Always and Only You

Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Present Day

I tiptoe past Gil’s sleeping form, slide out of the French doors, closing them softly behind me, and emerge onto a terrace with the most amazing view. I’ve seen Halcyon Cove from the sea before, and watched wistfully as guests were taken away from the yacht on the tender to enjoy a day of beachside luxury at the upmarket resort. I always promised myself I’d visit one day, and even set aside a chunk of my yachting tips in a savings account so the money would be there if ever I got the chance.

The resort is stunning. There are turquoise pools, cabanas, lush gardens, clipped lawns and tall palm trees. Every building is white, but the style is a mix between traditional colonial and ultramodern luxury. Halcyon Cove sits in the shadow of the smaller of the two jutting Piton Mountains that St Lucia is famous for. Near the water, there’s a golden curving beach and an endless horizon of blue water, and inland lie sloping hills that lead up into the rainforest. We’re reminded of its proximity by the high-pitched, rhythmic calling of frogs wherever we go.

Our cottage perches above the main resort on a steep, wooded hill. It’s not the biggest or most expensive villa in the resort, not by a long shot, but it’s perfect for a honeymoon couple. Along with a cosy, bright white living room with shutters, a couple of sofas and a desk, there is a bedroom with a four-poster bed and gauzy white curtains and French doors that lead onto a terrace with a small table and chairs and two loungers facing a small private plunge pool.

I sink into the water with a sigh, letting my head rest back against the edge, face the setting sun, and stretch my arms out. I desperately need some downtime to relax.

Being married is exhausting. At least, it is if you’re spending every waking moment trying to act the part of the deliriously happy honeymooner without actually having the honeymoon, if you know what I mean?

The only way to cope has been to do what I do best – organize. And I have organized the crap out of this honeymoon. I’ve impressed even myself with the level of ingenuity and the sheer number of activities I’ve crammed into the last forty-eight hours.

It was easy enough the first night. I just pulled the old ‘I’m too jet-lagged to keep my eyes open’ stunt and fell asleep, fully clothed, on the vast sofa in the cottage’s living room. I woke in the early hours to find a blanket gently draped over me and Gil sound asleep in the super king-sized bed. It’s so huge that it made him look small, all curled on one side with his hand tucked under his cheek. I only know because I crept past him because I was busting for a wee. He looks so harmless when he’s asleep. Almost boyish.

Then, since it was 5 a.m., which is mid-morning UK time, I stayed up leafing through the thick folder sitting on the desk in our sitting room. By the time Gil surfaced, I’d booked myself for a spa day, alone – essential pampering after all the stress of the wedding planning – followed by a night for the two of us at the weekly beach barbecue with local entertainment, including limbo dancing, fire eating and a rum tasting session. By the time we got back to the cottage, full of eight different types of rum, neither of us were in any fit state to get all lovey-dovey, so I even risked crashing out on my side of the bed instead of the sofa.

I woke up with Gil spooned around me, so I wriggled myself free and was sitting on our deck when he finally surfaced.

Before he could get any ideas of convincing me to come back to bed, I jumped up, planted a big kiss on his cheek and excitedly told him of the catamaran trip I’d planned for the whole day, including visits to the botanical gardens near Soufrière, bathing in some thermal pools and a tour round an ethically run cocoa plantation. I also checked the excursion was fully booked, so there’d be twenty other people and absolutely no chance of anything inappropriate going on.

Gil had baulked a little when he’d heard my long-ranging plans, but I fixed him with innocent puppy-dog eyes and a soft smile. St Lucia has always been on my bucket list, I said. I’ve dreamed of visiting each and every one of these destinations. It was surprising how quickly the usually intractable Gil Sampson crumbled and went along with it all. If I didn’t dislike him so much, I’d have thought it was quite sweet.

I also didn’t realize I had it in me to be quite so manipulative, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Anyway, we got back from the catamaran trip about half an hour ago and Gil crashed out on the bed, face down, and was asleep within minutes. Seems like the sea air really got to him, which is surprising since he lives only a couple of miles away from Simon’s parents on the River Dart. All that travelling to big cities to do important, super-secret computer stuff must have turned him soft.

And maybe that’s why I’m two days into my honeymoon and Gil has yet to address the fact we haven’t, um … consummated our marriage yet. I can see the questions behind his eyes, although he’s doing a good job of keeping them hidden. But he hasn’t been grouchy, hasn’t complained. If anything, he’s been horribly understanding. Which only makes it harder to be so mean to him, so I’m a bit cross with him for that.

I’m going to leave him to sleep as long as possible, even though there’s a chance we might miss our dinner reservation at the fanciest restaurant in the resort.

I close my eyes and try to relax but it’s hard, even though the setting sun is warming my face and the water lapping around me is almost body temperature. But I’ve never been very good at relaxing, partly because when I manage to slow down and switch off, I often find I get maudlin, and I have no idea what that’s about. Other people chill out to feel happy and peaceful. For some reason, it makes me want to cry. I feel the tears like pins and needles in the backs of my eyeballs now … but at least I know why I want to sob.

I’ve had enough of this, I silently cry to any deity who might be listening. I want to wake up. I want to go home!

Yep. Relaxing on my own is definitely a bad idea. Because now I’ve got time to think about why I’m not waking up. And any answers I come up with are not good.

I’ve considered I might be dead and this is the afterlife. Which means I’m stuck with Gil in hell for eternity, because this certainly can’t be heaven.

Or maybe all that quantum physics stuff is right and there are millions upon billions of universes, all with different versions of our lives, and somehow I’ve fallen through a trapdoor into the wrong one, although how Gil and I could ever be a thing, even amid infinite lifetimes, is still beyond me. But at least this answer gives me hope – because if I got into this life, maybe there’s a way back. I just have to find it.

I kick my feet idly in the water and roll my memories of the week running up to my wedding in my head, trying to work out when the switch could have happened. Everything was fine the night of the party with all our friends and family. Well, not fine because I had that horrible argument with Gil, but at least it was all normal. And then everything seemed fine the in the beginning part of my wedding day, right until I stepped inside the doors of the church.

Somewhere in those fourteen to fifteen hours between leaving the party the night before the wedding to walking down the aisle, something happened to switch everything around. I just need to work out where I was and what I was doing, and then maybe that will give me a clue how to get back.

I let go of the side of the pool and let the water buoy my body up, arms outstretched, eyes closed. It’s like being in one of those immersion tanks, I think, apart from the odd tickle of warm breeze across my face and upper torso. I don’t fall asleep, but I shift into a different level of consciousness, one where I’m only partly aware of my surroundings, just alert enough to keep my body in the right position to stop it sinking. My thoughts also float free.

I don’t know how much later it is, but my equilibrium is disrupted when cool water splashes onto the exposed parts of my skin, then a warm pair of hands circles my waist and pulls me backwards. I end up with my back pressed against Gil’s front as he sits on the little ledge at the edge of the pool, his arms tight around me.

I go still. ‘What’s the time?’ I say lightly, although every muscle in my body is taut.

‘About half five,’ he mumbles against my neck and his voice is still rough with sleep.

‘Half five?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I push myself away towards the other side of the pool. ‘We’ve got reservations at six.’ I try not to look at him as I drag myself out of the water and onto the terrace.

‘I thought maybe we could skip it and get room service,’ he says as I walk back towards the French doors.

‘Don’t be silly!’ I reply breezily. ‘The Lookout is Halcyon Cove’s most prestigious restaurant. It’s fully booked the rest of the week and the food’s supposed to be fabulous. This will be our only chance to do proper fine dining. And, if we’re going to make it, I need to start getting ready now.’