to do this. I want to know what exactly happened the night of the fire?”
30
LOTTIE
When I give my Making Your Job Work for You! seminar to staff members at Blay Pharmaceuticals, one of my themes is: You can learn from everything. I take a sample workplace situation and we brainstorm and then list as bullet points What You Learned from This.
After two hours on Yuri Zhernakov’s yacht, my bullet points would go as follows:
• I am never having my lips done.
• Actually, I wouldn’t mind a yacht.
• Krug is ambrosia from heaven.
• Yuri Zhernakov is so rich, it makes my eyes water.
• Ben’s tongue was practically hanging out. And what about all those embarrassing sycophantic jokes?
• Whatever Ben may think, Yuri is not interested in “joint projects.” The only thing he wanted to talk about was the house.
• If you ask me, Yuri will get rid of the paper company altogether. Ben doesn’t seem to realize this.
• I think Ben may be quite thick.
• We should never, ever have come back via the beach.
This was our big mistake. We should have got the boat to drop us a mile up the coast. Because, the moment we landed, we were seized by Nico.
“Mr. and Mrs. Parr! Just in time for the gala ceremony!”
“What?” Ben stared at him quite rudely. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” I nudged him. “Happy Couple of the Week.”
There was nothing we could do to escape. Now we’re milling around with about twenty other guests from the hotel, drinking cocktails and listening to a band play “Some Enchanted Evening.” Everyone is gossiping about Yuri Zhernakov’s yacht being moored in the bay. I’ve heard Ben tell at least five sets of people that we were there earlier on, drinking Krug. Every time, it makes me flinch. And any minute we’re going to have to go up onto the platform and receive the Happy Couple of the Week trophy. Which is insane.
“Do you think we could get out of it?” I murmur to Ben as conversation lulls. “Let’s face it, we’re hardly Happy Couple of the Week.”
Ben looks at me blankly. “Why not?”
Why not? Is he for real? “Because we’re already discussing divorce!” I hiss.
“But we’re still happy.” He shrugs.
Happy? How can he possibly be happy? I glare at him, suddenly wanting to hit him. He was never into this marriage. Never. It was just a diversion. A craze. Like the time I got into Scandinavian knitwear and bought a knitting machine.
But a marriage isn’t a knitting machine! I almost want to yell this at him. This whole thing is a joke. I want to leave.
“Ah, Mrs. Parr.” It’s Nico again, swooping down as though suspecting I was about to escape. “We are nearly ready for the trophy presentation.”
“Great.” My sarcasm is so pointed that he winces.
“Madame, may I apologize yet again for the inconvenience you have suffered on this holiday. As I said, I am pleased to offer you, in recompense, a deluxe weekend for two in one of our premium suites, to include all meals and one snorkeling experience.”
“I hardly think that’s appropriate.” I glare at him. “You’ve ruined our honeymoon. Ruined our marriage.”
Nico drops his eyes to the sand. “Madame, I am desolate. But I must tell you, this was not my own idea, this was not my own will. It was a huge mistake on my part and one that I will always regret, but the original idea, it came from—”
“I know.” I cut him off. “My sister.”
Nico nods his head. He looks so abject that I feel a pang of sympathy for him. I know what Fliss is like. When she gets into crusading mood, no one can refuse her.
“Look, Nico,” I say at last. “It’s OK. I don’t blame you. I know what my sister’s like. I know she’s been sitting there in London like a puppet mistress pulling the strings.”
“She was very determined.” He bows his head again.
“I forgive you.” I hold out my hand. “I don’t forgive her,” I add quickly. “But I forgive you.”
“Madame, I am not worthy.” Nico takes my hand to his lips. “I wish you a thousand happinesses.”
As he walks away, I wonder what Fliss is doing now. She said in her voicemail she was coming to the hotel. Maybe she’ll arrive tomorrow. Well, maybe I’ll refuse to see her.
I take a few more sips of cocktail and have a conversation with a woman in blue about which spa treatment is the best value, while trying to avoid Melissa. She keeps trying to quiz me on what exactly Ben and I do for a living, and isn’t it a bit dangerous, keeping a gun in my handbag? And then, all of a sudden the band comes to a halt and Nico has mounted the stage. He taps the microphone a few times and beams down on the gathered throng.