Page 14 of The Honeymoon Affair

I’m on the verge of losing my temper, something I’ve never done with a prospective client before, when he stands up and says he’s wasted enough time with me.

‘But Dad . . .’ Francesca looks doubtful.

‘You know I’m the only one who’ll do their best for you,’ he tells her. ‘You can trust me, not her.’

Francesca looks at me apologetically before following her father out of the bar. She hasn’t touched her champagne.

I take the glass, decant the golden liquid into my own, swallow it in a single gulp and remind myself that it’s always important to take the rough with the smooth.

Nonetheless, from start to finish this has been a shitty day.

Chapter 5

Iseult

The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The first wedding at the White Sands since we arrived is taking place today. From the balcony of Room 501, I’m watching the staff carry armfuls of flowers to the gazebo where the ceremonies are held. I try not to imagine how my own wedding might have been, but I can’t help picturing me and Steve standing in the bower together, vowing to love each other till death us do part.

Thinking you’ll be together for life is pretty optimistic, isn’t it? For me and Steve, that could’ve been more than fifty years. I wonder if we’d have stayed the pace. Well, clearly not when we didn’t even get to the starting gate. So perhaps he did me a favour. I’ve got to look at it like that.

The women carrying the flowers are joined by another couple of staff members, this time carrying flute glasses and silver champagne buckets. They’re laughing and chatting, although I can’t hear what they’re saying.

‘I wonder if they become blasé about it,’ remarks Celeste as she joins me on the balcony. ‘Weddings are practically an industry here.’

‘Love isn’t an industry,’ I protest.

‘Hah!’ She gives me a sceptical look. ‘Valentine’s Day, anyone? An excuse for restaurants and florists to hike up their prices.’

‘OK, OK, I’ll give you Valentine’s.’ Though I’m remembering Steve bringing me to a gorgeous wine bar in the docklands and sharing a lovely meal overlooking the river, and it was so romantic I didn’t care about the price. Not that I had to. We normally split the bill when we went out but for Valentine’s Day he insisted on paying.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Celeste. ‘Love isn’t only about performative gestures in public.’

‘No.’

Now I’m thinking of the proposal balloons again. I was so sure then that he was the one. And I was sure he was sure I was right for him.

If something had happened, if there’d been a massive row or he’d found someone else, I might have understood it better. But his vague ‘I’m not ready’ makes me feel that it was more about me than him. I wish I knew what it was. Why I wasn’t good enough for him. I get some comfort from the fact that there hasn’t been one post on his social media of him with another woman, not even in Italy, but I still feel as though I’ve let myself down somehow.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind me heading off without you?’ It takes a moment for Celeste’s words to filter through. She booked a catamaran trip around the island earlier. As I’m not keen on being on the water, I decided not to join her and told her I’d be perfectly happy on the beach, but with the wedding due to take place later, I think she’s worried I’ll have some kind of bridal meltdown. If she knew I’d been thinking about Steve’s proposal, she’d be even more worried.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I promise her. ‘I’m going to read my book and work on my tan.’

‘Because I won’t go if you don’t want me to.’

‘Of course I want you to. I’ll be fine here. I want to read my book, honestly.’

I walk with her down to the beach, where other guests are already awaiting the arrival of the catamaran. I stand at the edge of the sand, allowing the water to wash over my toes and thinking that perhaps I should have gone after all.

Then the catamaran arrives, bobbing up and down dramatically, and I’m happy with my decision again. The crew members help their passengers on board, and I take photos of Celeste as the boat moves slowly away from the beach, then turn back towards the hotel and head to the room.

This is the first time I’ve been properly alone since we got here. I don’t count the day of my early-morning walk because Celeste was nearby. Now she’s sailed off and I feel . . . well, a bit liberated, if I’m totally honest. Because of course she’s been kind and generous and lovely, but that’s made me have to be brave and strong and outwardly cheerful all the time. And it’s been hard.

I know I said I was going to lie on the beach and work on my tan, but I’m not in the mood to do that right now. I feel the need to be active. So I slap on some more sunscreen, pop a baseball cap on my head and retrace my steps from earlier in the week, past the private villas where I saw the man dive into the pool. Other than in the restaurant, where he continues to sit alone at the same table, I haven’t noticed him anywhere in the resort. He’s never on the beach during the day, or in the bar at night. I’ve decided he’s some kind of recluse. Or else he’s a golfer and out all day, although he’s not part of the group of men and women who regularly leave the hotel in the mornings with their bags and clubs, and who are generally very sociable.

I wave at one of them, a woman in her sixties who Celeste and I got talking to last night. She’s a widow, and she and her husband used to come here every few years to play a couple of local courses and chill out. He died less than a year ago, but she chose to come again anyway, and has joined up with the group. She’s friendly and optimistic and doesn’t show her grief outwardly, but I’m sure it’s there.